Luke lay in his bed that night staring at the ceiling. He was angry. He actually felt angry. Anger was a strong emotion, and it had been a long time since Luke had let his emotions slide out of neutral. He couldn't help it tonight though; he had stopped fighting it some time ago. He was mad at everyone—the mentally unstable townspeople, that crazy lady and her freak of a son, hell, even Mr. Bolton—even though he knew he had no reason to be. They hadn't done anything but try to help him. Although maybe that was just it, maybe he didn't want to be helped.

He had spent the past two years hanging on, telling himself he had to for the people that needed him. Now people seemed to be acting like that wasn't good enough. Didn't they have any idea what he had been through these past two years? Couldn't they fathom what he went through every waking moment, every sleepless night? Every single morning Luke had to force his body out of that bed. Every morning he had to think of a reason to get up, to continue—every damn morning! Life wasn't just something he did anymore, it wasn't just something that happened, it was a choice, a purposeful decision with consequences abounding. Every single day he made the choice to walk past the medicine cabinet of pills, to walk past the razor blades he could hold so easily over his wrists, to drive his car from point A to point B without any detours to lakes, ditches, or brick walls, and there were a million more besides those. He faced them all and would continue to face them for as long as he kept his lungs breathing, and he had accepted this, accepted it for them. And now it seemed…well, for God's sake what did they want out of him!

They weren't the ones who had to live with the memories, the reminders, the damn spit. Everything he touched, everywhere he looked, every time he breathed, she was there. And to keep his sanity, to keep his life, he had to let go of all of it; he had to make it into nothing. His entire past, everything he had wanted his life to be, everything he had dreamed of being, every ounce of happiness he'd had, everything that had once made him feel alive he had to turn into spit. He had to release it all as if it was nothing or else it would cripple him, it would slaughter whatever melody that still made up the life of Luke Danes. Hell, not even melody, anything beautiful had walked away from him two years ago…these days he was just a single note, probably a flat one, being played over and over.

His life had to be mathematical now, two plus two had to equal four. Couldn't they see that? He couldn't go on any other way. This is who he was now. He didn't need to become some teenage boy all over again.

"I'm different, I'm a loner."

"Oh no. No no. I don't want to hear about the romance of being a loner."
"Some guys are just naturally loners."
"Yes, lonely guys."
"Independent guys."
"Sad guys."
"Maverick guys."
"Lee Harvey Oswald."
"John Muir."
"The Unabomber."
"Henry David Thoreau."
"Every one of these sad and lonely guys." She smiled at him, knowing she'd won.

He'd sighed, knowing he'd let her. Staring into those blue eyes he knew there was one way he'd never be sad, he'd never be lonely…

He'd been wrong then. He'd gotten his way and he was still sad, still lonely. He wasn't a Maverick guy, he never had been. Who was he kidding?

Luke rolled over and looked at the clock—4:17. Great. He picked up the phone, dialed, and waited while it rang.

"Uh, hey Caesar….Yeah, it's Luke…Yeah, I know, sorry to wake you…Can you open this morning?…No everything's fine I'm just not feelin so great…Uh, yeah I think the flu or something…Okay, yeah I will…Uh-huh…Thanks Caesar."

Luke hung up the phone and rolled back over. It was gonna be a long night at this rate.

Luke's eyes snapped open at the sound of pounding. He sat up, taking in his surroundings, realizing he was in his apartment and the sun was out. How had that happened? He rubbed his neck and looked at the clock—7:30. The pounding continued. Looking around Luke realized someone was knocking on the door.

"What!" he barked, hoping they'd go away.

"Uh, Luke?"

"Crap," he muttered under his breath. It was Caesar. Luke got up and walked to the door, his hair a mess, his t-shirt and jeans the same ones he'd been wearing last night. He opened the door.

"Wow, you really are sick," Caesar commented before catching himself, "I mean not that I didn't believe you Luke, I did, it's just you're never sick, I mean…"

"Well, it happens," Luke cut him off. "What do you need Caesar?"

"Uh, oh, right! The new insurance card. You never signed one of the forms after we switched companies and someone just caught it I guess…I dunno, funny right cuz, like, we switched a long time ago, but the card has the number and well I looked everywhere but it's not downstairs and…"

Luke's mind wandered as Caesar rambled on. Insurance card…when had he switched insurance? His mind reeled backwards until it clicked. Two years ago. He had received the new insurance card two years ago. He had meant to put it in the vault but…Luke gulped. He knew exactly where that card was. "I know where it is Caesar," he said distractedly. "I'll take care of it." He started to shut the door but Caesar stopped him.

"I need it Luke, the guy's here now. He's downstairs. He says this has to be taken care of today." Caesar looked kind of worried, like he wasn't sure he wanted to press Luke but knew he had to.

Luke sighed. "Come back in ten minutes, Caesar." With that he shut the door.

"No! I'm not waiting! I'm done waiting! It's now or never!" She looked on the verge of tears.

"I don't like ultimatums!" He was angry, he was confused, he felt like he was being hit over the head with a sledge hammer.

"Well I don't like Mondays but they come around eventually!"

Luke stood in front of his dresser staring at the floorboards that ran beneath it. A little over two years ago the insurance man had handed him that card. He was going to put it in the vault when…when he was pulled outside, distracted. He hadn't wanted to lose the card…so he had stuck it in his wallet before following her outside.

"We can't just run off and get married!" Someone had to talk some sense here. She certainly wasn't going to.

"Why not Luke? Don't you love me?"

"Of course I love you!" God! How could she ask him that!

"But I love you Luke! I love you!"

He took a deep breath and reached beneath the dresser. He pulled out the faded leather wallet, covered in dust bunnies and tossed it on the bed like he had pulled a spider out instead. For a long time he just stood there above it, staring it down. He hadn't opened that wallet in two years. Not since the day he'd found out what she'd done. Not since she told him she was leaving. She hadn't cried. She hadn't told him she was sorry. He had been too shocked to do anything. He'd been too angry to go after her. When he had finally tried, tried night and day for a year, it was too late. She'd disappeared.

Since then he just couldn't open that wallet because he knew it was in there, stuck right behind the forty-seven dollars he thought he'd never see again—two twenty's, a five, and two one's. He'd called his credit card companies, his bank, told him he'd lost his cards. He was relatively sure they didn't believe him but they issued him new ones anyway. He'd gone to the DMV, he hated the DMV, and gotten a new license. He thought he had taken care of it all. He just couldn't bare seeing that slip of paper. He didn't see how he could see it and not remember…

"I can't believe you kept this in your wallet." She was genuinely shocked. "You kept this in your wallet…you kept this in your wallet…"

"Eight years," he supplied for her.

"Eight years," she repeated. And then she looked at him with those blue eyes. She looked at him the way she had looked at him every night in his dreams for eight years. She looked at him and he could only think that this, what he was doing here, with her, was crazy. It didn't make sense. And as he looked back at her he knew he just didn't care…

When he had chucked that leather wallet across the room that night two years ago, that night when he knew she was gone for good, he thought he'd buried it, he thought he'd buried her. Now, he had no choice. He had to open it. He had to get the card. He had to brush the dust off his past.