AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Yes! Another chapter, already! Boy, does it feel good to have some free time!

This one will be written in the third person in order to let all the perspectives shine, simultaneously.

Here comes some serious drama… I've certainly enjoyed writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

Chapter 18: This Time Around | July 2020

It's early afternoon when Benedict pauses the story, again.

"It's only gotten worse since then, right?" Holly says, needing to fill the silence. "The publicity?"

"I'm afraid so," Benedict answers, his throat hoarse. "But there's been a notable break, since this madness started."

She nods her head, even in the face of all that she doesn't understand—there's so much she doesn't understand—and casts her gaze towards the bookshelf, seeking distraction. She spots the first printing edition of Great Expectations, that had been his first gift to her.

"How much did it actually cost?" she ventures.

Benedict, following her gaze, manages to smile wearily. "I'll never tell."

"You did end up telling me, and regretting it, didn't you?" she retorts with a forced humor.

"I believe it was Alex who betrayed me, but regardless, I'm taking advantage of this clean slate, as far as that book goes."

"Scoundrel."

"Right you are."

They look at each other for a moment, the beginning pieces of a bridge seeming to form on either bank of the massive river between them. But just as soon as the banter ceases and they are left in silence, the current sweeps away their progress and the gap swells once more.

"I'm feeling a little hungry," she admits.

"You're welcome to the kitchen."

"Would you like anything? Water, for—" she reaches up and taps her throat, to indicate that she knows his has surely become hoarse and strained.

Benedict nods. "Yes, please," and then watches her leave the room.

In the kitchen, Holly opens the fridge and spies a bowl of grapes, which she takes out and sets on the island counter, trying not to gorge herself even though her stomach seems bottomless. After she's put a significant dent in the grapes, she finds a jar of chunky peanut butter in the pantry and digs out a spoonful, nibbling on it in an attempt to curb her appetite. She tells herself that will have to do for now, before filling up a glass with water for Benedict. But as the waterline reaches the brim, she realizes she doesn't want to go back, yet, and instead lingers in the kitchen, setting down the water and placing her spoon in the sink and the grapes back in the refrigerator.

Expecting merely to linger aimlessly for a few minutes, she's surprised to find, pinned to the side of the fridge with a magnet, a photograph of herself. She squints at it and recognizes the architecture of Dean Village in Edinburgh, to which she's never been but has always wanted to go—and more surprising is the fact of herself, sitting there with her feet in the stream, her hair seemingly in flames in the glare of the sunset, wincing off the windows of the historical buildings.

A sudden feeling of wrongness comes over her and she feels a slight tingling along her spine, turning abruptly and expecting Benedict to be watching her. But behind her is only the empty space of the kitchen.

Shortly after Holly has left the sitting room, her phone—which she'd left on the couch—buzzes with an incoming call. Benedict reaches out and turns it over to see that it's a video call request from one Saoirse Ronan. He considers letting it ring through, but then thinks better of it and answers it on Holly's behalf.

"Benedict?" the young woman says, her voice fresh and relaying her surprise at seeing her friend's husband, rather than Holly, herself.

"Hi, Saoirse."

"Where's Holly?"

"She's, um… unavailable, at the moment."

Saoirse cocks an eyebrow. "Is she feeling alright?"

"Yes—well, not exactly, actually. She's…" Benedict stalls, having no idea how to put the situation to words.

"Spit it out," Saoirse says, smiling when she does, and the corner of his own mouth twitches at her harsh Irish humor, but the hint of amusement soon falls from his face and Saoirse's grows worried. "Benedict, has something happened with… again?"

"What? No. No. She's… it's just—" (just!? oh, just! what an understatement!) "—that she can't remember me. She can't remember anybody or anything in the last five years, actually."

Saoirse's eyes grow wide and she croaks in disbelief, starting to say something, but then she closes her mouth again.

"I don't know, either," Ben says, the exhaustion in his voice pervading his entire body, which has seemed to become one with the couch. He hasn't felt worse, physically, in what seems a very long time. "She seems to be… having a hard time processing it."

"Do you need help, down there? I should talk to her."

Benedict recognizes the savior mentality that Saoirse has adopted with a twinge of regret, having adopted that own mentality, himself, only to see it fail in the face of this catastrophic situation, like a weak arrow splintering against otherworldly armor.

"I don't know that that would be the best idea, right now," he says, not unkindly.

The young woman takes a moment to process, but then her face grows resigned. "Right. I understand. Well, I'm sure I'm only serving as a distraction, so I'll let you go. But let me know if you need anything." She seems about to hang up, but then interjects: "Maybe it's just some weird spasm of sorts? Plenty of people are having random breakdowns because of the isolation."

"Maybe. Thank you, Saoirse."

"See you, Benedict."

Luckily, she is the one to hang up.

Not allowing him any space to slip into devastated tears, barely holding it together as the innermost fibers of his body start to ache from his fundamental helplessness, Benedict sets down Holly's phone and picks up his phone, placing a call to Tom, who picks up almost immediately (probably on hyper-alert since I freaked him out with this news, yesterday morning, Benedict thinks with a little bit of guilt, but also with gratitude—there was a reason Tom had been the first person he'd called after he'd returned home to find Holly… not Holly).

"How are you both holding up?" his voice says through the phone speakers, and Ben finds a wave of equal parts relief and devastation rippling through his head.

"Holly, not so well. Myself… abysmally." It's never felt so bad to tell the truth.

"You have every excuse."

"When are you flying into London, again?"

"Tomorrow morning," Tom says, and Ben wonders with false hope whether his friend will have the decency to change the subject, before, "She's not afraid of you, anymore, is she?"

"Not afraid. At least I don't think. But still wary. As she should be, I suppose."

"What have you two been doing since yesterday morning?"

"I've been telling—trying to tell her—well—what she's forgotten." He feels silly saying it, understanding only now the utter pointlessness of the task he's taken upon himself.

Tom's end of the line is quiet for a moment, and then, with trepidation: "How far have you gotten?"

Benedict takes a deep breath in. "Right before…"

He can practically hear Tom nodding his head. "I understand. Benedict, you're exhausted. You should take a rest… I'm sure she would benefit from one, as well. Have you had much sleep?"

Holly steps into the doorway, carrying Benedict's requested glass of water, and lingers there, seeing he's on the phone. He notices her and quickly chooses to excuse himself. The conversation had pushed him into an unpleasant realization and he's eager to forget about it, if he can manage to do such an impossible thing.

"I'm sure you're right," he says, the last thing Tom had said blurred by distraction. "Look, I've got to go, but I'll see you tomorrow."

"Alright. I'll be on my way, soon."

This time, Benedict is the one to hang up, and Holly ventures a few steps forward into the room, before she regains control over her body and approaches him, asking, "Was that Tom?" as she hands him his glass of water.

He takes a shaky sip. "It was. He's flying down from the—his new house in North Yorkshire while some renovations are done."

Holly nods, but looks embarrassed, the gap in her memory once again catching up with her in a tiny but unpleasant way. "Where's North Yorkshire again?"

"Northeast," he says patiently, his body and mind too drained to accompany the explanation with even the most perfunctory smile.

She nods her head awkwardly, and remains standing. Benedict gazes up at her, a numbing sadness stinging his dry eyes. "Did you find something to eat?"

"Yes. Do you have any apples?" she answers, though she hadn't had a single thought of apples while in the kitchen, and doesn't know why she's said this, except to fill the silence with something—anything but his eyes.

"That's right," he says with a halfhearted snap of his fingers, desperately trying to pull himself out of this quagmire of grief—it's his job to be strong enough to hold up the both of them, but right now, he doesn't even feel capable of keeping himself from slipping over the edge. "I forgot apples, yesterday morning. How could I forget apples?"

He decides he's going to return to the grocery store, in order to buy apples for her. And in an instant, with this newfound—if silly—purpose, he sets the water down on a coaster on the low table in front of the couch an stands up, infused with a nearly manic energy which sets his nerves alight—but at least it's not the terrible inactivity that had been weighing him down like a sack of bricks, moments before.

He has a sudden urge to give her everything that she could possibly want, especially because Tom has put him in mind of what he is going to have to tell her next—and in doing so, he is going to have to take everything away from her. (If telling her about the encounter with her father in Central Park was brutal—he thinks—then this is going to be nothing short of Hell).

"Apples. Right. I'll go get some, right now," he says, smiling madly at her, already walking past her and out of the room, growing suddenly rigid when he passes her shoulder, in order to keep from giving her a habitual (but surely, now, unwelcome) kiss on the head.

Holly, feeling properly abandoned in the room, quickly turns, frightened of being left alone, and pursues Benedict into the entryway past the kitchen, where he's already started to gather his keys, wallet, and mask.

"Wait—" she breathes, "may I come with you?"

"I don't think so," he objects, desperate to be away from her—and away from himself. "You've been staying inside because you don't want to risk getting sick, with the baby."

Holly nearly recoils, startled by his mention of the child, about which she'd almost managed to forget, again, swept away by the stress of her new reality combined with the stress of reliving a past she can't remember, no matter how hard she tries. She puts a trembling hand on her abdomen, and feels tears spike in her eyes at the thought of being stuck here, alone with herself—with the perfect stranger that she has become. In reality, being with Benedict is only slightly better, but 'slightly' is at least something.

"Benedict, please? I need out?" she hears herself say—and the sound is pitiful.

Ben looks at her, conflicted, but in the end says "Fine," unable to bear the decimated look on her face, hitting himself inwardly for the lack of consideration he'd had for her moments before. He hands over her mask from the little row of pegs on which they keep them.

"Thank you," she says, the tears burning in her eyes but not falling, if only from her sheer willpower to force them back.

He pulls the door open, waiting for her, and she puts on her mask, laughing from the discomfort as she walks out the door, only vaguely sensing Ben following and locking it behind her.

"Feels weird," she says, once they've started walking down the hallway towards the stairs—the hallway, which seems eerily familiar to her, even though she can't remember ever seeing it before.

"I haven't gotten used to it, either," Benedict says, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric.

Holly still doesn't quite understand the virus he's tried to explain to her, but now that she's put on the mask, the reality of it hits her harder, and a little pinch of anxiety coils in her throat. "How bad is it?" she says, and Ben understands her perfectly.

"Very," he says, deciding once again to tell the truth.

She nods her half-understanding, suddenly light-headed. She finds herself leaning to the side and stopping, resting against the wall.

"Dizzy?" Ben says, taking her hand and considering returning to the apartment and giving up this whole absurd business with the apples.

Holly shakes her head. "Just. Surreal. I'm okay." She manages to stand up again, walking alongside Benedict in a daze, and bracing herself against the hostile, unknown world outside.

The streets are eerily uncrowded. Benedict feels tense, and unconsciously grips Holly's hand harder than usual, noticing every head that turns slightly in their direction—for though there are far fewer people out and about to recognize them, there are also fewer people surrounding them, lessening their ability to blend in.

Once they've traversed two blocks, he figures he's likely frightening her with his tension, and loosens his grip on her hand. But just as he does so, Holly tightens her own grip, and Ben realizes that she had also noticed the turning heads. "Is this normal?" she asks him under her breath, growing closer to his side in wariness.

"It is," he says, and feels the need to apologize, to allows himself to so do, saying "Sorry" quietly as they pass under the shade of a tree.

Disoriented, Holly alternates between pressing herself close to Ben's side, and flinching away from him when he accidentally grows too close, riskily removing her hand from his and clutching her wrist tightly. They have nothing to say to one another, and so the day and the walk offers a bit too much space for her to reflect on everything that has happened to her in the past two days. She becomes absorbed in the thought of her pregnancy, wondering how far along she is, and—rather guiltily, but with some measure of terrified relief—whether she and Benedict have been planning an abortion. In her mind, after all, she's only seventeen.

Her surroundings, her body, Benedict, her very mind—all of it feels like a simulation, or a very messed-up dream. Once, she finds herself pondering stepping into the oncoming traffic so she might wake up. But in the next moment, she knows this is stupid and so doesn't do it, even becoming more than a bit afraid of the fact that she'd wanted to.

(Calm the fuck down, Holly. You've been through so much worse than this, and now you're tricking yourself into feeling suicidal? Woman up and get over it. Focus on walking straight. Focus on the apples.)

And she feels a log of guilt wedge in her throat when she finds Benedict looking down at her, and can read the concern in his eyes.

The cashier at the store—a friendly woman whose mask is printed with scholarly-looking owls, wearing a cross around her neck—recognizes them, and after she's finished ringing up the bag of apples, says, seemingly having to work up her courage beforehand, "My daughter admires your work—both of you. She's been praying that it will work out this time around."

Holly keeps from raising an eyebrow in confusion, and focuses instead on the kindness she can read in the woman's eyes.

"Thank you," Benedict says, taking the receipt and the apples. "That's very kind of her."

Then he takes Holly's hand (noticing with a pang of pain when Holly raises her other hand and innocently waves goodbye to the stranger), and leads her out the door, severely hoping—as though his veins have just been injected with ice-water—that the implications of the woman's words had gone over his wife's head.

Alas, their walk home is even more tense and quiet than the walk there had been, and almost immediately after they've arrived back at the apartment, Holly turns to him, and he knows he won't be able to hold off much longer.

"The, um… at the store… she said, 'this time around.' What did she mean?"

Benedict feels himself shaking, but only remotely. "You'll want to sit down," he hears himself say.

Holly's face drains of color and feeling, and she feels terribly trapped in her body as she pulls a stool out from under the lip of the island countertop and sits down, trembling violently and staring earnestly at Benedict, not wanting to know what he's going to tell, but needing to know, at the same time.

"Holly," he says, trying to clear his throat but unable to. He manages to look in her eyes—he should give her that decency, at least—and then takes her shaking hands in his. When the words come out, they come out almost of their own accord; bluntly, and almost deadpan, like a very bad joke.

"You were pregnant, before. But we didn't have the child."

Her face remains stiff and numb. Immediately, she assumes that she'd had an abortion—after all, she'd made up her mind long ago that if she ever became pregnant, she would sooner abort than risk bringing another human being into such a world, and under her care, no less. No doubt, she would be the worst mother to ever exist—second only to her own. Holly, at least, wouldn't abandon her child. But, in her opinion, abandonment might be better than all the baggage and sadness and insecurity that her own life would burden a young person with. No. Having a child had always been, and would always be, an impossibility.

But even in her rationalizations, Holly finds a wickedness in herself, especially in the face of Ben's saddened eyes, and all at once, she crumbles and bursts into tears, her body curving forward and her forehead pressing hard into the granite countertop. The panic and the sensory overload of having come back from such a confusing, almost apocalyptic world, only to hear this terrible news overcomes her. And when Benedict tries to wrap his arm around her, she flinches and snaps at him; "Don't."

Hurt but understanding, Benedict backs away, adhering to her orders. He knows that the kiss they'd shared the night before, and any sort of physical openness between them, isn't something he can expect to become normal so soon. He watches her, bereaved, as she rides out her sadness alone.

Eventually, Holly's sobs die down, and her body becomes still, again. She opens her eyes and looks at the little beads of condensation that have formed on the countertop from her face and her tears and her breath being so close, and blinks a few times before managing to lift up her head, rubbing pointlessly at her face until it's acceptably dry.

Benedict opens the kitchen window for her and sets a glass of water on the counter, and Holly finds herself shaking her head at his knowledge of what she needs when she's stressed or unhappy. He sits down on the stool next to hers and waits patiently for her to regain her wits.

"Thank you, I guess," she says at length, her voice still stuffy from her crying. "For understanding—for not fighting me on it. I'm sure I was grateful."

But then she sees Benedict's eyebrows furrow in confusion, and all at once, understanding comes to her.

"It wasn't an abortion, was it," she chokes out, tonelessly.

"No," he says, upset at himself for not explaining what had happened more clearly, but too exhausted and weak to blame himself. "You miscarried. We didn't even know about the pregnancy until it happened."

"Oh, my God," she says quietly, her voice coming from a different world. Holly can do nothing but sit there frozen, all the feeling leaking out of her body, one drop at a time. She wonders, once the last drop has fallen, whether she will still be there, at all, and hopes that she won't be.

Ben watches her, and thinks hard about her assumption. And after a few moments, he draws a conclusion that breaks his heart. "Did you expect… do you want an abortion, now?"

She looks directly at him, now, her eyes deep and pained and cornered but too tired to lie, and he knows her answer before she gives it.

"Yes, I do," she says painfully, wincing subconsciously at the twisted vow. "I—haven't thought about it—no, I have, actually, and I've already decided—I'm terrified of having a kid, and I always have been, and I'm especially afraid, now. There's no way…"

She trails off into shudders, and Ben is infinitely grateful that she's facing away, unable to see the devastation etched into his face. But apparently, she doesn't need to see him to sense his reaction and, not-so-calmly, she observes, "That's not what you wanted to hear."

"You're right. I wasn't expecting…" But he can't manage to make it any further, stopping himself before he can break down.

Intuitive as always, she says, "How did I feel about it, three days ago? Before I woke up… different?"

He knows the conflict this is going to inflict upon their situation, but Ben knows better than to tell an untruth, especially after promising himself that he wouldn't do so. "We wanted to have it," he forces out. "You wanted to have it."

Holly nods her head slowly up and down, a few more tears leaking from the corners of her eyes, and she starts to breathe slowly through her nose, trying to wrestle some semblance of control out of the tragedy around her. "I feel sick," she says, and from the violence of her shaking, Benedict doesn't dare doubt her.

"Do you want the trash can?" he says, feeling for her, but silently grateful for the distraction, for a reason to put himself to use.

"Not immediately, maybe, but… I should go to the bathroom."

"Alright."

Instinctively, he tries to help her, but she puts her hand out and he lets her stand up on her own, only catching her when she stumbles and nearly falls, almost taking the stool down with her.

"Sorry," she gasps, and this time she lets him wrap an arm around her and help her down the hallway into the bathroom connected to their bedroom, where she sits down in front of the toilet, pushing back the lid and leaning, with closed eyes and knees tucked up to her chest, against the side of the tub while she struggles to keep from drowning under relentless waves of shock.

Benedict gets the picture and leaves her alone, forcing himself to sit down on the bed and look over the annotated script that Holly had noticed when she'd first woken up in this unfamiliar place. She stays in the bathroom, shaking and occasionally groaning aloud and kneeling over the toilet bowl, wishing violently that she could throw up, but afraid to force herself—afraid to do anything. Occasionally, Ben checks in on her verbally, and all she can muster is a weak, "I'll be fine."

After what feels like an hour, she feels strong enough to half-walk, half-crawl out of the bathroom and clamber onto the bed, still feeling profoundly shitty but no longer in danger of vomiting. Trembling and cold despite the warmth of the apartment, she covers herself with the uppermost blanket, her arms too weak to push herself under all the layers of sheets, and lays on her side facing a silent Benedict, watching his chest swell with breath and then lower again underneath his soft-looking shirt.

Her head a dizzy, nauseous void, she reaches out and brushes her fingertips against his side, and he places the script down on his lap in order to wrap his nearest arm around her shoulders, letting her nestle her head into the crook of his elbow.

"Benedict," she says, after a minute, afraid of keeping the truth inside. "I don't feel right about having it, anymore. I don't want to have it."

He looks down at her. "Holly, I'm not going to make you."

"I know," she says.

Some part of her—some irrational, desperate part, clawing for anything to hang onto—wants him to deny her; wants him to argue and tell her he wants her to have it, that he doesn't care what she thinks.

That, at least, would make her feel less alone.

Tom lands in London the following morning, and calls Ben from his apartment to alert him of his arrival. Benedict, desiring to meet with him, admits his discomfort at the prospect of taking Holly out again, especially given her currently-crippling depression. Tom agrees, and come eleven o'clock, he arrives at the apartment with Chinese food and a bag of cherries, both of which usually get Holly into a better mood.

"That's very considerate," Benedict says, when the food is placed down on the island counter, "but she doesn't want to eat, and I don't think it's wise to force her. She's too upset to leave the bed."

Tom gives him a hard but forgiving look. "Alright. But don't let what happened last time happen again. Especially considering she's pregnant."

"You're right," Benedict admits, and the sadness of the words makes Tom regret his tone.

"I'll make sure she eats something later," he says, placing a hand on Benedict's shoulder before placing the food into the refrigerator. "How long has she been asleep?"

"She hasn't been. But she's been in bed since yesterday afternoon."

"I see."

And Tom does see—that his friend is positively wracked with nervousness over the impending task of reliving Holly's miscarriage with her. "Look," he says, "you know you don't have to tell her everything. It wouldn't be entirely illogical of you to omit things that would hurt her."

Ben shakes his head mournfully. "I don't have that right. What if it's not permanent, Tom? No. I won't lie to her. Not about anything. I'm just trying—to do the—the right thing."

Al at once, he breaks down into sobs, clutching Tom's shirt and shaking, angry and bereft beyond anything Tom has ever seen from him before, even when acting, even when Holly had miscarried three years before. He takes a moment to get his bearings, before detecting a certain unrevealed truth in the shaking of his friend's shoulders. "She already knows, doesn't she?"

"Yes," Ben admits through his tears, his voice deep and strained. "I couldn't keep from telling her. Tom—"

"What is it?"

"She doesn't want it."

The devastation in his voice is such that Tom can do nothing but continue to embrace his friend in dumbfounded silence, letting Benedict squeeze the life out of him as he stares in disbelief out the window.

Holly hasn't dared come out of the bedroom since climbing into it the day before, and though she knows she ought to, she only burrows further into the mattress at the sound of the apartment door being opened—presumably by Tom—and greetings being exchanged. At the sound of voices talking, so remote from her perch of misery on the bed—she knows that at least making an attempt to be social would help to break her out of this unhealthy cycle of grief and confusion. But her stubbornness gets the better of her, and she covers her head completely with blankets, wishing everybody in the world would go away.

In her motionlessness and unproductivity, she's started to steep in a resentment that she can't quite understand but which consumes her nonetheless. The one fact of her new world which she can manage to pin down is that there is a global pandemic raging around her. And she's tortured by the knowledge that if she had continued on her path to becoming a doctor, then maybe she would actually be helping people right now, instead of being depressed and laying in some random actor's apartment, robbed of five years of her memory.

She groans loudly, shoving her face deep into the pillow and letting out her rage and confusion for a few seconds, but still not feeling any better, afterward. Even the great accomplishment of her published novel (a Pulitzer Prize winner, Holly, you should be grateful) seems remote and not something she'd actually done. Never before has she felt such an insurmountable detachment from her life. It seems to her that she is never going to be able to move again, even though she knows she should be able to pull herself up and figure this out.

From the bedside table, she hears her phone vibrating with the umpteenth unanswered call from Alex. She ignores it, wishing she could sleep.

In the kitchen, Ben regains his bearings very slowly and after many minutes of quiet, Tom, whose eyes have landed on a paper calendar hung on the wall, breaks the silence. "It's the nineteenth, isn't it? That's right. Happy birthday."

Benedict musters a scoff, but also musters a smile.

Holly arrives a moment later, on silent feet, in the doorway. Having heard Tom's words from down the hall, she feels a pang of guilt in her chest. Surely, Benedict had been expecting a day of celebration, and she hadn't even been able to remember his birthday.

"Happy birthday, Ben," she says quietly, taking a half-step into the kitchen. She's relieved to have said it, but even then, it feels empty and meaningless.

Benedict looks up at her, and Tom turns around, alerted to her presence by the sound of her familiar, but somehow unfamiliar voice. Ben wants to beckon her over and pull her into a forgiving kiss, but has to stop himself from doing so, knowing she would be confused, and it wouldn't' mean what it would have meant, where she in possession of her memory.

"Sorry I didn't know," she admits.

"Please, don't be," Ben says, his forced smile from before turns into a real one—a sad one, albeit, but at least a real one.

Holly nods her head to him, still too tired and broken to smile back, and then shifts her gaze to Tom. She's wary of him, but steps toward him nonetheless, extending her hand to him bravely, relief flooding her when he shakes it and smiles at her. It's clear to her that his head is the clearest one in the room, and she feels a little swell of gratitude in her chest, aware that she and Ben had needed somebody, and glad that he had come.

She tries to smile, but only succeeds in grimacing, and says, trying to salvage some humor from the wreckage of her life, "Nice to meet you, again."

"You, too," Tom says, swallowing visibly, looking worried underneath the kindness of his expression. And though he quickly recovers control over his face, smiling at her, the moment is not soon forgotten by Holly. Unsure of what to make of it, she wonders whether something bad had happened between them since the point that Benedict has caught her up to.

But she soon ceases to worry about that, knowing that what is happening right now is more than bad enough to warrant such a reaction from any sane person.

She feels very old and exhausted, even after being on her feet for less than a minute, and sits down—warily, but without really caring anymore—into the empty chair at the kitchen table.

They're all quiet for a minute.

"Sorry for causing all of this trouble," she says, at length. And her face crumbles a little as she lets loose a few tears.

Tom reaches out to touch her, but she flinches and he opens his hand and withdraws it, the gesture an apology all by itself. "Holly, this is not your fault. And I'm sure we will find a way to get you all sorted out, soon—"

Benedict picks up his phone, distracted by a sudden call… from his agent, no less.

"Hello?" he says, thinking about excusing himself from the table, but not wanting to leave Holly alone with Tom, and too debilitated to stand, anyway.

"Benedict," his agent's voice says through the speakers, "is this amnesia business true?"

A beat of silence, in which Ben's heart drops into his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding me. Where is it?"

"Everywhere."

Holly raises her eyebrows, noticing that his hand has formed a fist on top of the table, and she looks nervously at Tom, whose eyes have widened in concern in his friend's direction. "Excellent," Benedict says through gritted teeth.

"I'm sorry," continues the voice on the other end, "but there's nothing I can do at this point."

"I understand," Ben says, his voice void of compassion, consumed by exasperation. "I'll call you back."

He hangs up and makes a quick google search, groaning angrily when he sees a whole slew of results come up.

"What is it?" Holly says, her voice on the edge of panic.

"They know," Benedict answers, regretting his curtness, but unable to restrain it.

"Who?"

"The internet."

Holly pauses, then pales and goes red simultaneously as she registers the meaning of his words. She picks up her own phone and looks herself up, too focused on seeing whatever it is that has Benedict so full of anguish to marvel at the fact that she's just looked herself up.

"I wouldn't do that," Tom warns.

But Holly shakes her head, and he can see that she understands the risks. "I want to see."

She scrolls through the first results, noting article titles and fan blog posts. The first tweet to come up is from Donald Trump: 'What a sick lie from a very sick young woman! Benedict can do much better!"

Upon seeing the blue verification badge but not recognizing the name, she furrows her eyebrows and holds out her phone to Benedict. "Who's this?" she says, surprised when he scowls.

"Someone you would have forgotten of your own volition."

She wants to ask more but doesn't really care at the moment, and is worried to further burden Benedict, seeing as he's clearly in an out-of-character mood. She reminds herself to look him up later, as she continues to scroll through the Twitter results, which promise to give her a more adequate summary of the internet's response than reading long-winded articles could.

Many of the tweets seem neutral, and some are even kind. But the real hate comes once she locates a post from a doctor, who'd explained the memory loss as a "phenomenon," more likely a brief mental breakdown as a result of the COVID-19 quarantines than legitimate memory loss. And one person's response to the doctor's message is the one that really upset Holly:

"A 'phenomenon' is just a pretty way of saying 'an outright lie.' She's obviously doing this to Benedict to torture him—everyone knows she's jealous of the limelight. No-one can deny that she's doing this to get attention. Wasn't the Tragedy of 2017 enough? I guess it's what they say about annoying kids: bad attention is better than no attention at all. Give us all a break, Holly. And give poor Benedict a break, too."

Tom notices that she's read something that has made her very upset, her scrolling stopped and her face looking confused and wounded as she reads whatever's on her screen. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she says, forcing a shrug and turning her phone off.

Tom looks to Ben, who is still scrolling, frowning deeply, and says, "Alright, I think that's quite enough. Both of you."

Benedict shakes his head to clear it and turns his own phone off. "You're right."

Holly clasps her hands in her lap and looks down at them, sick of the publicity already, and more than overwhelmed by the thought of all the other scenarios in which the internet has likely reacted similarly. "The… the…" she says, looking to Benedict for help, who knows she's thinking about the miscarriage and nods. "Was it public?"

Ben glances to Tom, having been too preoccupied to dread the question, but paying double the consequence, now, and then looks back to Holly. "It was."

Nodding, but no less defeated and tired, Holly stands up again. She feels bad, now, about neglecting all of Alex's calls, since she knows that she was probably only trying to reach out to comfort her because of the hateful gossip going around. Regardless, she still doesn't have the energy to talk to anybody she doesn't have to talk to, and decides to leave her phone behind, on the table.

"I'm tired," she says. "I'm going to lay down again."

"Okay," Ben says. "I—" but then he swallows, shaking his head.

('I love you' is off limits, now. Right.)

"Get some rest," he says, instead, recovering his footing just in time.

"There's Chinese in the fridge, once you're feeling better," Tom interjects, not forcefully, but with an intention which Ben understands and appreciates.

"Thanks," Holly says hoarsely. "I'll eat later," before giving a half-hearted wave, turning around and almost limping, in her exhaustion, down the hallway.

Benedict receives a call from his parents a few minutes later. They tell him that they've been thinking since learning of the new predicament, and offer for him and Holly to come and quarantine with them, so that they might offer their support more directly. Benedict is more than touched by the gesture, but is terrified of getting his parents sick, so declines. They aren't offended, but are still worried about him, and he's struck by a pang of guilt when his mother begins to cry, wishing she could be with him to help him.

Once his father has finally pried his mother from the phone and managed to hang up, promising another phone call soon, possibly with Holly, if she's comfortable, Tom also offers to quarantine with Ben and Holly, having noticed the brief look of relief on his friend's face when his parents had suggested the idea.

"It might really help," he suggests.

Ben refuses initially, but less than a minute later, after thinking about it, he yields. "I'd be open to it," he says, and though he doesn't admit the great relief with which he imagines having Tom's company while he and Holly suffer through the next chapter of their relationship, Tom can sense it, and is glad. "If Holly is okay with it."

"Are you going to talk to her about an abortion?" Tom ventures, after another minute of wordlessness. Benedict looks up at Tom, pained by the question, and clearly incapable of assembling any sort of response, at the moment. "I'm only concerned," Tom continues, "because of how much she seemed to want it, when her memory was still intact."

"That's exactly how I feel, too," Ben admits. "But I still don't think it's right to ask her to have it, now, in false hope that her memory is going to come back."

With a sinking sensation, Benedict realizes how selfish he's been, for even expecting things to return to normalcy in the first place. "Maybe she won't even want to be with me, anymore," he says, his thoughts slipping out of his mouth before he's even fully traced them inside his head. "If that's the case, I don't know if I'd be able to fight her on that, either."

He looks up at Tom to find him wearing an expression of outright shock, and before he can say anything, he amends, "I'm sorry. I'm being too cynical. And hungry," and he stands to find something to heat up from the fridge, leaving Tom at the table to look out the window and swallow hard.

He's felt deeply disturbed since seeing Holly. She's not at all the resilient young woman he's grown to know and to care deeply for over the past years, but has instead seemingly reverted to the insecure, constantly-frightened teenager that she'd been when he first met her backstage at the National Theatre.

And while he admires Ben for his integrity, he certainly doesn't have a problem with not telling this new, easily-bruised Holly about the more unsavory parts of their past.

Once in the solitude of the bedroom, Holly decides against sleep, hoping instead to acquaint herself with her new belongings in hopes of understanding herself better.

First, she looks in the closet—her half of the closet, rather—to find it filled with clothes that she would never dare wear. Clothes much more tight-fitting and revealing—though not drastically—than her usual style; clothes that fit the summer season well; clothes that she's always envied other girls for being able to wear. She also sees quite a few fancy dresses in plastic. But, hiding at the back of the closet, she finds an outfit that looks more familiar: yoga pants and a baggy sweatshirt, perhaps saved there for a rainy day inside. She doesn't know why, but the sight of it makes her smile, and she decides to change out of the outfit she's been wearing for three days, now, feeling much more comfortable once she's hidden inside the big, warm clothes—never mind that it's the height of summer.

Leaving the closet, she opens the drawer in her bedside table to find a notebook full of poetry—rather good poetry, which she knows to take as a sign that she's been less than perfectly content in the past weeks, as her poetry is at its best only when she's at her most sad—and a small, plain white card without an envelope, "Ben" written on the front in blue pen.

Assuming that she'd written it for his birthday and had been hiding it there, she opens it and reads it, the handwriting decidedly her own, if slightly neater than usual. Even though the words—though natural and heartwarming—seem written by someone else, she decides she should probably give it to him, at least as a peace offering. She stands up and pushes the door closed, suddenly feeling haunted by these old relics from a recent past that seems as encoded and vague as ancient history, and hurries from the bedroom, back to the kitchen.

"I found this in my bedside table drawer," she says when she hands it out to Ben, who's standing in front of the microwave removing a bowl of Chinese food.

"You changed," he observes, as he takes the note. "You look… like you."

Holly nearly smiles. "Yeah."

She leans against the fridge, staring at the corner of the island counter while he opens the note and reads it. When he finishes, he sets it down on the countertop, his eyes welling with tears—of happiness from what he'd read or of sadness from the fact that the girl in front of him (his wife, Holly, you're his wife) can't remember writing it, she cannot tell; perhaps a bit of both.

"Thank you," he says. And she smiles at him, wanting inexplicably for him to be able to pretend that she can remember. "May I hug you?" he asks with a note of reluctance, and she can only nod, only realizing once she's in his arms that she had wanted to embrace him, as well, even before he'd asked.

They breathe each other in, but something blocks them from melting into one another. Yet, still, Holly can feel his arms around her and close her eyes, and Ben—as she'd wanted him to—can feel her little body pressed against his and pretend that the past two days had never happened. If only for a brief handful of moments.

Tom watches them for a second, and then turns his head away out of decency, redirecting his attention towards his phone, where he finds more and more posts and tweets and articles about the memory loss ordeal appearing every minute.

"You hungry?" Benedict says, once he's peeled himself away from her.

"That looks good," Holly says with a nod to his bowl. "I'll make my own." And, satisfied, Ben goes to sit down with Tom.

While Holly gets the Chinese food out of the fridge and spoons some into a bowl, Tom says, "Where did all of this come from, in the first place? You didn't tell anybody, did you?"

Ben looks ashamed and admits, "I told Saoirse Ronan."

Holly turns from her work and looks at him with wide eyes—not accusing but surprised. "She called your phone—the two of you are good friends—do you know of her?"

Holly nods her head yes, speechless.

"She called your phone while you were eating, earlier, and I picked up and… let her know what was going on. I'm sure there was a misunderstanding. She probably told someone else, who turned out to be less trustworthy than she assumed."

"How about you call her?" Tom suggests, not so easily pacified, and Ben decides to oblige.

She picks up quickly, and readily admits to having told the news to Florence Pugh… who may or may not have relayed it to Harry Styles… who may or may not have said something about it to his girlfriend Olivia Wilde… who may or may not have posted about it.

"Olivia Wilde," Ben repeats to Tom, who makes a quick search and after a second says, "Confirmed," seemingly satisfied with at least knowing who had leaked the information in the first place.

Then, Benedict holds up the phone and points at it while looking at Holly, who shakes her head no, looking amazed but decidedly too nervous to try branching out to other celebrity friends quite yet.

"I'm so sorry about this," Saoirse's voice says to Ben through the speakers. "I really didn't intend—"

"Please, don't be upset. We'll handle it."

"Alright, then."

"Thank you, Saoirse," Holly hears him say; and then he hangs up and sets the phone down.

"Any news?" Holly says, getting on her tiptoes to put her bowl of food into the microwave.

"Apparently," Ben says, re-telling the information, "she told Florence Pugh—do you know her?"

Holly shakes her head no and Tom reasons, "She wasn't very well-known yet, five years ago."

"Well," Ben continues, "you shouldn't be surprised if you get a call from her, soon. She's an innocent enough choice, but apparently she phoned Harry Styles—"

Holly's jaw goes lax and Ben, allowing himself to amused, says, "You're quite well-acquainted with him, too," making her close her mouth in disbelief.

Alex probably hates me for that, she thinks to herself.

"And then he told his girlfriend—Olivia Wilde—and she made the first post."

"Not that it really matters," Tom says, grinning dully at his own hypocrisy.

Ben nods his head, "But it can be nice to know."

"Alright, Detective Holmes," Tom retorts with an impish smile.

"Sod off, Tom."

Holly's food has finished warming, but her appetite is gone and she doesn't feel comfortable in the kitchen anymore, so, without explanation, she sneaks out into the hallway while they're talking and escape their notice for a few seconds. She heads for the sitting room, and sits down on the floor by the window, overwhelmed and too tired and lost to cry as she looks out at the Thames and forces herself to eat some of her food, having to admit that she's very hungry.

Tom is the first to find her, coming into the room quietly but without startling her, and sitting down a safe distance from her on the floor, joining her in staring out at the river for a time.

"I'm sorry about the leak," he says at last. "This must be quite overwhelming, for you."

"No kidding," she says with a cynical smile. "But other people knowing about it is the least of my worries." She glances over at Tom, considering him for only a moment before deeming him worthy of confiding in. "I don't want this baby, Tom. I want to figure out… the next steps, but I don't know how, and I feel like I can't talk to Ben about it."

"I understand," he says. "I'm sure he's quite confused, at the moment. You were so happy about it, when you conceived, again."

"Maybe. But I'm not happy about it, anymore. I don't even remember being happy about it. I'm not the same person. I mean, look at me—I can't have a child."

The pitch of her voice has grown higher, and Tom looks at her gently, his eyes full of regret. "I'm sorry if it sounded like I was trying to convince you otherwise."

"No," Holly says, gaining control of herself again and breathing deeply, shaking her head and looking out at the river. "I'm just being—"

"Human," he says, stopping her before she can slip into her old habit of self-deprecation. "You're just being human, Holly. You've done nothing that's unforgivable."

"Twitter would beg to differ," she says with a smirk, and Tom chuckles.

"I spoke to Ben and offered to stay with you two for a while, until you get back on your feet. Would you be averse to that?"

"Not at all," Holly exclaims quietly, a look of relieved gratitude breaking across her face. "That's—that's terribly good of you. And I think that both Ben and I would feel a little more… secure, with someone else here." Tom smiles, nodding his acknowledgement, glad that she'd agreed. "Are you sure, though? It wouldn't be too big a sacrifice?"

"Absolutely, love. It wouldn't be the first time we've all shared the same living space."

Holly nods her head. "Ben told me." She tries to find a smile but fails in the face of the stark facts that have replaced the warmth of memories she'd had just three days ago.

Benedict comes through the door a moment later, still burdened and upset, but numbly so. "Do we need a distraction? A movie, perhaps?" he says.

"What about Amadeus?" Tom suggests. Holly smiles at this little piece of knowledge Tom has of her, deciding not to be freaked out by these fragments of the 'before' she knows the three of them share, and instead feeling mildly comforted by it.

Yet, she has to say no. As painful as it is for all of them, and as much as she wants to appease Ben, who looks as terrible as she feels, she knows that now is not the time for distractions.

"I need to know how it happened," she says, explaining her answer.

Benedict nods his head in understanding, but cannot hide his exhaustion.

"Perhaps…" he says, "this part of the story would be best placed in Tom's hands. He was the one who was with you."

Tom nods his head, taking on this new responsibility with grace, if also with a little nervousness, which Holly can detect from the twitch of his throat as he swallows. "In that case, might we have some tea, Ben?" he says.

Benedict nods his head, glad for a reason to excuse himself, and Tom waits for him to go before he resumes the story, worried to be taking up the torch—especially when he senses the magnitude of trust that Holly is placing in him—but knowing it's only right.

"We were going to see Dunkirk, the new movie by Christopher Nolan—well, new at the time—"

Her face becomes brighter than it's been in two days. "In the movie theatre?!"

He smiles, but his eyes are ringed with melancholy at the all-too-familiar reaction. "Yes. The London premiere, to be precise…"

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I would just like to say that I didn't intend to offend anyone during this chapter by discussing abortion, or by including that comment Benedict made about Donald Trump. As far as the discussions of abortion, that was required by the plot, and with Trump, I thought it was a bit of comic relief to reference his (actual) tweet, "Robert Pattinson should not take back Kristen Stewart. She cheated on him like a dog & will do it again—just watch. He can do much better!" which always gives me a laugh. Again, sorry if I offended!

I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! I would really love it if you left some feedback—I'm dying to talk with somebody about the story!

Major trigger warnings for next time. But hey, it's worth it, because there will also be Harry Styles…

Thanks for not plagiarizing!

22 May 2021

On_Errand_Bad