Author's Note: I just wanted to say I appreciate everyone who is reading this; writing for a 23-year-old game and finding out people are still engaged has been both surprising and encouraging! Thank you all! Writing about Squall's growth has been such a great experience for me, too (and yes, without spoiling too much, there are better things coming for our resident life-punching-bag).

10. Ex

HIS NAME IS Adrian. Not that I wanted to know, but Rinoa introduces me the next time I pick up Harper. At first, I'm not quite sure what to make of him; he's got this whole practised thing going on, almost as if he rehearsed our encounter in a mirror leading up to my arrival. He gives me a perfect handshake and offers a perfect smile, and my name rolls off his tongue all-too easily, his greeting like velvet.

Me, on the other hand—I'm just fumbling, trying not to get thrown off. I'm suddenly aware of the fact that I probably smell like the smoke I'd just finished just before heading over, and that I didn't bother to shower today, my dirty hair tucked under an old black toque. It also doesn't help that I have to look up almost five inches in order to meet his eyes as I force out the words, "Nice to meet you."

It is not nice to meet him. I can't even begin to imagine the range of horror stories Rinoa has told him about me. Does he know about the drugs, or Zurie, or the fact that I didn't see Harper or Rinoa for almost two years? What about the fights or the stress? All those times I made her cry? I can hear her voice, referring to me not as Squall, not as her former knight, but as her ex. Standing in front of him, I feel almost like an example—see Adrian, this guy right here is exactly what Rinoa doesn't want you to become.

At least everything is out in the open. The secrecy, the sneaking—it was making me fucking mental. Now, I no longer have to guess, no longer have to imagine. The worst case scenario has come true. I get to see with my own eyes how Rinoa looks at him, and I get to hear his voice, a full step deeper than my own, and I get to experience how sickeningly nice he is. That might be the shittiest part. I want to hate this guy, but he's just so goddamned cordial.

Still, as bothered as I am coming face-to-face with him, Adrian isn't the only worry in my world right now. That thought alone seemed almost unfathomable just a week ago. I've always been so preoccupied with Rinoa, always spinning what-ifs in my head. To have something else take equal precedence is strange, to say the least.

It's been five days since I've heard from Quistis, my texts all unanswered, left on read. I've spent most of my waking moments thinking back to that night, anxious, wondering. Is she ever going to speak to me again? Does she think I took advantage of her? I can't even wrap my head around how it all happened in the first place.

When I'd gone to pick up my car on Monday, she was already off to work. I don't know what I would have done if she was home, anyways. Apologize? I'm probably the last person she wants to see.

At home, I try to pretend. It's all I can do for Harper. I make us dinner, put The Beatles' Abbey Road on the record player. After that, she spends the evening drawing a picture of Angelo sitting in jagged grass while I clean up around the house, sweeping, loading the dishwasher, doing laundry. I have to keep busy. If I stop for too long, that obsessive tic in my brain starts up, and before I know it, I'm searching through my phone for replies that don't exist.

I've left her four texts so far. It's been hard to not just send more, but I don't want her to think I'm trying to corner her (I already feel like I might've done that when I decided to enter her bedroom in the first place).

Monday, I wrote: "Got my car. Please text me after you're done with work. Want to make sure you're okay."

Then, on Tuesday: "That was stupid. I don't know why I said that. I know you're not okay. I'm sorry."

I tried to leave her alone on Wednesday. That was pretty damn difficult.

My last two messages came yesterday. The first: "Can we please talk?"

And then later in the day: "I can't handle this."

I can't help but check again after I finish folding Harper's clothes into her dresser, even though I already know the answer. Still nothing. I try not to look at it again for the rest of the night. I play a game of go fish with Harper, but even that triggers thoughts in my head—everything feels mismatched, out of place. Rinoa with Adrian? Go fish. Quistis not talking? Go fish.

When Harper pulls out The Velveteen Rabbit and asks me to read it just before bed, it gets hard to breathe. My mind reels, tracing back to Quistis twenty-seven years ago at the orphanage, practically in another lifetime. Still, I can't tell her no; it's not up to her to understand why I'm tangling into knots over a bedtime story. I tuck her under the covers and start reading. It's hard. I have to dissociate as I narrate the words to her, avert my eyes at the illustrations, tune my own voice out.

My head is falls into complete disarray after she falls asleep. I head out on the patio to get stoned, but it's not enough. I need more than fog. I need a full-blown white-out. Hell if this wouldn't be a fucking time for Xanax. I wish I had even one—just enough to space out, fall away from the mess I've made.

I don't sleep much. I haven't really all week. Instead I just lie there and stare through the ceiling, replaying the sound of Quistis' crying, remembering her voice when she told me to leave. But what might be even worse—and this does not come without a substantial amount of guilt—is the fact that I can't get the feeling of her out of my head. That closeness. I wanted it so badly. It took every ounce of will in my brain to prevent it from going any further. If it happened again, I don't know that I'd be able to stop.

Goddamn, I am a complete, utter fucking disaster.

—

TOO MANY TIMES has my daughter asked me if I am okay, and every time, I have lied to her. She asks me again on the way to get lunch with Laguna. She's an anxious kid sometimes—she definitely gets that from me—and it kills me knowing that I stir up that feeling up inside of her. I do my best to feign at least a hint of happiness, tell her everything's fine. It's a good thing she's only four, because she accepts my lie and moves on.

The short walk from the car to the restaurant down the street comes with a sharp bite of wind, tugging at the hem of my wool coat, throwing my hair into my face. Harper looks so much like Rinoa as she marches down the sidewalk, practically offended by the audacity of the cold. It's almost like she's surprised it would dare try to cut through the layers upon layers of winter clothes. And despite everything swimming around in my head, I can't help but smirk as she pulls her toque over her ears and huddles into her puffy down jacket.

The restaurant is one of those kitsch places on Commercial, another hole-in-the-wall, easy to miss if you're not looking for it (although I'm not at all surprised Laguna's picked it out; it's got that low-key thing he always seems to gravitate toward). I hold open the door for Harper and we step inside, escaping away from the December chill.

Laguna's already sitting in a booth, hunched over a mug as he glances through his phone. It takes a second before he catches us out of the corner of his eye, but when he does, he looks almost surprised that we showed up. I guess you could say my track record with his on-the-fly requests has been spotty at the best of times. Normally, I don't entertain them at all, if for no other reason than to avoid the anxiety that inevitably clouds my mind whenever he's around. This time, though, I'm almost eager to take him up on the invite. At the very least, I'll have a chance to distract myself from the bigger problems that have been looming over the last few days.

"Hey Harps, hey Squall." There's a smile in his voice, bright and easy. He nudges his half-full mug aside and opens his arms up for Harper.

She runs up to him, easily baited by the prospect of his company. "Hi Grandpa!"

"Hey," I say. I take our coats and hang them at the end of the booth. She hops up onto the bench, climbs into the waiting beige booster seat.

The room smells like warm bread and garlic and freshly brewed grounds, and I can feel a pang of hunger that has been notably absent for almost a week. Eating has been difficult with the anxiety sitting like a hardened pit in my stomach; I've replaced so many meals with coffee and cigarettes at this point that I've lost count. And it must show, too, because Laguna points it out almost immediately.

"You look tired." He sits back into his seat, and I can tell that he immediately regrets saying the words. It's written right on his face. His eyes search mine, evaluating my reaction.

Normally, I'd be annoyed, pick out some rigid retort, throw it back at him. Today, though, there's no point. He's right. I am tired, so much so that I can't think straight. "Bad sleep," I tell him.

I'm certain he wants to ask me why, but he knows me better than that now, so instead he calls the server over and orders a coffee for me and a juice for Harper.

It's a battle to keep my mind from wandering off. Thankfully, Harper and Laguna seem to have enough to catch up on that they don't notice me struggling to not space out. I try to remember what they taught us back in training, oh so many years ago, about how to stay grounded to a situation. You first have to orient yourself against the surroundings, map the area to memory. I make an attempt, taking in the interior: bright white paint, large windows framed black, a neon sign that says "So Glad You're Here", one wall fully covered in fake leaves. Some indie rock song floats overtop the sounds of voices and the clattering of dishes.

Zurie used to serve in a place like this. At the time, I'd thought it was strange that she never wanted to do more than wait tables for a living, but she just had different standards than I did. A job for her had only two requirements: nothing corporate (she hated most chains, restaurants or otherwise), and no opening hours later than 20:00 (so she could go out after). Simple. Her whole life was like that, though. I think that was part of the attraction. With her, I didn't have to think too hard, didn't have to worry about what I said or did. Not like with Rinoa, or with, with—

"—Right, Daddy?"

So much for staying grounded. I look down to Harper and her big, eager eyes, and then over to Laguna. They both seem like they're waiting for me to say something, but I, of course, have nothing. I hate that I have to make her repeat herself, but I ask her to anyways.

"Sol-stice!" She checks with Laguna to make sure she's pronounced it right. He nods.

"It's next Saturday," Laguna says. "Don't forget, please."

"I won't."

How could I? Winter solstice is practically the only thing Laguna has impressed upon me as a so-called family tradition, something he'd inherited from Annette. When he was younger, his family would host a party on the longest night of the year; aunts, uncles, cousins, friends—everyone would come over and celebrate. I always thought it was weird. What about a long, cold night was even worth celebrating? But Laguna dug into the stories his mother told about rebirth, renewal—that after the long darkness came brighter, warmer days.

I remember eighteen in Esthar with Rinoa, my first time spending a full evening with him and Ellone as his kid, and not as some hired SeeD. He was so beyond ecstatic to have us there; he couldn't stop remarking on how happy his mother would have been. In the time since, I've missed only one of these get-togethers; I have no intentions of missing another.

Absences aside, Laguna's always been keen to keep the tradition going, passing it down not only to me, but to Harper as well. His crow's feet perk up as he tells her another tale from his past, this time about how he and his mother used to string lights outside their front door before the party. The way he describes her smile—so warm despite all the frost and snow—makes me think that I might have met her somewhere in my past. Of course that's impossible; by the time I was born, she'd already been dead for three years. Still, to think that her blood runs through mine is a strange thought.

"Are you going to bring anyone else this year?" Laguna asks. "You know you don't have to leave the invite at just you and Harps."

The thought pulls me back into the moment. I haven't ever really considered asking anyone else to join, not since Rinoa left. No one's ever been that close except maybe Zurie, but she was not exactly introduce-to-the-family material. I shrug.

"Why don't you bring your friend?" He pauses to think. "Quistis, right? She's more than welcome to join us."

It stings knowing the one person that I might've considered asking is not speaking to me. Just hearing her name makes me want to check my phone and see if she's answered at all. I try not to make a face, but then Harper tugs at the sleeve of my sweater, and she seems so sadly hopeful at the prospect of having her in attendance.

"Dad, please bring Auntie Quisty!"

God, it pains me to see her looking at me like that. But what can I say? I can't possibly tell her that Aunt Quisty might not come around anymore. I wish I could change the past; I want nothing more than to go back to last Sunday and tell myself to just stay on that fucking couch until morning. But I know better than most—changing the past is impossible. No spell, no compression of time, no junction will ever, ever alter what has already happened.

But I can't bring myself to give voice to anything other than a lie (again, because I'm terrible). "Maybe, Harps. We'll see."

It seems to satisfy her enough for now. It's a good thing, too, because I don't think I can handle much more on the subject of ruined friendships. She turns her attention back to my father and starts telling him about the art project she did in daycare. I let out a long, low exhale; the relief as their attention turns away from me is almost palpable.

I don't want anyone's suspicious gaze landing back on me, so I try to stare off in the right places—in her direction, then in his—and pretend that my mind isn't back to running a marathon. But it feels even more impossible to stay focused than when we first sat down.

I can't help but pull my phone out at one point to check my notifications. Still nothing. Fuck. It's been six days of this, now. How many more until I start to lose count? One week? Two? A whole goddamned month? I want to shoot her another message, but I'm sure that would serve only to frustrate her further. Not that it matters—I don't even know what I would say anymore.

The server sets my coffee down in front of me with a dull thud. It's my third cup today, a small reprieve. What I really need is sleep; caffeine is hardly a consolation prize by comparison. The server asks if we're ready to order, and I realize I've spent so much of my time drifting off that I haven't even looked at the menu. Thankfully, Harper eagerly goes first, then Laguna. They buy me just enough time to make a snap decision, but the moment after the words come out of my mouth, I've already forgotten what I've asked for.

The rest of lunch goes mostly like that. I'm in and out, there just enough to seem like I'm paying attention. I don't come even remotely close to bringing up my whole stupid existential crisis bullshit. Ellone's "ask your dad" advice feels so far away, like the resonant end of a long echo through a canyon. And I have no desire to bring it back around, not right now. Doing so would invite a whole new wave of stress crashing over already turbulent waters.

I'm able to get through half my food (which ended up being a chicken sandwich, surprise, surprise), and although it might seem paltry, it's still more than I thought I'd manage. I think it's partly because I want to seem alright for Harper's sake, but it's moreso because Laguna's watching me, still trying to figure out what's wrong. I've always been a hard read for him, which might seem strange considering how similar our lives have been. We just have completely opposite methods of dealing with our problems. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that he didn't have any demons to contend with at all.

Lunch is his treat, and he throws down a card before I can protest. In moments like these, it strikes me how normal Laguna's life has become. To go from all that opulence in Esthar to picking things back up in Galbadia, complete with a house and a car and credit cards—it's almost hard to believe. That kind of one-hundred-eighty degree turn would have given anyone else whiplash, but he plays it off as if his life has always been like this. The fact that we're even able to sit here in some hole-in-the-wall on Commercial, unbothered, can feel a bit surreal if I think about it hard enough.

When we leave, he walks us back to the car. I get Harper buckled into her seat, and that's when he stops me. I knew it was coming. I shut the door so Harper can't hear.

"What's going on with you today?" No stumbling through words this time. He hits me point-blank.

"Nothing," I tell him, but my response is too quick, and I'm too tired to hide the expression that strikes into my features.

"You sure about that?" He folds his arms over his chest. It's the stance he takes when he's sure he's right about something. Of course, history will say that he's only actually right maybe twenty-five percent of the time, but right now, he's got me cornered.

I don't know how to respond. I turn my gaze down to the sidewalk.

"You know if something's bothering you—"

"—I can talk to you, I know." I don't want to get into this right now.

He nods and offers a thin smile, his breath visible in the frigid air between us. He looks almost apologetic. His hand comes to rest on my shoulder, gives a gentle squeeze. I'd usually shrug it off, but once again, my lack of energy takes away the will to fight. I stand there and wait for him to withdraw.

"Just promise me," he finally says after a long pause, his hand falling away to rest by his side, "that you'll try to take care of yourself, okay?"

I nod. "Okay."

—

ADRIAN IS STILL there when I drop Harper off on Sunday. I can't help but wonder if this is just how it's going to be now, taking my daughter to Rinoa's and leaving her with another man—another father figure. What if he's there for the whole goddamned week? I have no way of competing with this fucking guy, Mr. Perfect himself. Part of me wonders how long it will be until I'm rendered obsolete. It pains me just to think about it.

When I ring the doorbell, Rinoa answers, then it's Angelo barking, the same uninspired small talk, fake smiles, and him waving at me from down the hall. The only good thing that comes of the whole exchange is the goodbye kiss I get from Harper, but then the door's shut, and I'm back outside. I walk down her front step, get into my car, inhale, and yell "Fuck!" at the steering wheel.

Ex-boyfriend, ex-knight, ex-everything. It's all that sticks in my head, all the way back home. Rinoa feels further away than she ever has. I think a part of me has always known that I wouldn't find my way back to her, but now, that future feels solidified, no longer a possibility, but rather an absolute certainty. I was fooling myself to ever think otherwise. I guess I just needed that semblance of hope, that security blanket.

I get home, park in my driveway, and turn the car off. After that, I just sit and stare at the dashboard while the cab gets cold. I don't know what to do. The music keeps playing to the air until the battery shuts it down automatically, cutting off Hold Me Now midway through a cry of "stay with me."

I check one more time for a notification, some sort of sign of Quistis. It's been a whole week since I went to her place now, seven long days that have probably aged me a full year. Am I about to be an ex-friend too? She still hasn't responded to any of my messages. I drop my head back against the headrest, close my eyes, try to breathe.

I wonder if anyone else spends this much time struggling to cope. I feel like I'm constantly wrestling with my bad decisions. It almost makes me want to go back to those days of fate, back when I was a teenager. I know it sounds strange; when I was seventeen, it felt like the world had fallen onto my shoulders; everyone had become my responsibility, and in a way, that was actually the case. But even so, the real choices were all out of my hands, as were the consequences. Everything was predetermined, dictated by a fold in time.

Not like now. There's no longer some sort of fate writing the path ahead. There's only me. Stupid, selfish, directionless me.

—

IF THERE'S ONE ex title I'd be okay with, it's definitely ex-SeeD. And I feel that way especially on Monday, after I fuck up an important assignment for the Timber contract and double-book one SeeD member for two coinciding jobs. Of course, this results in me being reamed out by Xu over a long, painful video call in which she carefully details all the ways I could have caught my error beforehand, and outlines Garden's strict dispatch protocols for future reference.

What a fantastic way to start the week. Anyways, guess who gets to spend two full days hanging out with Secretary Robinson in Dollet for a security summit? Just end me already, please.

But even despite the gig, I'm still honestly pretty pissed with myself. Even though I don't give a damn about the job itself anymore, it bothers me knowing I could screw up so badly. I just can't concentrate. There's too much going on. I guess that's the whole reason Garden likes to keep its SeeDs living inside its walls; it stops them from venturing out, from experiencing life, and most importantly, from losing focus on the bottom line.

Monday night isn't much better than the day. I smoke my Malboros, pace around the house, stare at my phone, scroll, scroll, scroll. I feel like my whole existence has boiled down to just urging time to pass by. And really, what else is there? It was stupid of me to think I could become a blank slate again, when so many people have stricken me out with red ink.

My notepad doesn't have that problem. It's on the coffee table where it's been sitting for over a week, blank—left without a word, not a single penstroke. It's almost funny how something can completely dominate your every waking moment one day, and be relegated to background noise the next.

Still, background or not, it's hard to believe that my conversation with Seifer is already a month old. And I'm just hanging here, two inches further down the rope than I'd like. I'm not over Rinoa, I'm not out of Garden, my best friend is MIA, and I've spent more time analyzing past mistakes than ever. What even is self-improvement?

It's only just after 21:00 when I decide to go to bed. I'm not sure if it's because I'm completely, utterly exhausted, or if it's just because I don't know what else to do with myself. I trudge upstairs, undress, wash my face, brush my teeth. When I'm done, I don't lie down so much as I crumple into the mattress.

I'm tired enough that I actually manage to fall asleep at a normal time for once. Or at least, I almost do, but then my phone buzzes against the nightstand. I try to ignore it. Thirty seconds later, another buzz.

Fine.

I turn it on, my eyes burning at the brightness, and I have to squint hard to make out what the notifications say. Two messages from Quistis. I immediately sit up, grab my glasses, and open the conversation.

Her first message reads: "I'm sorry I haven't replied. I'm not ignoring you. I just don't know what to say. I'm scared I've ruined our friendship forever. I know I was drunk but that's not a good excuse. It should never have happened like that."

And then: "I just need some time to sort myself out. I'll talk when I can. xx"

The relief is overwhelming. I feel myself getting emotional, the tiredness and the anxiety and the stress all hitting in a singular chorus, and a few hot tears trace down to frame the edges of my face. I draw in a sharp breath, wipe away at my eyes.

I had been so scared of losing her, so terrified that I might've destroyed everything; I don't know what I would have done if she had said she couldn't see me again. Every single little thing in my life has felt so fragile lately, like just the barest hint of pressure could cause it all to shatter. Her message offers me resolve. It's that little glimmer of hope, signed off with an "xx", giving some assurance to the quiet voice in the back of my head, the one that says maybe I haven't fucked up as badly as I'd thought.

My reply comes too quickly, but I don't care. I send it off as fast as I can type it out; I need her to know: "It's okay. I'll be here."