Strange Terrain

Chapter 5 – Lost

"The moment there is suspicion about a person's motives, everything he does becomes tainted." –Mahatma Ghandi

"Maybe it was just a misunderstanding," reasoned Scott as he poured Stiles another drink – he had been hesitant, since it wasn't even noon yet, but he was pressured by the death glares that his best friend would shoot him when he didn't comply with his wishes.

After a long night of no sleep, all Stiles had wanted to do was get drunk and rant.

He swirled the amber liquid around in the tumbler that sat on the counter in front of him, staring blankly at the motion, deep in thought. His eyes stung from the lack of sleep. All he could think about was the fact that there was some other guy – some other fiance out there that Malia remembered loving while she remembered nothing about her current husband. It made him sick, made him want to punch things, made him want to scream. But he had done none of those things, too tired and confused to figure out what to do.

So instead he had chosen to warm a bar stool at the bar that one of his best friends from high school was practically the owner of. It wasn't some dive bar with sticky floors and sketchy lighting and even sketchier people lurking in the shadows.

Scott had gotten the crazy idea to buy the bar and fix it up right out of college and it had actually turned out to be a pretty respectable place. Clean, friendly, comfortable enough for Stiles to actually roll out of bed and come there to wallow in self-pity. He could feel his friend's eyes on him as he took a swig of his drink.

"What?" Stiles demanded.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself –"

"See, that's what I love about you – but also hate about you, Scott. You're always looking on the bright side of things. But what if there's no bright side? What if this is it? What if it was a sign that maybe I'm not cut out to be somebody's husband?" He let out a grim laugh and shook his head, staring down at his drink again. He wanted to cry.

Scott sighed. "Well, have you at least talked to her about this guy?"

"No," Stiles muttered miserably.

"You're not going to know anything for sure until you do," he pointed out.

"Yeah, but that's another thing – I don't know anything about her life before she came here. Like, zilch. She told me nothing." He explained, exasperated, like he had been over this a million times before (which he had). "I didn't even know she had parents. Or a sister. I told her everything!"

Scott's brows pulled together in thought. "Who was that who walked her down the aisle at your wedding?"

"My dad, Scott."

"Weird."

"Really fucking weird."

Scott shrugged. "You still need to talk to her."

Stiles rolled his eyes, tossing back the rest of his drink before pushing the empty glass towards his friend. "What I need is another one."

"It's not even noon yet. Have you eaten?" Scott inquired.

Instead of giving him a straight answer, Stiles muttered a noncommital "sure" before looking away at the large windows that dominated the front of the bar. Outside, it was sunny and there were some people walking around, chatting amongst themselves, poking their heads into the shops that lined the street. He sighed mournfully, remembering all the times that he had walked down that street with Malia, trying and failing at holding her hand as she gesticulated constantly, moving so rapidly it was nearly impossible to keep up with her.

Malia came to sudden halt outside the window of an old bookstore, gazing in through the window at the assortment of battered hardbacks and colorful covers of the books that were on display. She grinned, like a kid outside of a candy store.

"This is amazing," she said.

"Have you never seen a used book store or something?" Stiles asked in disbelief, moving to stand right next to her, their arms brushing slightly.

She shrugged, looking over at him. "Well I'm from a big city. Everything's usually new and expensive out there. It's all so… homey here. Especially the people." She nudged his arm with her elbow, smirking as their eyes met for a long moment.

It was times like that when Stiles felt like he could do anything – like lean in and kiss her, spontaneous and romantic, like something out of a book. But he had kissed her before, so it shouldn't have been such a mental process. It should have been automatic, like grabbing her hand while they were walking or putting his arm around her shoulders when they were watching TV. He shouldn't have had to think about it at all, but he couldn't help it. His eyes drifted to her lips, full and pink from the excessive sun exposure, and he got caught up in wondering if she'd even like it – had she even liked it the first time they'd kissed? – or if she'd just laugh and continue walking or if some old woman would berate him for the public display of affection. The list went on and on.

He stood there contemplating for so long that he always missed his chance to do something, anything, and Malia would insist that they keep moving, keep seeing the sights. And he would oblige.

But Stiles couldn't help but smile a little to himself; that was what made her so interesting. Seeing her so excited about life all the time made him just a little more hopeful and content with his own life.

He had never been happier than when he had been with her.

"Hey, isn't that –"

Stiles blinked and realized what Scott was pointing out: outside was his wife, wandering around looking very confused and talking frantically to someone on the phone. He glanced at Scott, who gave him a look that said, "You know what you need to do."

"But can't I just sit here and drink more and forget that I saw her?" Stiles asked, hunching down over the counter and burying his face in his hands.

"Well I'm not pouring you anymore drinks, so no," Scott told him, but turned away before Stiles could hit him with another lethal glare. Groaning, Stiles took a deep breath before sliding off his stool and walking to the door.

By the time he had gotten outside, Malia had walked almost a block down the road, still looking around and, presumably, trying to figure out where she was and how she'd gotten there.

"Hey!" Stiles called, making her jump when he caught up to her.

"Oh, good, it's you – Mom? Yeah, I'm fine. Can I call you back? – I'm fine. Bye." Malia hung up, despite the fact that he could distinctly hear her mother still talking when she hit the red button. "I saw the receipt for a coffee shop – the Bobby's place you mentioned one day – and thought I'd see if I could find it. You know, since it was once my favorite place to go. Right?"

"Yeah," he replied with a nod. "So, uh, did you find it?"

Malia shook her head, running her fingers through her hair. "No. I got really turned around and couldn't even remember my way back. I couldn't remember your number so I just panicked and called my mom."

"Isn't she back in New York?"

"About that…" Malia trailed off, giving Stiles an apologetic look. "My parents want to take us out to dinner."

"Malia –"

"I know it's weird – don't you think I would know that? – but they're insisting since I was insisting that I should stay with you for a while. They're only here for the weekend so it would be really great if you said yes," she explained.

Stiles took a deep breath and exhaled again, trying to keep himself from saying anything stupid. With the alcohol very present in his veins, it was hard to keep it together. His mind kept going back to the fiance thing, and imagining some faceless man groping his wife.

But somehow, he managed.

"Sure," Stiles finally said. "I mean, how bad could it be?"

"Great!" Malia replied. "Now can you please show me how to get back to the apartment? I am shit with directions."

Stiles felt himself relax for the first time all day. He smiled to himself. "Yeah, I know."