Disclaimer: I don't own them, etc.
Author's Note: Yet another chapter. Only because I wanted to clarify some things. There might be another one if I feel like it, but I'm almost positive I'll get flamed for this one. Oooh.
Scott decides, against his better judgment, to stay. They sit on the same bed, not touching; so close and yet so far apart. The mattress quivers as she bounces her leg up and down and the light from the television continues to flick across her face. She looks as anxious as he feels, because even if the kiss felt right, he's not sure if things are working out the way they should be. Ten years is a long time to resurrect a romance, and he knows this; he knows that they just can't pick up where they left off. He's not the same person he used to be, even if Shelby might be, or at least he thinks she is.
"So . . . " she begins, awkward, directing the conversation away from romance and heartbreak and the kiss they had just shared. "What's in Seattle that's so important?"
He had been hoping she wouldn't ask, but had been planning on lying if she did. And he really would have, but seeing her face now, he can't bring himself to do it, because lies are expensive and he has no money. "My uncle. I—" he falters, but then clears his throat. "I have to ask him for money."
She doesn't answer right away, and he's not sure if he should regret ever saying it. She nods slowly, not shocked or surprised like he had expected her to be; after all, here is Scott Barringer, rich and proud and begging a distant relative for money? Her face is contemplative, but then a wry grin twists her features, not mindless and lucid because her drunkenness appears to have worn off.
"You," she says. "You—asking someone for money?"
She's teasing him, he knows, and it makes him angry. She's acting like he is the same person he used to be, like they're both sixteen again, and as if they were still so close (beyond anything the kiss could mean) and as if she had the right to tease him—which isn't how things are now. Things have changed.
"Yes," he snaps, vitriolic, "I am. It turns out that one of my business partners had messed up a transaction and our company lost thousands of dollars." His pride and indignity are getting ahead of him, he's overreacting incredibly, but he can't bring himself to stop. "See, my business partners are the kind who work at desks and make important phone calls and such, and my boss is a very important man; but lemme guess—your 'business partners' are whores and your 'boss' is some pimp—"
A stinging blow surges across his face (he muses with bitter amusement that maybe what he said was not the most quick and painless thing to say), and he falls off the edge of the bed. Shelby is standing over him, yelling—"YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE" and "STUCK-UP BASTARD" and "YOU HAVE NO RIGHT" and such—she's waving her arms, and the television screen is glowing and she looks like she's about to explode. She might have kicked him in the shin once or twice but a banging on the wall, coming from the adjacent room and followed by a muffled, "Shut the hell up!" quiets her.
"You want to know the truth, Scott?" She spits out his name like a bad taste. "My business partner is a researcher. He and I are collaborating to write a dissertation. You want to know what I do for a living? Cancer research. See, I help people, instead of sucking up to a boss every day and getting paid to do whatever he tells me to do. So, who's more of a whore here?"
She's right, she's right, she's right. So very right, and it stings because she had hit him and because he had been incredibly stupid. And Scott is ashamed and regretful and wishing he had never said anything at all. Cringing, he lets the silence act as a buffer, letting her calm down before he mutters, "Your right. I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath, his cheek aching. He wants to start over. He wants a second chance; his whole life has been made up of second chances, and he's begging for just one more. "I was lying, anyway. My boss is a bastard and not very important at all, and if you want to know the truth I live in a miserable one-room apartment in Los Angeles."
She sits down and slides away from where he's still sprawled on the floor. "My boss is a genius and has a hospital named after him, and if you want to know the truth I live in an upscale condo." Her voice isn't raging anymore, and he wonders if she still hates him. "But I'm not gonna tell you where."
He shakes his head with some sort of amusement, because his mind is pleasantly blank with the shock of her blow and her words and the realization that she is such a blinding success while he is somewhat a failure. "Congratulations," he says, "You're doing pretty well."
"Yeah. My husband's proud of me."
He momentarily forgets how to breathe. His eyesight blurs over and some sort of gag reflex kicks in, so that when he says, "What?" it comes out as a cough. He means to say, "Husband? But you just kissed me!" Instead, the words fall out of his mouth as incoherent drabble.
She looks up, blinking hard and the light from the television reflects off of her wet eyes. "I meant to tell you. I didn't mean to kiss you."
He is bewildered. "So then why did you?"
"Because—" She's crying because of him, but he's not so sore about it anymore. "Because I was drunk. Because I thought about you for almost ten years. And how ironic is it? The year I get over you, find someone I love, and get married is the year I finally see you again."
Her rhetoric is agonizing.
Numb, he can't find any words to say.
The air feels too thin again, and her words reach his ears too clearly. "Did you really expect me to wait ten years for you?"
Yes, he realizes. Yes, he did.
Author's Note: Don't worry, it doesn't end there...