It is white and chipped at the edges, like so many buildings in this city – a little rustic, a little dilapidated… a charm all its own, the kind of place college kids imagine living in when stepping out into the 'real' world, the kind of place where you'd find a healthy mix of artists and drug users – it is so like anywhere at all really.
It is not special – no chrome, no walls of glass, no valet parking, no doorman – but, somehow, it ends up being the best place in the world.
The crumbling stairs and the drafty concrete halls, they start to look wonderful to Ashley Davies because… if she is at all lucky in anything beyond a good voice and money… these steps and these halls lead to Spencer Carlin.

She got back to L.A. two days ago – flying fast from Aiden's home, nervous energy finally breaking out… finally breaking her down… and her knee bounced all the way home – it bounced to songs and it bounced to silence, it kept time to a tune that she had tried to ignore, but never could.

God knows I tried…

And Kyla calls too much now – every other hour - begging with veiled statements to let sleeping dogs lie, to let go of a passion played out… to give up, to throw in the towel, to step away for good…

But Ashley did that, seven years ago, she did that very thing and lived to regret it.
And Ashley can't do this anymore, a mantra repeating in her head… Ashley Davies cannot let another chance slip through her fingers.

If she turns me away, if she lashes out... If she takes me in… if she takes me back…

And there is the hard part, reels and reels of kisses that used to be rushing by, this is their own storming of the beach – this is D-Day, this is the bomb up above, this is the moment that guns go off…

If she still wants me… if she aches for me…

And there is the easy part, touches like tattoos on the skin, this is the birthmark upon their bodies – this is the scarlet letter that would eventually come and this is the ancient design against the very earth, this is being owned and being claimed…

It is just a building, a bit broken and a bit stylish, but it holds Spencer Carlin somewhere in its bones.
And Ashley walks quickly, before she can change her mind out of fear and peels back the first layer of an age-old wound.

When thirty-three comes into view and Ashley reaches out, shaking fist and gripped phonebook page and wide eyes… when she knocks softly, then loudly and then repeatedly… when she holds her breath and doesn't release it…

If she hates me, if she can't look at me, if she needs me, if she can't forget me…

And there is Spencer Carlin, a swift kick to the gut and the sharp sting of ocean water… there is the one that got away, there is the one who left fingerprints everywhere in Ashley's life, there are those blue eyes and that face and those lips… and Ashley breathes once more.

"Spencer…"
"Ash…ley…?"
"Um, can… uh, can we talk?"
"Talk? You want to talk?"
"Yes. Can we? Please?"

If she slams this door in my face… if she curses my name…

"Why? 'Coz… 'seven years is a long time'?"
"You got my message then…"
"I erased it."
"Okay."
"And talking to you… I can't talk to you, Ashley. I just can't."

If she forgives me… if she still loves me…

"I'm sorry, Spencer. I am so fucking sorry."
"You should go now, okay? I need you to go now."

If she can just… just… just… If I can just… just… just…

"I'm at the Weston, downtown, for three more days… room fifty-nine."
"I don't care."
"…I know."

And they stare at each other, agony and desire and so many stupid and wonderful things swimming at the surface – seven years too late, seven years too long – and Ashley knows Spencer is lying and Spencer knows it, too.
And Ashley forces their eyes to meet fully and she sees a million trees swaying in the breeze – I see a starry sky in Ohio and I see a girl's smile against the surf and I see another Spencer Carlin…

…right before the door shuts, Ashley recognizes the love of her life in that gaze, brief and beautiful – a comet across the sky.

**** **** ****

Right before sixty and right after fifty-eight… and if you add the five to the nine, you get fourteen. And if you break that number down, you get five.
And it is something she does when she is nervous, a habit born about a lifetime ago and in another world, back in Ohio – where girls were just girls and boys were just boys and there wasn't confusion and there wasn't lust. Spencer just was in Ohio and nothing more.

And if there was a routine that seemed too hard or a test that was too important, she would silently break every number down until she got a singular digit. And then, if her nerves were still present, she'd do it again. And again. And again.

But here she is, re-counting and re-adding in an empty hallway at the Downtown Weston – not a maid in sight, not a single cart of towels and sheets. Not a single guest passing by, card-key in their hand or screaming child by their hip… It is an empty hallway and the carpet keeps your feet from making any sound at all.
And Spencer could just slip away again, as if she never came here and as if she never wanted to.

As if I didn't need to.

It is the need, though, that propels you forward and keeps you going when all others forsake.
It is the need and the want that makes you dream at night, that makes you burn for things out of reach.
It is the need and the want and the longing… it turns you inside-out and you are no longer sane.
There is the Spencer who works hard and flies around the world and documents the sorrows, the trials and the tribulations – catching it on film, trapping it within her mind.
And there is the Spencer who shut the door in Ashley's face and who sat down heavy upon the couch and who trembled uncontrollably… there is the Spencer who is still so fucking in love and hates it.

And loathes it. And can't stop it. And is tired of it. And is lost without it.

So, she counts it again.
Five plus nine is fourteen. One plus four is five.
And she is no longer motionless in the hall, those few feet crossed without thinking.
Nine plus five is fourteen. Four plus one is five.
And her fist comes down hard against the surface, a solitary thump echoing in this barren side of this hotel.
Four plus one is five… five is… five is…

The critical eye – the one Spencer has developed over time, the one that she uses to take in every shot and to set up every scene – it sees so much more than her heart does.
It sees the lines of age on Ashley's startled face, hints of weariness at the edge of the eyes… signs of joy at the corners of the mouth… shoulders that seem slumped with too little sleep, hands that are gripping the door knob – white knuckled and unsure…

The critical eye sees it all and takes it in and catalogs it for later.
But the heart pounds out and the heart cracks painfully and the heart screams out for something… and the heart isn't even sure for what it so plaintively begs…

And Spencer could still leave, even with them frozen in front of one another with nothing but an empty hallway to witness it.
She could just step back and walk away, walk fast away like Ashley did seven years ago.
She could inflict the wound this time – she could raise up her chin and cut Ashley down and it would satisfy that girl who cried and cried and who fell apart all those years ago.

It would be justice, right?

And Spencer knows who is right and who is wrong here, the score was never lost and she never forgot it.
And Spencer knows that time heals nothing, not really, not with her chest hurting and with Ashley's eyes filling up with tears.
And Spencer knows that there is no going back, there is no sprinting for the elevator now…

A message is easy to erase. But not the person behind it. God… I just don't know… I just don't know anything anymore…

Because Spencer knows anger and sadness, but Spencer knows what it is to be with Ashley Davies, too.

And I can't forget. I've tried so hard… but I've not forgotten a single moment.
Not a single smile. Not a single kiss. Not a single laugh. Not a single hug. Not a single touch.
Not a single promise. Not a single date. Not a single sensation.

I've not forgotten a single thing about her.

Ashley's lips part and words are about to tumble out and Spencer can't stand it.
She can't stand any of this anymore. Not now.
And she doesn't even give herself time to count those numbers out again, because she is cresting like a wave and she is hitting up on Ashley's shore – it is harsh and it is still flawless, this kiss that tastes of weeping and of misery… this kiss of remembrance and of belief…

Ashley's fingers, thin and strong, thread through her hair and Spencer slams the two of them back – corner of a where walls meet surely digging into Ashley's back – and… for just a second… all those billion of numbers just slide away, additions and subtractions somehow not as thrilling as this out-of-control spark.

And it fixes nothing, not a single thing.

And Spencer knows this fact most of all.

**** **** ****

TBC