Nights are turning cold in the Commonwealth. Every passing day grows more and more frigid and when the sun sets, it's colder still. It's how it's supposed to be, the natural way, from one season to the next. Predictable and comforting because it happens on its own and the destruction of winter is temporary. It's a mercy that Danse is not afforded.
He can count on one hand the number of times he's been near her but it doesn't matter; he's haunted, whether she's there or not. He wants to blame her but she's not at fault and he knows that truth as deeply as he feels it. He knows her. She comes to him in pulses, rapid bursts of nostalgia, as much from the past as the future. Impossible to place because she's immaterial, intangible as the September breeze that cools Boston just outside.
The chill seeps through the paper thin walls of his apartment and it's as good as alcohol, the way it stings. Maybe better, because it burns away his disorientation and leaves clarity in its stead.
Smoke is filling the room, spiraling from the ends of cigars that hover over a game of blackjack, unaware of the upheaval in Danse. His apartment is small and he anticipates the joke before it's spoken-no wonder he doesn't take women home when the cramped space is hardly big enough for two. Nate defends his friend, calls the other man a whore, and they laugh it off. It's banter, doesn't mean anything, but it stirs an ache inside of Danse and the angry pulse of a headache begins above his eyes.
"Tammy's got a friend," Marc starts.
Warren waves his cigar around and smoke pours over his lips as he speaks. "No, no, no, don't start with that shit."
"What? I'm being helpful."
"Jesus, Marc, lay off him."
"God knows he needs a woman to take care of him. Can't cook to save his life. I'll bet he's never even used that stove."
Danse gestures to Neal for another card and adds it to his hand. "That's not true. I boil water."
Nate snorts. "Nora says she tried to teach you."
Nervous energy bundles in his stomach. It's not her name but who says it. He wonders if it'll ever cease to turn him inside out, hearing Nate discuss his wife. It used to feel very ordinary but now those syllables make him shudder. He's waiting for a reckoning. It's bound to come; one day, Nate will see something in Danse's eyes and he'll know. He'll lose his friend, his brother, and he doesn't think he can take that.
"Aw, hell. Woman's a saint." Marc eyes his cards with indecision, takes two cards from Neal, and then folds.
Warren nods. "Puts up with Nate well enough to be canonized."
"You two having kids anytime soon?" Neal presses.
Nate collects the cards and shuffles the deck for a new round. His forehead creases as his brows draw together and it's either pain or concentration on his face. "We are... trying."
The men holler their approval, shaking Nate's shoulders and commending him. Three of the five men are already fathers and a string of advice is rolling off of their tongues without hesitation. Danse isn't capable of much beyond a muttered "congratulations". The revelation rocks him for no reason, no damned good reason at all.
Of course they'll have children. They're married and it's what married people do. Childless or otherwise, she's always been out of his reach. He reaches for the latch of the window behind him, for cold air and stability.
"Trying is the best part anyway," Warren winks.
Nate raises his glass. "Hear, hear."
Everyone laughs, even Danse, because it looks strange if he doesn't.
It stays with him, images of children, blue-eyed and gleaming smiles, the better parts of the lovers that made them. The men socialize around him but he's too distracted to engage beyond the cards in his hand.
By the time his friends clear out and leave him to the solitude of his apartment, he's stewing in thoughts of families and he tells himself it's because he doesn't know his own. It's not because of Nora. Not because this is just another way to lose her.
And it certainly isn't because the image of her, belly round and face alight with the glow of motherhood, makes his cheeks burn.
He's shocked by the things he'll do to forget her.
He does have to try; It's not what he wants but there are rules, dammit, social mores about these kinds of things and he's been breaking them. The last few weeks have made him sick and it's as likely to be because he hasn't seen Nora as the guilt of it all. He has to know that she's happy, safe, taken care of, cosmic accidents bleeding in from another lifetime in which she'd belonged to him. He can't ignore her, that much is clear, and if he tries, all of those feelings, unnamed and formidable, will come back with a vengeance when he inevitably fails.
Or when he dreams about her.
It's only happened once; a miracle, all things considered. If he were less careful with his thoughts, he might not have been so lucky. It had been simple: a hand on his cheek, cold against the blush it roused.
"Danse," she'd said.
There was more to say because her voice piqued up at the end so he waited.
She inhaled and it caught in her throat while her eyes flickered between his. And then-
Exhale.
She wasn't Nora. Just his mind's best fabrication and it didn't know what he wanted her to say. They just stood and stared and if he has to see her make that face again, the one that she always makes, like she's waiting for something, he'll lose his mind.
He shouldn't be thinking about her. Not ever and especially not as he's sitting in a restaurant waiting for someone else.
He plans to replace her. He has to.
He twists his wrist, watches the tick of the hands on his watch. The woman-Hannah-isn't late and he knew that but the movement releases some of the pent-up anxiety gnawing at him.
A waiter approaches the table and he orders an Old Fashioned before they rush back to the kitchen. The place is elegant, not flashy but certainly upscale. Just enough to make him squirm in his seat, question what the hell he's doing. He's out of his element but it's the sort of place Hannah must enjoy. There probably won't be a second date but at the very least, he hopes she'll distract him.
She arrives before his drink.
Petit and thin and blonde; different and not his type in the slightest. There's no confidence in her strut, no boldness in the set of her jaw and he needs that. It takes him by surprise because he never has before.
"Hello," she smiles radiantly, a different kind of smile from the one that keeps him up at night. "I'm Hannah."
He smiles back, introduces himself and then stands to pull out her chair for her. The waiter returns to place a glass in front of him and Hannah orders her drink. She's polite but there's no spark and he wonders if she can feel it.
"Marc spoke highly of you," she says.
"Did he?"
She doesn't look at him for longer than a second at a time and her fingers pick at the corner of her menu. "Said you're a good one, honest and hard-working."
"I try to be."
"What's the catch?"
"Excuse me?"
She shrinks from the question, pulls back into the cushion of her chair. It's wrong. He needs her to challenge him and make him flounder but she doesn't have it in her. Different, too different.
"I didn't mean anything by it, it's just... I meet a lot of strange men, going on dates like this."
He raises his brows. "I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"I don't know. Do you live with your mother?"
"No."
"Do you have a weird taxidermy collection?"
He chuckles. "No."
"Well," she sighs. "That's good. Me either."
The mood lightens. She's scrutinizing him and it's because she's a little more comfortable. There's the hint of a grin at her lips, cheeks rising slightly, and it blossoms fully when he asks what she does. A nurse, she says, and tells him of the hospital she works at and stories of doctors and patients. She's amusing; he can stomach this for the next hour. Hannah is respectful and caring and attractive and he could settle, he thinks.
As soon as the word enters his mind, it fills him with nausea.
And then-anger. He's furious that every woman he meets should now, against his will, be held to that standard, that other woman, and he won't do her the respect of saying her name anymore even in his head. She's invaded it too much already, doesn't need his help to conquer him.
At the end of the night, he realizes she's read his disenchantment because she doesn't prolong the inevitable. She doesn't ask for his phone number, doesn't stare up at him expectantly and he's grateful for it. He trails behind her as she walks to her car and when she ducks down to slide into the seat, he hears her bid him goodnight and nothing more.
It's just as well. She can't help him and there's nothing-no one, he fears, but her-for the gaping chasm burning beneath his ribs.