(the mistakes we knew we were making)

He spends two days after his plane touches down in Boston looking for Peyton Sawyer. Combs through the phone book, searches for Sawyer, Peyton on classmates dot com. Enters the address to Peyton's high school web cam (dead, unsurprisingly). Finally ends up calling his mother, still in Tree Hill, still running a hip nightclub. She gives him Larry Sawyer's number, Chicago area code. He wonders why she knows it, but doesn't dwell on the fact.

"What's wrong?" She asks, after giving him the phone number. "Why do you need to contact Peyton? You haven't talked to her since high school."

"Nothing's wrong, Mom," he tells her. "I just wanted to see how she's doing. Nothing's wrong."

Except a lot of things are.

But they have nothing to do with Peyton, and everything to do with himself.

He, of course, doesn't say this aloud.

He finds out from Mr. Sawyer that Peyton is traveling Paris and is spending her days hitch hiking rides from strangers with a sketchbook in hand and a charcoal pencil, making the landscapes immortal. She doesn't have a phone number, her father tells him, but she checks her email from time to time.

So he logs into his email account, starts a new message.

Writes:

Haley sent me a postcard, with a date, and a time and a place. And I went to her. Hopped on a plane – went to her. But I left too soon, and she didn't give me an address, a phone number. And now, I miss her, and I need her.

She told me about you, her only link to Tree Hill. To Nathan. To me. I need to know who she's become. Who she is. I want things to be the same, because then, maybe I'll be happy. And things can't be the same if I don't have the answers. If I don't know who she is.

(Don't you remember? I used to know everything about her. How she liked her chicken soup when she had a cold. How she would only eat her eggs sunny side up. I used to know everything about her. And I was happy. But now, all I know about her is that she got drunk on Nathan's wedding night and that she loved him. That she's sorry. That she wears dark glasses to avoid the paparazzi. And that she misses me. That's all I know. And that's not enough. That's not enough. And I'm unhappy. So unhappy.)

Please, I need a phone number. And address. Anything. Please, Peyton. Please.

-- L.

Moves the cursor to the bottom of the page.

Clicks, send.

Seven hours later, he finds an email in his inbox. Clicks it open, reads:

Peyton called me, told me you emailed her, asking about me. She said that you wanted to know about me, because you said you didn't know me. She thought it was best that I know, that I tell you myself. Tell you my life story. But you know it, don't you? Because you were there. You were always there. And even during the past five years, I thought about you most. Because you were there, always there. And I didn't know what to do without my best friend, didn't know what to do without the person who knows me best. You told me at the airport that it didn't matter, that Nathan still hated me, that you'd be my friend anyway. That it'd be our secret. Tell me Lucas, is it worth the risk? Losing that bond with Nathan. I know how close you both are. I see it on TV, read about the Scott brothers in magazines. I don't know if I can let you sacrifice it. I'm broken and damaged, and I'm not worth it.

So that's the real question, isn't it? Tell me Lucas, do you mean what you say? After everything, do you still want to be my friend? Do you want to take that chance and risk it all?

He clicks reply, doesn't think about the consequences, types in a single word:

Yes.

Nathan and his wife (Jennifer, with her pale blond hair, alabaster skin and small pink mouth. A stark opposite of Haley, but that was the point, his brother told him, when things started to get serious) come over for dinner four days after he gets home. Tradition whenever Nathan is in town between games.

Jennifer brings over a casserole like she always does (ham and cheese this time), and flowers. Jennifer is always trying to make his place homey, constantly bringing plants, picture frames, and paid visits from Maria, her college cleaning lady. No woman is going to marry you if you're so adamant about living like a bachelor, she'd say, tossing her hair in dismay.

When she says this, Nathan always laughs and kisses her. "That's my wife for you," he tells Lucas affectionately. "Always playing house, even when it's not her own home."

Lucas knows that Nathan likes this. Likes that even after two years of marriage, his wife still goes through motions of domesticity: bakes him casseroles and cookies, cleans the house, plans benefits at the country club. Likes that Jennifer loves him more than anything. Likes that he has a trophy wife.

(Unlike Haley who got tired of washing the dishes and cooking him dinner after only half a year of marriage. Who wasn't devoted to her husband. Who abandoned him.

That, of course, is unspoken. Haley's name is, after all, not to be mentioned. Period.)

His sister-in-law is placing the casserole dish on the set table when Nathan asks him, "You went to New York City man? And you didn't tell me?"

He freezes his heart pounding. Sees Nathan holding up a boarding pass, a confused look on his brother's face. Knows what Nathan would do if he found out. Found out about Haley.

Lucas pauses, gathers his thoughts, tries to remain nonchalant when he responds. "Last minute thing. Had an interview with…" Hesitates, goes through the filofax of Yankees in his head, "Brian Gilmore."

Nathan studies his face, a little suspicious, "But it's not baseball season."

"Pre-season interview," he lies, "You know how those go, Nathan Scott, NBA all-star."

Feels guilty when Nathan's face relaxes, "Oh, okay. Next time you should tell me. You could've bought me a pretzel. Or a dozen. Man, those New York pretzels are so good."

(Years later, he will look back and think that maybe this – this moment – was the beginning of the end)