Mary Margaret Blanchard's wedding was less than forty-eight hours away, and though filling orders for Leopold Blanchard had been exceedingly difficult since the onset of the new year, he wasn't going to turn away the money. So, he gritted his teeth and kept his mouth shut, continuing to take orders and make deliveries. For the most part, it worked out; after all, it was now rare that Leopold actually placed or received his own orders.

That hadn't been the case tonight, not with Leopold monitoring every detail of his daughter's wedding to ensure perfection. That night, he'd been waiting in the kitchen, immediately opening every crate and inspecting every bottle. He'd attempted to make small talk hoping that Quebec champagne was as good as the French champagne he'd order under ordinary circumstances, completely ignoring that he'd been serving Quebec champagne at his parties since the start of Prohibition. Robin nodded along, glad that he was barely given time to respond—because if he had been given time to do so, unlike most nights, he doubts he'd have been able to hold his tongue.

For the first time since Regina left, Leopold mentioned his estranged wife.

Robin feels his jaw tighten at the mention of her name, avoiding eye contact as to not give himself away—after all, Leopold Blanchard has no idea of the role he played in Regina's disappearance, and he wants to keep it that way. But the more Leopold goes on, the harder it is to listen to—then finally, when Leopold states for the umpteenth time that Regina's absence has ruined Mary Margaret's wedding planning, he can't hold back from allowing himself a snide seems to me you'd have thought the same if she were here before returning to his work. Leopold only huffed before turning his attention back to the crates and, thankfully, he was much more interested in the expensive bottles of bourbon than he was berating his long-lost wife.

Finally, when the crates were all unloaded and Leopold had given every last bottle a thorough inspection, Leopold handed over a thick envelope of cash and the transaction ended. Getting into his truck, Robin thumbed through the cash—he'd count it later—then reached beneath his seat for his flask, taking a long sip of whiskey before turning over the engine and heading home.

"You look like hell," John states as soon as he enters the apartment. "Rough night?"

"I had the Blanchard delivery—"

"Ah, that'll do it," John murmurs, tossing a magazine onto the coffee table. "I don't know why you don't just let me take over the Blanchard account. You can have the—"

"I don't want Leopold to suspect that I had anything—"

"Robin. Regina disappeared months ago," John interjects. "And if the money you're worried about, it all goes into the same pot, so it's not like you'd be missing out."

"I know that."

"You don't have to be such a damn masochist."

Robin's jaw tightens. "I… want to keep tabs on him."

John's face scrunches. "Why?"

"Because when you go into houses like Leopold Blanchard's you inevitably hear things," Robin says as he crouches in front of the liquor cabinet and selects an unopened bottle of whiskey that had been a gift from Marco and Eugenia. "So, while I hate going there, I feel like I need to," he adds as he rises back up and unscrews the cap. "For Regina's sake."

"And you really think he's going to tell you—"

"Maids talk. Footmen talk. I don't think Leopold would tell me anything, but they might, if I ask the right questions."

"I see—" Robin nods as he falls back onto the couch, taking a swig from the bottle. "This is why I don't want to fall in love. Men do stupid shit when they're in love." Robin's eyes narrow. "Oh, hey, I made chili. Do you want some?"

"You made chili three days ago."

"Right. So. Do you want some?"

Robin sighs and nods, again taking a swig of the whiskey as John goes to the kitchen. "Where's Roland?" Robin asks, suddenly very aware that he hasn't seen his son all day. "I'd like to—"

"He's upstairs. At Chip's."

"Oh—"

"He's been there since noon."

"Probably avoiding Day Three of Chili Night."

John shugs. "More for me."

"But it's past ten now—"

"He fell asleep. He and Chip were listening to some radio program," John tells him. "Chip's mom said she'd bring him down if he woke up and wanted to come home and I saw no reason to wake him."

"Right—"

Robin sighs, taking another drink as John warms the chili.

Over the course of the last few months, Roland had gotten increasingly close with a little boy who lived upstairs. He was new to town and just Roland's age, and they'd be in the same class when the new school year started. In many ways, Robin was glad that his son had such a close friend, and yet everything he went upstairs to play with Chip, a pit rested in Robin's stomach because inevitably, it would lead to some sort of interaction with Chip's mother.

Mrs. Potts—who he adamantly refused to call by her first name, Beatrice—was not a subtle woman. Only a few days after she and Chip moved into their apartment, one of the other neighbors had mentioned that Robin was single—and eligible. She'd shown up with a loaf of banana bread and he'd accepted it, thinking it was just a neighborly gesture. But things quickly escalated. She'd show up to borrow eggs or sugar or a cup of milk and make a comment about how blue his eyes were that day, somehow end up with his mail and come to personally deliver it and make a comment about his dimples. She'd knock on the door and ask if he could take a look at a light switch or some appliance, and though he was adamant that he was no handyman, she insisted assuring him that he could be of help. Regardless of what she said was broken or not working properly, he always found it perfectly fine—and she always sang his praises, telling everyone in the building he had "a magic touch."

John was incredibly amused by it all, but that one never failed to make him laugh, and unfortunately for him, it'd become her go-to move.

"Ya know," John calls from the kitchen. "Mrs. Potts mentioned something about—"

"I'm not going up there."

"Not even for apple cinnamon muffins?" John grins back over his shoulder. "She, uh… she left you one, but I ate it. Turns out they go great with chili."

"Maybe you should go up and get some." Robin smirks, laughing quietly to himself at his own joke.

"Nah, she's only got eyes for you." With oven mitts on his hands, John carries a bowl of chili into the living room and sets it down on the coffee table. "Besides, I've got a date tonight."

Robin's brows arch. "Really—"

"Tink is in town visiting friends." He grins, looking pleased—and Robin's not sure if the smile is about Tink or the chili, but regardless, John seems smitten. "We ran into each other at the market and—"

"I'm pretty sure I read this story in the last Reader's Digest."

John scoffs, his grin brightening. "What I'm planning for tonight wouldn't be suitable for Reader's Digest."

Robin's eyes roll as he takes a spoonful of chili. "When are you meeting her?"

"She's at the Rabbit Hole now. I told her I'd meet up with her whenever you got home."

Swallowing the chili, Robin nods. "Yet you're still here."

John shrugs. "You had to work tonight, so it's my turn to play housewife and that's a role I take very seriously."

Again, Robin's eyes roll as he reaches into his pocket and tosses John the keys to their truck. "Well, you're relieved of duty—"

Laughing, John catches the keys in his palm, slipping his finger through the ring and swinging the keys around. "Oh! Wait. Before I got, you got something in the mail." Immediately, Robin feels his mood improving. "You're awfully excited about the electric bill."

Robin's face falls and he looks back to the chili, dragging his spoon through it. "I really hate you sometimes."

John chuckles as he thumbs through the small pile of mail. "Ohh, unless it's this letter from Regina Blanchard that you were excited for?" Robin looks up and John grins as he flings the letter at him. "Enjoy. I'm gonna go get pretty for Tink."

Suddenly, the chili is forgotten.

Unabashed, Robin tears open the envelope and sits back, his entire body tingling with anticipation.

It's silly to be this excited over a letter—over the last several months, John has certainly teased him mercilessly—but he no longer cares. Regina's letters are always a bright spot, and he longs for any connection with her. Her letters make him feel like he's a real part of her life. She takes him through her day-to-day routines, tells him about Henry's progress in school, and shares whatever her thoughts are floating through her head whenever she sits down to write. Sometimes the letters are well planned and topics are arranged in sections; but mostly, the letters are written in a stream of consciousness style, rambling from one topic to the next. He prefers those letters; they make him feel like he's there with her, like he's wondering though her day at her side.

In her last letter, she wrote about a summer holiday she and Henry took to the coast. One of Mal's friends had a summer house there, and she and Henry spent their days flying kites and walking along the beach, collecting seashells. She taught him how to fish, then after roasting the trout for their dinner, she and Henry tried the s'more recipe that he sent her. As expected, Henry loved them, and they became a nightly treat while they were on vacation.

Though she didn't say it, he could tell that Regina was relishing in the chance to be a mother to her son, enjoying every minute of Henry's summer break from school; after all, this was the first chance she'd really had since Henry started school six years before. And he was relishing with her—or, well, from afar…

He unfolds the letter, rubbing his fingers against the paper, surprised to only find a single sheet—an odd detail given that their letters usually go on for pages.

Nonetheless, he opens it smiling at the sight of her now-familiar, loopy and slightly sloppy handwriting—and then his stomach drops and his lungs deflate.

"Well, I'm off to—" John's voice halts. "You look worse than when you came in."

Robin doesn't reply. Instead, he just stares down at the letter.

"So, um… what did she have to say?"

Robin's eyes press closed. "I… think she's trying to break up with me."

An audible gasp escapes John as he sinks down into the armchair adjacent to the couch. "What? Why?"

"I… I don't know."

"That can't be right."

Robin scoffs, wishing there'd been room for him to misunderstand. "She wants us to keep our options open."

"Options—"

"That's what she said."

John bites down on his lip as his head dips forward. "That sounds like a really roundabout way of saying she's met someone else."

For a moment, Robin considers that.

He looks back to the letter, reading over the few sentences scribbled onto the paper. Regina only mentions him keeping his option open, saying that she's worried he'll miss out on "an opportunity for something more." There's absolutely no reference to herself—he was the one who inserted her.

"I bet she met some hunky British guy—"

A sad little smile tugs up at the corner of Robin's mouth. "I suppose she has a type."

"Bitch," John scoffs, shaking his head and crossing his arms over his chest. "It sounds like—"

"Don't say that—" John's brows jut up as Robin tosses the letter onto the coffee table. "And don't say she's met someone else. I don't think—"

"Then why would she write you that? Why would she say—"

"I don't know," Robin cuts in, his voice piquing with annoyance. "She… she was always reluctant—"

"Yeah, that's why she writes you twenty-page love letters—she was reluctant."

"She's never written twenty pages," Robin bristles, not entirely sure what he's feeling and remembering that her first letter was a good-bye until he wrote her back. Had he really misunderstood this whole time? Had he guilted her into a long-distance relationship she never wanted to be a part of? He racked his brain to remember the things she wrote about—always the past, never the future—and he wondered how long she's been thinking about this, how long she's wanted to hit the brakes.

His head falls back and he draws in a breath, slowly exhaling it as he tries to collect his thoughts wishing he could talk to her, wishing he could just ask her what she wanted.

But he can't.

Not easily, anyway, and certainly not now.

"So, how did she end it?"

Robin lifts his head. "What?"

"The letter," John says. "How did she end it?"

Robin's brow furrows. He's not sure. He's not sure he even read it. Leaning forward he reaches for the letter, opening it up and scanning her words—and the end really isn't an end at all. She tells him that she doesn't want him to miss out on something promising and real out of obligation to her, that she doesn't want him to live in limbo because of the choices she made.

She's guilty—why or about what, he couldn't say—but she gives no indication that she wants whatever's between them to end. Quite the contrary as her last words are I couldn't live with myself if I knew my love was a hindrance to your happiness.

And then she'd signed her name, and that was that.

"Y'know what you should do?" John says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "You know how you should reply?"

"No, but I bet you're about to tell me."

"In the morning, you should go to the post office and give her a call—"

"And say what?" Robin asks, "How am I supposed to respond to this?"

"Break up with her."

Robin blinks. "Break up with her," he repeats as if John's idea is coming from left field.

"Do it before she gets the chance to break up with you."

"No," Robin says, surprising even himself. "I… I don't want to." Drawing in a short breath, he quickly exhales it. He feels a headache coming on. "She's got a self-destructive side. I don't know what's triggered it, but I won't play into it."

John's brow furrows. He doesn't understand—but he wouldn't. He couldn't really. He didn't even know her.

"So… what are you thinking you should do then?"

"I don't know," Robin admits. "But if she's losing interest in our relationship, she's going to have to tell me. And if she wants to end things, she's going to have to be the one to do it."

John nods, momentarily pursing his lips. He's holding back, and for that, Robin's glad. "Will you write back?"

"I don't know."

"So, you're just… not going to—"

"I don't know," he says again, his agitation evident in his tone. "I… I don't know what I want to do about this." He sighs and falls back against the couch. "Don't you have a date?"

"I could cancel or—"

"No, don't do that," Robin cuts in, shaking his head. "I just… need to be alone for awhile, collect my thoughts and—"

"Whiskey's good for that," John says, leaning forward and pushing the bottle toward Robin. "It might give you hell in the morning, but after that bottle's gone, your thoughts will be real clear."

Robin scoffs. "We have a very different understanding of the way whiskey works." Nonetheless, he reaches for the bottle and takes a swig. "But that won't stop me from drinking it."

John nods, offering a sad little grin. "You're sure you don't—"

"Go. Please, go."

John nods and rises to his feet. "Eat your chili," he says, pointing to the bowl. "I worked all day—"

"Three days ago."

"Still. It was hard work and you should appreciate it."

Robin grins and nods. "Thanks."

He lifts his bottle as the door closes behind John and he gulps down the whiskey until his throat burns.

He has no idea what to do or how to respond.

Reaching out, he grabs the letter, reading it once more in an attempt to infer something that isn't plainly written—and as he does that little nagging voice in the back of his head makes him wonder if John isn't write and she's not trying to let him down easily.

Crumpling it, he tosses it back to the table, sighing it when it lands in his all-but-forgotten bowl of chili.

Fuck. What was he supposed to do now?