A/N: I edited the first chapter, spelling and so on, as well as I felt (but I could be wrong, you let me know) that this should be a descriptive story, one without dialogue. I don't own it etc., etc...
She would have liked to say that it went well. The blurting of the truth, the confessions and the subsequent meltdown, but she didn't like to lie. They had never been good at talking or arguing. The only thing they seemed capable of doing was trying to drown the other out. She should have seen this as a sign.
She would have liked to have said he was understanding, but he hadn't been before. Why would he change now.
She was sure there was a crowd behind the door, with her mother at the forefront. Ears pressed to the antique wood as if she was trying to materialize herself on the other side.
He accused her of being unfaithful, of refusing to grow up. She accused him of never seeing the real her, he only saw what he wanted to see, and what he wanted her to be. The argument went in circles, before finally resting on the frequent bone of contention, him. Ranger. The apparent thug, the entity of evil.
She tried to appeal to his side of reason, but Italian temper blocked any forms of intelligent communication.
Either way, she came out looking foolish. As she always had.
It made her wonder as she watched his face turn red, and his vein pulse on his neck, why did she even bother to stay in this town?
Deep down she knew the reason.
The drive to the destination she refused to acknowledge finally gave her insight on what it felt like to be in the zone. It was peace, calmness. As if the world around her was a blur, and the only sight in focus was the escorts of yellow and white lines, promising an escape or freedom. Whatever she should choose.
She had left the church in a rush of white. Like a ghost in your mind. Something you had seen out of the corner of your eye, but couldn't quite make out. The barging in of the wedding party and its accusing family members gave the argument the break she desperately wished for.
It gave her enough time to do what she had always done, run.
And here she was, in her beat up car, which mimicked the feelings of its driver, dress trailing behind her, as the next chapter of her life lay firmly caught in between the driver side door and the car.
The gates opened automatically, they always had.
It was quite, and solemn.
She felt unsure if she was going to her new beginning or end.
But she had hope, deep down in the iciness of her belly was a small flame, waiting to be allowed to grow into the fires of passion it knew it could be.
She felt the eyes on her as she walked down the long corridor to his office. Her white dress standing out in contrast to the grey and black undertones of the fifth floor of Haywood.
He seemed surprised to see her, they all were. But with the others, surprise was a visible emotion on their weathered faces. His was a slight widening of the eyes, and the responding pace of her heart beat.
Shaking, she placed the card on his desk as a response to his raised eyebrow. The fire in her belly threatening to ignite. To quell the nerves, she thanked him for the flowers. They were beautiful.
He crushed the card in his left hand, surprise leaving his face, and a controlled anger entering it. Tension simmered cold in the room as he informed her that he never sent her any flowers.