A/N: I am currently rewatching Ugly Betty and thought this would be a realistic take on where the character's lives would be present day.
Betty
6pm. On the dot. Jane's out sick. Silvio's still downtown. The article about the war in Ukraine needs an entire rewrite before the deadline, which is—she checks the time on her watch—in less than two hours. Was it really so soon? This whole week seemed to fly right past her.
She struggles getting her phone out of her pocket; it falls and slides across the room. Gregory, one of her creative directors, picks it up and gives it back to her, then places the images from the Pride photoshoot onto the thickening stack in her arms. Everybody around her just keeps piling onto it. She nods her thanks as she moves through the crowd, all of whom are just trying to make their deadline. She finally reaches her office. Lana, her administrative assistant, is nowhere in sight. Of course.
One final person places a yellow envelope onto the stack before she's able to enter her office. A sigh of relief escapes her as she, finally, sets the stack down. Her attention immediately goes to her phone: the screen's cracked. Great. She makes her call anyway: "Hey—it's crazy here. I'm not gonna make it home on time." She checks her watch again; her heart rate rises. But that's the fast pace life of a magazine editor. It's what she wanted, she reminds herself each time there's pressure to meet a deadline. "Rain check on dinner?" She smiles. "Great. It's a date!"
Lana arrives right on time with more paperwork for her to stress over. Betty waves her in, placing her phone on her desk.
"Malala rescheduled her interview for Tuesday," Lana reads off her notepad. She hands off the paperwork, and Betty skims through the stack: just things being signed off for other things. Typical editor's busywork. "Jack booked John Currin for the August issue. He just needs you to sign off on it. Your meeting with Amnesty International is tomorrow, ten o'clock. And…" She hesitates slightly. "Claire Meade called, again." Betty visibly tenses. "She's in town and wants to have dinner at Quo Vadis tonight." Mrs. Meades's been calling all week. Betty's been making excuses not to talk to her. But she's in town. No escaping her now. "I'll call back and say you're not able to make it," Lana says, picking up on her uneasiness.
"No, no," Betty relents. It's time to face her."She'll know I've been avoiding her. What time?"
"Eight thirty," she says.
Betty checks her watch again and sighs. "That should work."
She plops down onto her chair, her focus turning to the pile before her. She wants this; she loves this: affirmations to help her cope when the room starts spinning. "I'll get you some coffee," says Lana. Her phone rings and she reaches for it.
Daniel
Daniel puts the phone up to his ear. He sits alone in the waiting room. Through the clear glass he sees Wilhelmina and Marc, plotting—or working, as they might call it. They catch his eye and, briefly, they pause. It's like it was before, all those years ago: he's just an outcast, undeserving of the role given to him.
The person he's calling picks up. "Hey, Melinda, sweetheart. Look, I won't be able to make it for lunch," he says as Wilhelmina's assistant makes his way over to him, finally acknowledging him. "Yeah, the Kardashians backed out last minute. They're not even returning our calls. Even Alec Baldwin refused an interview. "We'll be here a while." He nods at her words. Wilhelmina's assistant is in front of him now. "How 'bout dinner instead? Le Coucou's?" He smiles. "Great. It's a date!"
He stands and lets the assistant guide him inside. "Daniel!" Wilhelmina greets, flaunting her most famous fake smile. She kisses his cheeks. "You really didn't need to come in today." She glances at Marc, who can't easily hide his disdain for him as well as Wilhelmina can. "I assure you, we have everything under control here."
"Look, Wilhelmina, I have every right to be here. I'm a contributing editor now, remember?" He sighs. "And you're barely afloat." He stops, realizing he might be sounding a little too harsh. "I'm just trying to help."
She stumbles. "Of course."
Marc shakes his head. "Kim and Khloe are out, obviously. But we still got the Olsen twins. Why don't we bump them up to the cover?"
"The Olsen twins are so two thousands," says Wilhelmina with an eye roll. "I've met with Cara Delevingne's team and she's agreed to be our cover girl for the August issue. It's not much, but it's a bump back to A-list."
"That's great," Daniel say. And Wilhelmina's lips curl into something close to half a smile. "But what about the June and July issues?"
"June is Pride month," says Marc tiredly. He practically lives at the office these days. "We can get somebody for that."
"Laverne Cox is in town," notes Wilhelmina. "It's a long shot. But with the right schmoozing… maybe."
"Great, Daniel, call up your sister and see if she can get her on the June cover."
"Not every Trans person knows each other, Marc," grumbles Daniel. "But she was at her birthday party. I'll see what I can do."
Betty
Betty's still a Queen's girl at heart. But Claire Meade always chooses the restaurants whenever they meet up, each one, it seems, fancier than the last. So, Quo Vadis it is. Mrs. Meade's in the very back where the lights are dim and the people are few.
"Hello Betty," Mrs. Meade greets with her usual charm and that sparkle in her eyes. She's classy and firm in all the right places. She sips seltzer these days instead of alcohol, claiming to want to live long enough to see her grandchildren grow up. In actuality, she's just had one too many slip ups with the law and with modern media to justify her intake. She smokes cigarettes now, a new addiction—always saying she's trying to quit.
Betty takes a seat across from her. "Hello Mrs. Meade… I mean, Claire," she corrects when Claire gives her the look. An awkward pause settles between them as smoke fills Betty's nostrils. She tries not to cough, tries not to sneeze.
"How are you?" Claire asks.
Betty rubs her nose. "I'm fine. I'm fine," she assures. "Just… busy."
Claire sips her seltzer, then leans in close. "And how is he ?" she asks, smiling knowingly.
Betty tenses, avoids her eyes. "Fine," she says. "He's fine."
There's a slight pause. "Betty," she says, finally putting out her cigarette. She settles her hand on top of Betty's own. "Believe me when I say, you have every right to keep this from him. But…" But it wasn't right. She knows!
Her touch is comforting, and her words ignite a guilt inside her that's been brewing for more than a decade, but she pulls away—like she always does—and shifts in her seat. "Is… this why you wanted to see me?"
"No," she says, downing the rest of her seltzer and hailing a waiter for another glass. "MODE, as you know, is on life support and Wilhelmina refuses to ask for help"—she leans back into her chair—"so here I am."
"Wait." She pauses. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I want you back, Betty." Once, a long time ago, she would have loved to hear a Meade say those words to her. But not Claire. "MODE needs you back."
Betty shakes her head, scoots her chair back. "Even if I wanted to, I can't just leave. In case you forgot, I'm running my own magazine here." Silvio could easily take over. He's perfectly capable, and she's just a phone call away if there's any trouble—it haunts her that she's thinking of a way back.
"MODE has endured scandal after scandal throughout the years—from murder trials to… secret sons —but this new age of call-out culture has buried us deep."
Betty raises a brow. "Did you really think publishing Kanye's manifesto would bode well with your audience?" Subscriptions dropped tremendously. They got months of bad press. And TikTok influencers absolutely destroyed them.
"Wilhelmina owed him a favor," she says as her excuse. "She regrets it now, obviously."
She'd be closer to her family. She'd be closer to Daniel… "Mrs. Meade— Claire , thank you for the offer, but I'm sorry… my answer has to be no."
The waiter brings Claire her drink, then he takes Betty's drink order: a glass of wine to cope with such a chaotic day. The tone visibly shifts. "Betty, it's time," she says when the waiter leaves, and Betty frowns. "I think you realize that."
The waiter brings Betty her glass of wine; she takes a generous sip.
She doesn't get home until late: Claire Meade likes to talk. About anything and everything, but noticeably very little about Daniel. Probably for the best, she thinks. She's not his assistant anymore; she's not his anything anymore. They're separate people, living separate lives now. Except for the fact that they—
"I'm home," she declares tiredly to an empty room, finally able to kick off her shoes. A bowl of half eaten ramen sits on their kitchen table. She takes it to the sink, then begins her search for him. "Hey, sorry I'm late!"
She finds him playing his Switch in his unmade bed. In the mostly dark room, his face is illuminated by the bright screen as the Mario Kart theme faintly plays. He's her Iggy—named for her father; looks like his mother in all her most awkward places, but is bolder than she'll ever be. They're outcasts together, happily.
She lays down next to him. He scoots to make room for her and hums his acknowledgement, like any preteen would. "Today was crazy. Everything that could go wrong, did," she contemplates, looking up at the dark ceiling. "And then I had this last minute dinner meeting with…" She pauses; he's still playing his game. Guilt consumes her. "With a rival magazine," she lies. Her stomach turns.
He turns off his game and sets it aside, then turns to her. "The clue is…" And he thinks for a moment, his eyes blinking. "Something blue."
"Something blue," she echoes. A game they play, which is a cross between I Spy and Password. One person things of something, it can be anything, in their head and the other person has to guess with only one hint. It's fun, to them at least. "The sky?" He shakes his head. "The ocean?" Again, no. "Something blue… something blue." She looks around his dark room, points. "Your jacket." No. "Ooh, that cute building on Carnaby Street we always stop to look at." He nods; she smiles, snuggling into him. "Okay, my turn. My turn—um, crunchy."
"Peanut butter?"
"No…"
Daniel
He picks up his drink from the bar top, then checks the time on his watch. She's late, just a little bit, and the crowd around him is suddenly too much. He gets shoved by two drunk bachelors ordering another round, probably wasting away their father's money. Those were the days.
He moves near the window, away from the trust fund playboys. A woman walks in the dirty streets of downtown, wearing a very eccentric dress with truffles; she stumbles, seems to trip over her own two feet. He laughs, thinking only of her .
A tap on his shoulder brings him back. Daniel turns to see Melinda standing there. He greets her with a kiss. "Sorry, I'm late," she tells him. "Traffic's crazy."
"Don't worry about it," he says. "You're right on time. Our table's ready, I think…" He guides her to the hostess, but glances back out into the street. The woman's gone, replaced by more strangers, all walking quickly and sturdily to their next location.
Daniel turns, his eyes briefly focusing on Melinda before he clashes with a waiter. A tray of food crashes to the floor, his shirt gets smothered in sauce. He's apologizing profusely to the waiter as they both bend to gather the broken glass—they bonk heads, and he apologizes again.
Melinda brings him up to his feet. The owner's there telling him everything's all right as Daniel insists he'll cover the cost. All eyes are on him. After a brief pause, the hostess takes them to their table.
He takes out wallet and pulls out cash. Melinda stops him. "Daniel. You don't need to pay him."
"I just feel really bad," he says, looking back at the mess he caused. The owner starts muttering angrily at the waiter.
"Don't be," Melinda assures. "It was the waiter's fault. He should have been watching where he was going."
Betty
They fall asleep somewhere between the clue being rabbit and Gucci. It's late… or early, depending on perspective, when she feels her phone vibrating in her pocket. Her mouth is dry; her feet are aching. With her eyes still closed and her brain half asleep, she answers it: Hilda's rambling, half in Spanish, on the other end before she can even find the energy to say hello. She sits up with a groan. "Hilda? What… what time is it?"
She glances at her watch—it's too dark to see. Iggy's sleeping soundly beside her, curled up in a cute little ball. She kisses his head, then slides out of bed and totters into the hallway, closing the door gently behind her. The bright light above her are almost blinding. She uses her hand as a shade.
"Hilda, slow down. I only got half of that. What's happened?" Papi and heart attack is all she can make out from her cries. Another heart attack. But that's all she needed to know. And suddenly her heart drops; the room spins. Her tired eyes go wide, suddenly feeling a burst of unwelcome anxiety. She glances at the closed door, half expecting Iggy to wake and come bursting out. The whole world is quiet; her whole world is over. All she hears are Hilda's cries, begging her to come home. "Okay—okay, take a breath. Just… stay by his side. I'll be there as soon as I can. As soon as we can. Call when there's an update."
Marc
The dress is all wrong. The shoes are too high. And the model is too bitchy. But they keep her around because she's Fey Sommers' daughter. Also, his best friend. She poses in front of the mirror like she isn't forty and yesterday's news. "Ooh, mama like," she says passionately.
Marc adds a scarf in an attempt to save the outfit before guiding her to the stage. At least she's just filling a third of the page. He motions for Raul—their photographer—to begin taking pictures, then moves near Wilhelmina. They watch as Amanda starts making a fool of herself.
"Is this rock bottom?" he asks her quietly, miserably.
"Keep it together, Marc," she tells him seriously; she's been to rock bottom before. Several times, actually. "You're the Creative Director. That makes you a big boss now." She gives him the classic Wilhelmina stone face glare. "And big bosses don't show their emotions."
"It's your fault we're in this mess," he snaps, but stumbles back when he sees her grimace. He continues quieter: "Why couldn't you owe Beyoncé or one of those Marvel hotties doped up on steroids a favor? It had to be Kanye."
"We'll bounce back," she assures, looking forward. Amanda's on her hands and knees, crawling to the photographer. "MODE always does—though, Claire Meade seems to think we we need help from an outside source."
And Daniel suddenly appears in the distance, looking on at Amanda's antics with distaste. Marc laughs. "Who, Daniel? He's been more nuisance than help. I wish he'd just go back to his philanthropy thingy, or whatever he was doing before coming back here."
"No, not Daniel," says Wilhelmina. Amanda's now making howling sounds. "Someone much worse."
Betty
She's frantic when she enters The Queen's Medical Center with Iggy right behind her several hours after Hilda called. The female nurse at the front desk practically jumps when she sees her. She hasn't had time to do anything. Not change. Not eaten. She hasn't even had time to stop and look in a mirror. God, she must look like a mess—what else is new? "Hi, I'm Betty Suarez. My father Ignacio Suarez was admitted here yesterday—"
"Betty!" came a familiar voice. She turns to see Hilda running down the hall. They meet each other halfway and hold each other tightly. Hilda's warmth is welcoming. Especially after a crazy last few days.
They part and she moves to kiss her nephew. "Ay, mijo , you got so big! You'll be taller than your Aunt Hilda by next summer."
"How is he?" Betty asks as they walk, attempting to keep up with Hilda's hurried steps. They enter a room where Bobby is holding a cup with a straw for her father to sip.
" Papi ," she says, running to his side. He looks so helpless lying there in the hospital bed.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he insists. "It was just a minor heart spasm. That's all. The doctor even says I'll be out here in no time."
"You need to take better care of yourself, papi ," scolds Hilda. "First you fall and nearly break your hip, now this— another heart attack! One day you're not gonna be so lucky."
Betty's eyes widen. "You almost broke your hip?" She turns to Hilda. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"He didn't want you to know!"
"You had your hands full with the magazine," her dad says. "I didn't want to bother you over nothing."
"That's not nothing, dad!" He rolls his eyes at her words and Betty lightly hits him. "I'm getting you a gym membership and a meal plan."
He spots Iggy at the door and his eyes brighten. "There's my mini me. Get over here. Give grandpa a hug."
He opens his arms to him, but his grandson is hesitant to move closer. "Hey, it's okay," Betty says, encouraging him forward. Like Betty, Iggy's awkward and a little bit unsure. Like Betty, right now he's scared. He's never seen anyone outside of tv in a hospital bed.
He moves slowly to the bed and, eventually, they embrace. "You got so big."
Betty meets her father's eyes. "Okay," he agrees reluctantly. "If it gets you two to stop fussing over me, I guess I'll agree to it."
Daniel
He walks the streets of New York arm in arm with his mother, of all people. Outside is loud, full of chaos, but luckily his mother's stubbornness is louder. "I just don't understand why you went behind my back on this!"
"Daniel, what else was I supposed to do? We need someone to help save MODE."
"But not her!" He pulls away, avoids her eyes. "Not after the way I left things. Not after the way I treated her."
"Mistakes were made, people got hurt—"
"No. She got hurt, mom," he claims. "Believe me, if I can go back in time and change things, I would." He finally looks at her. "But I can't."
It's quiet. Except for the car horns and construction drills around them. "You were hurt from this, too, Daniel," she says finally, taking his hand. Her eyes sparkle, as if she knew something he didn't. "In more ways than you know."
He shakes his head. "I can't work with her. I can't face her…"
"Lucky for you then," says his mom. They continue walking. "She said no."
"Good," he says, shaking any sudden disappointment away. Having her here would be… wrong. Cruel, even. "Besides, we can do this without her."
"I hope you're right," she says, then eyes him up and down. He sighs, knowing what's coming next. "How are you and Malala?"
" Melinda , mom," Daniel corrects. "And we're fine. She's fine…"
"But?"
But this, but that… why does she always have to bring up the but! But she's not the one, his mom wants him to say. Something in her eyes tells him she already knows; he'd never give her the satisfaction of admitting that.
"But nothing," he says, a little more harshly than he intended. They arrive at HQ. He opens the door, and they enter.
Wilhelmina
"Bad news," she says, throwing the orange folder onto Marc's desk. "The Olsen twins are out."
Marc's assistant was noticeably absent, so she helped herself right in. She caught him texting and giggling like some school girl.
He drops his phone, opens the folder. "What? Why?"
"They're opting to do a Full House reunion special, or something of that sort instead."
"Full Ho—they never do Full House reunions," he says.
Wilhelmina crosses her arms. "I know. Bob Saget dies tragically and suddenly they want to make right with the rest of their tv family. Pathetic."
"This is bad, Wilhelmina," Marc says, sounding more like her old assistant than the new Creative Director. "We're done for…"
"Not quite," says Daniel as he and his mother burst through the doors like they own the place—which they do.
"We booked Laverne Cox," Claire announces. Wilhelmina feels a slight relief come over her.
"And I may have a few more people lined up. I just have to make some phone calls," Daniel says before quickly excusing himself.
It's quiet, for a moment. She and Claire haven't had the best relationship over the years. They're cordial at their best and passing death threats at their worst. "So, did you recruit Betty," Wilhelmina asks. Right now they're somewhere in between Sunday brunch and testifying against one another at their murder trials. "You never returned my call last night."
"I did not," she admits, though she doesn't quite look defeated, yet. "But there's still time."
Betty's awkwardness always overshadowed her talent at MODE. She's better where she is now, wherever that is. Fashion just isn't who she is.
Claire leaves before Wilhelmina can reply, not that the old hag would want to hear anything she had to say, especially about Betty. Her attention turns back to Marc. He picks up his phone and resumes texting.
"Who are you talking to?"
"I need a new assistant," he tells her, exasperated. It's his third one in six months. He just hasn't met his Marc yet, the person who's willing to get their hands dirty. "I'm asking around the office, seeing if I can borrow any of theirs for the day."
Justin
It's late, and grandpa's soap is on. But he's not in his usual chair to watch it. Bobby's there, snoring away like he's in some bad musical. Mom and Aunt Betty are in the kitchen cooking, because grandpa's not there to do it for them. The Doctor says he'll be home as soon as tomorrow, and of course he'll waltz right back in here as if nothing ever happened. That's just him.
He enters the kitchen quietly. His mother and aunt are too busy trying to distract themselves to pay him any real mind. They're all scared; grandpa's clock is winding down, running low on batteries. And no one knows how to cope. It's every family's inevitable nightmare.
"I guess I'll be off," he says almost quietly, not really wanting them to hear.
They do.
"You can't go," his mom says, frantic.
"Dinner's almost ready," Betty tells him, gesturing to the rice she's been cooking.
"Plus, we need you to stay here tonight to look after your baby cousin while we're at the hospital."
"Bobby can do that," he says, and they all eye the snoring blob in the living room. "Look, this entire week has been hell for me, even before grandpa's heart attack," he continues tiredly. Becoming a fashion icon isn't as easy as he thought it would be. Networking is nearly impossible in this economy, especially without Betty's ties to MODE. And he's stuck at a dead end job with Gucci and Prada nowhere in sight. Adulthood's a scam; adulthood's a bitch—can they blame him for wanting to drink away his sorrows?
"Please, baby," begs his mother. "I know things have been rough for you lately, but we're your family and we really need you here."
"Fine," he agrees with a huff. "I'll stay until you get back."
"Great!" Betty hands him a stack of plates. "You can set the table."
Daniel
He's in the zone typing up some recommendation letter an intern asked him to write when his mother enters his office. "Good news," she says. His focus is on the computer screen, not her. He's mad at her right now. He's been mad at her for most of his adult life. "Betty's back in New York."
He stops and finally looks up, his heart flutters but he tries to hide it. "What?"
"I've just gotten off the phone with her assistant in London," she continues. "Her father had a heart attack—"
"Oh my God, that's awful. Is he okay?"
"He's fine," she assures, waving it off as if she were talking about next week's weather. "Anyway, they're here for a few days to help get him settled again." Her eyebrows lift; she gives him that famous look of hers, then steps forward. "Maybe we can pay them a visit—"
He stands abruptly. Ever since he left Betty, it's been this constant nagging from her. "Let it go, mom," he says. "Betty's moved on… I've moved on. Why can't you?"
"Because Daniel," she says then hesitates, "I can't."
Marc
This whole Kanye disaster has Marc working overtime. While Daniel is out probably whoring around, he's still at the office, trying to save MODE. Amanda's always around for emotional support… or whatever it is she does—nobody's really sure what her job at MODE is anymore. She's like their class pet.
She's looking at herself in his mirror while he's making phone calls—Tom Ford, Marc Jacobs, basically any gay who's willing to listen. None of them stay on the phone long. God, maybe he just needs to look for another job and watch this magazine sink from a safe distance.
"Do the truffles make my butt look fat?" Amanda asks, contemplating the latest outfit she's stolen from the company.
He hangs up the phone, being put on hold for the final time that night. "Yes," he says.
She smiles, posing to make her butt look bigger. "Relax," she tells him distractedly, "you'll turn things around. You always do."
"She's right," says Wilhelmina from the doorway. He stands, as if he's still her scared little assistant. "We got Laverne Cox. That's a win for us." He huffs, feeling a migraine forming from the stress. Laverne Cox is the light in an otherwise dark and despairing tunnel. "Why don't you two celebrate." She pulls out her credit card. "On me."
Amanda yanks the card from her hands like it's a piece of candy. "Wilhelmina, thank you," he says seriously, "but no."
"No?" Amanda says, looking at him shocked.
"You've earned it, Marc," Wilhelmina says. "Your hard work is the reason we're still afloat. It's the least I can do."
"See?" says Amanda, hitting his chest roughly; he roles his eyes at her antics. "It's the least she can do."
"Go celebrate, Marc," Wilhelmina says. "That's an order from your superior." She glances at the files on his desk. "I'll stay here and make the calls."
He sighs, but manages a smile. "Okay." And with that, Amanda's laughing like a hyena. She speeds out the room without looking back. "Thank you."
Justin
His mom and Betty left an hour ago. Rory, his latest fling, is not answering his texts—probably started bar hopping early, like the high functioning drunk he is. Bobby's with Iggy in the living room, playing some racing game. Justin sits on the sofa, watching, brooding. But he puts on a pretty face.
"Not the blue shell… not the blue shell—oh!" Bobby practically yells. He throws his controller down in defeat. "And I was this close to defeating the champion. Good game, kiddo."
They high five. Justin stands and heads for the kitchen right as Bobby's phone begins ringing. "Hey baby," Bobby answers. It's mom, probably. Hopefully—who else would he call babe? "No, I'm just hanging out with Justin and Ig the kid. What's up?" He stands, his face turning serious.
Justin's heart drops. "What is it? Is grandpa okay?"
Bobby puts up a finger to quiet him as he stands listening. "Okay. Yeah, I'll be right there." He hangs up his phone and quickly assures Justin: "Everything's fine. They just want me to bring over a few things to make him more comfortable."
Bobby leaves almost instantly, taking with him a blanket and some pajamas, and a few other casual things grandpa's requested. Iggy resumes playing his video game while Justin decides to hang back in the kitchen to wash dishes. Video games aren't really his style.
Half an hour passes and the doorbell rings. He checks the time. It's late. Too late for anybody decent. Iggy remains glued to the television, to his game, as Justin moves to answer it.
He's surprised, shocked even, to see who it is: Claire Meade. She enters with the confidence of a queen, her bold colors clashing with the blandness of this house. He takes a few steps back as she steps forward. She's holding flowers: pink tulips. "Oh, Mrs. Meade—hi," he greets, almost awkwardly. It's been a while.
She takes her hand into his own. "Justin." She remembers his name, after all these years. "It is so good to see you. How's your mother?"
"Fine, considering…" he answers.
"I'm so sorry to hear about your grandfather," she says. And she hands him the flowers and a condolence card; he gives his thanks.
"The doctor says he's gonna be fine. He just needs to take better care of himself."
There's a quick silence. Her eyes glimmer in a knowing way. "You were on your way to becoming one of New York's biggest fashion icons last we spoke."
And the despair hits again. "I've hit a few bumps since then," he says. He's hit rock bottom actually, but that's a lot to dump on someone you haven't seen in years. Dead end job after dead end job. It was exhausting. More importantly, he seemed to be going in a circle. "Besides all of Betty's fashion connections are at MODE and, well… you know." He could never put Betty in such an awkward position. Not after what happened.
She pulls out a card from her purse and hands it to him. "Call my office in the morning," she tells him. "I may have something for you."
"Wow, really?" He looks at the card, a sense of joy fluttering his entire being.
"It may not be what you're hoping for exactly, but it is a foot in."
"I'll take anything at this point," Justin says. He wants to hug her. But if she's going to be his boss, that might not be appropriate.
She smiles. The sound coming from Iggy's video game quickly gains her attention and she turns to the living room. "Is that him ?" she asks softly, quietly, her eyes focusing on Justin's younger cousin sitting on the couch.
Like the video game addict he is, Iggy doesn't even notice them standing there. He looks a lot like Aunt Betty back in the day: frizzy unkempt hair and braces, basically her copy and paste. He's a little more boyish, though. That must come from the other side.
"Yeah," Justin says.
Claire Meade turns to him, a glimmer of something in her eyes. "Can I… talk to him?"
He shrugs. "Aunt Betty's not here to say no." He gestures to the flowers she brought. "I'll just put these in some water."
Betty
"Ay, where's Elena when we need her," says Hilda as she sorts through all of their dad's pills.
"Hilda," Betty scolds, turning to look at him apologetically.
"I'm all right," their dad assures. "It's been five years. I think we can say finally her name." They ended thing's amicably, if she remembers, but it was still pretty hard on him. She just wants to make sure he's comfortable.
"Maybe we should call her," Hilda says. They look at her. "What? He was eating healthier when they were together."
Betty's pocket buzzes before she can respond, and she pulls out her phone to see a text from Justin. "Oh," she says, frowning.
"What's wrong?" asks Hilda.
"Claire Meade's at the house," she says, "with Justin and Iggy."
"Oh."
Deep down she knows Claire's right. It is time, to put everything to rest. And she means everything.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading. Depending on whether people like this, I may continue the story.