**I own nothing you recognize**
Two rings in and Tara's heart's in her throat, her pleasant buzz having long since evaporated – leaving her with nothing but the awareness of what she's doing and all the reasons she hadn't done it the night before, the night before that… and every other night since she'd left.
Four rings and she's pacing the floor of her small apartment, as close to praying as she's been since she was a kid. Except she's not sure what it means that the litany she's whispering sounds a hell of a lot like don't be Gemma… Don't be Gemma... Don't be Gemma…
Seven, and she's torn whether she's relieved nobody seems to be around, or-
"Club Reaper!"
The voice is feminine, and decidedly not Gemma- but still, the words leave her. Christ, her breath leaves her, draining out of her lungs and stealing her ability to do what she'd set out to do. Even if she'd been moments away from hanging up the phone, and even if she'd have landed firmly on the side of relief no one had picked up. But the club- at least most of it- is there, as evidenced by the music and laughter in the background.
Suck it up, Knowles, and stop being a pussy.
But before the resolve that's made its way into her spine can reach her lips, the voice comes again, irritated this time.
"Club Reaper! Either speak up or hang up!"
Shit. Say something, Tara…
"I... " Christ, this is harder than she'd even thought it would be. "Uh, is… is Jackson there?"
There. She'd done it… Jesus.
"Jackson? Jackson who?" The girl on the other end returns, and even half-hyperventilating, Tara can't help the way her eyes drift toward the ceiling at the false, saccharine-sweet innocence that oozes over the line.
"Jackson, uh, Jax Teller." She keeps her voice even, mild- despite her frustration. The last thing she needs is to piss this girl off, since she's got absolutely no idea when she'll grow the balls to call again.
"Oh, Jax Teller," the syrupy voice placates. "Well, I'm sorry to tell you this sweetheart… but I just finished tucking him into bed a few minutes ago. He's gonna be real worn out for a while, so you should probably try back tomorrow."
She wants to argue- she really does- tell whoever this girl is that Jackson Teller is hers, that anyone else who'd ever tried to come between them had failed… But she's stopped by the agony that's twisting in her chest with the realization that she'd been wrong on both accounts.
Jackson Teller is apparently no longer hers and now there's miles, days, and a goddamn world between them.
"OK, sooo-" It's clear the girl is getting impatient, either to get back to Jax- God, there goes her heart again- or at least to end this particular conversation with someone who can't seem to fucking say anything. Until she's interrupted by someone in the background.
"Lemme get past ya there, darlin'..."
It's pathetic, really, what his voice still does to her. Christ, she's practically trembling- still reeling from the image of this nameless, faceless, girl cuddled up next to him in their- his- bed, and now swamped by the relief that that, at least, appeared to be a lie.
"Jax?"
There's no response on the other end, just a brief rustling, a feminine murmur, and- the unmistakable, beloved sound of Jackson Teller's laughter in response to whatever the girl had said. She closes her eyes, allows herself to imagine for a moment that he's sharing that easy laugh with her.
"A'ight, well, I'll be back in the apartment until then,"
So this is what it feels like when your heart stops for the second time in about three minutes. Tara had thought she'd explored nearly every nook and cranny of the gamut of emotions she'd ridden in the last several weeks, but this… it's like some yawning hole had just opened somewhere in her gut, threatening to swallow her useless heart whole.
So he had moved on- and in exactly the way she'd thought he would. And she's suddenly finding that torturing herself, even punishing herself, with the thought is nothing compared to actually learning the truth.
It's a truth that's still echoing in her head when the girl's voice returns, a hint of smug satisfaction at its edges.
"Don't worry honey- he's got all he can handle tonight."
A click breaks their connection, leaving Tara gripping the phone so tightly she fears for a second she might break it.
So that's it, then, she tells herself moments later when she finds she can move again, gently replacing the handset on its receiver before crossing the room to sink back onto the bed. The emptiness she'd felt moments ago seems to seep into her veins, spreading a dull numbness everywhere it touches. The relief of the tears she'd thought would come once she was wrapped in her blankets again seems to be frozen, too, leaving her with nothing but what's turned out to be an even harsher reality than she'd anticipated.
Donna must have been mistaken; Jax had put her firmly behind him. Or, she reasons, he really has been stretching himself too thin between the club and the garage- too tired most nights for any of the usual SAMCRO revelry and content with his club, his whiskey, and his flavor of the night. Either way, he's clearly not suffering a need to hear from her- that's for damn sure.
Curling onto her side once again, Tara folds her arms against an invisible chill- despite the fact that it's still sultry outside and nearly as warm within- and listens as that internal voice comes back to haunt her once again.
What did you expect? For him to just accept the fact that you'd packed up and left him? Act like a goddamn monk for nearly a decade while you went to some snooty-ass school?
And she can't argue, not even with herself, over that one. Here she is- weeks too late, alone to boot, and still no closer to letting him go completely than she had been the day she left. And there isn't a damn thing she can do about it- not even cry.
Christ, it had been a long day. He'd had a full shift at the garage and a slate of SAMCRO duties, which wasn't helped by the fact that he'd volunteered to take on an extra protection run after hours when it had turned out JT and Piney had been held up somewhere or other.
Not that the details particularly interest him – hell, nothing interests him anymore, Jax thinks grimly, hanging his helmet on his handlebar and dragging himself off his bike for the first time in hours. He'd taken the job for the same reason he'd taken all of them these past few months- to do what he can to make up for Ope's absence… and now that Tara's gone and he's here, alone, he may as well do what it is he'd set out to do.
Plus, he reasons, leaning against the bike and lighting a cigarette, the road is still the only place he manages to stop feeling like something's crawling beneath his skin- something slow and insidious he can't quite describe, even to himself. He'd felt it sinking into his veins the moment he'd shifted the Dyna into a lower gear and made the familiar turn towards Charming. Towards…
Jesus, he can't remember the last time he'd thought of coming back to the clubhouse as coming home. He just can't reconcile stepping into the apartment Gemma had cleared of every last trace of Tara- but was still the residence of all the ghosts of the memories of what they'd had- with the feeling of home.
JT and Gemma's house, too... Though he hadn't set foot in the place since his epic blowout with his mother, that house had long since stopped feeling like home, to him. Ever since Tara had moved across town into the apartment above the vet clinic- hell probably way before that- he'd learned what his father had said it had taken him decades to figure out…
Home isn't a place- it's a person.
Signing as the weariness seems to multiply the further he burns through the cigarette, he idly wonders for the umpteenth time what the fuck you're supposed to do when the person you consider home is just… gone.
Probably not this.
Starting across the lot, his cigarette hanging from his lips, Jax glances up briefly at the Teller-Winston sign on his way by, a corner of his mouth kicking up slightly at the thought of the night it had gone up. Then, he'd felt like he'd had it all- his best friend, the chance to prospect together for their fathers' club- and best of all, the girl of his dreams to see him through it. Now, it's all gone but the club.
Pausing by the picnic tables, he takes a moment to finish the cigarette. Even though every single patched member of the club lights up inside, plus his mother and half the croweaters- he needs just another moment before he has to don the Jax fucking Teller mask… Before he has to go be SAMCRO.
At some point- maybe after talking to Ope and even Donna a couple weeks ago, or maybe after the preceding night when he'd raced out to the goddamn reservation in the darkness, chasing the ghost of someone who'd left him behind- he'd realized he couldn't go on this way. Couldn't keep balancing on the fine edge of the blade that was his sanity. For one, if he kept going there, kept letting himself get dragged down into the open wound his heart had become, he wasn't sure he'd ever really get back out… And at the time, he hadn't much cared.
But time, and a little clarity, had him realizing that completely losing his shit was going to put his club right back into the tricky spot it had been left in. With Happy out of town more than he was in, Opie in prison, and Piney having received orders from his doc to fucking cool it for a little while… the club needed him. And so, despite the fact that he still wonders on a daily basis if he might just be dying inside- metaphorically, physically, emotionally, it doesn't fucking matter- he's managed to put his game face on.
Jax tosses his cigarette butt and swipes a hand down his face. He can't say he's been able to fool everyone into thinking he's unaffected by all of this- not that he's fucking talking to any of them about her, God knows when he'll be ready for that. But he's at least found himself able to toss out a few ideas during Church, muster up what he's sure is a grimace at one of Tig's jabs, and down a few shots with Bobby or Chibs before heading back to the relative peace of the apartment. He snorts, heading for the clubhouse door… maybe peace ain't the word.
But the fact remains- all he wants is to head inside, make a beeline for one of the bottles he'd seen his mother and the croweaters unloading into the clubhouse this morning, and head to the back to start working on drowning out everything else. And if he's got to exchange some pleasantries and wear the fucking mask to do it, well… fair enough.
It's time he gets as close to back on track as he can manage, given the circumstances. He owes it to them if nothing else. Gritting his teeth, he reaches into his pocket, reassures himself that the warm heavy metal is still there- it's become sort of a talisman, no matter how sentimental and fucked-up that makes him. Then, with a deep breath, he pushes his way through the heavy doors.
"Jackie Boy!" is what rings through the air of the relatively noisy clubhouse practically the moment he steps inside. Despite his mood, Jax has to smile a bit at the way Chibs had been greeting him ever since he'd turned up in Charming when Jax was a kid. Nodding, he makes his way over where Chibs is seated, and leans up against the bar between him and Kozik.
"How was the run, kid?" Kozik asks, lifting his glass and nodding at the croweater behind the bar, who ignores the incessant ringing of the bar phone to refill his glass.
"It was a'ight. Quiet," he shrugs- and it had been. He'd had to ride down past Fresno, escort some truck full of shit he hadn't even bothered to look into as it made a few deliveries- apparently the owners had had issues with a few rednecks hassing their drivers. Easy shit.
Koz had offered to ride along, but Jax had turned him down, knowing that the others had had a similar run planned over through Oakland and would need the extra manpower. More, he knows, he just hadn't felt like answering the questions he knew time alone with one of the most kindhearted members of his father's crew would bring. Kozik nods and claps Jax on the back, bringing him back to the present, squeezing his shoulder before turning back to his beer.
"Here y'are, Jackie-" Chibs interrupts his train of thought, sliding a shot glass towards him, and Jax rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Over the past week or so- since he's been putting in a bit more effort- he's become accustomed to the shots, the meaningless but friendly small talk, the forced jokes from his brothers. He knows they're just trying to help- knows they're cautiously bringing him back into the circle where they can after weeks of him struggling to keep his shit together..
Nodding at Chibs, he lifts the glass, slowly, before tapping it against the bar top and tossing it back. He's almost breathless a moment as the whisky- fucking Scotch, actually- steals his senses, but it's brief compared to the fiery burn he used to get after a shot with Chibs. He supposes that's what several weeks of polishing off a half a fifth of Jack a night will do.
"Everything alright, boy? Y'hear from our girl?" Chibs sets his own empty shot glass on the bar and narrows his eyes, his scars pulling in worry. It isn't the first time he's brought it up- won't be the last, either. Jax forces a grin- knowing it won't fool the man in the slightest- and responds in the only way that will get him out of this yet again.
"Naw. But I'm good, Chibby." Patting Chibs on the shoulder, he avoids looking him in the eye as he pushes away from the bar and heads around the end. Though Chibs, Kozik, and sometimes Bobby have been probing a bit, lately, they seem to be at least partly satisfied he's talking to any of them at all, and have mostly respected his nightly routine. Even the croweaters have kept a fairly wide berth, initially scared off by his ever-present bad temper.
Thankfully, Gemma's not here tonight, either. Though he's successfully avoided her so far, she can always be trusted to push her way into his business, and he's not prepared to listen to what he's sure will be a lengthy diatribe about Tara and everything she'd ever done to wrong him.
"Lemme get past ya there, darlin'," Jax says to the croweater behind the bar. She's finally answered the phone and is standing directly in front of his target- the case of Jack that's sitting on the floor next to the beer cooler. She smiles seductively at him- seemingly forgetting about the person on the other end- and moves the receiver to her chest before responding.
"Hey, JT wants to talk to you. Said to tell you he's meeting with Piney, but to wait for him- shouldn't take long." She winks at him, and he desperately tries to remember her name- Shara? Shayna? Shawna? In the end, he settles for a brief smile- which is a mistake, apparently, as it has her practically lighting up in response- and grabs his whiskey.
"You switchin' teams on us, man?" Tig's chuckling as he approaches the space Jax had occupied minutes ago, his arm draped around a croweater. He angles his head towards the bottle in Jax's hand, and clarifies- "I mean, you've been spendin' your nights with Jack and Jim here instead of-"
"Shut the fuck up, Tiggy," Kozik taunts, rising from his seat to pat Tig none too gently on the cheek. "Remember, Jax- this is comin' from the man who spends half of his nights with a female of a whole other species." And Jax laughs- genuinely belly laughs- for what feels like the first time in ages as Tig drops his arm to pull the all-too-familiar photo out of his kutte pocket.
"Missy's the only girl that's never fucked me over," he says, proudly, waving the dog's photo in Kozik's face.
"What should I tell JT? He wants to talk to you…" Shara/Shayna/Shawna asks, softly, recapturing Jax's attention. Christ. He's already not looking forward to whatever the hell this is about, but he keeps his voice low, mellow, in spite of the dread that's already rising within him.
"A'ight, well, I'll be back in the apartment until then." She nods, returning to her phone call, as Jax brushes past her once again.
He's just on the other side of the bar when he feels it- a strange sensation at the base of his neck. It has his steps faltering, his mind hunting for its source for a few moments before he realizes where and when he'd felt it before.
Tara.
Glancing rapidly around the clubhouse, it's immediately apparent she's not here- Christ, he'd have known the second he walked in, probably from the moment he'd pulled onto the lot. But then, where… Whirling, Jax stalks back to the bar, trying his best to keep his emotions at bay as the croweater eyes him curiously.
"Who was on the phone?" Jax demands, without preface. If she's taken aback by his sudden questioning, she doesn't show it, just picks up a bar towel and wipes her hands, casually.
"Just some chick, asking for you," she returns, shrugging. "They call every once in a while- God knows where they get the number- wanting to talk to one of you guys. Though it's usually someone for Tig or Bobby, asking about child support or something. Gemma told us to blow 'em off if they call." He glares at her, briefly, searching for any sign of bullshit. Finding none, he presses her again.
"And this wasn't Gemma?" She shakes her head, looking up at him through her lashes- Christ, he's sure she's going for innocent, but the gesture had only ever really worked for Tara as far as he's concerned.
Tara.
"Who was it, darlin'?" He leans in and lowers his voice, urgently, does his best to soften the edges. He needs her to answer, doesn't need his brothers listening in. "This is important."
"She didn't say- just asked for you. Actually, she called you Jackson at first-"
Jax clenches his fists in frustration. Nobody calls him Jackson anymore, aside from Gemma. Christ, Tara hadn't even been able to bring herself to call him that once he'd allowed himself to slide deeper and deeper into the persona he'd had to put on for the club.
It used to be that his very name whispered across her full lips could set his heart racing, his blood pumping, and his skin prickling- just like it's doing right now. And instantly, he knows, somehow, that it had been her. Reeling, Jax rounds on the croweater once again.
"Has she called here before? Did she leave a number? Say where she was?" He pelts the croweater with questions and as she shakes her head, slowly, his desperation increases. "I gotta talk to her. Christ, I need her number- I… shit!"
Cursing again, he runs his hands through his hair, hanging his head toward the bar top, pulling at it in frustration as he realizes there's no way for him to do that, especially with the ancient handset that currently resides behind the bar. Closing his eyes, Jax feels the frustration and desperation churning relentlessly somewhere in his gut. But he knows that if he wants answers, he can't afford to unleash them on whoever happens to be in his path- at least not the way he wants to.
"What the fuck did you say to her?" he snaps, knowing it isn't much better than what his instinct had been. In fact, his ire has drawn the attention of Chibs and Kozik from the other end of the bar, but he doesn't much care. Tara's reached out to him for what he's almost certain is the first time since she'd left him. He'd been there- been right fucking there… and too wrapped up in his own misery and distracted by his club to realize it.
"I, uh, nothing?" the croweater responds, now eyeing him nervously- probably aware he's about to fucking lose it. "I just told her what I would anyone who calls, especially at this time of night. Like Gemma said." Glaring, Jax bites back a retort and replies, levelly.
"And what, exactly, is that?"
"That I'd just tucked you in bed, and-"
The slam of Jax's hands against the bar top swiftly halts the rest of her sentence, and the roar that follows has even Chibs starting out of his seat.
"You what?!" No longer able to contain his anger- not to mention the fucking punch to the gut he'd just received now that he knows Tara likely thinks he's back here unabashedly fucking croweaters in a pathetic attempt to put her behind him… Now that he knows his chances of hearing from her again are less than fucking zero… Jax feels the sudden urge to punch something- anything.
Then, an unseen force is dragging him backwards by his neck.
"Eeaasy there, Mike Tyson-"
The fight's already gone out of him by the time JT releases his collar- and Chibs lowers himself uneasily back onto his stool. The rest of the clubhouse looks on in silence- punctuated only by the Skynyrd still pouring from the jukebox- as his father reaches a firm arm around him, squeezing it almost painfully. He doesn't resist when JT guides him to the chapel doors, nodding at Piney as they pass.
"C'mon, Son. I think it's long past time we had a talk."
It's been a long time since he was in the chapel alone, with his father. Actually, Jax recalls, that conversation had also been by JT's request. He sighs, feeling shame bite at the edges of the memory; he'd been on the verge of losing his shit then, too- he'd just found what he'd thought was Tara's positive pregnancy test and the prospect of being a father had spooked the shit out of him.
He hadn't told his old man shit then, either. That had come later, and, ironically, also at a time when he'd found himself unable to talk to Tara directly, over the phone. So much had changed since then… and yet he's pretty fucking sure the conversation's going to begin about the same as it had then:
"I just wanted to check in; I know this shit's had you twisted up some since it happened, and-"
"Jesus Christ, I'm fine, Dad, alright?"
Somehow, though, he knows in his gut that his protests of "I'm fine" aren't going to fly- not this time around. Not when he's spent the past weeks proving the goddamn opposite. Gritting his teeth against the thought of taking two steps back when he'd just managed to rein in his fucking pussy-ass, sentimental bullshit to the point where the club was finally beginning to look at him the same way once again, Jax shifts in his seat, impatiently.
"I'd ask you how you've been, Son, but I think we both know the answer to that question." JT lights a cigarette- a rare occurrence since his stint in the hospital a few years ago- and settles into his seat.
"I dunno what to say, Dad. I-" Christ. Quickly, Jax moves to pinch the bridge of his nose, desperate to halt the progress of the tears he can already feel forming, the thick lump that's set up residence behind his Adam's apple.
But when he removes his hand, JT's still there. Still fixing him with the intense, dark eyes he'd spent the first half of his teen years avoiding. He's the man who'd taken off to Belfast when his son had died, gotten too lost in his own pain to ask after the one who'd survived. Then, Jax had spent the second half of those same teen years observing, watching, emulating the once-broken man who had practically risen from the dead- both literally and figuratively- and reclaimed his club as his own.
And all at once, none of that shit seems to matter; not the club, not Belfast, Maureen, Clay… none of it. Jax looks at the man sitting across from him and maybe for the first time in a long time, instead of seeing John Teller, President and Founder- he sees John Teller, the man… his father. And he can't hold it in any longer.
"I fucked up, Dad." His voice breaks, and for once he doesn't give a fuck- just looks at his father, willing him to understand before his sight wavers and he's burying his face in his palms, finally letting the hot tears flow.
They stay- Jax with his head in his hands, his father reaching across the table to grip his shoulder, firmly- and he cries like he hadn't when Tommy died, when his parents had been too lost in their own grief to realize he'd elected to shut them all out instead. He cries like JT had never seen him do when he'd been lying in that hospital bed. He cries like he hadn't allowed himself to do- at least not sober and in front of any other living person- since Ope had gone away and Tara had left him.
And for the moment, it's enough.
When it's over and Jax is pressing his palms against his eyes- when he's sinking back into the chair and rifling through his kutte pockets for his own cigarette- JT's still there, watching him with an expression Jax can't quite decipher.
"How 'bout you tell me what had Tara takin' off without so much as sayin' goodbye?" JT jerks his head at the now firmly closed chapel doors, "And what's got you in my bar, yellin' at Shana-"
"She-" JT holds up a hand, shaking his head.
"I heard the whole thing. But what I don't know, is why you and Tara are so tore up that it's come to this."
Sighing, Jax rubs at his temples. It's a great fucking question, actually- how the hell had it all come to this? Not knowing where else to start, he shrugs, helplessly.
"After Ope went inside, I… I did what I always do- tried to stay focused, keep my shit together… and it worked. But Tara, she..." Jax shrugs, not sure what else to say.
"She didn't take too kindly to you shuttin' her out once again." JT finishes his sentence for him and stubs out his cigarette, grimly. Jax sighs in response, knowing the shit's much deeper than that.
"I was dealin' with Ope bein' away, covering both his ass and mine here and over at the garage- Christ, Dad, I didn't have the energy to let her in. And when she called me on it, I didn't even know what to say." JT nods, as if in understanding.
"So you said nothing-"
"I told her the truth," Jax shrugs, simply. "With Ope gone, it was like all the promises I'd made were comin' round and it was time to man the fuck up- for my club and for my brother." Clearly incensed, JT shakes his head.
"Sounds to me like what you told her... Is that when it comes right down to it, the only promises that matter to you are the ones you make this club," JT bites, tersely. "Because while I got no clue of the specifics, I know damn well you two had made some sort of plan so Tara could go and make somethin' of herself. And I also know it didn't likely involve her leavin' you behind- not with the way this shit's got inside your head." Jax hangs his head.
"We were supposed to wait out prospecting, my first year or two with the club; Tara was gonna get an associates degree under her belt- and then we were gonna see where our options took us." Christ, he can't even bring himself to count the times he'd promised her they'd follow through with their plan- how many times he'd sworn to her they'd find a way to make it work.
"It was like fuckin' Sophie's Choice, Dad," he says, softly- knowing his father, of anyone, would understand the prospect of choosing between two equally terrible choices. "Fail Ope- again- and risk losin' my club… or risk losin' my girl."
Silence, for a long moment as his father studies him, shaking his head.
"And I'm tellin' you, you made the wrong fuckin' choice, Son."
"She made it for me- for us. She left without even givin' me a chance to-"
"She is giving you a chance, Jackson- the chance to make the choice she knows you won't make for yourself, because you're too caught up in what you think everyone else expects of you. And I respect that, Son- I do. Your loyalty to this club, to Ope… it's somethin' special. But I've told you before- when you put club before family, that's when shit goes south." JT eyes him, grimly. "And you puttin' the club before your girl- well, that's a lesson you should've learned a long damn time ago." Jax can't help but snort in response, the frustration rising in him once again.
"Lesson," Jax scoffs, memories that had drained away so recently coming rushing back. "You mean like the one you shoulda learned when you chose Belfast and an Irish croweater over your own family?" His father doesn't say anything for a moment, just smiles sadly as he studies him.
"The very same one. And it was all just a sad timeout. Hell, I've always owned up to the fact that I ain't been a good example of what to do." He shakes his head. "Fact, I've probably been a better example of the shit you're not supposed to do. But look at what happened- I hurt the club almost as much as Clay did. Worse, I hurt your Ma, Trini, Thomas…"
At the mention of his youngest son, Jax sees the pain flash across his father's face the way he hadn't in quite a while, but he seems to swallow it before continuing.
"I hurt you, Son. And it all happened because I let myself forget what was truly important."
Jesus…
"So what the hell am I supposed to do, Dad? Tara's gone, and I got no idea how to go about findin' her. And even if I did, it leaves the club short-"
"The club'll keep, Son- I told you that shit the first time we talked about this. We don't need quite as many guys as we did back when we were still runnin' guns, and we've had Happy back and forth…" Suddenly shaking off the thoughtful path he'd been going down, his father leans a bit closer.
"Christ, it doesn't matter, Jackson- I want you to have the options your Ma and I didn't have. If you want to go find your girl, find somethin' outside of the club, you'll have my support." JT means it, he can tell, which is why he feels like an asshole for dragging his feet, but all the doubts swirling around in his head right now need a voice, somewhere to go besides into the bottle of whiskey he'd been itching for since he'd made the turn into Charming.
"I tried the college thing, Dad. It…" Jax falters, momentariy, as a shadow crosses his father's face, but presses on, determined to finally get this shit out into the open so he can stop walking around like an open fucking wound. "I loved my classes, loved bein' with her- but the frat boy shit just ain't my thing." JT just shrugs.
"So you pull some hours at a nine to five-" Jax closes his eyes, frustrated.
"With what skills? I'm a fuckin' okay mechanic with a high school diploma. The only thing I know is this club!"
"And I told you back when you were in high school, Son- you want a transfer once all of this gets setted, I'm behind you. Piney's behind you- and I'm sure the club'll be on board, too. But this shit you're feedin' me right here? It sounds like a lot of excuses."
It's almost exactly what Donna had said- and Ope, for that matter. But like it or not, there are untold miles between him and Tara right now- and it may as well be a million after what's happened tonight. Between that and the fact that he's got absolutely no goddamn clue where- or how- to start, he's feeling even more defeated than he had when he walked in here. And from the disgusted look JT's giving him, it's a feeling the two of them share.
"Tell me this, Jackson- do you still love her like you told me you did when you were sixteen?" Sighing shakily, Jax raises tortured eyes to JT's, holding his gaze for the first time in a long time.
"I wish I could stop, Dad- then this wouldn't hurt so fucking bad." JT studies him a minute, seems to be looking for something, some sign to tell him whether or not Jax is ready for what he has to say next… And Jax has no clue whether or not he's found it. His eyes are stinging again, glassing over with unshed tears by the time his father stands, abruptly shifting to loom over Jax's seat at the Reaper table.
"Then you need to go after her, Jackson- you owe it to her, and you owe it to yourself. But you got to get your head on straight first, and that's somethin' nobody else can do for you." Squeezing Jax's shoulder, JT drops something onto the table next to him before making his way out of the Chapel, silently.
It's several long moments before the lump in his throat and the tears in his eyes recede- before he trusts himself to stand, slowly, from the table. When he does, he sees what JT had left him with- a fresh journal.
The same small journals they'd both been writing in near-obsessively ever since his father's accident. The same type he'd tossed away that morning under the tree, and hadn't bothered to pick up again since. With all the doubts his mind's been swimming in, all the anger that had been pumping through his veins, it had just seemed like a whole lot of shit he didn't need- or want- to deal with.
But this one's fresh, unspoiled- a chance for whoever writes in it to start over. And as he slips the journal into his jeans pocket- nestling next to the solid weight of the gift he'd never given his girl… Suddenly it's like the once dim possibility that he could ever find his way in a world where Tara's not by his side here in Charming glows just a bit brighter than it had before.
The morning's bright and cool- a pleasant contrast to the muggy evening that had preceded it- and Tara finds herself cranking the massive front window of the Cutlass down before bringing the engine rumbling to life. And for a brief moment as she pulls out of her spot and cruises through the relatively deserted parking lot, she almost manages to recapture that feeling…
Those carefree weekends on the back of his bike, the wind in her hair. Her cheek against Jax's shoulder, the laughter they'd shared…
But that's when the parking lot ends, bringing her face to face with the world beyond. The moment she's confronted with the busy street before her- so far removed from Charming, which is practically quaint in comparison- the brief euphoria of the memory slips away, leaving her with only the reality before her. She's...here, not in Charming. Alone, not with him.
And he's moving on, he's made his choice, the voice reminds her- and for once, it's her own voice, not Gemma's or anyone else's. Although it's currently repeating one of the same, poisonous observations that had had her practically clutching at her heart in agony last night… Here, in the light of day, she knows it's the goddamn truth.
Gripping the steering wheel and gunning the Cutlass' engine, Tara's determined to stay in the moment- the here and now, no matter how poorly it compares to the past they'd once shared. Because here, at least from now on, the weight of other people's decisions is firmly off her shoulders. And as if she'd asked some sort of question aloud, the voice answers again, just as definitively.
That's right, Knowles- nobody chooses your future but you.
It's a ten minute drive over to Student Health, a far cry from the long ride her body is almost craving to stave off thoughts of the night before- but it's time to accept that those are a part of the past just as much as he is. Sighing and smoothing her scrubs, Tara sets her sights on the glass doors of the clinic. At least she's got a distraction this morning.
Making her way into the reception area, Tara smiles as she notices Sarah- looking slightly worse for the wear- slumped in the office chair behind the receptionist's desk.
"Rough morning?" Tara drops her messenger bag behind the desk, nudging the chair with her foot. Sarah groans in response, dropping her forehead into her folded arms, her voice muffled as a result.
"I swear to God, I'm never drinking again… I mean, seriously- how the hell did I let you talk me into taking those shots at the end of the night?" Tara snorts, taking a seat on the desk next to her friend's head.
"If I remember correctly, you were the one that dragged us into the second game of beer ping pong or whatever it's called. And you were also the one that didn't make a single shot the entire game." Tara raises an eyebrow, loftily, "I just chose whiskey shots over the other penalty those guys had in mind."
"At this point, I wish we'd gone streaking around the pool instead," mumbles Sarah, raising her head to focus, blearily, on Tara. "How are you this perky this morning anyway? You practically passed out in the back seat all the way back to your house."
"I think that might be the first time anyone's ever accused me of being perky," Tara responds, snickering. "I've just had some practice preventing hangovers." Had she ever- years of watching her father down copious amounts of water and aspirin before he staggered back to his bedroom after a bender coupled with countless times doing the same herself after one too many pulls from the whiskey bottle she was sharing with Jax, Ope, and Donna had led her to take similar measures last night. Plus, there had been those two phone calls…
Yeah, getting slapped in the face with harsh reality at almost 1 AM will sober a person up real quick.
Oblivious to the abrupt change in moods in her friend, Sarah dons her own smirk.
"Well, at least I made some progress cracking through that thick shell of yours last night."
"And how's that?"
"I found out that our sweet little Tara is nothing short of a badass," Sarah responds, chuckling and tweaking the bottom of Tara's scrub top before lifting it, a little. Her initial smirk grows into full-on laughter as Tara twists away. "I'd've never seen that tat coming… But I gotta say, I'm impressed, Knowles- that's a serious amount of ink." Oh, Christ. Unsure what to say- and with no means of escape- Tara settles as she often does, on rolling her eyes.
"You already said that last night," she reminds her friend, hoping she'll just drop the subject.
"I was drunk," Sarah responds, waving her hand dismissively. "But now that I'm painfully sober, I need to hear more about the guy that's behind that tattoo."
"Well, let's see- he was about fifty, had longer hair than you do, and had a Sailor Jerry tattoo on his forearm he couldn't seem to stop talking about," Tara smirks.
"No, dick… You know what I mean- The One That Got Away. Because nobody gets a tattoo like that, especially not that big, without a deeper meaning behind it." Shaking her head- so far from ready to dive back into the pit of angst that had been last night- Tara finds she can only smile, sadly. After all, Jax is now truly how Sarah had just described him- the one that got away.
"Can I answer that later? It's… he's…" Blinking back the sting in her eyes, Tara looks away, briefly. "I guess I don't even know where to start, but I do know it's gonna take a lot more time than we have right now."
The flash of sympathy in Sarah's eyes is brief, too- interrupted by the jingle of the bell above the door that signals the first patient of the morning. Rolling her eyes subtly, she scoots from behind the desk to greet him, leaving Tara to pull herself together for a second time this morning.
Thankfully, that initial visitor had seemed to flip some sort of invisible switch, and the normally steady trickle of students seeking STD tests, flu meds and more blooms into a veritable onslaught that gives Sarah no time to revisit the topic… and Tara precious little time to dwell on it either. In fact, by the time the clinic closes at noon and Tara's flipping the lock on the front door, her friend's still somewhere in the depths of the learning hospital the clinic's attached to- no doubt having been appropriated to help see to someone's continued care.
As grateful as she is for the relative silence as she straightens the pamphlets on the clinic's front desk- not to mention the brief reprieve she'd gotten from explaining the expanse of ink on her back- the busy work of closing down the clinic isn't enough to keep Tara's mind occupied. Instead, the thoughts filter through, even as she cleans the glass, straightens the chairs.
Can she really pull this off? Moving on? Or is this going to be her life from now on- staying busy, throwing herself into work and school in an effort to avoid the pain of thinking about what she now knows is going down in Charming... maybe even at this very moment?
With a sigh, Tara shoves viciously at a chair- as if it had been responsible for the past twenty-four hours- and reaches behind the counter for a bottle of hand sanitizer, ready to literally and figuratively wash her hands of the place for the day. Maybe lunch in the commons is in order. Surrounding herself with as many normal, happy people as possible sometimes does the trick, keeping her busy mind at bay. Plus, there's that statistics test on Monday she'd completely blown off in favor of going to the party last night…
Idle thoughts fade away as Tara rubs a thumb over the ink on the back of her hand, blurring the ten digits of the phone number she'd hurriedly scrawled there only slightly. And as if she's here, right next to her, Donna's voice fills her consciousness.
"Go see him. Please? You're one of his oldest friends- practically since you were babies- and he needs us, all of us, right now."
And suddenly, Tara knows in her heart exactly where she needs to be.
They'd only been home from the hospital a few minutes, but already Tara felt like the walls of her house were scooting inwards, creeping closer and closer even as she settled slowly onto the living room couch and her father ushered her mom to the back bedroom to lie down. The cancer treatments had always seemed to make Grace Knowles tired, really. But now, after something the doctors had found a few weeks ago that had her staying in the hospital a few days instead of a few hours- and had her parents speaking in lowered voices, stopping whenever she entered a room- Tara had noticed that her mom is always tired. In fact, she'd rarely left the bedroom at all these last several days except to go to her treatments.
The soft click of her parents' bedroom door signaled her father's eventual entrance into the living room. He himself was quiet, his measured steps unhurried, practiced at maintaining the level of absolute silence their household had fallen into recently. He settled into his chair, picking up a days-old newspaper and commenced looking at it, though Tara knew he wasn't actually seeing the comics section he was holding,
Instead, he was lost, somewhere, inside his own thoughts- worry creasing his forehead as the ticking of the clock on the mantle seemed to grow louder and louder and louder...
And suddenly, Tara felt like she couldn't be quiet- couldn't tiptoe, or whisper, or sit silently- any longer. She had to say something, do something, or she'd scream.
Out. She's got to get out. Away from the silence, her father's frown… away from what she'd known for a few days they were all waiting for.
"Daddy?"
Her father flinched- she could see him cringe at the way her voice cut through the thick air of the room even though it was practically a whisper- and she rushed on before he could shush her, remind her that her mother was resting… As if she didn't already know that for God's sake.
"I'm going for a walk." ("See if Jackson and Harry are around," she didn't say- it would take too much time.)
Her father nodded, not looking at her. Actually, he never even dragged his eyes from the same Garfield comic he'd folded the paper open to minutes ago. Needing no further encouragement, Tara made for the door, careful to keep her feet quiet, mindful to close the door softly behind her.
Once outside, though, she broke into a jog- no longer bothering to control her breathing. Instead, she gulped for air, tennis shoes slapping against the pavement as she made her way down the front walk and the sidewalk beyond. But even in the midst of the brief euphoria she felt when the fresh air hit her, the sight of Jackson's bike laying on its side in the Winston front yard seems to shine like a beacon, drawing her in until she found herself trotting up the front walk to thump on the Winston's faded wooden door.
"Back yard" was all Mr. Winston grunted when he opened the door, a cigarette clamped between his teeth- though Tara appreciated the hint of a smile that crinkled his eyes as he stepped aside to allow her to cut through the house. Mrs. Winston waved, too, from her vantage point at the sink as Tara raced through the kitchen, practically bursting through the back door and into the open beyond.
The Winston backyard was almost as familiar as her own by this point, and Tara's eyes immediately found the boys in their familiar corner, huddled between a long-neglected woodpile and the weatherbeaten fence. They'd spent most of the summer- and a good chunk of the school year so far- trooping through the Knowles backyard with their makeshift kuttes and holding top-secret club meetings in the playhouse back there.
But just as things had grown still and silent inside Tara's home, it had only taken one afternoon to cure the outside of their noise. After one exasperated sigh and one flash of barely-restrained anger in her father's eyes- not to mention the sight of Grace Knowles wanly shuffling to the back bedroom… Tara and the neighborhood boys that had once roamed the block had since left the yard standing barren and silent as well.
David had receded into the background- Tara only saw him at school, where she mostly avoided his occasional sympathetic glances. Kyle and both Baxter boys had practically disappeared altogether, having only been in it for the chance to play SAMCRO anyway. But both Jackson and Harry seemed to have made a concerted effort to stick around- spending just as much time here at the Winstons, staying close by in case she needed them, as they did terrorizing the neighborhood with the other boys.
And almost as if they'd been reading her thoughts- jeez, sometimes it's almost like they can- both boys came boiling up over the ragged slab of plywood they'd fashioned as a makeshift clubhouse and Tara found her feet moving again to meet them halfway.
"Hey, Tara," Harry smiled, giving Jackson one final shove before seeming to read Tara's trajectory towards the ancient, rusted swing set in the middle of the yard.
"'Sup, Knowles," came Jackson's voice from a few feet behind, the President-of-SAMCRO walk returning as he recovered from Harry's jostling. Forcing a smile in return, Tara dropped down onto one of the plastic swings, pushing back and teetering on her tiptoes as Jackson neared and leaned in to press a brief, dry kiss to her cheek. Harry snorted, easing into the only other swing and causing Jackson to glare in his direction.
"Ya know, if you're gonna act like a jerk every time I say hi to my Old Lady when you're the one who insisted she play Sons with us in the first place-"
And just like always, Tara tuned out the playful, half hearted arguing Jackson's new way of greeting her had caused since the beginning of the summer when she'd become a part of their game. Usually, it was because she'd started feeling warm and squirmy in her chest whenever his lips touched her cheek, and it was a strange sensation- distracting in its sheer novelty.
Today, though… Today, she'd rather just think about nothing.
Tara sighed, letting go of her hold on the ground and setting the swing into motion; dragging her feet and skidding forward, then back, forward, then back. She'd almost rocked to a complete stop before the sound of her name had her snapping to attention once again. It was Jackson, his brow furrowed with concern even as he slouched against the rusting swing set pole.
"Tara… you 'kay?" Laughing- though she didn't really feel like anything was particularly funny- Tara shook her head, unable to stop the words that came next.
"I'm not okay. Nothing's okay,"
God, had she said that out loud? Was that wavery voice really hers? She hadn't cried in front of them since... Crap. Stop it, Tara. Blinking rapidly helped, she found, and when her vision cleared again, both Jackson and Harry were standing in front of her swing, looking nervous.
"Is, uh…" Harry swallowed and she could tell he didn't know what to say. "Is it your mom?" Not trusting herself to speak just yet, Tara nodded.
"She's still in the hospital?" Jackson asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.
"No, it's just… I dunno what's worse- my mom being sick, or the way everything's changed. I'm-" Crap, now the tears really were escaping- she swiped at her cheek before looking away, almost unable to look her friends in the eye. "I dunno what comes next."
She almost doesn't see Jackson lurching forward to hug her, at least not until he'd half squeezed the life out of her. Funnily enough, it's exactly how she'd usually hugged him on their long walks… the ones they'd taken because he didn't seem to know how to cry in front of anyone else. In fact, he'd outright refused to look like a baby in front of Harry.
When Jackson stepped back, Harry, too, gave her a brief hug before settling back into his swing and wondering out loud,
"D'ya think your dad's just scared of the same thing? What might happen next?" Biting her lip, Tara dug her toes into the grass- she didn't know if the thought of her dad struggling with the same things as herself was comforting or not. On one hand, she felt a little better, a little less selfish, knowing he could be even more scared for himself than he was for her mom. On the other, though-
"Nah, he's a grownup though… a dad," scoffed Jackson, voicing aloud almost exactly what was going through her mind at the moment. "He ain't scared." He leaned against the swingset pole again, folded his arms stubbornly. Harry snorted.
"Grownups do so get scared. When Pops and JT went away that time- last year, remember? Right after the lockdown? You and I both heard our moms talkin' about how they were scared for 'em." Then, it was Jackson's turn to laugh derisively.
"Yeah, but they're old ladies-" Jackson argued, defiantly, and even Harry didn't have anything to say in return to that. After a beat, Jackson's eyes caught hers and the obstinate look on his face from arguing with Harry- one of their favorite pastimes lately- seemed to soften. "You know what my mom told me? It's okay to be sad- 'specially when our dads are in jail… or when someone's sick, stuff like that." He looked away, quickly, eyeing Harry cautiously before rushing onward.
"But when he's gone, I'm the man of the house- and men take care of business." Jackson shrugged, resting his head on the pole, and Tara was again reminded of the way he'd come to her when his daddy had been in jail- waited until Harry was safely out of earshot before telling her all about how JT was locked up. How this time, he'd been taken away right in front of Jackson, Gemma, and baby Tommy.
"So I just stand tall and put on a smile and… I dunno, Tara." Jackson's eyes skittered back to hers- understanding and stubborn all at the same time. "Sometimes people just gotta pretend."
Tara was silent for a long moment, still trying to work out exactly what he meant, when the air was split by Mrs. Winston's raspy voice through the kitchen window.
"Jackson! That was your ma on the phone- she says to get on home for supper!" Tara could tell he was about to argue by the way he glanced at her and Harry first- the way he screwed up his mouth to reply- when the voice came again. "And Gem says if she has to drive over here and haul your ass home like she did the last time, she's takin' away your bike for a week!" Properly forewarned, Jackson snapped his mouth shut and rolled his eyes.
"I guess I gotta go. See you guys tomorrow?" Harry nodded, rising out of his swing to perform his half of the not-so-secret handshake he and Jackson had been perfecting since the beginning of the summer. Tara smiled, weakly, accepting his customary kiss on the cheek once again and watching along with Harry as he bolted through the gate and into the front yard- neatly avoiding Harry's mother in the process.
Sighing, regretfully- thoughts of her dad starting dinner alone swirling amongst memories of the last dinner they'd had together… One where nobody had had much of an appetite anyway- she raised her eyes to Harry's. Pushing away the fact that he seemed to be studying her, cautiously, Tara tilted her head in the general direction of her house, over the far edge of the fence.
"I should probably go too- my dad might want help with dinner." From the look on his face as his gaze followed her gesture, Tara couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking what she was thinking- if there was really a point in her going home at all.
Still, she'd learned over the past few months that it was best not to rock the boat. Missing dinner, even if her mom didn't come out to eat it with them, was a sure way to rock the boat. Maybe she could say she wasn't feeling well, hide out in her own room. Or maybe-
"Tara?"
Harry's voice interrupted her thoughts. From the look of it, though, it wasn't the first time he'd said her name. She gave him a smile- the best one she could, really- and, wiping her hands on her jean shorts, stood up from the swing to join him. He smiled in return.
"C'mon, I'll walk ya home."
They were several steps outside Harry's back gate- walking along the fenceline to the front walk, both silently agreeing to take the long way instead of cutting through the neighboring yards as usual- before either of them spoke again.
"Uh, Tara?"
"Mmhm?" At her response, Harry halted- his long legs reaching the sidewalk before hers. He scratched at his neck nervously, waiting for her to catch up, sandy brown hair flopping over his eyes.
"Well I- uh..." Harry stammered, looking away as they began walking again. "I just wanted you to know- I get scared too, sometimes. Ma and Pop, they… well, they ain't gettin' along so good anymore. She hates that he's in the club, 'specially after he went to jail, ya know? They yell at each other and stuff- kinda a lot, actually. I dunno if you hear, or-" he shrugged.
"I know," she murmured, glancing up at Harry and sending him a brief, reassuring smile just because. He returned it, but it dropped from his face quickly; he seemed to be struggling with what to say next, so they just walked in silent companionship for a few moments. It was only when they turned up her front walk that Harry broke the silence once again, clearing his throat awkwardly.
"It's just that no matter what Jackson says, everyone gets scared sometimes, Tara. Whether our dads are in jail, or fighting with our moms, or someone's sick... or whatever. And, uh… I mean, it's okay." Stopping at the Knowles front door, Harry waited on the bottom step, as Tara stepped up onto the second, turning to face him. She was surprised to see him pinkening, shoving his hands in his pockets and glancing at the house behind her before letting his eyes rest on hers this time and continuing, seriously.
"We shouldn't have to hide how we're feelin' just 'cause of what other people might think."
Tara doesn't know who moved first. In fact, all she knew was that the moment Harry's arms wrapped around her, their shoulders evenly matched for the first time since they were six, she felt like she could face her house again.
It was several long moments before he backed away, blushing further and stammering something about getting back home before his mom called down the street looking for him. But before he turned to head back down her walk- before Tara grasped the door handle and returned to the house that had become more like a tomb than a home- he uttered the one thing she found she'd needed to hear all along.
"We'll always be here for you, Tara. I promise."
God, how had things gotten so fucked up?
Memories fade as she shifts on the hard plastic chair, the brutal reality of her current location setting in once again, though somehow, it's not quite as bad as she'd anticipated.
Tara doesn't know what, exactly, she'd expected from Stockton State Prison's visitor waiting room. Maybe something that represented the captivity of the prisoners within. Maybe bars on the windows, rolling metal doors to seal them inside, punishing all of them for daring to love someone who'd wound up in here.
Instead, the room she's sitting in resembles nothing more threatening than the DMV she'd taken her driver's test at years ago. There's just rows of uncomfortable plastic chairs, a glassed-off office housing a bored-looking officer and a desk full of paperwork, and several anxious men and women. Almost nothing to indicate that beyond the locked metal doors on the other side of the room are their loved ones- living in this prison for the next several years at least.
"Visitors for Ortiz, Johnson, and Walsh, step this way, please!"
As a pleasant looking older woman, a slightly intimidating man that reminds Tara, oddly, of Tig, and a young woman carrying a squirming toddler file to the front of the room, her thoughts are drawn back to that day in her childhood.
Christ... Years- and, sadly, a whole mess of experience with emotionally stunted men- later, it's apparent that even then, Jax had had difficulty admitting he wasn't a machine… except around her, though at some point that had apparently changed.
What hadn't changed, though- besides the fucking Teller mask and its origins (which, she's now more sure than ever can be traced back to the way Gemma had trained her son to hide his emotions) is the way that Opie had always done his best to be there for them both.
And, apparently, Tara responds to the situations she just can't handle. God, she'd run off the day her parents had revealed her mom's cancer diagnosis, again towards the end when the silence of her house became too much to bear… Hell, maybe getting whisked off to San Diego after her mom died and her dad completely lost his shit had been the final straw in establishing her go-to pattern of behavior- running away and leaving her problems behind her.
Except, of course, it doesn't really work. Her troubles seem to follow her wherever she goes. And as much as she'd loved him- still do, her heart is quick to remind her even though it's still reeling with betrayal- she'd also meant what she said to Donna over the phone. She can't live for just one person anymore- especially not if he's determined to push everyone else away. She deserves more… and so does he.
And so does Opie, her mind reminds her, silently, even as it fills with the memory of the over-large, slightly freckled boy he'd been. He'd always been there for both she and Jax as much as they'd let him- an essential component of their Three Musketeers. He'd accepted her back into his circle without a second thought when she'd returned to Charming, had been the one to prod both she and Jax to cut the shit and quit fooling themselves.
Then, he'd been a relatively tolerant- though always sarcastic- third wheel during the beginning of their relationship before bringing Donna into the fold and completing their little foursome… something she missed almost as fiercely as she misses her relationship with Jax.
And while she knows both Jax and Donna had been visiting, probably since the moment they were allowed, it doesn't change the fact that it had taken her this long- and a plea from Donna herself- to show up here. She'd called the prison number Donna had given her from a pay phone in the student union, had been pleasantly surprised to find that Opie had already included her name on his visitor's list… and then quickly demurred when the woman on the phone had asked if she wanted to schedule a visit for the next day.
She did- God, how she'd suddenly realized she needed to go see him right then- but that would mean chancing running into Jax and Donna in the parking lot, or, worse, here in the waiting room. And if there was one conversation she didn't want to have within Stockton State Prison, it was that one. So, she'd taken her next free day- a weekday without class or work (a day you know good and well Jax won't be visiting, her mind supplies, chidingly) and made the drive.
"Visitors for Winston?"
Pushing down the last dregs of guilt, Tara rises, nervously smoothing the jeans and simple, green, cap-sleeve shirt she'd chosen what now seems like ages ago. Smiling wanly at the guard- who doesn't return it, just slides a keycard into the door and yanks it open- she makes her way across the room to pass by him and through to the harshly lit hallway beyond.
At its end is a large open room, housing a number of metal tables not dissimilar to the cafeteria tables she'd once sat at during her days at CHS. What is starkly different- although much closer to the image of a prison she'd built up in her mind- is the scattering of orange-clad prisoners already seated at many of the tables. She shudders a bit at the dark metal bars bolted in front of the thick glass blocks that make up the room's windows.
As the guard silently directs her to a table near the middle of the room, the buzzing of the door signifies the entry of another prisoner- and she doesn't know if even her darkest imaginations of this moment could have prepared her for the sight of Opie in prison orange, his hands cuffed in front of him.
Oh Harry…
Tara remains standing, fingers clutching the edge of the metal table even as the rest of her body betrays her. She hates the way her knees threaten to give way, the way the tears immediately prick at her eyes and the way her lips go numb. But goddammit, what she hates more is the sight of her Opie- seemingly unable to meet her eyes as a guard releases his shackles, somehow more like the sweet boy he'd been throughout their childhoods than ever- a prisoner in this awful place.
Resolutely, Tara straightens her spine, swallows the sob that had been threatening to rip free, practically wills the tears to dry up. Not because Opie expects it of her- he'd never ask her to hide her feelings, and that moment on her front doorstep over a decade ago was just the first proof of that fact. She knows that if she loses it now, she'll spend the whole visit a fucking mess and she just doesn't know if she has the energy to deal with that yet again this week.
And then, she's in his arms. It strikes her that even here in a fucking prison- even though he now dwarfs her like he hadn't years ago, and even though months and miles and even secrets have come between them since the last time she'd seen him, she still feels better encased in an Opie Winston bear hug.
Moments tick by before he releases her, dismissing the guard that approaches to remind him about too much contact. Still, it's just what she's needed, and suddenly she feels like she can do this. She can be here for him because she knows that they're here for each other.
"Hey Knowles," Opie says, now smiling at her a bit more easily, meeting her eyes as he takes his seat on one side of the table and invites her to do the same.
"Hey yourself, Winston," Tara murmurs, easing into her own seat. And just for a moment, they grin at one another, as if they're not currently sitting in a fucking prison.
Christ, it's good to see him- it's been months, the longest she's gone without talking to her friend since she'd moved away as a child. Even though the rest of her life is so fucked-up at the moment, some little piece of her seems to slide back into place.
"You doing okay? I mean, are they treating you okay?" Tara asks, then, unsure what they're really supposed to talk about in here. Keep things positive, she notes, remembering the instructions she'd once heard someone or other give Opie himself- back when he was visiting Otto.
Opie shrugs, settling his prison-issue black beanie more firmly onto his head, covering all but the longest strands of hair that escape it. Had she really jarred it loose?
""Bout what you'd expect, I guess. Every day in here's the goddamn same, but my cellmate's an alright guy and we keep each other sane." He chuckles, a grin curling the mouth that's almost hidden, now, by the beard he doesn't seem to have trimmed since the last time she saw him. "'Course, he's nothin' compared to you and Jax... but then our jail consisted of that weird-ass tree on the playground, so I guess that's to be expected, too."
Groaning, Tara laughs, too, at the memory of the younger version of herself- herded, along with her two best friends, into a shaded ring created by the gnarled aspen trees at the edge of the CES playground. That time, it had been David Hale hauling them in after some game of cops and robbers had resulted in the bad guys losing. This time though… her laughter fades as she studies Opie again, altogether unconvinced that the kind soul she'd known since she was old enough to run down the block could ever actually be one of the bad guys.
Seemingly sensing her change in mood, Opie smiles, reassuringly- though his eyes remain guarded, searching.
"I really am okay, Tara. I just need to keep my shit together and get the hell out of here as soon as I can. Rosen thinks he may be able to work a deal since they basically fucked me out of any contact with him. Says I should've been given at least twenty-four hours to decide whether I wanted to take their plea deal, plus time to discuss it with him. I could be lookin' at a few years instead of the ten if things go the right way."
"Oh, Ope- that's great. Really,"Tara breathes, suddenly needing some way to show her relief and reaching across the table to clasp his hand. "Donna didn't mention-"
"I ain't told her yet," Opie interrupts, though he squeezes her hand in return. "I didn't want to get her hopes up until it's something a little more solid." He looks away, briefly, before his eyes return to hers. "Thank you for callin' her. You wouldn't believe how much she's missed you."
Guiltily, Tara looks away, withdrawing her hand from Opie's- suddenly feeling as if she hasn't earned his reassurances, his thanks.
"Ope, I'm sorry I'm not there with her. I'm-"
"Tara look at me." Slowly, she raises her eyes to find Opie's warm hazel meeting her soft green. "She misses you, I meant what I said. But she's okay- I can't tell ya how much I appreciate you settin' her up in your apartment, workin' things out with Koz's old lady. Knowin' she's got somethin' stable… Christ, it's the only way I'm gonna sleep, nights, for the next few years."
"Opie-" He chuckles, briefly, waving her off.
"'Sides, she's got more than she can handle with Gemma halfway up her ass all day, and Piney draggin' the club by when they ride back into town at night." The twinkle of humor in his eyes fades a bit as he regards her seriously. "Do me a favor though- stay in touch with her, would ya?"
"Of course I will," Tara rushes to agree. He doesn't need to know just how much it had taken for her to call in the first place. And, unwilling to reveal just how desolate she'd been, how afraid she'd been to reach out, she's more than aware that he needs this reassurance just as much as she herself needs to talk to her old friend.
"Thanks. I'd tell ya to give Pop a call, but that old man wouldn't stop lecturin' you for not leavin' word long enough for you to get a word in edgewise. 'Sides, he's been doin' his best, like I said, but I guess his doc's told him to slow it down a little lately. That's why Jax's been the one to bring Donna up for visits."
Really, she doesn't know if his name will ever not send a jolt of longing sluicing through her veins- though she can't help but feel a little ridiculous at the same time, especially since Opie appears to be watching her carefully.
She'd known Jax would come up, and knew Opie wouldn't let the first half hour they've had together in months pass by without trying to work his way to the bottom of what's going on between them. In so many ways, he'd served as their voice of reason in their worst times- and of course, he's going to want to make a case for his best friend now.
But still, Tara laughs lightly, tries to keep her voice airy.
"I'm sure he's happy to do it. And so am I." Opie leans closer, scrubbing his hands across his face.
"You know as well as I do that Jax ain't what we'd call happy these days."
"Ope, I really don't want to talk about thi-"
"Well, we're gonna, Tara," he snaps, and it's so unlike him- unlike their conversation so far and unlike everything she'd ever known of Opie Winston- that the dread she'd been ignoring since she stepped in here seems to expand. Hell, it's like it's doubling somehow, at what she's sure is the impending onslaught of his disappointment in her for abandoning his best friend. Opie looks away, seeming to focus on the windows across the room.
"We're gonna talk about it, because the two of you damn sure didn't talk about it." A protest- that she'd tried to talk to him, so many times- bubbles up, but it dies on her tongue when Opie continues. "I know most of that was Jax's doing- I know how bullheaded he can be when he thinks he needs to do somethin… Be somethin' for everyone else. You forget- he's been here twice to see me, and I've heard all the shit I need to hear about how he's been since I got locked up."
Tara nods, numbly, unsure of what to say, and Opie's gaze returns to her, softening a bit.
"I wish the two of you had told me about goin' off to college together. I mean, I know why you didn't- I was actin' like a brat for a while there- but I'd've gotten my head outta my ass eventually." At this, Tara's eyes fill with tears.
"It doesn't matter now, though, does it? I-" Shit, her voice is breaking. "I don't know if he ever planned on leaving Charming, not really. But I had to go, Opie, I just couldn't stay another day and wait for him to decide to let me back in again. Not when it meant losing everything I worked my whole high school career for… and even if it meant leaving Donna. And I'm so sorry about that, Ope, I-"
"Hey- didn't I just tell you I know how he is?" Opie gently lifts her chin. "I ain't tryin' to give you a hard time, here, Tara- I swear. I just wish it didn't have to come to this, you know? You, off at school by yourself, and Jax barely keepin' it together in Charming-"
"Yeah, barely," Tara snorts, jerking backwards so sharply she nearly loses her balance. Opie's brow crinkles in confusion. "I know how he's been keeping it together, Ope- I called the clubhouse after Donna practically begged me to talk to him. Convinced me that I'd crushed him when I left town. Instead, I got an earful of just how lonely he really is."
Tara watches for a brief moment as the realization dawns on Opie's face, and then can't help the venom slipping past her lips any more than she can the poisonous thoughts that had preceded them the past few nights- and whenever she'd let her mind unoccupied for longer than a few moments.
"You see, that's how Tellers deal with pain- they bury themselves in someone else. And Jax- well, it was only a matter of time before he found someone to help him deal with the fact that you're in here. God knows it couldn't be me- I left him when he needed me the most…Too bad it was also when I needed him the most. But when I called- maybe to check in on him, or maybe it was to apologize for leaving like that… Christ, I don't know why I called, really. The point is, I heard him, Opie. He and his newest croweater. She-"
Opie reaches across the table to grab her hand, almost roughly. It's enough to briefly stop her diatribe, but a sharp sob escapes her lips anyway- sending a guard rushing to their table. He's looming threateningly over Opie before Tara can respond, holding up her hands.
"No, no- I'm okay. I'm sorry, I just got a little… emotional." She tries to smile sweetly at the guard, but he looks unconvinced. Still, the guard backs away, not quite managing to fade into the background as Opie casts him a withering look. His attention is back on her in an instant, though, seizing her brief moment of silence to get a word in edgewise.
"Tara, I know what you thought you heard- hell, I had to hear all about that shit from Jax the other day." Tara's mouth drops open in surprise- Jax had told him? Opie just shakes his head, and Tara can't quite decipher his expression. "I guess I was hopin' he was wrong and that it hadn't been you on the phone- or maybe that you hadn't interpreted all that shit the way he thought you would. Which is exactly like this, by the way. But I shoulda fuckin' known- 'cause since when have you two ever made things easy on yourselves?" Opie snorts, wearily rubbing the bridge of his nose. Tara smiles, sadly.
"Opie, I know what I heard-"
"No," he replies firmly, "you don't. That shit you thought you heard was nothin' more than a croweater doin' what croweaters do. Jax said he realized right away it was you on the phone, said he demanded to know where you were, what you'd said… And when the chick told him what she'd said to you, he lost his goddamn shit on her."
"Opie-" He shakes his head, pinning her gaze with his own.
"Listen, Tara- I told you. I ain't gonna give you shit for leavin' Charming. Not now. Christ- even Jax knows you deserve to make somethin' of yourself, be the doctor you wanted to be, and you can't do it there. He's been beatin' himself up about it, too- but he's also so goddamn torn up about what he thinks he owes the club… me… his old man…"
Opie sighs, heavily, his own guilt appearing to creep in.
"That ain't your fault, trust me- but Jax… he ain't the same since you left. He walked in here on Sunday and I barely recognized him, Tara. And I'm not sayin' that to try to convince you to go back, or nothin' like that. You're exactly where you need to be, wherever that is, and he needs to get his head on straight before he can make things right between you anyhow."
Her mind swirling, once again, Tara watches as Opie makes his case. He's got no reason to lie to her and even if he did, she knows he wouldn't do that. Not even for Jax- that much she knows for sure. And Jax really had no reason to bring the whole thing up to Opie- it wouldn't have been worth risking what's always been Opie's protective instinct. No, he wouldn't risk Ope's wrath to cover his own ass.
But even if Opie's right, what's changed, really?
"Why are you telling me this, Ope?" Her voice is thick, but she doesn't bother to try to hide it- not now. "I'm sure you have a lot more to worry about in here than me, Jax, and our failed relationship." Opie smiles, ruefully, and tilts his head at their surroundings.
"Christ, look at me, Tara- I got nothin' but time. Ten years, in fact- maybe three if Rosen's right and I'm lucky. I got years before I get to be with my girl the way I want to. And I ain't standin' by and watchin' my two best friends put themselves through the same shit for no goddamn reason." He watches her, silently, for a moment. "I know Jax better'n anyone, and I know he's a stubborn asshole. But I also know I ain't never seen anyone love someone the way he loves you… And once he gets his head out of his ass, he'll realize it too. The only problem is, when he does, he ain't got a clue where he needs to go to make things right." Tara shakes her head, miserably.
"Trust me, Opie, if he wanted to find me, he could have-"
"He will," Opie interrupts, firmly. "But until he's got his own shit sorted out, he doesn't need to know where you are. Else, he'll go flyin' over there tomorrow, hell for leather- and you'll both be back in this exact same mess by the time I get outta this hellhole."
Christ, he's probably right about that. God knows, if Jax had come after her in those first couple weeks, she'd probably have broken down and followed him right back to Charming. Where the hell would that have left them but in the same predicament as before?
Tara shakes her head in disbelief. Opie and Donna both seem to see her leaving for what it truly was, somehow, and the thought that at least her friends don't hate her is almost overwhelming in the moment. This time, though, she quells the tears that rise in her eyes as the guard gives them the ten minute warning, and Opie's eyes crinkle from the effects of a sad but genuine smile.
"Will ya at least put my mind at ease and let me know where you're headed?"
Tara bites her lip- tempted beyond all belief to give in-to share what's become more of a secret than she'd ever intended it to be with someone else… And who better than Opie, the one person she's always been able to trust to have her back? It's just…
"I'm in here because I know way too goddamn well how to keep my mouth shut," Ope murmurs, accurately reading her hesitation. "So you don't have to worry about SAMCRO… or Gemma." He snorts, rolling his eyes before sobering once again. "And like I said, Jax don't need to know shit until he's good and ready. But someone's gotta know where you are, Tara- just in case shit hits the fan. And since I'm assuming Donna and I are the only ones you've talked to…"
He lets the implication dangle for a moment before reaching across the table once again to cover her hand with his much larger one.
"So, whaddaya say, Knowles? Do you trust me?"
**A/N- The back half of this chapter took me much longer to write than it should have. Thanks to Ang as always, for talking me through the mess I always start out with after the first draft. Most of all, thank you for sticking with me. Stay safe!