"People like to say that timing is everything." I drum my fingers noiselessly along the linen hunter green settee, mimicking the rhythm of a ticking clock. Each hardened fingertip lands when the other lifts, wafting in musical tempo.
Nigel seems entranced by my dancing fingers, while Daisy's wide eyes stare attentively at my face, silently urging me to continue with my story. Her satiny strands of hair caress her cheek like a baby bird's plumes.
Invention. When I was younger, I always wanted to invent something. Something that would move around and make funny noises, that I could observe for hours on end and still never cease to be amazed. Something that would change the world as we know it. As I grew up, I started to forget all about that; until we had children. And now I see I came pretty close.
I had always adored dreams, and the possibility of conjuring a world that was entirely your own. With a flick of your wrist, you could be sitting on the sun. With an icy wisp of breath, you were a mermaid, swimming through the vast aquamarine, miniature starfishes clinging to your wavy mane. But then, I happened to find something that made my feet decide to plant firmly on the ground and take roots; burgeoning into a dense forest of trees.
Something that made reality far better than dreams.
"And to some extent, they're right," I pick up my sentence, catching my children's undivided attention once again, "If the timing is wrong, no matter how perfect two people are for one another, it just won't work out." My thoughts skip to a certain peach head, and I think we all know who I'm talking about.
"And then there are even sadder cases," I break out of my reminiscing, grabbing hold of Nigel and Daisy and sending us delving right back into the middle of my story, "where the timing is perfect. It's the person that isn't."
"She left, just like that?" Toby's usually euphonious tone was laced with alarm, silvery eyebrows furrowing in an extremely rare display of distress.
"Don't frown," I managed to chastise jokingly, despite the severity of the situation I was currently relaying to him, "You'll get wrinkles. Which is pretty much impossible for you."
"Beat me at my own game," my best friend chortled melodiously under his breath, soft edges of his eyes creasing in amusement.
Toby's eyes were infinite: they tapered ever so slightly downwards, giving his jade orbs this delicate, kindly effect, while his eyelashes feathered out silkily, gifting him with that dreamy gaze.
"And yeah," I swiftly brought us back to the subject at hand, grimacing at how long it had taken to cleanse my hair of the reek of alcohol just the night before, "Did Pascal happen to say anything?"
Toby casted a passing look around the Fishery. "No, but he's in his room." We nodded in unison, before marching towards the boat captain's bedroom in the back.
Pascal sat in his midnight navy armchair, humming gruffly as he polished his trusty pipe. It was a bad habit he had picked up during his sails, he'd said, something to do to while away the time.
"Hey, Pascal," I greeted cordially, idling by his doorframe, so as to avoid having the saccharine scent of smoke clinging onto my clothes. I'd already had enough of that from yesterday. I motioned towards the object in his hands, fashioned out of a marbling of walnut and mahogany, coated with a glossy sheen. "Still smoking?"
"The ocean's my mistress, not my wife," he chuckled back heartily, voice raspy from his blackened trachea, "So I don't need to give anything up to appease her." He threw a playful wink in for good effect, making his deep crow's feet even more prominent. "You two remember that when you get married."
I raised my eyebrows at Toby in a mingling of confusion and surprise. He lifted his eyes to the ceiling in feigned exasperation. "Five years, and he still won't believe me," he muttered hopelessly.
"Did Phoebe get on your ship yesterday?" I quickly cut to the chase, sparing the both of us from any embarrassment at the hands of the slightly eccentric, but always good-natured, old man.
"Aye, she did," Pascal replied, drifting into pirate-talk, as he was oft to do. He had always dreamt of being a pirate when he was a little boy, he'd told Toby, and a ship captain was as close as he could get. "Tried t' remind her o' the lil' fella she was leavin' behind, me did, but the lass wouldn't listen." Sympathy ran along his wrinkled brow, thinking about poor abandoned Heath. Guilt treaded along his jaw, creeping behind his bushy greying sideburns, veiling itself behind the wiry hairs.
"Why didn't you tell us?" Toby questioned calmly, in completely non-accusing tones. That was one of the wonderful facets of Toby: he never jumped to conclusions, or judged someone before he knew the entire story. In fact, even then, he rarely placed judgment. He always accepted everyone, loved even the leaf that fell sharply on his cheek.
"She begged me not to," Pascal lapsed back into normal English, setting his pipe down and proceeding to shine his scuffed fisherman boots. The tips of the shoes were scratching off to reveal the ashen leather below; weak underneath the black, buffed shell. "Just asked me to take her away."
"Where did you bring her?" I interrogated, a voracious hyena skulking for answers.
"Said it didn't matter, so I just sailed to the city and let her find her way."
Dire heaviness settled over the room, like a layer of ancient dust. Phoebe had left, and we didn't know where she had gone. Just like that, she disappeared from our lives. Vanished into thin air, letting the autumn wind whisk away her turquoise and khaki particles. Not even her tortoiseshell, circle-framed glasses remained.
Silence surrounded us in its stony claws.
"Did I just do the biggest wrong by that boy?" Pascal's croaky voice shook vaguely, self-reproach playing on his harsh notes, lined with years of aged tobacco.
Toby shook his head, smiling soothingly. "No, it wasn't your fault. You were just helping someone in need. That sounds like the Pascal I know."
The captain grinned back lightly, being absolved of his sins. "Such a good lad, he is," he directed his words of praise at me, "an' ye still won't marry 'im. Sweet lad like 'im will 'et snapped up in no time, lassie."
I giggled in response, deciding to humour the old man. "More like he won't marry me," I bemoaned jestingly.
"I'm just not ready yet," Toby played along, acting out the role of the jittery boyfriend with cold feet.
"Why? There's someone else, isn't there?" I accused shrilly, pretending to wipe a tear from my squinting eye.
"No, honey, of course not." Toby's laugh came from deep within his being. It was a laugh that warmed you from the inside, that melted in your veins like a fine wine, and left you drunk on content tranquility.
"What's her name?" I grilled, still keeping up with the dramatic performance. I stomped my foot on the floorboards for added theatricality, and we both burst out laughing.
Pascal snorted, in a mixture between snigger and knowing exhalation. "What did I tell yer? Already acting like a married couple."
Toby and I rolled our eyes together, smirking at the old kook who didn't know any better.
We sat cooped up in the Carpenter's, gazing longingly out the paneled windows. Vengeful rain pelted forcefully against the ground, like it had centuries worth of gruesome grudges to settle. The sky was overcast in a thick blanket of bright grey, the sun teasing us from behind the drab shroud.
"I wanna go out and play," Heath whined from where he kneeled, round face pressed wistfully against the glass. He seemed captivated by the way his breath created clouds of plumy condensation every time he exhaled, his clear blue eyes gleaming in his spellbound state.
"I hear ya, buddy," Luke moaned sulkily, letting his leg laze over the arm of the sofa. It swung back and forth steadily, like a pendulum, keeping him in his endless motion.
Luke and I had always been on friendly terms, if you could call it that. I would've classified it as somewhere between acquaintances and friends, jumbled with nuggets of awkwardness; what with him having dated Selena and me being his best friend's ex. And now, somehow, through the strangest twist of fate, we had ended up in this familial setting, watching over this child who wasn't even ours to begin with.
"Did you hear anything about Phoebe?" Luke enquired loudly from his side of the room, in an effort to catapult his words over to me. I lay on my back, lounging on the lemon couch over by the bookcase, surveying how Heath had apparently gotten over his mother's desertion so quickly. The three-year-old was so mesmerized by the miniature billows of smog he created on the windowpane, that he didn't even react to the mention of his mother's name.
"Nothing new. Don't know where she is now either." I scowled unattractively, still experiencing secondhand anger for the little boy, wondering how somebody could just up and leave their child like that. Wrenching out a piece of your heart and crushing it beneath your selfish heel.
Then again, I couldn't be fully mad at her. I'd read her letter. Her actions were inexcusable, but she needed to escape.
"What's on your mind?" Luke's restless voice broke me out of my reasoning. I glanced up at him, only to find a twitchy agitation in his expression that rivaled Heath's. "You had this weird look on your face."
"It was not weird," I pouted, the faintest traces of a smile tugging at the corners of my lips, "And you're one to talk. You look like you just drank ten cups of coffee."
"Yep, I call that my signature look," he grinned broadly, revealing his extremely pointed canines: feline sharp.
Luke was a walking contradiction. In appearance, he was completely cat. He had those oblique amber eyes that narrowed into razor-sharp edges, defined enough to slice a hair. The bandage he perpetually wore plastered across the bridge of his nose made the remaining uncovered nasal area appear shortened and dainty. Even his upper lip curved ever so slightly inwards at the bottom, creating the slenderest illusion of a cat's three-shaped mouth. Everything about his form screamed leonine, and yet, he was indisputably dog by nature. Sometimes, if you stared hard enough, you might've almost believed that his electric blue ponytail was wagging like a Terrier's tail.
In the olden days, people used to tuck amber into their pockets to bring them a carefree, sunny disposition. In Luke's case, he carried it in his eyes.
"How do you do that?" I mused aloud, watchfully scrutinizing the paradox that fidgeted across the room.
"Do what?"
"Stay so full of energy all the time."
"People call me the kid who never grew up."
"Peter Pan style."
"Exactly," he boasted, as if his childishness was something to parade around; holding it up like a glittering gold trophy, shining its glaring rays of liveliness into all unwilling eyes.
We fell into awkward silence, kicking self-conscious feet into the ground and gnawing on the insides of our cheeks. The living room heaved with uneasy tension, the air barely even daring to rest along the handmade cupboards.
"Hey, I'm sorry about Gill and you, by the way," the carpenter finally came to utter, breaking the uncomfortable quiet.
"Don't be," I smiled back, having moved on from the frosty mayor-to-be a season ago, "We never could've worked." I hung my head off the edge of the sofa, letting my legs stack themselves against the wall. My bobbed chestnut locks splayed out towards the ground, as all the blood in my body rushed rapidly to my brain.
"What're you doing?" the twenty-seven-year-old queried in bewilderment, tickled grin threatening at the corners of his narrowing lips.
"I used to think that if I did this, when I stood up, all my thoughts would leave my brain, along with my blood."
"I thought you were over Gill," Luke stated, posing it as a partial question.
My gaze flickered out the window, watching as the rain persisted in kissing the gravel, no matter how many times it continued to meet its crashing demise. "He's not the one I'm thinking about."
Luke nodded compassionately, immediately understanding who I was talking about. "You still miss him?" he asked, a certain sense of connection passing through the two of us.
It forever came back to him, didn't it?
I got back up, shivering as the iron fluid pulsed back through my veins. No matter how many times I attempted that, it never worked. Not the way I wanted it to.
"Always."
I went to seat myself next to Heath, who was now glaring at the autumn showers, as if they had personally wronged him. "You ask a lot of questions, you know."
"I know. Pops used to get mad at me when I was younger. Said I never stopped asking why." Luke laughed; a sound that teetered between a gurgle and a deep belly chuckle. "You give a lot of answers though."
I paused thoughtfully, conceding defeat.
He went on. "I know what that's like. Thinking about someone all the time, even though you can't be with them."
I quirked an eyebrow, amazed by his unabashed openness. "I never found out what happened between Selena and you," I admitted.
"Neither did I. I thought it was going really great, then one day she suddenly called it quits, and that was that." Being with Chase had gifted me with the calculated ability to read between the lines. Nestled amidst Luke's seemingly simple words was the concealed truth: she was the love of my life. And I lost her. "Not the most extreme of endings."
We plunged back into gauche muteness, him picking at his unhealthily short fingernails; cut so that only half of his nail bed was covered in keratin, and the other was just bared, raw flesh.
"Can we go out and play?" Heath finally spoke, breathing life into the flopping fish that was our conversation.
"It's raining," I pointed out redundantly, as if the three-year-old couldn't see the thunderous storm raging outside for himself.
"Mom and Dad never let me play when it was raining either," he sighed glumly. It hit me, a wrecking ball smashing straight into the side of my skull, that he spoke about his parents in the past tense. My heart began to cave in on itself, pity chewing on the spongy inner lining. Had it been a slip of the tongue, or had the three-year-old already come to terms with how his family had been abruptly torn apart?
I shook my head repeatedly, discarding my anxiety-riddled worries on the wooden floor. It had all only happened a few days ago. It was impossible that he could accept it so blithely.
"Come on, bud," Luke grinned mischievously, grabbing hold of Heath's tiny hand. Their feet headed towards the door.
"Where do you think you're going?" I quizzed hurriedly, panicking at Luke's impulsiveness.
"What does it look like? We're going to play in the rain." The child masquerading as an adult emitted pent up energy, bouncing around from foot to foot, as I held them back from dashing into the onslaught of pouring rain. Each droplet that fell from the sky glistened like diamonds, tinkling as they shattered upon caressing the sodden ground.
"But his parents don't let him go out when it's raining," I attempted to caution warily.
"Who cares?" Luke rotated his shoulders, the epitome of happy-go-lucky, "They don't seem like much fun. We can be the cool godparents that take him out for ice cream for dinner and let him run in the rain if he wants to. Right, sport?" he winked conspiratorially at Heath, roguish smirk gracing his cat-like features. The khaki-clad boy nodded enthusiastically in agreement.
They began trudging determinedly towards the door once again.
"There are two children in this room," I muttered imperceptibly, as Luke clutched my wrist and dragged me out with them. "I can't believe you're actually a year older than me," I grumbled, while reluctantly following suit.
"You better believe it," he cheered gleefully.
The rain cascaded down in sheets, hitting our skin in a thousand little pinpricks. The relentless autumn chill blew icicles against our exposed necks, grazing frigid lips along our clenched fingers. Peering through squinted eyes. Twirling as drenched tresses matted against our scalps. The feeling of warm clothes growing completely soaked with freezing water, clinging to our skin like a newly formed second layer.
Therapeutic. Liberating. Heath splashed in rippling puddles, like he was a normal three-year-old who didn't have a care in the world.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Luke yelled over the chorus of falling rain. His usually unruly fringe glued itself to his forehead. Stray strands, flattened by his sopping bandana, brushed into his glowing eyes.
"Yeah, it does," I surrendered, relishing in the moment; feeling like the rain was washing all my troubles away. Submerging yourself underwater and ignoring the tragedy and heartbreak of life for those solitary seconds. "But it's so cold, it's so cold," I began chanting, running my trembling hands over my arms in an attempt to warm myself up.
"Here."
Luke shrugged off his bomber jacket, promptly placing it over my shoulders. The lime green sleeves, which he normally wore rolled up, fell to my hips. It carried his distinct scent, a heady mix of lumber and sawdust. Clumsily, he adjusted the collar so that it tenderly grazed my jaw.
"Yeah, that's the way to wear it," he marvelled, standing back to admire his masterpiece.
"I'm fine, you don't have to," I rushed to assure him, beginning to pull my arms out from beneath it.
"Nah," he shook his head smilingly, his maroon undershirt speedily growing deep rosewood with the water's saturation, "It's easier to feel the rain this way." He spread his arms out, the picture of free.
I tilted my head as I examined him, astonished by his flagrant simplicity.
He looked back at me. "Some people stand on their heads. I stand in the rain." To forget. He raised his face to the sobbing skies, and I couldn't shake his precise likeness to a child. A bud unfurling to reveal its radiant honey core, lustrous yellow in the bleak canvas of colourlessness.
Luke was neon light that hurt your eyes. He was brazenly unguarded, eagerly tearing off his own skin and leaving himself vulnerable in front of you. He was waking up at noon, prying your crusty eyes open and having excruciating rays of scorching sun flood your weary optic nerves.
Heath stamped his cap-toed sneakers, the colour of a worn potato sack, into a particularly deep puddle, sending a miniature tsunami in my direction. He grinned impishly, in that faultless, infantile guilelessness that you couldn't get mad at.
"I'm going to get you now," I growled back playfully, pretending to stretch my fingers out in preparation to deliver a blitz of menacing tickles.
Heath emitted a laugh that came from deep within his gut, smile traversing the width of his cheeks, reaching hopefully towards his eyes; that bright shade of the sky after a storm.
The rain continued to bash against our flesh, humming songs of absolution as its droplets smashed into millions of watery fragments. The air grew rich with dizzy laughter.
Suddenly, the steady torrent of raindrops dispersed. A candied orange glow draped itself over Castanet, the sun casting one last glimmer of its luminescence before it let the moon breathe.
We stood outside the Carpenter's, ends of our soaked mops dripping down our necks, laughter still warm in our hearts. I inhaled, feeling my lungs brim with oxygen. Free.
"Is Mom coming back?"
Heath's voice shook with uncertainty, as he gazed up as us timidly. His vivid orbs glistened with a painful muddle of hopefulness and hopelessness.
The rusty steel bars slammed down, spearing into the ground just before our feet. A biting chill blew through the air, dunking us in ice-cold water and jerking our dreaming eyes wide open. Just like that, the spell was broken. Reality came to claw at our ankles, dragging us through jagged shards of broken glass.
Luke gulped audibly. "We don't know, buddy," he whispered remorsefully, guilt sinking into his pure heart like a drop of ink, slowly spreading its tainted grey.
"When will Dad get better?" Heath continued asking, obviously having mistaken his father's alcoholic tendencies for some sort of ailment. I silently cursed the boy's inquisitiveness.
"We don't know that either, sweetie," I took my turn to reply, relieving Luke of all the responsibility, "But soon, hopefully."
Heath gurgled in hilarity. "I'm not sweet," he exclaimed naïvely, revealing his baby teeth, gaping spaces in between each teeny tooth.
"I don't know," Luke pretended to deliberate, grabbing an imaginary chunk of Heath from his shoulder and chewing on the resulting air, "You taste pretty sweet to me."
Heath gasped animatedly in response, mouth dropping open at this revelation. Childhood gullibility was such a sweet thing, maraschino cherries atop a strawberries and cream sundae.
"Come on," Luke motioned, picking the three-year-old up and hoisting him on his shoulders, "Let's go get ice cream for dinner. Then you'll be even sweeter."
A laugh found its way out from between my dusky rose lips. The setting sun graced us with its syrupy warmth once more, before disappearing into the horizon.
"We're not really letting him have ice cream for dinner, are we?" I whispered discreetly into Luke's ear, as we plodded towards Harmonica Town.
"Course not," his angled cheeks plumped up as he gave me his eager reply, "Not before he finishes his spinach and mayonnaise first."
I blanched, pitying Heath for the disgusting concoction he was about to consume.
"I love spinach and mayo," Luke spouted, eyes growing hazy with a faraway gaze, as he fantasized about the grotesque combination, "Could eat it for the rest of my life."
"You reveal a lot about yourself. Especially for someone who wasn't asked in the first place."
"I figure life's too short to keep quiet about the things you love," he stated simply, fingers – cracked skin at the cuticles peeling away from the ruby flesh underneath – holding firmly onto Heath's ankles, clothed in burgundy woollen socks.
"Hm." I stared at Luke thoughtfully, perfectly playing the part of reliable big brother to the turquoise-haired boy on his shoulders. The diminishing sun glinted off Luke's brilliant eyes, amber shimmering amidst iridescent gold.
"I like grilled eel and chestnut rice," I disclosed, mind flittering to Chase and the times he had cooked my favourite dish just for me. The chestnuts always seemed to taste sweeter.
"There. Didn't that feel freeing?" Luke grinned goofily, an expression that was a trademark of his, I was quickly coming to learn.
I pursed my lips together in contemplation. I looked at him for another second, before my hazel eyes darted away stealthily.
"Maybe."
This had nothing to do with being free.
This was about shackling ourselves to the other, latching on and getting dragged into the depths of the ocean; salt water filling our noses when oxygen found a better lover above the surface.
This was about the loves of our lives having stepped foot onto shore, leaving their footprints in the sand while we remained desperately treading the water, lungs gasping frenziedly for air.
This was about our limbs finally growing weary.
This was about having a safety net.
This had nothing to do with love.
Disclaimer: I do not own Brian Andreas' work.
Author's Note: It's been a while since I've played ToT or AP so I've kind of forgotten Pascal's character. Therefore, I went ahead and took some liberties and made him a little eccentric. I have to admit, he kind of grew on me. As always, thank you for reading and for all your support!