a/n: thanks so so so so much for the reviews/favorites/follows! You guys are so wonderful. I don't deserve this much affection, really! Forgive me, I wrote this at 12AM, and I am tired, and there are problem a lot of typos. Hope you like it. Please, pretty please, leave a review? :)

A lot of people are requesting different things... I will try my best, okay? ;)

Chapter 16

It is a damp April evening, the rain thick and blurred. Her family has gathered around to celebrate her father's birthday. It is one of the first times in forever that they are doing this. It isn't even really a special birthday either. It is his fifty third. No one throws a party for their fifty third. But nonetheless, here they are, in the midst of celebration.

Melissa is going on about her latest case, and how triumphant she was, and how the everyone was so impressed and awed. Melissa liked to exaggerate her achievements. Spencer has learned her sister's ways over the years, although her parents still seem oblivious to it.

The topic eventually swings over to Spencer. They ask her about law school, and if she is number one in her class, and if she is planning to take summer classes to stay ahead. But most of the answers are disappointing to her parents: No, she is not the head of class. No, she isn't planning to take summer courses—she needs a break (and to think about things, but she doesn't tell them that.) But she does tell them she is thinking about doing some other classes—not involving law, though—in the summer.

They are bewildered by this.

"What, Spencer? Why waste the time? The resources?" her father beckons. "You don't need to take any trivial cooking classes. Your mother is an excellent cook, she can teach you, and besides, once you finish law school, and get your career going, you can hire yourself a cook! Think of that!"

"It won't necessarily be cooking classes. I just—I want to try something other than law."

"Spencer, you aren't planning to change your career path? Why, you've already gotten a bachelor degree in law," her mother adds, an intense, angry, glint, roaring in her eyes.

"I'm not planning to do anything," she sighs. "I just—I want to try something else. Like, a dancing class, maybe. Hanna has us in a dance class, right now, and I've learned that I miss it."

"Spencer, dance is a hobby. Law is a career. Focus on your career, not your hobby. You'll have time for that later."

And that's the last thing her father says about it. Or anyone for that matter. Spencer didn't really expect them to jump for joy, but they could have at least kept their nugatory comments on lockdown. (What is she talking about? This is her parents. They know nothing of affection, only aggression.)

But it is at desert, when the night really crashes on her.

"So, kids, there is a reason why I wanted you here tonight, the fact aside that is my birthday."

"What is it, daddy?" Melissa implores after a second.

Her mother's hand covers her father's, and looks to her husband, then her children. "Your father is very sick," she announces in an empathetic tone.

"What?" Spencer murmurs.

"He was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer about six months ago. They, thankfully, caught it pretty early, but it still wasn't early enough. He's been put through chemo and radiation, but it has only spread. We are going to try surgery, now. He's scheduled to go in on the twenty sixth."

"The twenty sixth?" Spencer swallows. "That's in eight days."

"Yes. It will go fine. Your mother and I are going to New York. That's where the best surgeon is for this practice. He's done this tons of time, and all has gone great."

"I want to be there, too," Spencer pipes up.

"If you insist," her father nods.

"Yeah, I would like to be there, also," Melissa comments, a concerned look on her face.

Her father just nods, an accepting persona washing over him.

/

Of course her parents wait to tell her about the cancer. A whole six months. How could he keep that a secret? Why wouldn't he tell them? Would she have even known if he wasn't going in for this surgery?

Spencer sighs, clenching her steering wheel. After the announced the news, they just continued on with desert as if nothing had changed. There was no comfort. No solace. Just talk about the storm announced to come their way tomorrow.

She cannot believe that they just discussed it as if it was anything. As if it was something that regularly occurred. It's more than that. It's so much more. Who just reveals something like that over a birthday dinner?

Pancreatic Cancer is one of the most common killing cancers there are. How the hell could they not tell her this? And maybe it's not that far in, maybe the stage is early, but still! It is cancer! Freaking cancer!

She cannot think about this. She cannot. She isn't going to cry over this. She can't. She is a Hastings. Hastings don't cry. Hastings are perfect. Hastings are fighting machines, beating whatever comes at them.

She sighs, glancing at her reflection through the rear view mirror. Don't cry.

She bites her lip, and looks away, pulling out her phone from her purse. She waits a couple rings before she has a line.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Are you busy?" her words are quick, and mashed.

"Um…yeah, actually… I am. I'm kind of with a couple guys, right now. I'm sorry."

"No. It's fine. I just…you know," she sighs, her breathing uneven.

"Everything…okay?" he sounds hesitant.

"Yeah, yes," she clarifies, smiling even though he can't see her. Maybe it is more for herself. She glances at the rearview mirror, seeing her sad eyes staring at her. She shakes her head, "yeah. I'm fine." She doesn't know if she is saying it for Toby, or for herself. "I'm just booty calling you. Don't worry. Hang out with your people."

"Are you sure?" he implores. "I know you had that dinner tonight…"

"Toby, I'm fine. Stop acting like I'm your…something. We have sex. That's it." She kind of regrets it right after saying it. It's true, she guesses. But it's more complicated that. And she basically yelled it at him. In a harsh, bitter, tone. Then again, isn't she always yelling at him? But it feels different this time.

"Okay, well is my booty call doing okay? She doesn't sound okay," he sounds tired. Somewhat annoyed. Impatient, definitely.

"I'm seriously fine," she states in a less frustrated tone. "I'll see you whenever. I just…seriously. I'm fine. It was just a booty call."

"Okay," he allows after a moment. "Talk to you later?"

"Bye."

And she hangs up before she can hear his farewell. She shouldn't have called him. It really was for sex, but it somehow got all disfigured.

She sighs. She could probably booty call someone else. But it would feel weird. She doesn't know. She can't think of her absurd feelings for Toby Cavanaugh right now.

She heads up to her apartment, planning to just turn on a Jake Gyllenhaal movie, and forget about everything, but then something—more or less, someone—alters her plans.

She goes to her door right after she changed into her pajamas, expecting it to be Hanna, or Caleb, with another wedding crisis (there has been a lot lately), but it is Toby.

"What are you doing here?" she asks.

He walks past her, and into her apartment.

"Um." She turns around, closing her door behind her. "I don't remember inviting you in?" she squints at him.

"Cut the cold exterior." He demands in a stern voice.

"What cold exterior? You literally just walked into my apartment without approval. I could report this."

"Fine. Call the cops, if you really want to. Or we can talk."

She swallows, staring him up and down. A moment passes. "Why are you here? I thought you were out with friends?" she interrogates in a lighter tone.

"I was," he admits. "But I left."

"But, why?"

"Because you aren't fine. I know you, and you aren't fine."

She licks her lips, her eyes falling to the floor. To her bare feet, and blank toenails. "Even if I wasn't…" her voice breaks a little (dammit Toby), "why are you here?" she demands, staring up at him with hard, watering, eyes.

"Because you're not okay," he murmurs.

She wipes a tear drop from her cheek, shaking her head in microscopic movements, her eyes flickering south, and her lips twitching with uncertain thoughts desiring to be words. "I don't want to talk about it," she decides, finding his eyes once again.

"Fine," he allows. "But, at least let me keep you company tonight. As a friend…" he presses. "Or enemy, if that's what you really want. But I'm not leaving. Or being your booty call. You're not okay, and we both know that, and sex isn't going to solve your problems."

"Well, the cops can. I can just call them, and they can escort your ass out of my apartment," she narrows her watering eyes at him, trying to maintain her scowl. But the more Toby says, "you aren't okay," the more her body accepts the truth of the words.

He rolls his eyes, "you can't make anything easy, can you?"

"Fine. You can stay. But…don't tell anyone about this," she sighs. "About me…not being okay," her voice catches, her mocha eyes chasing away from the concern that lingers in his blues.

"I won't," he promises.

"Okay," she sniffs, the palms of her hands pushing away all the dew from her cheeks. She meets Toby's eyes again, and sucks in a hard breath. "And we're watching what I want to watch. And that happens to be the Notebook, so if you want to recede your little decree of keeping me company, do it now."

She was actually planning to watch Prisoners, but she remembers Toby's cliché loathing of The Notebook, and she knows she would be better off alone tonight.

"Great," he twitches up a tight smile.

She sucks in a breath, "great."

/

Toby sits on one side of the couch, and she sits on the other side. Halfway through the movie, the position takes on a new angle.

She sort of lost it at the part where Noah and Allie broke up. She isn't sure why she decided to pull this movie out. When she is already in a state of emotional wreck, whether she likes to admit it, or not. It isn't even that she is crying about the stupid movie. She has seen it thousands of times, and knows how it ends, and how many times they kiss, and say some cheesy, ridiculous, lines, to one another about love and life, and whatever. It isn't about the stupid movie. It would be better if it was about the stupid movie.

But the tears are silent, at least for awhile. But Toby notices after awhile, or maybe he noticed all along. But at one point he is taking her in his arms, his arms holding onto her body as it begins to rack with sobs. Because it is too much to be held like this. For someone to acknowledge her pain, and attempt to erase it. It is too much. She just loses it. Loses it all.

She bets that Melissa didn't lose it. She bets Melissa is staying strong, because she is a Hastings. And Hastings are strong, and perfect, and all things Spencer isn't.

She is really glad Toby cannot read her thoughts. Having him see her—somewhat? It is very dark. But the picture is very clear; she is sobbing—sobbing into him—it's enough that he is here during this. It is enough. It is too much. She is showing too much emotion, but she can't stop. She can't let go of him. She doesn't want to let go.

He holds her so securely, so tightly, and protectively that she can't help but wonder if it is just who he is, or if it is about her. Is he like this with everyone? Would he hold Hanna like this? Is he holding her any differently than he would hold another? Is it all just in her head? Her messed up, emotionally wrecked, sobbing, head? She isn't sure. But it feels safe, somewhat. It feels better, and as embarrassing as the whole situation is, she doesn't want it to stop. She doesn't want him to leave her alone—to leave, and cease her of the shame. She wants him here. She actually wants him here.

For the rest of the movie, when her sobbing parts ways into only sniffles and dew, she leans her head against him, watching the movie. It is at the part after Noah and Allie sleep together, and she's missed a lot, but she doesn't need to rewind to know what is going on.

Toby's arm is wrapped around her as they watch, his fingers toiling around her split ends, and his eyes more interested on her than the movie. His other hand is in possession of hers. He makes small, tiny, circles with his thumb on her palm, occasionally, and it always seems to be at the right time. Every now and then, she zones out of it, forgetting about her dad, but it comes back and forth, leading her in and out of quiet pain. But at least she has Toby. Even if he is clueless to her reason of suffering.

Once the movie is over, she wipes at her face, pushing away all the salt and darkness. But she doesn't move away from him, or turn on the lights, or turn off the annoying title screen off the TV. She just gulps, and stares at him in bafflement. "Thanks," she whispers.

He pushes some strands of hair back, off her forehead and out of her face, and then kisses the negative space between her eyebrows—holding the kiss there for a few seconds until pulling away.

"You don't have to talk about it, but if you want to… I'm here."

"Thanks," she sucks in a breath.

He nods, untangling himself from her. She doesn't want to let go, but she knows she has to. She can't just keep Toby Cavanaugh all night. Toby Cavanaugh, whose name cards never ceases to end. She has no idea what he is to her. And what she is to him.

But she has bigger problems right now.

"You'll be okay for the night?"

She nods, "I think so."

He nods, and then leaves her apartment.

She lets herself fall asleep on the couch.