How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II

Chapter Fourteen: Divine Providence

"I can't believe you hadn't told her!" Angie raged, hitting her friend most violently. "I cannot believe you hadn't told her!"

Steve was momentarily saved by diving under the table; he attempted to scramble out of the other end, but then fell flat on his face as Angie's fist wrapped tightly about his ankle, pulled him backwards, and pinched his ear tightly in the vice created by her forefinger and thumb.

"Why do you always do that?" he yelped.

"'Cause you're a prat, that's why!" And she released his ear the better to give him a sound slap.

"Right," she said in a voice of dangerous calm, sitting casually on his calves. "So let's recap, shall we? How long have you known Sierra?"

"Um, seven months?" he guessed, and she rolled her eyes.

"I meant, how long has she known you?"

"…Six."

"And how long have you known Kim was pregnant?"

"…Five," he reluctantly admitted.

"Good: So tell me, exactly what excuse do you have for not telling your girlfriend that you're going to be a father in eleven weeks' time?"

Steve shrugged, and surreptitiously attempted to buck the slender girl off of his legs; she simply pulled up his trouser leg and pulled at one of the dark hairs she found.

"Well, I—Ow!—haven't had the opportunity to bring it up yet. It's not as if babies are on either of our agenda."

"It is on yours! And it's definitely on Kim's, which means that pending motherhood is now on mine."

"Exactly," Steve pointed out. "There are already too many women in this threesome—now there's something I never thought I'd say when I woke up this morning, but it's true. And Sierra really isn't a part of it, if you think about it."

"Well, she was there at the moment of conception," Angie said coolly. "And that's more than I can lay claim to."

Had Steve been a decent man, he would have winced at these words; or pale, or even flush. As it was, he simply shrugged and turned to look up at her, his face closed.

"Could you get off me please? I can only feel three of my ten toes. Thank you. And," he continued, crawling towards a chair and turning to lean against it as he drew his knees up, "And she wasn't actually there at the very moment of conception; she only stayed for a bit of the foreplay."

Angie's dark eyebrow quirked at this. "For you, foreplay is the three seconds it takes to unbutton your trousers."

"You were a lesbian," he dismissed. "There was no point trying to make a good impression."

Angie opened her mouth to hotly deny this allegation, only to close it and simply shrug; there was the slim possibility that her ex had a point.

"That's completely irrelevant," she continued, clambering after him and dusting herself off. "The fact that still remains that you haven't told your girlfriend that you've gotten someone else pregnant. For the love of God, why?"

There was only a silence in which Steve decided to stare pensively out of the window.

"The first time we kissed was in April," he said at last. Angie was too righteously indignant to register the significance of this late date.

"That's very sweet, but I've yet to see the point."

"April," he repeated, stressing the word. "Six months after we actually met. That's an incredibly long time for a couple to not kiss, don't you think?"

"…Oh. Oh. Steve—it wasn't her first… was it?"

He simultaneously shrugged and nodded. "Think so; didn't bother to ask." A slight smirk pulled at his lips. "My mouth hasn't exactly been my own for the past few weeks."

"So I take it you were lying when you said that you whisked her off to Brighton for a mostly-female orgy then."

"I never said that! Subtly implied it, perhaps—but never said."

"Hmph."

Pause.

"Steve? If you've only kissed her last month… Do you have other girlfriends you haven't told anyone about?"

"No," he replied, so firmly that Angie was inclined to believe him.

"Have you had any meaningless, one-off sexual encounters?" she pressed.

"Point is," Steve said quickly, hurriedly steering the conversation back to a less slap-worthy domain, "Point is, it's barely been a month after we'd kissed; and she actually likes me now—She's girly and giggly and affectionate and sweet—I don't want to ruin that. I've never seen her so happy before; I don't want to hurt her. I'm trying to think of her feelings."

"And the fact that this baby, who will grow to inevitably serve as an eternal reminder that you had sex with someone else on the night that the two of you met, and therefore won't go down too well with her, has nothing to do with your vow of silence?" she challenged.

"Women shouldn't be allowed to think," he pouted.

"Steve—you're a prat. Kim is due in eleven weeks—you have to tell her."

"Why haven't you told her yet?" Verne abruptly questioned.

"Huh?"

"The two of you are pretty close, aren't you? So why haven't you told her yourself?"

"Because I wanted to be a good friend and give you a chance to explain yourself. Besides," she added carelessly, "Sierra doesn't like to hear me talk about Kim."

"Because I slept with her?"

"Yeah."

Another pause; another lull in conversation.

"I've always planned on telling her, you know."

"I know; you're a prat, not a bastard."

"But later. Much later. At an appropriate time."

"Appropriate time?"

"Yeah. You know, on my deathbed or something."

"It's not funny, Stephen."

"Sorry."

That was only the beginning of what he would soon consider to be the impossible task of telling Sierra the truth. The first time he attempted to broach the subject—only three days after his violent discussion with Angie—Sierra had promptly regaled him with the woeful tale of her two-faced friends. She had been making quite a show of being aloof and nonchalant and occasionally sarcastic, when all of a sudden she had slumped forwards, placed her face in her hands, and silently began to sob.

"There are only three people my age I actually speak to now," she told him quietly. "You, Julian, and Angie. You're the person I'm most comfortable with, of course."

"Me?"

"Yes, because I know that I can trust you. Angie is a darling, truly she is, but I'm afraid I haven't really gotten to know her as well as I'd hoped. And Julian will simply say—and you must remember that this is only his opinion, not mine, and hardly the truth—that my loss of friends is your fault, which it certainly isn't. And don't get me wrong, I love Julian—but not as much as I do you. And there are also times when I feel as if his histrionic tendencies are just that—staged hysterics meant to manipulate me. You've only ever been honest to me, Stephen. You may have robbed me, but—" she smiled, laughing a little, "—at least you admitted to it. Oh, I'm so sorry for going on so long—what was it you wanted to tell me, darling?"

How could he possibly tell her about Kim after all that?

His second attempt was thwarted on slightly more shallow grounds:

"Is that a new bra?"

"No; it's a new corset."

And his third attempt was completely butchered by his landlady, who had chosen to rather selfishly die. Looking back, he supposed he could consider the entire incident quite amusing:

Sierra had slept over on Friday, having arrived on his doorstep immediately after school. They began their evening walking through London parks attempting not to get mugged (one boy was stupid enough to snatch Sierra's bag, but Steve broke his nose, so everything turned out fine in the end) and ended it curled up in one another's arms. When he eventually disentangled himself and went to gather his mail, he discovered a letter from his landlady demanding twice the agreed amount on rent.

"Can you believe it?" he asked Sierra. "This place isn't worth that."

"Where does Ms. Richardson live?" Ms, because Steve was uncertain of whether she was married or not.

"In the flat above; she owns the whole building, you know."

"Why don't you go talk to her after breakfast then? I'm sure you'll be able to come to some sort of understanding."

So the wronged tenant trekked up the stairs, Sierra tailing loyally behind, watching as he rapped his knuckles against the door; when it opened, Sierra inhaled sharply, turned, and promptly darted to the stairwell. The boyfriend decided to question her later.

"I'd like to speak to Ms. Richardson, please," he asked politely of the dark man who answered.

"I'm afraid you can't speak with her," was his stoic reply.

"Why not; is she out?"

"She's dead."

"I don't ca—I mean, Oh, how dreadful. Um, sorry to hear about that." And he bowed his head and made a show of grieving, adding brightly, "Does this mean I'm let off of paying the rent?"

"No," the lawyer said firmly. "Miss Richardson left a will bequeathing all material possessions to a certain Ginger George."

"And I suppose Ginger decided to raise the rent, then?"

The young lawyer, who could have been no more than eight years older than himself, allowed a smirk to curl the corner of his lip. "I very much doubt that Ginger is capable of issuing such demands."

"Oh really?" he challenged, adding lazily, "I'd like to speak to Ginger George, if that's alright. Is she here, or do you have a number?"

"Oh no, he's here."

He ignored the pointed correction, stepping past the older man and surveying the larger flat critically.

"Where?"

"In the kitchen."

"Which part of the kitchen?"

"Last time I saw him, he was nosing around the breadbin; and now he's trapped inside it," he added pleasantly as there was a sudden thud, followed by a mewl of surprise, curiosity, and horror.

For Ginger George was, of course, a cat; nay, not a cat: a kitten. He sported a pair of large blue eyes and cream-coloured whiskers; around his neck, contrasting prettily with the striped orange and white fur, was a collar of deep blue, a little silver disc hanging off of it. Steve stared at it, incredulous.

"You've got to be joking. That can't be legal."

"No," the lawyer repudiated with a suppressed smile, reaching out to pet the cat's head. "Miss Richardson clearly stated in her will that all material possessions are to be left to Ginger George; ergo, it is law."

The tenant looked doubtfully at the animal. "Is he even old enough to vote?"

"That's entirely irrelevant; now sir, I believe you've something to discuss with George?"

The teenager looked down at his folded slip of paper, then at his curious landlord. He narrowed his eyes; he set his jaw. Then, stepping towards both cat and lawyer, he shook out the letter, thrust it in front of George's uncomprehending face, and said sternly, "I am not paying this."

George mewled, batting a white paw at the sheet of paper.

Sierra eventually talked him out of assassinating that avaricious cat; the next day, the lawyer who had been assigned to care for the cat walked into the deceased Miss Richardson's flat to be confronted with a jewel-blue collar curled upon a note that simply read,

Do not attempt to search for me, for when you have found this note, I would have long since departed. I was far too young when my mistress was taken from me; I have yet to fully comprehend this tragic and untimely event. Locked in here, prowling through the dusty Serengeti of my beloved Mother's home, I find myself unable to think of anything but her, and as such, am quite overwhelmed by grief. Whilst I am, of course, profoundly grateful for the unexpected generosity that Mother had, in life, found in her (admittedly weak) heart to bestow upon me her entire fortune in death, I know that I can never fully bring myself to enjoy the pleasures my newly-acquired riches now offer me. As such, I have decided to retire to a Swedish monastery, where I hope, spiritually cleansed and eternally bathed in the catnip-scented blessing of our Lord Jesus Christ and His Heavenly Father, to at last find peace. PS. I hereby bequeath all my material wealth to Stephen Verne, 3B. The signature was an inky paw print, obviously extracted under extreme duress.

That same day, Sierra announced she had brought home a new pet; a little ginger kitten called George, who she had found quite abandoned in an empty shoebox.

So anyway: that had been the third attempt. And now, tonight would be the fourth—and final, he told himself, though he knew by then that this may not prove to be the case.

"Sierra," he began, his fingers pensively curling her hair. "Sierra, I've a question for you."

"Hmm?" she hummed contentedly against his throat, raising her head to look down at him curiously. "And what might that be?"

Looking up at her, he couldn't help but hesitate. Then he smiled in what he hoped was a disarming manner.

"I was just thinking," he said, gently sitting up and pulling her with him, "I was just thinking, do you remember, when we walked through St James' Park? It was sunset, at that time when everything's painted burnt orange and gold. You had your hair tied back, but the wind blew the, um—whatever it was that tied your hair back—away, and you chased after it ahead of me, remember? And when you turned back to me, the light filtered through your hair in such a way that I took you in my arms, whispered how beautiful I thought you were, and kissed you; do you remember that afternoon?"

A bashful smile pulled at her lips even as her cheeks pinked.

"Yes…" she answered, clearly pleased.

Oh, good, he thought, relieved. Aloud he abruptly added, "Angie's girlfriend is going to have my baby," and kissed her passionately before she had a chance to reply.

It goes without saying that upon surfacing, the first thing she did was stare at him.

"Is—Is that a joke, Stephen?" she stumbled, uncertain if she'd even heard him correctly. "W-What are you talking about?"

He said nothing, merely looked anxiously down at her.

"Steve?" Her voice was small, high, panicked. "A-Are you saying…? Have you—Are you… with other girls then?"

He didn't answer.

"I'm not angry," she said gently, reaching for his hand. "And I'm no fool, Stephen; I thought you might have… considering how we're not…" She paused, inhaling shakily, and smiled forcefully up at him; but try as she might, she couldn't disguise the hurt in her eyes. Tightening his grip on her body, he looked searchingly at her face, at her small, false smile, unquestionably juxtaposed with her shocked, wounded gaze.

"It's alright," she continued in measured tones. "I mean, it's just hormones, right?" That right sounded wavering and uncertain; he had to look away.

"Steve," she said carefully. "Steve, I… I don't know what else to say." She gave a nervous laugh after this, and he wondered which she found more disconcerting; his silence, or his confession. "I think—I think that I'm—Well, I don't actually mind you being with other girls; after all you're not… with me. And I can't blame you for your overactive sperm, s-so…"

Her stuttering and stumbling reassurances were beginning to have an effect on him; truth be told, he'd never felt guilt over Kim's pregnancy, as technically, the child was conceived before he became involved with Sierra. As for the few flings with other girls; well firstly, they were more one night stands than flings, and secondly the participants, as it were, all resembled Sierra in one way or another, so he was only being partly unfaithful.—And Sierra had said it herself: better to be mildly adulterous than to pressure her into something she, despite her protests otherwise, was not yet ready for.

That being said, he had feared her reaction to his announcement, and couldn't help but feel that this stammering of hers was simply the calm before the storm.

"Oh, Steve!" she laughed suddenly, reaching up to tap his chin affectionately. "Were you afraid that—? Oh! you're such a darling!" And she reached up with both her hands to grasp his face affectionately, kissing the tip of his nose. "When's the baby due?" she queried breezily.

He was taken aback by this apparent turnabout.

"Huh?"

"The baby," Sierra said. "Angie's girlfriend's baby. Seven months? Eight?"

"Nine weeks," he deadpanned.

There was an ironically pregnant pause in which the laughing, affectionate smile he had come to love fell from her features like rain from a cloud.

"…Nine weeks?" she repeated numbly.

"Yes."

"Steve," Sierra began quietly, "is Angie's girlfriend still…" A pause as she groped for a name. "…Kim?"

He frowned down at her. "I thought you two were friends?"

"Well, we are," Sierra said, bewildered. "But - But Angie never mentioned a girlfriend before…" As she spoke, he saw realisation dawn in her eyes; he didn't have to be a mind reader to know that she was swiftly sorting through all the conversations the two had shared, realising that Angie hadn't so much forgotten to discuss her lover as gone out of her way not to—and she did that because, because…

Apprehensively, he watched as her blue, blue eyes refocused on his.

"Steve," she said icily, "was this baby conceived on Hallowe'en, by any chance?"

"Yes."

"The night that we met?"

"…Yes…" he replied, more quietly than before.

"Only a few days after my birthday?"

Oh, fuck.

"Steve?"

Her boyfriend stared down at her with trepidation. Christ, he prayed silently, if you really are as loving and merciful as everyone makes you out to be, you would somehow find it in your heart to save me from her—

At that very moment, the doorbell buzzed: coincidence, or divine providence? He was suddenly very interested in finding out.

"Good evening," the taller of the two immaculately clothed gentlemen greeted pleasantly. "We'd like to talk to you about Jesus, if you'd be so obliging."

Apparently divine providence, although Steve hadn't realised this immediately. Lip curling disdainfully, he was about to suggest an intimate area in which the pair could stash their indubitably non-canonical Bibles when the words of his brief, unhopeful prayer echoed back to him: Christ, if you really are as loving…

And then, as if to confirm his growing suspicion, the speaker leant even closer to whisper, almost conspiratorially,

"We were sent here by Him, you know."

Steve abruptly glanced over his shoulder, realising that Sierra was still in his room, no doubt fuming on his mattress, and then, smiling, stepped out of the doorframe with a flourish, and cheerfully gestured, "Come on in!"

The Christian couple's reaction to this merry invitation was unprecedented; both clung to one another, stepping suddenly back, the shorter, bespectacled man paling whilst the speaker's dark eyes widened.

"W-What did you say?" he asked evenly, his eyes betraying his nervousness.

"I'd love to talk about Jesus; what's he been up to lately? Come in, come in!" the lodger repeated giddily, holding the door wide open and peering expectantly at his unexpected guests.

"Don't , Rupert!" the shorter, stockier man shrieked unexpectedly. "It's a trap, it's a trap!"

Rupert placed a skinny arm around his companion's shoulders, patting him comfortingly. "Hush, Roger," he soothed, before turning with a shaky smile to the younger boy in front of them. "You'd have to forgive my friend's reaction," he explained civilly, "It's just that no one's ever said that to us before, you see."

"Oh, right; well that's understandable. But really, please; do come in."

"Th-Thank you," muttered a still-petrified Roger, stepping nervously over the threshold, a large black briefcase clutched protectively to his chest as he looked wildly around. He flinched as the door closed behind him, and turned to see his unknown host watching him in amusement.

"I'm Steve," he introduced, offering his tanned hand to shake. "Nice to meet you."

Roger swallowed nervously, his fingers shaking as he grasped Steve's loosely. "V-V-Very nice to meet you, St-Steve."

"Right. Oh, where are my manners? Please, have a seat. Perhaps I might interest you in a drink? Tea, coffee…" A deliberate pause before he added innocently, "Bloody Mary?"

"Mother of God!" Roger squeaked, looking wildly around.

"It's a cocktail, Roger," Rupert explained, patting his knee comfortingly. "Just tea for us, thank you Stephen. Both milk, one sugar each."

"Alright," Steve replied cheerfully. Before retreating to the kitchen, he poked his head through his bedroom door and asked, "Sweetheart, aren't you going to join us?"

A shriek and a flying shoe were his reply.

"Perhaps later then."

"So…" Steve said once the tea was served and the three of them sat crowded around his unremarkable coffee table. "I believed you mentioned something about Jesus?"

"Oh, yes. What about Him?" Roger asked.

"Well, I thought we were going to… talk?" the host tried politely. At their blank looks he sighed, set his cup down, and said, "I'll go first: Jesus… is the Son of God. Which can only be a good thing, right?"

"…Yes," Rupert mumbled into his cup. "Yes, I suppose it is. He is good, isn't he?"

There were murmured agreements from the other two, followed by an awkward silence.

"Um, why…" Steve began again. "Why did you… choose to become Christians?"

"Because of Jesus, of course," Rupert replied.

"I meant," he added quickly, desperately attempting to avoid any lulls in the conversation, "why Jesus? What's your… Which story about him was it, that convinced you, as it were?"

Roger and Rupert looked uncertainly at one another.

"Well," Rupert began tentatively, "I always liked… his Sermon on the Mount…"

"…Right… And you, Roger?"

Roger blinked and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nervously sweaty nose.

"P-Personally, I always liked the story where he helps that Samaritan…" he blustered.

"What? Jesus never did that."

"Yes, he did," Roger insisted. "The poor Samaritan was beaten by a band of robbers and left on the road to die, and only Jesus, of all the passers-by, was willing to help him, even though their respective nations were enemies."

"No," Steve corrected firmly, "the Good Samaritan was a story told by Jesus as a parable, teaching his followers to love their neighbour."

"Oh…"

Another awkward silence.

"Look," the non-Christian said at last, "surely you have some… leaflets or something for me to look at?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes! Roger, those books we have…"

"What about them?"

"Be a dear and get them out, won't you my sweet?"

Roger nodded enthusiastically and clumsily set his briefcase on his lap, fumbling awkwardly with the latches. As he did so, Rupert, who had been looking curiously around at his new environment, started and released a gasp of horror: following his gaze, Steve saw that Sierra had at long last appeared. Her eyes were a little red, black make-up smudged grey beneath her lashes, but her lips were firm. She nodded genially at the two gentlemen in matching black suits.

"Good evening. Sorry it took me so long to join you; I was having a slight emotional breakdown."

"…R-Roger!" the taller of the pair squeaked hoarsely; his partner looked up, his eyes bulging as they fell upon Sierra, who frowned and proceeded to look understandably confused. The boyfriend smiled gently at her, but she ignored him; shrugging, he took the opportunity to gently tug the briefcase from Rupert's slack grip. Setting the battered rectangle carefully on the table, he gently flipped it open, picking up a handsome black book entitled The Transcendent Bible.

"I-It's her," Rupert gibbered fearfully to Roger. "The Infernal Succubus! She Who Must Not Be Seen!"

"I-I'm sorry?" Sierra ventured, bemused. The answer to their respective reactions lied within the book Verne held in his hands.

The frontispiece of the Transcendent Bible was an eighteenth-century engraving of a beautiful dark-haired woman that, to Steve's understandable surprise, looked not unlike an adult Sierra: Her face and body were turned slightly away, her seductive, heavy-lidded eyes gazing directly up at him, full lips slightly parted, as though about to beckon him closer. The drawing was a bust, and showcased hers quite explicitly: her hair was pinned up, but for a thick lock that fell upon her neck and shoulder, curling just above a small, inked nipple, her other breast being modestly covered by a hand pulling the edge of her unbuttoned chemise further downwards; Beneath this provocative picture coiled a banner, inked with the curving words, The Infernal Succubus.

The page after it, he saw when he reluctantly turned it over, was exceptionally blank (and more so in comparison), save for a few choice words about a third of the way down:

DICKINSONIA
Sodomite-Friendly Christianity for the Modern Misogynist

Steve decided then and there that it was worth becoming a Dickinsonian, if only to keep a copy of this erotic print of a woman who looked suspiciously like his virginal girlfriend; closing the tome gently so as not to crease the frontispiece, he couldn't help his sly, lecherous glance at Sierra, who hovered on the threshold, uncertain of whether to step forward or dart back into her boyfriend's room. (It goes without saying that he hoped it was the latter.)

Roger and Rupert, meanwhile, were having a most profound discussion:

"Do we hiss, or do we snarl?"

"There's two of us; let us do both."

"No, curse you, Roger! We cannot do both!—Quick! the Bible! What has our founding father written?"

Steve cracked the Transcendent Bible open, scanning the contents with deliberate slowness. "A Dickinsonian, when confronted by the Infernal Succubus or, indeed, any one of her daughters, sisters, minions, etc. is fearless," he read aloud. "He shall not cower, nor tremble, nor shake, and if the Succubus or any one of her innumerable accomplices inspires unnatural desires within him, he must, first and foremost, pray to the Lord God for strength; firstly, to resist her infernal charm, and secondly, to carry off whatever gratuitously big-haired pirate captain (or equivalent) in close proximity who may have already fallen prey to her infernal lusts." He looked up, brown eyes widening as he realised that both Dickinsonians were examining him with intense interest.

"Oh no," he said, shrinking away, the Transcendent Bible held protectively before his chest. "No; I am not in any way an equivalent of a gratuitously big-haired pirate captain." He glanced at Sierra, realising that she was looking more than a little bewildered.

"…W-What?"

"Don't fret my sweet," he called to her, swatting at Roger's outstretched fingers with the Bible. "Get out," he ordered the pair firmly. "Out—Sierra quick, show them your bra."

Roger and Rupert promptly ran out screaming, their briefcase of Dickinsonian propaganda quite forgotten.

"…Well," the boy said uneasily when Sierra made no attempt to speak, "That was certainly interesting."

Slowly, her dark head turned towards him; she said nothing, merely gazed steadily at him with her cool, unblinking eyes.

Her eyes are so cold, he realised as he looked at her; whilst he'd always known that her eyes were blue, he'd no idea what shade they actually were, primarily because he was too busy studying what was below her neckline to pay any mind to anything above it. He'd always known they weren't that watery, almost faded shade of blue that was so very common; nor were they the deep, dramatic sapphire of that German lingerie model whose name he'd never bothered to discover: hers were a light, icy shade, cold and unwelcoming as the Arctic. They contrasted powerfully with her luscious dark hair and not-quite-pale skin, yet it was this very clash that made her face so memorable; darker eyes would have been lost in her gold-tinted colouring.

"Six months," she said at last, as though the Dickinsonians had never entered his flat; "Six months you had, to tell me." She paused, but he didn't reply; he was biding his time, watching her face and flint-like eyes for any sign of weakness. But for the first time since he'd known her, her face was completely closed to him, watching him quietly in that oddly detached manner of hers.

"I see," she said at last, in that unfeeling voice of hers; adjusting her sleeve, she moved stiffly towards his open front door, and it was only then that he realised she'd had her bag with her.

She paused, turning to look up at him in a forlorn fashion, her impassive mask all but forgotten. He knew he had her then.

"Steve?" she said, and there was an undeniable hopelessness in her tone.

"Darling—"

She smiled at this, her eyes dropping to her feet as she shook her head.

"This is so odd," she remarked conversationally. "I always knew that our relationship was a transient one, but never did I think—And certainly not like this."

"Sierra," he said softly, and that false grin widened.

"To say that I don't want to see you ever again would be pitifully dramatic," she told him, forcing nonchalance. "So I'll spare us both the embarrassment: it was very nice to have… known you, Stephen. And whilst I may not want to see you for a good while yet, I certainly shan't rule out some time in the near to distant future; we do, after all, share a mutual friend in Angela."

It was so odd to hear her call Angie by her full name; he resisted the urge to tell her so.

"I do know," Sierra added gently, "that it wasn't your fault, not really. And I realise that if you and Kim only shared one night, it was technically before we began seeing one another, and I can't begrudge you that. But I'm not sure, you see, if you and Kim shared just that night, nor how many other girls there are that you're also seeing, or even if—" she sniffled at this "—or even if you have other, more serious relationships; I know that ours is quite juvenile.

"What I'm trying to say, Stephen," she continued in that oddly matter-of-fact tone of hers, "What I'm trying to say, is that I need some time away from you—not very long, I shouldn't think—to examine this entire—situation… objectively. Surely you understand?"

He was too stunned by her clear, level-headed reasoning to do anything but nod whilst simultaneously marvelling at how well-bred she truly was.

"I knew you would," she told him, that fake smile never leaving her face. "Well then: I really ought to have left by now. Good night," and she darted across the threshold, slamming the door shut behind her.

That was, without a doubt, the oddest, most painless break-up he'd ever had—and it had happened so quickly, so civilly that he'd hardly understood what was happening.

Shaking his dark head, he tossed the Bible carelessly onto an empty seat as he made his way towards the door, pressing his ear against the cool wood. Somehow, he was able to sense her presence; map out her body in his mind's eye, feel her shoulders tremble with suppressed tears as she slumped over her drawn-up knees in embarrassment and hurt.

"Sierra?" he asked gently; through the wood he heard a quiet gasp, felt her pulling herself to her feet. He heard the slow, deliberate clack-clack-clack of her relatively low heels, then a silence.

It was at that very moment that he truly realised she was gone.

"Oh," he said at last, neither knowing nor caring how anticlimactic he sounded. Shaking his head, he found himself moving towards the window, his eyes looking into the dirty grey street below.

It was perhaps a good thing that he was so preoccupied with searching for Sierra, for had he been looking at the glass, he would have realised that the thoughtful brown eyes and tanned, unshaven face that should have been his reflection was not that of Stephen Verne.

-x!x-

AN: Ladies (and possibly gentlemen), thank you for choosing How My Perfect Life Was Inverted Airways. Our next destination will be 17th/18th century PotC world, due to arrive next chapter… The cabin staff will like to take this opportunity to remind all passengers to take a moment to fill out a review form, so that we can better our service for future flights. (Well it's better than leaving a note saying "PLZ PLZ PLZ REVIEW!" isn't it? )