Soul almost missed the doorbell. Catatonia was the best descriptor for the state he was in, laying back on the bed with at least a dozen opened letters like confetti around him on the comforter. Even with the urging of that incessant chime he considered staying trapped under the weight of his brother's words. He'd only barely processed past the lies and truth section– had barely accepted Wes calling himself a coward.

It wasn't the doorbell this time but a blaring voice he knew all too well: "Soul Evans!"

He pulled in a breath, sat up, and suddenly a train of logic crashed in his mind: Layla was supposed to be with Liz, and if Liz was here, that meant–

Soul was up in a flash, tripping over himself and almost breaking his neck on the stairs as he flew for the door. He barely got it open before he blared back: "Layla?"

But it was only Liz, arms crossed her chest with her usual unamused look on her face. "With Patty."

Oxygen finally started to saturate his lungs, the rush extinguished with his worry. "Then…?"

"Let me in," Liz ordered, not leaving him room to argue as she pushed into the entryway.

"Liz–"

There was no hope for him, since as soon as the door clapped shut, the lines began to pour from Liz's mouth: "I was stupid, Soul. I can't believe how stupid because I just magically thought you were fine! Like one little romance would heal all wounds but– How long have you been dreaming about Viv?"

The question was a battering ram to his gut which was still watery and weak from the letters he left behind. "What?"

"Layla let it slip today that you're dreaming– crying about her!" The accusation petered off, Liz's voice breaking as tears came to her own eyes. "Are you? Are you really still–? Soul, please–"

He lifted innocent hands even if his answer was far from it. "Y-yeah, Liz, sometimes. Just the– what I remember from the hospital."

"How often?" Liz pressed, still managing anger regardless of the tears she was clearing from her cheeks.

"I dunno," he started softly but the rage that flashed over her eyes set his tongue back in gear: "Used to feel like once a week but now maybe– maybe once a month."

She growled, throwing her hands down to her side to make tight fists. "Layla knows, Soul."

Guilt became grit in his gut. It churned, making his knees wobble. "Yeah, I know, Liz, but– I try talkin' to her about it, tellin' her it's alright to be sad. I even brought it up with Dr. Marie, but–" He waved his hands again, empty of further comment or hope.

Liz stormed, feet working on divots in the little lap of the hallway. All he could do was wait, seating himself in defeat at the foot of the stairs. Finally, propulsion came to her lips rather than her legs: "We all loved her, Soul."

They both stilled, Soul's hands trapped in each other to the point that his knuckles had started to whiten. "I know that."

"She was easy to love," Liz continued as she pivoted, eyes gluing on him with a watery stare. "And just as easy to remember. I'm not sure there's a day that goes by without something of her glancing over my mind." Air trembled in over her lips that wobbled with the threat of leftover tears. "But I let it out. I share it with Patty, or Remy, or just on a piece of paper. You have to start doing that, or Layla's going to think–"

"What did she say, Liz?" Soul pleaded.

She shook her head. "Layla's going to start to think you have a shrine in your heart to one woman and one woman only. And not just Layla, but Maka, too."

Gutted, his head dropped into his hands.

"I'm not saying I'm not proud of how far you've come, but I want to remind you that there are still things to fight for." Liz crouched, hand gently touching his shoulder. "Can you please start relying on the rest of us?"

He nodded, though his palms kept anything else hidden.

"And I know we probably don't know Wes as well–"

A strangled sob snuck through his fingers.

"Soul?" She knelt completely at his feet, hands tentative on his knees.

"I don't know him either," Soul answered pitifully as he dropped his hands to expose stained cheeks. "I didn't know a goddamn thing, Liz. I– I just–" His gaze roamed up the stairs as if he expected to see Wes there. "He wrote me letters. He never sent them, but everything in them…" The words whined off until his breath hitched, losing the battle with another wave of tears.

"Doesn't that mean that at least you can learn a bit now?" Liz tried to balance this delicate butterfly's wing. "You won't have everything, but it's at least a piece, right?"

The gentle offering didn't bring complete tranquility—mostly since the possibility that this could simply be the eye of the storm taunted at the back of his mind—but it was something Soul could latch onto. At least it was a start.

I ended up talking with Liz for an hour yesterday. Being Viv's cousin, she's well versed on everything Viv, but… she also doesn't coddle you, which I think was exactly what I needed right then.

I sorta wanted to wallow in those letters instead of seeing them for the gift they were. Up there, by myself in the bedroom, all I could think about was how much I didn't have. Those words were just a tease because anything that I thought I knew because of it was just a conclusion I'd come to rather than the truth. I was thinking that those letters weren't unlocking but only gatekeeping those secrets.

Liz jolted me out of that. Like any good story, poem, song– you never get it all on the first shot. You have to sit with it, unwind each thread. So Liz kept Layla for the night. I even begged off from Maka. Not that I didn't want her, and I sure as hell felt like I needed her, but at the same time I knew there had to be this step in between. I want to follow what Liz said and rely on others, but I can't do that unless I actually know what I'm feeling first.

Viv and Wes were stolen from us– from me. I almost had them. The night they died–

The night they died.

The night they were killed.

…

There's a difference, right? Dying and being killed. I wanted to see it as dying just so… it's cleaner that way. Dying is natural, inevitable. Being killed is… well.

Honestly, I still don't think I've processed it. It was so cliché that it might have just been some movie I watched: A happy couple out on their anniversary dinner are victims of a mugging gone wrong. Wes, the hero of our story, died protecting his pregnant wife. Unfortunately, protecting didn't mean saving in this case. He died instantly, she made it to the hospital but died a few days later.

And the baby.

Oh—fucking goddamnit—the baby.

They even– he had a name. Layla's little brother Reginald. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

It's only Remy, Flora, Julien, and I who know that part. We never told my parents. It wasn't part of the obituary. It's part of us, though. All of this is a part of us.

Maybe I don't get what Liz said about letting it out. Even if I screamed it from the rooftop it doesn't change that it happened. It doesn't change that I had to see Viv that way. It doesn't change that I never got to see my brother again. It doesn't change that there's a little boy who should be here but isn't. I think Layla'd love a little brother–

…

Sorry. Yeah, that one might have been too much.

…

But Fate's not a bitter enough bitch, I guess. I don't have any reason to think Wes was lying in those letters I found, which means that night was supposed to be the night Viv called me to say they were coming. If that night never happened, they would have come to see me in Seattle and… There's a million possibilities.

I could have forgiven my brother.

I could have started building a relationship.

I could have been the best goddamn uncle to two beautiful kids.

Instead, I'm…

Who the fuck knows.

…

Alright– okay. I'm… a good papa. There. What else? Fuck… I may not love it the same way others do, but I'm a good teacher. The classroom blows, but I love the kids. Even the tough ones. I'm trying to be a good partner. I told Maka I love her, and I mean it. I don't know if that actually makes me a good partner, but…

Sometimes I just drown in the what-ifs.

…

You wanna know what's worse? No matter the what-if, when I come back to reality… I realize that if that night never happened, I would never have Layla like this. I wouldn't have Maka. I don't know how to come to terms with that, or what the hell terms even look like for that. Maybe that's the real catch when it comes to grief: How do you justify that happiness can come from the deaths of the ones you love?

Maka had disappeared into the pages hours ago. That's why when the doorbell rang, it took time to surface, to breathe real air again and find her muscles as they had sunken into the couch. Her ponytail flicked as she traced the corners of the room, anticipating Spirit's footsteps but finding none. With a sigh, she finally resigned herself to whatever headache this unexpected visit was going to produce.

After depositing her book safely on the coffee table, she made her way to the door and swung it open. "Oh," Maka started but found herself dumbfounded at Blair's instant entrance.

"Hello," Blair cooed as she offered one of the cups in her hand. "Special delivery!"

"Um, thank you…" The coffee found a cozy home in her palms, surprising her with a warmth that threatened to crawl towards her heart.

Blair bustled past her towards the kitchen, swinging her hips just as a bag on her wrist. It clunked to the counter, apparently heavy with pastries as she fluffed open the plastic bag to slide it off before popping the top. "Your papa couldn't tell me your favorites, but having too many pastries is never a problem."

Maka eyed the decadent delights before letting the first wave of skepticism hit her. "Sorry, Blair, but Papa's not home, he–"

"Told me he wouldn't be," Blair chimed in before going into the cabinets for the small dessert plates to put next to the box.

Her intimate knowledge of the kitchen probably should have annoyed Maka—he's probably slept with her enough times—but there was too much fear bubbling up from Blair's simple statement. She's here for me? And buttering me up too with coffee and snacks and–

"Since I have an ulterior motive."

Maka clutched the cup, threatening to crinkle the cardboard.

Blair finished the assembly line of goods before turning to her, carefully sipping at her drink. Maka couldn't glare since there was something entirely disarming about Blair's tawny eyes. "Your papa and I have a very open relationship–"

Oh, that sent Maka's stomach churning! Old, untamed rage fighting with disgust.

"–which means he's had to explain the divorce and your relationship to me– without using filler or excuses!" She tapped a purple nail against the cup. "I know he's not the best at boundaries, which is why I brought treats to buy me enough time to discuss that with you."

That was a damp towel over the flame, leaving Maka fumbling for her next move.

In the absence of both her fight and her acquiescence, Blair brought her attention back to the goodies, placing a plump danish on a plate before offering it between them. "One treat and then I'll go."

Maka took the sweetened olive branch, now balancing her coffee and the danish side by side. "What did he–" She paused, stared at the dynamic duo in her hands and then sighed. "I'd be very surprised if he didn't embellish about the divorce," she muttered.

Blair giggled, throwing Maka for a loop. "He tried. You'd be surprised how much a palm will tell you though!" She sipped at her drink before placing it daintily on the counter. Her fingers pinched the air over the assortment as she eyed each one. "Is there something you want to make sure he told me about?"

The scale needed to be brought out– options weighed. She did like Blair, and meddling in Spirit's relationships was never a form of revenge Maka wanted to take. Still, it stung, and sometimes that urge to share the pain brought comments so close to slipping through her teeth. This time, she kept just a thin veneer of spite on her words: "He cheated on my mother. She left. He moved on. That's the simplest way to put it."

The older woman nodded and finally took the plunge, picking up a cinnamon bun and plopping it on her plate. "Mind if we move to the living room?"

Maka answered by trekking out of the kitchen and back to what had previously been her oasis. Sinking back into her chair didn't afford the same comfort though, and she found herself oddly straight-backed. She abandoned the plate on the coffee table but cradled the coffee, bringing its warmth to her lips in hopes of igniting that initial feeling that Blair had brought with her. Maybe it worked, since by the time Blair sat across from her, most of the rage had fizzled to heartburn.

"He treats you like the little, little girl you once were," Blair started, almost dreamily. She smiled– not anything cruel or amused, but almost commiseratory. "I'm sure he'd love to go back to that, but it's lost and gone. You're a grown woman now."

All Maka could offer was a nod.

"Which is why I want to know what you want." That was said with such surety and came in time with a colossal bite of her pastry, instantly disarming Maka of any more scrutiny. Polite chewing followed in the silence until Blair could speak again: "He told me you wanted to accept me, is that right?"

"Well, yes," Maka started before hiding the rest behind another sip.

Her smile beamed. "That's good, because I like you. I like what your papa's told me about you, and I like what I've seen of you and your little wayward kitten." She tacked on a soft laugh before sneaking another bite. "And I'd like it if we got to know each other."

"Is that part of today's offer?" Maka motioned towards her untouched plate.

Blair nodded.

The pastry drew her attention, threatening to woo her into biting. Her fingers danced along the cup, spelling out all her urges– something she imagined Blair reading like tea leaves, especially since her smile took a coy little twist. Maka switched the coffee for the flaky ambrosia and took a bite.

Blair absorbed that with such gravity as Persephone's pomegranate. "First boundary," she chimed as Maka chewed, "is that nothing reaches your papa's ears."

Now this was a golden apple– a gift cloaked in discord. There was no way that secrets could be kept from Spirit, not with his incessant hounding and–

"You're skeptical, but there's no catch," Blair added before taking a bite of her bun.

I'm sure Aphrodite offered the same thing, and that still started the Trojan War. Maka chose to nibble on her treat rather than her lip.

"Okay, maybe that one needs some work." She sighed, licked the frosting from her finger before using it to tap her chin. "Hm, I didn't tell your papa about what I saw in your lines– would you like to know now?"

Any of the other Makas that had come before her—from preteen to early twenties—would have rolled their eyes at the fictitious nature of the promise of palm readings, but this Maka… maybe it was the honeymoon period talking, but any promise she could find—one that would spell out a forever sort of thing—was desperately wanted. Or maybe her cynicism was failing her as she turned the corner and came into sight of her thirties. Either way, she nodded, stuffing another bit of pastry in her mouth to keep anything smart from filtering out.

A Cheshire grin now took over those beautiful lips. "What I did see—the believable part for you two sweet babes—was the breaking of cycles. New chances. New opportunities. Gifts of living rather than ending."

Maka digested that, adding another bite of her treat to even it out. "Why wouldn't Papa need to know that?"

That gave Blair pause, fortune telling a much easier thing to put into words than all the feelings that existed in a man's heart. "Back to being papa's little girl," Blair crooned as she tilted her head thoughtfully to the side. "Your papa still thinks he can fix every boo-boo, but he has to realize that you can do it for yourself, and if you need help, it's Soul you ask now."

The truth of that brought a smile that threatened to make her cheeks ache. Fortune telling aside, she's right about that.

"But that's not the real juicy part!" Blair leaned forward to place her goodies on the coffee table before using one hand to cover the side of her mouth as if conspiracy was necessary here. "But I'll warn you, skeptics rarely enjoy this kind of reading!"

Maka's smile wobbled, not with annoyance but humor. She finally succumbed to a laugh before adding: "Alright, go ahead."

"After seeing the two of you, it was obvious! You've met over a million lifetimes, after all," she purred, the same pleasure from the dessert brought by the words alone. She began weighing the air. "Some good, some bad, some scary, some sad…"

She could almost– almost laugh at the fantasy, but still felt herself giving in. "You mean we don't always work out?"

Blair shrugged. "Soulmates doesn't mean perfection. The two of you may be one, but you're certainly not the other."

"Soulmates?" Maka laughed again, but couldn't deny the breathless quality to it. "I'm sure preteens like that sort of thing, but–"

"Like I said, skeptics." Her tone should have been biting, but Maka found it closer to playful, still filled with that cat-got-the-canary contentment. "But let's get back to our real discussion. Second boundary: I want to stay over here, but I think maintaining a schedule would be a nice way to keep out of each other's space."

She couldn't keep her eyebrows from furrowing. That was another delectable promise, but… "That's not fair."

Blair only blinked softly, the curves of her lips mellowing closer to a line.

"I don't dictate your relationship, just like Papa doesn't get to dictate mine." Maka set everything aside so that she could grab her phone. She leaned, offering it as a lifeline between them. "But I guess that doesn't mean that I wouldn't mind knowing. That and… we could talk if you wanted to."

Life returned to Blair's smile as she took the gift.