I got the call soon after Lex left. Sorry, after Mr. Luthor left. I can't even indulge his name in my mind, the thought of such familiarity transporting me back to that night. A shudder slips down my spine as I think about the tender flesh lining my jaw which I spent a vulgar amount of time layering makeup over this morning.

I nestle into the comfort of the plane's seat and venture a look out the window, watching the rays of sunlight sifting through the tall grass lining the air field as I pretend not to notice the smell of thick floral perfume wafting from the seat next to me where a woman with a neck pillow sits flipping through a magazine. It takes all my effort not to acknowledge that the cover of her magazine sports a picture of Mr. Luthor bursting through the doors to the hospital in Metropolis heading towards a run down saturn. If I look closer, I bet I could see the side of my face in the window of the saturn.

Not that I care. Let people speculate and wonder about Mr. Luthor, about me. It's not my problem right now. I could deal with it when I come back. If I come back. The flight back to Wisconsin wouldn't be too long and then once I got to the airport I wouldn't bother heading home first. Instead, I'm headed straight to the hospital.

My mom is waiting for me when we land, her hair piled high on her head and a tattered long cardigan pulled taught against her expanding middle. Her eyes are lined with thick bags which seem to protrude further than her sullen cheeks.

As she drives me to the hospital, she keeps her story restricted to the bare facts. We went to the hospital earlier after he became unresponsive in the home. Doctors said it was a stroke. He's in intensive care.

All of this is relaid to me with emotional detachment. Every ounce of energy has been drained from my mother, any form of grief sapped from extensive hours at my father's bedside. All she is left with at this point is a rattle in her breath and nails which are whittled down to the verge of bleeding. Her eyes barely shift to take in the expanse of the road in front of her.

I check my phone on the way to the hospital. Six missed calls, all from Mr. Luthor. There's only one voicemail message to check, but I save it until later. I can't focus on his voice just yet.

My younger brother is drifting off to sleep in the chair by my father's bed. I don't dare wake him. His eyes flutter in a fitful type of rest, but at least it's rest. My dad is laid out along the bed, tubes protruding from his mouth and nostrils. The sight of plastic shoved into his body almost makes me break down right then and there. But my mother has already beat me to the punch. Raw eyes swim with new found tears as she takes a seat on the other side of my father. If I had looked closer, I would have noticed that the cushion was already curved to the specific shape of my Mom's butt before she sat down. I don't bother looking for a fourth chair, instead opting to stand near my Dad's feet. He doesn't twitch or stir when my hand comes up to rest on his leg.

I can't be here. The silence is so much worse than any sound I could know. There is a coiling in my stomach as I look from my mother to my father to my brother. My body is twisting within me, threatening to turn my insides out. I offer to get coffee, and am met with a void stare as if my mother had found her salvation in the Mormon church while I was gone and such a concept of caffeine consumption was beyond her new realm of understanding.

I stumble down the hall, linoleum tile squealing against the rubber of my sneakers. The cafeteria is closed except for a station at the very end with pre-packaged sandwiches and a warm drinks table. I reluctantly flip the lever and poor stale black coffee into a styrofoam cup. I compensate with an absurd amount of cream, sipping on the resulting bitter concoction with disgust. I don't go back up right away. Instead, I sit on a deceptively firm cloth covered chair and fiddle with my phone, circling through the old texts and always finding myself back at the voicemail.

When it feels like I can't keep my fingers at bay any longer, I go to listen to the voicemail.

"You've finished your coffee." I look up to see my brother standing in front of me, the lining of his eyes sagged and dark. He looks a fair deal like me, but much better teeth. To see him like this is jarring; his features, usually light and sweet, are now sullen and bland. "Are you hungry at all?"

"I am if you are."

"I'm a growing boy. I'm always hungry."

"You're twenty."

"Yes and one day I hope to be twenty one. Your point?"

"No point. Just stating facts. You got the keys?" He produces a keyring from his pocket and heads towards the front desk and out the doors.

I don't miss much from my hometown, but I have been craving a butter burger from Culvers since I landed. We drive into the night and I think about my dad. I want to remember something specific; something joyful and funny and undeniably him. But all I can think of is the time he made me change my shorts because the ones I was wearing were "whorish".

"So…how's the job?" He doesn't know what I do. He forgets whenever I tell him and he's too embarrassed to ask again.

"It's ok. Of course, my pimp keeps taking all my money so I've had to start pushing that snow as well."

"Ok, enough. I don't want to think of my sister as a prostitute."

"You're right, instead I should tell you about my actual job."

"Please."

"And… oh god, what do I do again?" He sighs and struggles to find an answer.

"I know it's something in finance."

"Not even fucking close."

"Do you have to wear a suit?"

"Yes."

"Then it might as well be finance. It's definitely boring if you have to wear a suit." I chuckle. My brother has never worn anything but jeans and a tee shirt since he could pick his own clothes. He refused to go to prom on principle.

I fiddle with my phone and consider calling Mr. Luthor. I wonder what he'd say. Would he comfort me?

"So what is your job?"

"I'm an assistant."

"Well, you do love getting coffee."

"I do what I'm good at."

"Weren't you going to be a lawyer or something?" I wanted to be a lawyer when I was 16. But the idea of more schooling scares the shit out of me. And lawyers scare me even more. So instead I applied into a variety of different jobs which could help launch me into a variety of different fields.

"Plans change."

"Or you changed."

"Or I changed." I don't feel like speaking anymore. I don't particularly feel like breathing. I try to sink into myself but my body doesn't allow my head to sink into the hollow of my shoulders.

"So mom showed me an interesting article the other day."

"Interesting. I didn't know you could read." He reaches across the dashboard and thumps me on the head. "Watch it, Danny. I can still convince Mom to abort you."

"Are you fucking your boss?" I feel my cheeks start to burn.

"No, I'm not fucking him. And I thought you assumed I worked in finance."

"I was lying." He veers into the parking lot and kills the headlights. "Promise me you're being smart, Sarah." He's pleading with me, no more energy left for bickering.

"I'm trying to be." He nods at this and exits, heading for the doors of the fast food joint. I don't join him right away, instead flipping open my phone and finally pressing play.

"Sarah…don't worry about the workload. Look after your family. If I can help in any way, don't hesitate to ask. Call me back. (pause) When you're ready." The next pause is unrelentingly long. I hear shuffling and quiet breathing. "Sarah, I'm sorry. Please. I can't have you hate me too." There's more shuffling and then a sigh. There's a click and then the dial tone signaling the end of the message. I play it once more, focusing on the way his voice breaks at the end.

I wish he hadn't called. I wish he had let me go on wondering what he would have said.

I wish he knew me.

My dad recovers, but the recovery process is slow. I've been home for nearly a month and he's only started to move out of the hospital bed. I'm just grateful he remembers my name. I have only spoken to Mr. Luthor twice since I left; once to tell him that everything was ok and another to give him an estimate of how long I would be and a rundown of my modified responsibilities now that I was working remotely. I would assume that he would usually fire someone who took this long off of work if he had never sucked on my jaw.

My days are primarily spent consoling my mother, reading through Mr. Luthor's emails, setting up appointments and emailing modified schedules and debriefings to Mr. Luthor. Then in the afternoon, I visit my father and try to help him relearn how to play sudoku. When he gets tired, I lay by his side and hold him until he sleeps or kicks me out. I then spend my night checking Mr. Luthor's requests for the next day or later that night.

Tonight, he's got a dinner party with some of Metropolis's hottest billionaires (primarily consisting of men over the age of 58). I send him a rundown of his schedule for the night and a list of appropriate topics of conversation according to each guest. It's not long before I receive a call.

"Yes, Mr. Luthor?"

"Ms. Vanderhaul. How is your father?"

I pause, glancing at the bed in the middle of the room where my dad lies. I quietly sneak out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

"He's good- better. He's better."

"Good." He's quiet for a while. "Listen, Sarah, I was thinking, if there's anything I can do for you, I'd be happy to help."

"I know. You've said that."

"I don't think you think I meant it, though."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you haven't taken me up on my offer."

"I don't even know how I would, Mr. Luthor."

"You could ask for money."

"I already get your money every other week."

"I mean more money to help you out."

"I don't need more money. I need to take care of my dad. I need to keep my mom upright and I need to do my work, Mr. Luthor. Now, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"You can cut the tough act for one, Sarah." I want to throw my phone on the ground when he talks like that. That or strangle him.

"You have to get to your dinner, Mr. Luthor."

"Well it's a bit late for that." It's not that late. If he's ok being fashionably late (which I guarantee he is) he still has at least twenty minutes to get ready. Except now I get the impression that I'm missing something essential in understanding his meaning. It is only when I feel a tap on my shoulder that I know what that is. I whip around to see Lex standing in front of me, his phone still poised against his ear. "Hey." I hear this echoed all around me until I drop the phone from my own ear.

"Hey."

"I didn't mean to barge in on you."

I don't know what to say. I only know that he shouldn't be here. To see him here, in my hometown, is jarring, like part of my brain can't conceive of him in this area of my life. "What about dinner?"

"I was hoping you'd have a suggestion since you know this place better than I do."

"I put a lot of effort into those conversation topics."

"Yes, it's a shame to waste them." I don't know what to say next. He looks to the door as if to ask to enter, but I don't want him to. He can't meet my dad, not when he's like this. I place a hand on his arm, guiding Lex away from the hospital room.

"I'll take you somewhere. How do you feel about cheese curds and wings?"

"Sounds very Wisconsin-y."

"Awesome."

I take him to a bar and grill which may or may not have been the place my friends and I would go in highschool due to a particularly lax carding policy. We sit on creaking old bar stools with ripped vinyl cushions. I can't help but giggle when I look at Lex. His back is rigid and his eyes scan the restaurant, looking from one beer stain to the next. I can almost see him start a tally. He doesn't belong here, but I like him best this way. All of his sharp edges become soft in his new-found insecurity being in a room stuffed with too many people and too little soap. So often I get the distinct impression that the world is his - a consequence of extreme wealth. I'm beginning to realize that the uneasiness I feel around him is not just nerves, but a bubbling resentment. It feels unfair that he can walk into anywhere like he owns the place; primarily because, if he wanted to, he could. But here, amongst the smell of cheap cologne masking alcohol sweats, he is alien - unsure of himself.

"Calm down, I assure you it's perfectly safe here. The only thing dangerous about this place is the amount of artery-clogging grease on the food." He doesn't laugh but I see his eyes light up a little.

"I think that's the first joke I've heard from you in a month. Or the first joke period that I've heard in a month."

"Yeah. What is it about Smallville that no one has a sense of humor?"

"Oh they have a sense of humor. It's just their humor is not the same as ours."

I nearly choke on my beer. "Our sense of humor?"

"Well, your sense of humor." I quickly bring the beer up to my lips, trying to hide how much I'm blushing. "You know, you went awol for awhile. You scared me." I don't look him in the eye, afraid that if I do, he might shy away from continuing. "Lana misses you. Really- everyone misses you." I nod. I know. I didn't keep everyone up to date, and have a multitude of ignored texts. "I missed you, for what it's worth."

"Mr. Luthor, I think I have to quit." I don't look up. I say it into a mug of nearly flat beer. I gulp down a quarter of the mug before going on. "Don't get me wrong, I've loved working with you. I just…I think it's time."

He doesn't respond until both of our mugs are empty. We sit, slurping to fill the silence. "Ok." I start to pull my sweater across my shoulders, lifting my hand to ask for the bill. "Are you cold?"

I shrug, my hand still unnoticed by the bartender, his shoulders slumped over a screen which doesn't respond to his thick fingers. "I figured you'd want to get back to the airport."

"We haven't eaten yet."

"You still want to eat?"

"Well, I'm hungry." I glance at him, my hand dropping down to my side. He raises his own hand only an inch before the bartender is in front of us again. "Could we get a pitcher this time? That and anything you have that includes the word 'battered'." I scoff.

"Double the cheese curds, please." We fill our mugs again.

"So, how can I convince you to stay."

"You can't."

"Try me."

"Twenty golden statues of me and my family. And maybe a heartfelt reenactment of 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown'."

"I feel like that's a dig at the fact that I'm bald."

"You're bald?" He laughs, choking on his beer and stretching his neck away from me to save me from the spatter.

"But really, what would make you stay?" He asks, wiping the corners of his mouth.

"I'm serious, Mr. Luthor. I can't be your assistant anymore."

"Then why do you still call me Mr. Luthor?"

"Cuz it's sexy." He laughs again, his voice getting louder as his mug gets emptier. "I don't think I was meant to be an assistant. I think I took the job because I thought it would set me up for anything I wanted. But the truth is, I was too scared to do what I really wanted. And after everything with my dad, with everything that happened in Smallville, I'm just done with being scared."

He nods, listening intently. "So no amount of money or pleading can convince you?" I nod, though I know I have a price. I'm not that strong. But he doesn't have to know that. "Oh, to have the luxury of choice. I envy you, you know."

"Right, poor little rich boy has to inherit an unspeakable amount of money. How will you cope?"

"Don't do that. Don't mistake money for freedom."

"Spoken like a man who's never been without." He nods, though the motion is quick and jerky- an outlet for increasing energy rather than any sort of affirmation.

"It's not my money, you know. It's my father's money. Everything is his; the company, every project, even me." He straightens as an array of fried foods are deposited in front of him. He tentatively picks up a ball of fried cheese, biting down the middle and sucking in air through his teeth. "Iss hah" he struggles to spit out as he attempts to chew. I pop one in my mouth whole, blowing through the hot grease.

"You know, your father's lucky to have you on his team. You're really amazing at what you do."

"He's not lucky, Sarah. He made me like this. Every step in raising me was designed to sculpt me into his perfect successor. And even then, I still let things get in the way." He pops another cheese curd in his mouth.

"You know, your father's a dick. Did I ever tell you what he said to me?"

"You mean the night of the gala?"

"Yeah, the night you 'disappeared'." I bend my fingers around the word "disappeared", not caring whether he knows I know about the blur thing. He narrows his eyes at me but doesn't question me. "He implied I was a harlot."

"And you're upset he had you pegged from the get go?" My eyes widen at him and I gear up to smack him, only to catch a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. The action is contagious and I start to laugh, his own chuckling soon joining mine. I still hit him on the shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder. "You know, you should have told me he said that. It's not ok for him to talk to you that way."

"You just agreed with him!"

"Well, I'm not your boss anymore." His eyes bore into mine and I feel an inexplicable heat rise to my cheeks. "And anyways, I don't actually think it. My father, on the other hand…"

"Is a dick."

"Exactly." He seems frightened by admitting that, looking down at the basket in front of him and stuffing two more curds in his mouth.

"You know, you're nothing like him." He scoffs, brushing me off. "I'm serious. Lex, I don't think you understand how different you guys are. I can feel it on you. Your dad, he's…well, he's a bit like a cyborg. You can tell, he would leave a man to die if it meant he turned a profit."

"What makes you think I'm not like that?"

"Don't get me wrong, I think you have the potential to be like that." He picks at his nails on the table, and I feel his mood take a downturn. I slide my hand over his, squeezing lightly. "But I can see you fight it. All the time. And every time you do good, you get a little less like him." After a moment, his hand squeezes mine in response.

"It was a bit easier to be good with you around." I don't know how we shifted so close to one another, but I become conscious all of a sudden how his arm is beginning to meld with my own, our hands intertwined.

"Liar." I breathe.

"I don't need to lie to you. I can't really. You never seem to believe me." I chuckle and he stares at our hands, swirling his thumb along my skin.

When we've both eaten to the point of throwing up, I motion for the check, which I don't even pretend to fight to pay for. Instead, I let Lex reach for his wallet and hand a sleek card over to the bartender.

"I'll get next time."

"Next time?"

"You know; next time you fly all the way out to see me." I laugh at my own assumption, aware of how ridiculous that notion is.

"Deal." He takes my hand in his own and leads me out to the parking lot. The air is cool and nips at any exposed flesh, pinching a ruby red glow into my cheeks. He stops in front of my mom's car and turns to me. "Are you ok to drive?" I nod yes, but the movement is cautious and clearly plagued by uncertainty. "Ok, then. I can have a taxi here soon enough. Neither of us are in a state to drive."

"What about my mom's car?"

"I'll have it moved for us. Don't worry about it." I don't know how he can make such promises. He's a force of nature which eludes any type of understanding. I don't try to, anyways. Instead, I watch him as he calls and types, arranging and planning. And all at once I feel silly. I can't even see what he ever needed in me.

He asks for my address but I don't want to speak. The beer has filled my mouth with caramel, and to open my jaw would require a type of effort which I don't want to waste on an address. He asks again and my eyes try desperately to focus on the shape of his words on his lips. His hand is still in mine, the warmth of his palm radiating through my body. Wrapping my other hand around his arm, I pull down, bringing his face in line with my own.

He doesn't fight me as I press my lips to his.