"Look who's digging their own grave
That is what they all say
You'll drink yourself to death

Look who makes their own bed
Lies right down within it
And what will you have left?"

-Bastille, "Icarus."

He has detailed funeral plans and a living will. It's easier that way, then forcing the people who care about you to try and figure out what you want or what's appropriate.

His father had left detailed instructions on what was to happen to his company in the event that he became incapacitated and he had life insurance, but there was nothing on where he wanted to be buried. His mother had even less. Planning their funerals might have been one of the single worst things that he'd ever had to do.

So, he'd made things simple for whoever survived him: burn him to ash, let Riley decide what she wanted done with them (Knowing her it would be sentimental and better than anything he could come up with, anyway), any memorial was to be private and not to exceed twenty minutes in length, and everything he has goes to his daughter.

It was rational, it was emotionless, and it was him.

Maya didn't leave a plan, but, then again, she'd always believed she was going to cheat death. He'd half-believed her, too.

He'd been a self-proclaimed Atheist through middle school and high school. Life made more sense when it was comprised of what you could see and touch. It didn't require intuitive leaps or hope or faith. And it was easier to believe that things just were, than to try and make sense of the injustices and suffering of the world.

Zay had more of a cover-all-my-bases approach to religion, Lucas was firmly rooted in his beliefs, right along with Riley, and Smackle tended to see things his way. Though, that had never stopped her from attending Christmas mass with her mother.

Maya kept herself decidedly neutral. He'd always found something weak in her refusal to take a firm stance on something. People saw her as bold and fearless; saw the way her eyes danced and her lips quirked. She was beautiful and sure of herself and nothing was ever going to stand in her way.

But Farkle had known her long enough to recognize that she wasn't really any of those things. She was whatever and whoever she thought you wanted her to be; desperate for love and acceptance. To Riley, she was brave; to Lucas, a foil; to Zay, she was unattainable.

To him…

They sat pressed together on a wooden pew as Mr. Mathews gave a eulogy from the front of the church. Riley was crying; her mother's arm wrapped tightly around her as they both sat hunched over in grief. His parents were sitting in the row in front of him; holding hands in a rare show of unity. Katy was wrapped around Shawn, though it was clear that he really just wanted to be left alone and allowed to mourn in his own way.

The family's driver had driven them the three hours that morning; so early that the sun hadn't even risen, until they'd pulled into his grandparent's (his mother's parents because his father had a flight to catch late that afternoon) driveway and he'd watched its slow ascent over the neighborhood.

They'd eaten breakfast, while his grandmother struggled to carry the conversation; chattering about her garden and his mother's childhood friend that had moved back home after a nasty divorce. His father's too busy composing an email on his smartphone to notice the way his mother pales and shoots a stern look at her mother. But Farkle's awake enough to catch it.

After, they dress in the nice clothes that his mother had picked out and carefully hung in garment bags and, then, they make their way to the chapel, where Farkle had immediately gone over to Maya and Riley.

Mr. Feeny was a legend to him, a bedtime story. He could count the number of times he'd actually met the man on one hand and he feels awkward being surrounded by people that actually loved him. Any emotion that he chooses to show feels counterfeit. So, he sits with his back ramrod straight and pretends that he's listening to the choked, but eloquent words that are coming from Riley's father's mouth.

The funeral's long, the graveside's longer; probably because nobody's ready to say goodbye. And when it all gets to be too much, he wanders off, not entirely surprised that Maya chooses to trail along beside him.

He picks his way through the headstones, his feet sinking in the grass and his head beading with sweat from the time spend under direct sunlight. He's not even sure that he has a destination, until he's pausing in front of the cracked stone steps of a mausoleum.

Perched on the top is an angel with outspread wings and a long gown that flows down into the stone around her. Her face holds the gentlest of smiles and one hand rests on top of her chest, as she stares across the cemetery with unseeing eyes.

"She looks kind of like Riley, doesn't she?" Maya commented; tilting her head into an awkward angle as she surveyed the statue.

If Farkle's being honest; the angel looks a lot more like Maya, then the brunette. Her stone face is heart shaped and her hair is fanned out, with just enough detail left to show that her face had once been framed with wild curls.

But, the stone is dark enough to make Farkle believe that maybe the eyes were meant to be brown and maybe the hair is meant to be brunette. Or, maybe, he's just putting too much thought into it.

"I'd want Riley to guard my resting place," Farkle offered, instead; sinking down into the grass beside the front steps. It's warm and Maya doesn't hesitate in collapsing beside him and tilting her head up to gaze at the sky.

"You think that's what happens when we die? We guard the living? And the dead?" Maya questioned and Farkle wondered if she was thinking about her Gammy Hart, who had passed away the fall before.

"Maybe," Farkle settled for halfway; figuring that there was a time to make a statement of his beliefs and a time to accept that his ideas weren't nearly as pretty as the ones that Riley tended to feed them.

Maya spread her skirt down over her legs, before falling back into the grass; her hair turning gold in the sunlight, "Riley's not here. You can tell me what you really think."

"I don't know what happens when we die, Maya. I can tell you that your body starts decomposing, that it returns to being a part of the earth. I can tell you that your heart stops beating, your brain stops generating thought, everything that essentially comprises you has no evidence of continuing to function."

"So, you think we just cease to exist," Maya summarized, her voice giving no context clues of what she's feeling.

"I haven't found any substantive proof, otherwise. But, then, what's the point of all of this? Why do we experience pain, love, joy, heartbreak? What's the point of living, if it all means nothing in the end?" Farkle offered.

"All that thinking must make your head hurt," Maya sighed and he let out a startled laugh before falling into the grass beside her.

A slight breeze whistled through the trees around them and a cloud blazed a trail across the sky. It was too beautiful a summer day for a funeral, but the universe didn't seem to have gotten the memo.

"What do you think happens when we die?" Farkle glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He can tell he's caught her off guard with the question and he realizes that he's never really gone to her with deep questions. He wonders if anyone has.

"I don't ever intend to find out," she replied; her eyes daring him to argue with her using science and logic.

But she's Maya; Part myth, part legend, part human. If anyone was going to defy science and logic, it would be her. Probably, just to spite him.

She wasn't supposed to die in a hotel room surrounded by alcohol. She wasn't supposed to die alone. They'd promised each other that they wouldn't die the way they'd lived.

He wasn't the kind of person to get caught up in the platitudes about good people dying young or bad people becoming a product of their lifestyle. People were never just one thing. But, this didn't make any sense.

Because someone as full of life as she was; wasn't supposed to be mortal, in the end. She lived life boldly and fearlessly; she loved, she lost, she bled, and she felt. She felt things in a way that he'd never managed to do. But, she was also real and warm and someone that he'd spent most of his life loving.

She wasn't supposed to be there one minute and gone the next. Almost, like she'd never existed at all. Like the girl behind the hair, the clothes, the pretty houses that really lived inside of her skin would never flash a genuine smile again or crack a joke at his expense; would never cry on his shoulder or ask him to fix all of her problems.

She wasn't done living; wasn't the person that she'd wanted to be, yet. She wasn't done raising Savannah. Everything was left unfinished. And that wasn't how her life was supposed to end.

"Hey, it's me. I'm heading out of town for a couple of days and I wanted to put you on alert in case Savannah needs anything. We didn't leave things on good terms when she headed back after the break. I'm about to board a plane, but let's talk later."

Farkle hit the replay button and leaned back as Maya's voice filled the apartment once again. The condensation on his glass, left his hand covered in a thin layer of water and the ice clinked around the amber liquid.

She deserves one day that isn't filled with lies, we deserve one day to grieve without pretending.

Riley's words echo through his head and he takes another sip of his drink; unsurprised to see that his hand is unsteady and his vision has become hazy. He'd never liked fighting with Riley, but there had been something different about this one. Something in the way she'd looked at him like he wasn't someone who had watched her grow up, who had grown up with her. Like they were strangers, who just happened to be arguing in the middle of a hallway.

But, if we do this the way that Maya's publicist wants to do this, Maya's funeral won't be about Maya. It will become distorted and twisted and there will be no peace.

There was never any peace, really. There was anger, frustration, depression, self-destruction, but peace was in short supply and closure was a made-up concept that kept people chasing things they'd never manage to catch.

Riley of all people should have understood that.

The news breaks early one fall morning and no one seems capable of looking away.

He hears the buzzing of voices in the hallway; the looks in his students' eyes as he writes the days topic on the board and stares down intently at the ethics textbook that is sitting in the center of the podium he teaches from.

It's a real-life application of everything they've been debating and any good professor would have taken the time to break it down for them. They would have debated who was in the right, who was in the wrong. Did the public really have a right to know every detail of a politician's personal life? Did it matter that Lucas's actions had been to protect his wife?

To Farkle it mattered. But, Farkle had been there for the early viewing of the Riley-and-Lucas show; he'd seen them grow up together, seen them fall in love. To him, it was unthinkable that Lucas wouldn't do everything within his power to protect the only woman that had ever held his heart.

Everyone else was out for blood.

He talks about euthanasia; his students stare at news articles from barely concealed cell phones.

It's a spark that starts a wildfire and it takes weeks to put out the flames. It's as he's surveying what remains in the ash that he realizes that even if it was Riley's fire; it's Lucas who was left to burn.

It doesn't take long to realize that all the pictures of Riley they're showing are old. Her face, covered in healing bruises and staring intently at the ground, smears every major news outlet. But, they're all using the same photo that looks like it was taken up against a generic colored wall. It could have been taken, anywhere. But, she doesn't look like she's shying away from it.

She was an annotation and a puff-piece before she fell from grace and every other photo shows a good view of her. There aren't pictures of her darting through mobs of photographers or hiding behind the curtains of her home.

He figures that she's holed herself up in one of Maya's maximum-security residences and is waiting out the storm, while Lucas smooths ruffled feathers in interviews where he looks dazed and slightly shell-shocked. His eyes are dead; his voice is hollow, but Farkle still wouldn't have guessed the reality.

"Do you have a minute?" the man's in a black suit and Farkle's never seen him before in his life.

He'd been darting from the bookstore and is headed towards the building that houses his office, when the man had stepped out from the shadows and directly into his path.

"If you have a question about one of my classes, I can be reached at my email," Farkle suggested, trying to ignore the way his heart picked up in his chest. There's something about the man's eyes that convinces him that it's in his best interest to get into a more public area.

He looks ex-military; with all the bulk and eyes that are jaded by far too much experience. Farkle's got a few inches on him, but he's skin and bones; all wiry and lithe. And, he's never fought anyone a day in his life.

"This isn't about your class. It's about Riley Friar," the man clarified and all resistance fled from Farkle's mind, before he let the man direct him towards a dark car with tinted windows that's illegally parked at the edge of a loading dock.

"I haven't talked to her in a while," Farkle felt the need to tell him.

He'd spent the last few days digging back in his head to figure out the last time they spoke; whether she'd sounded like she was struggling or having a hard time. But, the truth of it was that Riley had blocked him out a long time ago and everything he was fed was usually the company line.

The man just pulled the door to the backseat open and Farkle froze in his tracks.

"Get in," Lucas's voice was harsh and strained. He was wearing suit pants, but the jacket had been discarded at his feet and the top buttons of his shirt were carelessly undone.

His voice held no room for argument, so Farkle slid into the dark leather seat and flinched when the door was slammed firmly behind him.

"What's going on?" Farkle stayed pressed against the door; his eyes following the man that Farkle deduced to be Lucas's bodyguard. He rounded the car and settled into the driver's seat, showing no sign that he was paying attention to the men in the back.

"We're going for a drive."

They pull up to Farkle's apartment building and Lucas leaves the bodyguard at the car, communicating with a series of grunts and gestures that he wants Farkle to take him up. So, Farkle leads him up the stairs and pauses in front of the door; wondering what Lucas is thinking about his journey from the penthouse to a walk-up with flickering lights and stained floors.

"Riley?" Lucas calls out, as soon as the door is open and Farkle has managed to get out of his way, "I know you're here. You might as well come out."

Farkle watches, helplessly, as Lucas pulls open doors and closets, finally making his way to the kitchen and slamming open each of the cabinet doors.

There's a heavy silence as Lucas catches his breath and Farkle, finally, gets around to closing the front door and leaning against it, as he waits for some kind of explanation.

"She's really not here?" Lucas's voice sounds lost and tired.

"No, she's not," Farkle offered; wondering if he was about to be treated to a Texas-Lucas blowup.

"I've had people staking out Maya's houses, I went to visit her parents, I talked to Auggie. My only consolation is that if she were dead in a ditch somewhere; someone would have reported it," Lucas sighed, "She has the most recognizable face in the country, right now, and, yet, no one can find her."

"How long has she been gone?" Farkle struggled to catch up with the new information that was being thrown at him.

"A week before the story was released. I'm guessing that Zay gave her a heads up," Lucas paused as his fist slammed against the countertop, "To help him feel better about tearing her life apart; tearing our life apart. And she did what she always does and sacrificed herself. The narratives better that way, you know? Without my drug addict, alcoholic wife around to make me look bad."

"I'm sorry," Farkle offers; unable to offer anything more.

"She's been depressed, but this person that the media is portraying, isn't her. They don't know the half of what we've been through. She makes one mistake and suddenly she has a drinking problem; suddenly she's abusing narcotics. That's not Riley," he pleads with Farkle to understand and Farkle can't help noticing the details of the blood-shot eyes and dark circles and wondering if Lucas might be the one who's been drinking.

"I know she isn't," Farkle assured him.

"She needs to come home. We can leave all of this behind, but she has to come home," Lucas continued, not seeming to hear him.

"She hasn't contacted me. I can't remember the last time that we even talked. I don't know where she is or where she would go."

"But if she does?" Lucas pressed.

"I'll tell her to call you," Farkle promised and Lucas nodded once, before brushing passed Farkle on his way out the door.

Farkle's apartment looks like a tornado has swept through it, but Farkle can't bring himself to be upset. He recognizes the raw desperation and pain that he'd seen in Lucas's eyes. There's something all too familiar about it.

He calls Maya and listens as the phone rings, feeling uncomfortable inside of his own apartment.

"Now's not a good time," she answers and there's an edge to her voice that he knows belongs to only him. He can't remember a time when it hasn't been there, but there must have been one somewhere in their past.

"Lucas just stopped by to redecorate my apartment. You care to weigh in on what's going on?" Farkle suggested.

"He's run out of hired help and, now, he's having to do his own bidding?" Maya suggested and he can imagine the exact expression on her face. The careless indifference that would be in her brow, the angry tilt of her lips and the genuine worry that he would find in her eyes.

"You don't know where she is, either," Farkle deduced and he could hear the slight catch in her breath over the phone.

"I'm going to handle it. I just need you to stay out of the way, okay?"

"Maya-" She cut him off before he could continue his protest.

"Listen to me, for Savvy's sake, I need you to stay out of this."

She always knew exactly what to say that would get to him, "Okay."

He holds the glass tightly enough that he's sure it's going to shatter in his hands and, when it doesn't, he lets it fall to the floor; smearing the hardwood with jagged icicles.

What was that saying about stones and glass houses?

"Hey, it's me…."

When he wakes; his head is pounding, but his thoughts are clearer. Each detail of his apartment comes into high definition and he can make out the light reflecting off the glass that litters the floor. For one brief moment, he's reminded of the ocean; miles and miles of it stretching in every direction and consuming everything that dares to gets too close.

And, then, he blinks and the image settles.

His phone is dead on the cushion beside him and the taste of his own saliva leaves him feeling nauseated, so he carefully picks his way through the wreckage to the bathroom and turns on the shower.

The water beats like rain against the porcelain and he gets in fully clothed; letting the bite of the cold water keep him present in the moment. It was all too easy to slip away and let himself get lost in memories.

He can almost see Maya's outline through the shower curtain; her voice echoing off the tiles:

"You can't let the fear control you. It's just water and what is water made of?" she insisted; not caring that she was getting splattered in water droplets and that his clothes had suddenly taken on three times their weight.

"Hydrogen and oxygen," Farkle repeated, obediently; tracing out the shape of the molecules in his head, trying to break it down until it was something distant and precise.

He can see the steady rise and fall of her chest; as the adrenaline wears off and she seems to get caught up in the moment. They're supposed to be driving to Philly for the funeral in a matter of hours and he's not even quite sure what she's doing here; how she'd instinctively known that he was building an obsessive phobia towards the thing he associated with his parent's final resting place.

But, she'd shown up at his home and let herself in without an ounce of apology, before beginning the process of packing his bag and turning on the shower. All it had taken was one look into his eyes and she'd known why he couldn't quite bring himself to step into the water.

He's taller than her, probably physically stronger, too, but he hadn't resisted her as she'd shoved him inside and under the spray, repeating over and over again that it was just molecules; that his fears couldn't control him.

"They probably died on impact," her eyes are distant, now, "It would have been quick and painless."

"That's just a thing that people say. We don't really know, do we?" he pointed out and her eyes snapped up to him in surprise, as if she'd forgotten where she was entirely.

"I almost drowned, once," she admitted, taking a step forward into the shower, "It wasn't peaceful or like falling asleep, but maybe death shouldn't be like any of those things. Maybe, it's better to go down fighting."

"Maybe," the water is dripping down his face and his chest feels hollow.

She pulls him into a hug; getting trapped under the spray of water in the process, but as she looks up at him with damp hair and dark eyes, he thinks he can almost hear his heart beating.

He strips off his clothes before getting out of the shower and pauses to brush his teeth at the sink. His eyes look gray in his reflection and he can only manage quick glances before he's forced to look away.

He'd found religion; found a moral code to live by. He'd stitched together a life out of the decaying remains of what he'd made of it and, now, all of it was quickly unraveling in a matter of days.

But, Maya had a way of doing that to people.

He goes home to an empty apartment. The funeral is over and there are no bodies to bury. His parents remain lost at sea and he remains the newly appointed king over a kingdom he'd never wanted.

The family portrait that he'd sat for at the age of five was still displayed in the front entryway; no sign of all of the cracks that really existed between the three people in the picture. Maybe, they had been happy, then. But, there was a reason they'd never updated it.

He thinks about tearing it down from the wall; putting his knee through the canvas and getting the satisfying feeling of tearing apart the illusion that his parents had worked so hard to create. But, something stops him at the last second and he finds himself sinking down to the ground in front of it, suddenly exhausted.

"I have a picture, too," Maya's voice drifts from behind him. He's not sure how long he's been sitting there, "I found it in the back of my mom's sock drawer and I used to just stare at it and wonder if he was really as happy as he looked standing next to us in that photo, or if it was all just pretend."

"And?" Farkle glanced up at her; surprised to find that she hadn't changed out of her black funeral dress and that her hair was falling out of the carefully constructed bun that she'd put it in.

"I don't have any profound insight, but I still have the photo," Maya returned, her shoes clicking on the floor as she paused right next to him.

"You're what happens when someone decides to leave and I'm what happens when they decide to stay. Which one of us is more of a mess?" Farkle questioned, phrasing it like a math problem.

"Doesn't matter; we're both survivors," Maya held out her hand to him and helped pull him to his feet, "You want to tell me where they keep the good liquor?"

"I have a feeling that you already know," Farkle laughed; shrugging out of his jacket, as he followed her into the kitchen. She'd always carried an undercurrent of electricity that seemed to charge everyone around her, but tonight it feels dangerous.

She pulls the bottle out from behind his mother's low-calorie, cardboard that she called cereal and sets it out between the two of them. Before, kicking off her shoes and leaning on the counter in a way that leaves him captivated by things that he shouldn't be.

It's not his first-time drinking; despite the fact that he outwardly disapproved of it. Riley had blatantly protested it on moral grounds, while he'd sided with Smackle on killed brain cells and destroyed livers. But, that hadn't stopped him from indulging on the rare occasion that no one was looking.

"You can tell me no," Maya informed him; leaving him an out.

"I'm not in the habit of turning you down," Farkle returned, sliding into the barstool across from her.

"And that's one of the reasons why you're the only boy I've ever given my heart to without reservation," her words are careless, but her eyes are honest, as she pours the liquid into a mug and slides it across the counter to him.

Their fingers brush as he takes it from her.

He leaves the bathroom before he has a chance to pursue that memory any further.

His phone is still sitting on the cushion he'd left it on and he plugs it into charge on his way into the kitchen. He has to carefully maneuver through the glass, but he has no desire to stop and pick it up. If he looks at it just right there are a million Farkle's in various angles staring up at him.

He grabs the first box of cereal that he can find and pours a bowl; before realizing that he has no appetite.

The city looks polluted and gray outside of his window and the only place that he wants to be is the one where he's not welcome.

His phone starts ringing and he grabs it, not surprised, but still disappointed when the number isn't Riley's. He doesn't recognize it and his first instinct is to let it go to voicemail, but something in him slides the bar across the screen to, "Talk," before he's fully approved the decision.

"Minkus," he answers, holding the phone up to his ear, as he's careful not to step in any of the glass. He should really stop and pick it up, but he hasn't gotten tired of the metaphor, yet.

"Hey, this is Charlie Gardner. Riley said to call you if I found any new information on Maya," Charlie's voice is hushed and there are muted voices and the clatter of plates in the background.

"Did you?" Farkle pressed, pressing his hand to the bridge of his nose.

Riley had been ready to open Pandora's box, he still wasn't sure if he wanted to. Any way he arranged the details; they all lined up at the same outcome. Maya wasn't coming back, Riley was going back to her fairytale, Lucas would one day rule the entire land, and he would let his days slip away in a blur of meaningless busy work.

Like he wasn't the one that was supposed to do something significant with his life.

"I'm still waiting on the blood test, but I just got her phone records. Her last phone call was to the White House and I would put a lot of money on it being to Friar," Charlie rushes through the words, but that doesn't leave them with any less of an impact.

"Why would Maya be calling Lucas?" Farkle snorted, already seeing the headlines that would attack every news screen if this got out.

"The phone calls start last summer and Riley seemed pretty shaken up when she asked if there was any way that Maya could be pregnant. The easiest dots to connect suggest that maybe there was something going on," Charlie offered and Farkle had to choke back the nausea.

"Maya wouldn't do that," Farkle protested.

"She goes from the spotlight to the background, as Riley is suddenly the new star that everyone wants to look at. Lucas is still reeling from Riley's decision to leave him and date everybody's favorite bad boy Royal. The motive is there."

"Except she's been doing the on-and-off thing with Joshua Mathews for months," Farkle pointed out.

"And she's known for her great love and commitment to monogamy. Maya got around," Charlie argued and Farkle squeezed his eyes clothes, as he struggled to compose a rational argument. One that wasn't fueled with his own desperation for her to be the person that he wants her to be.

"Can you send me a copy of her phone records?" Farkle abruptly changed the subject.

"That's not exactly protocol," Charlie informed him.

"On an open investigation. This one is closed, isn't it?" Farkle countered.

"Look, if this isn't an accident, getting involved could be dangerous," Charlie warned him and Farkle heard the sound of cash register open and close in the background of the call; forcing the pieces together in Farkle's mind. This wasn't a sanctioned phone call and Charlie really believed that something wasn't right here.

"I want the phone records and the results of the blood test when you get it," Farkle decided; keeping his voice firm.

"There won't be any way to determine paternity if she is pregnant. Not now that she's embalmed."

"Just get me what you have," Farkle insisted.

He let his hand fall to his side, as he ends the call. Once again, stuck in his apartment. It hadn't hit him until, now, just how impersonal it all was. The bookshelf was stuffed with textbooks, the pictures had all come with their frames, the couch was second-hand.

When he died, there would be very few personal items to divide out.

He'd started out with the world at his fingertips and would end with nothing.

Her mascara is smudged under her eyes; the effect of her rubbing them, though, on her, it mostly just makes her eyes seem more pronounced. They're dark gray in the fading light and she grips the balcony like it's the only force tethering her to earth.

Then again, maybe it is.

"I just don't understand," she didn't turn to look at him and her hands turned pale against the black of the railing; making her chipped, black nail polish even more apparent, "What you're doing here, now."

"I didn't know," his voice is choked and his chest feels incredibly tight.

He hadn't known; had half thought it was all just some dream that he'd conjured up in an alcohol and possibly drug fueled haze. He can't remember big picture things; just flashes of city streets and long, blonde hair, and laughter.

"That was how I wanted it," she reminded him; finally glancing back, "That's how I still want it."

"Maya," he tries to cut in, but he doesn't have any arguments to offer.

He's not the stabilizing influence, the loyal one, or the genius, anymore. He'd shed all of his titles, along with his morals and he'd killed his brain cells just for the fun of it. But, in hurting himself he'd never had any intention of making the people he cared about collateral damage.

Smackle had been a necessary break; better than asking her to wait for him or asking her to watch him fall apart. She'd deserved better and that's what he'd given her in the long run. He'd sent the postcards so that Riley wouldn't worry. He'd turned his father's company over to people who would actually know what they were doing and, maybe, even enjoy running it.

There's no justification for what he's done to Maya. He's spent enough time arguing to know that he doesn't have any ground to stand on.

"I'm getting married in exactly six days and I don't know if it's going to last, but I really think that I love him. And he's so good with Savvy. He's good with me. Please, just let this go," her shoulders hunch with emotion, but her face is away from him again.

"You know I would have come. I would have been here for you," he feels the need to say. He wants to believe that who he once was, is still inside of him somewhere.

"We weren't in love with each other, Farkle. You were a mess after what happened with your parents and I was trying to figure out what was wrong with me; why I couldn't feel the way I was supposed to about Zay and, somehow, that translated into what we did. We were both in Rome and I thought fate was trying to tell us something, but we're not some great love story; we're two stupid people who made an adult decision that had adult consequences."

"And I'm trying to take responsibility for that. I don't want to ruin your life, but I want to be there for Savannah, for you, too," Farkle argued; the words feeling like lead in his mouth.

"I have to think about what's best for Savannah. And, right now, you're not it," Maya's eyes are steel and her mouth is set, as he gets another glimpse of her face, "So, I'm asking you to let me have this. I'm asking you to go."

"And if I do get my act together?" Farkle countered; surprised by how much distance could exist between them in such a small space.

"Then, we'll talk."

He's not surprised when the black limousine pulls up at the side of the road. It's not Lucas's style, but he doesn't get a say when he's making official visits.

The door springs open before the driver can get out and open the door and Farkle glances into the dimly lit backseat. Lucas looks like ice; frozen by emotions so all-encompassing that to reveal them might just destroy everything in his path.

"Get in," Lucas suggests; his voice reminiscent of the last time Lucas had abducted him.

"Not until you tell me where we're going," Farkle protests; remembering the urgency in Charlie's tone. The things that had went unsaid, but were implied all the same.

"I just want to talk," Lucas assures him and there's an honesty in his eyes that Farkle can't quite come to believe is counterfeit.

"Then, you come out," Farkle suggests and Lucas nods once, before sliding from the seat out onto the sidewalk. Two men jump out of a suburban that is parked behind the limousine and Lucas sighs, but lets one of them move ahead to scout out the coffee shop that Farkle had just come out of, before Lucas is allows to backtrack with him inside and into a corner booth.

The shops in the middle of lull; right between the lunch rush and the evening crowd and Lucas's security detail find tables close enough to keep an eye on Lucas, but far enough away to offer the illusion of privacy.

"How's she doing?" Lucas asks; stripped in a way that leaves Farkle wondering how anyone could ever believe Lucas could do anything to deliberately hurt Riley. His love is still reflected in his eyes and his heart is still broadly stitched out on his sleeve.

"She's angry and upset," Farkle offers; taking a sip of his drink and letting the liquid scald his tongue, "She doesn't think it was an accident."

"What do you think?" a wall comes up between them, leaving Farkle with nothing to read off Lucas's face.

"Why was Maya's last call to the White House?"

"I don't know," Lucas admitted, though the slightest tensing of his eyes left Farkle wondering if he would ever know the complete truth.

The sound of heels clicking against the tile, had both of their heads turning and Farkle felt his breath catch as he witnessed his first glance of Isadora Smackle in a handful of years. She was wearing a tailored suit and her dark hair was pulled away from her face; swinging like a pendulum with every step in their direction.

"This stop wasn't authorized," she informed them; barely sparing Farkle a glance. He tried to compare this woman to the one that he'd shared his first kiss with and found that there was no real resemblance.

"I'm catching up with an old friend," Lucas's voice was a challenge and the briefest glint flickered in Smackle's eyes.

"You have a meeting in fifteen minutes," she reminded him, "But if talking with an ethics professor trumps matters of state, I'll go ahead and let them know that you're busy."

"Alright," Lucas gave in, rising from the table and following Smackle towards the door.

One of the bodyguards waits until Smackle and Lucas are ducking inside of the limousine to hand Farkle a nondescript, silver phone that looks like it was salvaged from several decades ago.

"Don't call him; he'll call you," the man advises, before following in the direction of his boss.

Farkle slides the phone into his pocket, grabs his drink, and avoids the eyes behind the counter as he makes his way out into the street.

If there's anyone still out there, thanks for reading this! I apologize for the delay in getting this chapter up. I got half of it done, while I was on vacation at the end of the summer and, then, came home and have had the hardest time trying to finish it. But, here it is, and it answers more than a few questions from previous chapters. Please leave me a review and let me know what you think (Or that you're still there, I'm not picky).