Raindrops pelt the concrete and paint the pavement of Sanctuary Hills dark. At first, they fall sparsely but within a matter of minutes, there's a thick sheet pounding into the earth. It's hard to see through the downpour and Danse's windshield wipers struggle against the heavy torrent; it will be a while before he can drive back home. He's being conspired against, the universe working in tandem in some monumental plot to bring him to ruin.
In the passenger seat, Nate's book jostles with the movement of the car. He's not sure why Nate needs it, why he couldn't pick it up some other day, but he asked him to drop it off and Danse had agreed.
He puts the car into park in front of the house and sits for a moment. He hopes-prays-she isn't home but it's half-hearted. He hasn't smelled the floral frangrance that clings to her skin for a month.
He tucks the book under his jacket and runs up to the door. Water is seeping into his hair down to his scalp and chilling him but it's not why he shivers. He rings the bell and to his dismay and delight, she pulls the door open and when she smiles, he remembers why it's not a good idea for him to be there. She's happy to see him but there's a weariness about it this time.
"Danse?"
He won't-can't-acknowledge how his name on her tongue make his head spin. He pulls the book out and offers it to her, a few raindrops trailing from his fingers and onto the cover. "Nate requested this."
She reaches for it and peers around him, eyeing the storm. "Come inside, won't you?"
He doesn't move, not to enter or leave because he's torn. "I shouldn't."
"Don't be ridiculous, Danse. You can't drive in this."
She's right. He knew that, tried to prepare for it, but the suggestion is practical and warm air is seeping from the house, persuading him to step through the doorway. He doesn't go any further until she strides into the kitchen and offers him a drink. He asks where Nate is and she tells him he's out, not home and she doesn't know when he will be. She pours him a whiskey, their good whiskey she says. He takes the glass and waits to drink while she pours herself something sweeter.
She has to prop herself onto the kitchen counter to reach the wine opener. It's on the top shelf of a cabinet above the refrigerator and when she reaches it, she stays perched there and fills her own glass.
For the first time, she doesn't initiate conversation. Instead she stares down into her lap and neither drinks or moves for a long moment until the uneasiness is eating away at Danse.
"I don't mean to intrude." It's supposed to be an apology but he wants reassurance from her that she's not angry with him for something. He can't imagine what he could've done but she feels closed off, farther from him than usual.
She quirks the side of her mouth up and crosses her ankles. "I'm sorry. I'm just distracted. Of course you're not intruding."
"What's on your mind?"
The question spurs her to drink but he still can't. He's on edge because he's never seen her like this and everything in him wants to hold her.
"I'm sorry that I'm not my usual bubbly hostess self."
"Everything alright?"
She brings a hand to her forehead and closes her eyes. Her chest rises and falls as she calms herself and he's worried for her. It's why he steps closer, stands to her side, thigh inches from her knee. The temptation to place a comforting hand there is hard to beat back.
The phone rings. It's just beside her and she quickly answers it. She greets the caller, answers a few questions while twirling the cord around in her hand. When she hangs up, the atmosphere has grown heavier and she smiles unconvincingly at Danse.
"My mother," she explains. "My sister is currently very pregnant so she keeps me updated. Strange woman."
"Your mother or your sister?"
She laughs. "Both."
"Why is that?"
"They're a cynical bunch. Very serious. I mean, I know I'm the lawyer but I swear I'm not nearly as high-strung."
She suddenly looks pained. The phone call has only worsened her mood. She blinks a few times as though she might cry but as soon as she finishes off her wine, it seems to have passed.
"You don't get along," he notes.
She scrunches up her nose. "No."
One finger idly traces circles in the countertop, so very close to his own hand that it burns him.
"I'm the oldest," she whispers. "I've got three siblings and they've all had children."
We are trying.
Words Nate had said, but that wasn't how Nate said them and suddenly that detail seems incredibly important. We are... trying. Trying and failing and in the meantime, Nora has to congratulate younger women for doing what she can't.
"Been married 4 years and the questions keep coming. 'Where are the babies?' and I haven't got an answer," she croaks. "Maybe it's not meant to be."
Fate. The word is familiar, Danse thinks he knows something about it. He doesn't believe in much in the way of the supernatural but fate...it's why he's here at all, in Nora's kitchen taking whatever scraps of herself she'll offer without his ring on her finger. He believes that much. And if there's a system, tallies from misdeeds and heroics in past lives, he's sure he'd been a shitty person because it's hell to watch her grieve without brushing his skin over hers.
His mind races and hunts for some appropriate reaction, something less intimate. "I had no idea."
She tucks her hair behind her ear and gives him that sad smile. "I like that. No frills or floundering. No one ever knows what to say. Not that I talk about it much but if I do, it's 'you'll have a baby one day' or 'there's always adoption'. Sometimes they apologize but there's too much pity in it. Drives me mad."
"I'm sure they mean well. They want to help."
"They don't."
Her eyes sparkle with something akin to approval. You do.
"Nora, you're... not easy to figure out."
She chuckles. "Please."
"I mean it," he insists. "You're a difficult read."
They had started off talking about other people but now, he realizes, he's talking about himself. It's all he knows and it keeps him up at night, analyzing her likes he isn't a grown man. She's reduced him to a pining teenager, inexperienced and confused.
She's caught on, giving him that look again. "What are we talking about, Danse?"
"I simply... I don't think you know how you affect people."
She looks away from him out of the window, watches the rain still falling. Her teeth work at her bottom lip for a moment and then watery eyes are looking up at him. "Everybody thinks I'm so naive."
It's devastating, the realization that he's hurt her. He'd only meant to tell her in the only way he can, cryptic and ambiguous, that she means something to him.
"I'm not," she sniffs. "I'm not stupid, Danse. I know there's something here, between us."
He swallows. His right hand is shaking the glass of untouched whiskey and his skin feels clammy. He never thought he'd hear her say that, thought he was the only one. It's as electrifying as it is severe because it changes nothing.
She sees him struggling, not sure how to respond and gives him a half-smile, false and miserable. "I love how much you love Nate. Always trying to avoid me."
He shakes his head. "Why do you fight me then?"
She sighs. "I need you in my life some way."
He understands because he feels sick, only half of himself, when he's away from her. There's no reason for it. He hardly knows her enough to miss her but she's got an inexplicable hold on the best pieces of himself and he wants to give her everything, anything she would ask for.
"I'm not trying to make this difficult, Danse, but I know that I do."
He doesn't answer. His stomach is in knots, tangling at the words she says and the way they sound on her lips. Like she's apologizing, like she's agonized over this as much as he has.
She hops down and walks toward a window to wrench it open. Raindrops slant through it but the storm is relenting, calmed to a dull roar and he's sure he could leave now.
He stays.
If only to watch her, memorize her and be near her. When he leaves, he can't guarantee when he'll be able to return because it's Nate that's his friend, not her. He needs a pretense to be with her and he'll run out sooner or later.
"Would you say something?" she asks.
He stares at her back and he can see the way her muscles are tensed, rigid as she waits for him to address what plagues them both. There are no words that he can put to it that are adequate.
"What is there to be said?"
"Stop that." She doesn't relax even a fraction but she faces him and he can see how he's wounded her.
"What?"
She stays on the other side of the room, watching him until she's unable to resist reaching for a cigarette. Pure comfort, the way it steadies her, and the smoke makes him crave nicotine.
She shakes her head, opens her mouth but the words don't come. Then: "You should go."
He hasn't got a clue what he wants. Rejection seemed best, sinks him deeper into denial even in the face of her boldness, but it's pushing her away and with her goes his sanity. An arm reaches for her and she backs away.
"Nora, please." He begs like he's been cut off and he has. She's nearly as bad as the cigarettes, the way he needs her, the way her withdrawal makes his body ache.
Her eyes don't waver. They stay on his own, make him sorry that he's multiplied the distance between them. He knows she won't leave Nate, won't hurt him and he'd never ask her to but he'd fought relentlessly to keep her at arms length because doesn't trust himself. She makes him entirely weak. But this-she's stronger than he is if she can stand being so far away from him or else, she doesn't feel a fraction of what he does.
He tries again, says her name and this time it makes her bottom lip quiver. The dam she's constructed is impressive and it will hold by sheer force of will until he's left her.
"I'll let Nate know you brought his book home. Thank you."
His boots squeak on the tile and he feels the way her eyes follow him out the front door. The rain is nothing more than a drizzle now but he's still soaked through to his skin from before. Water pools in the crevices of the driver's seat of his car and snakes down the leather of the steering wheel where his hands grip it firmly, making up for the way he let her slip through his fingers mere seconds ago.
One last look at the house and he finds a dejected Nora, just barely backlit enough to be visible through the window, on the couch with her head in her hands.
It isn't until that moment that he believes that she truly suffers the way he does.