She demolishes Granny's lasagna before Ruby has had time to put it from the box to a mostly clean plate, and it's only when she wipes the sauce with back of her palm and proceeds to lick it clean -snorting a bit of tomato in the process- that she meets Ruby's deadpan look.
"So you met Belle."
She wipes her hands deliberately slowly, in an effort to gather herself. it's only been two days until she woke up to a nightmare in her own kitchen, but in Ruby Time, it's now-o'clock. She has no concept of bad timing; she's prepared to confront anything head-on.
"I did. Seems nice."
"Bull-fucking-shit."
"First -overkill and second- she is nice"
"I know that, you Ragged Barbie. Hot too, in an underpaid first grade teacher kind of way-"
"I will never figure out your type."
"-but she's with Killian. And you're acting out."
"I am not. I'll have you know I've been very productive. Caught my latest two skips, went on a date with Walsh, renewed my license way before it was up to expire, had my nails done and picked up more shifts in the gun range. I'm fine. I've been doing-"
"-Everything you can to be out of the house."
The gulp of wine lodges itself in her mouth, suddenly sour. She looks back at the TV -Bachelorette contestants arguing over who's there for the right reasons- but the ball is dropped. She's not sad, because she hasn't allowed herself time to be, her stuffing herself with food, alcohol and distractions, she's functional -but not functioning.
She doesn't bother with context. "It will end badly," she mutters, lasagna abandoned.
"Yeah." Ruby agrees. "Look at you."
She does. This is what people must see in her, curled into herself, not meeting Ruby's eyes. It occurs to her she's too disgusting to think about professing her shameful secret to her ruggedly hot roommate, but it doesn't help when her best friend rubs it in.
"Maybe he says no, but so what? You're a grown woman; you can handle one Irishman not liking you back. What you can't do is wallow on my vintage couch and cope with your heartbreak like some dudebro TikToker promoting brain vitamins instead of therapy. No hiding behind productivity; you need to confront this. If you don't, you'll drown yourself in alcohol, hook up with a DJ on a random Tuesday, get evicted, invest in crypto, and end up doing lines of coke on a business retreat with other repressed divorcees. And I can't be friends with people who don't eat carbs!"
Ruby is the only person whose descent into madness makes perfect sense.
"Okay, damn." she concedes, "You're relentless."
She should confront him, if for no other reason than to escape this Olivia Rodrigo music video hell that is her life now.
–
Got a pretty face, a pretty boyfriend, too
I wanna be you so bad and I don't even know you
She pauses the song, searching for something a grown woman with no boyfriend problems would listen to.
Taylor Swift.
–
She doesn't do it. In her defense — she always imagines herself on trial in The Good Wife, or The Good Fight, or Elsbeth, or whatever lawyer-based installment currently fighting Dick Wolf for ratings — she didn't set a time. Bearing your heart out to your very much taken roommate, it turns out, cannot be neatly scheduled. Give it some years and Google Cal will make an alert for that.
She turns the key in the apartment's lock with a sense of gnarly foreboding, whatever horror awaits her, she's too tired to resist. Let the monsters win, for once.
It's Belle, of course, because the universe sure has a Seinfeld-level bad sense of humor. As if she didn't come from a full shift in the town library, she's now throwing herself a last-minute cheese plate — a charcuterie board with Camembert and tastefully aged figs, in their own house, she didn't even know they had the ingredients — to which she graciously invites Emma.
In the past week, she's been aware of Belle's existence, with the shower running all the time -a sure hint of her sexual life- and the apartment smelling more flowery than usual, but she'd dart out with a quick greeting and vague promises to hang out, in an unknown part of the distant future. In another time dimension, where Emma isn't stumped by her own pathetic cowardice.
–
Nine years ago
Emma bursts into the dorm, nearly knocking out the beer bottles in her wake. The floor is littered with the remnants of one of their parties, Cheeto dust and smoke filling the air. It's not the messiest she's seen her brother's frat house, but it sure is the emptiest. "Is David here?"
Killian makes a show of looking around the glaringly empty room. Everyone else must be sleeping the hangover away. He lifts up the nearest pizza box, no David busting from under it. Only Killian, in his band's shirt and unkempt hair.
She's known him for months at this point, an exchange student who sneaked his way into their friend group overnight, through annoying and bonding with her brother in equal measure. But they're always buffered by friends or a chill brunette with her arms around various parts of his body -thankfully the decent ones. He's always eager to flirt and entertain, which is why seeing him like this feels so strange and out of place, like a cicada stripped of its shell.
"Afraid not, Swan. He's with a girl on a picnic," he shrugs. "Mary-Margaret or something. Cute, sparrow-looking. So you get just lil' ol' me," he slurs his words, courtesy of a half empty liquor bottle tethering dangerously close to the edge of the wonky coffee table.
"I'll come back then," she turns to leave, willing her tears to stay in for just a little bit longer. Such a bad timing for her brother to play Prince Charming.
"I have cookies," Killian calls and she executes an unbalanced U-turn.
"Was that a euphemism?"
A corner of his mouth trudges up, the shadow of amusement working its way across his features. "It didn't occur to me" he says, surprised or disappointed with himself. "Alas, I have these and you'd save my stomach some serious trouble if you ate some, I'm depressed and high enough to finish the box."
She takes him in. "Jesus, you look worse than I feel."
He laughs, but she doesn't. "I can never untangle the web of your humor, Swan. You got these dimples popping but your eyes are…" she waits "foresty." So this is not his first joint. "Mysterious, haunting… green."
She opts to ignore whatever this is and comes closer.
"I'm just glad someone has it worse than me today." She gestures at the state of his surroundings. "No offense.'' She plops on the couch next to him, taking the joint. He presents it with a flourish, a flick of his wrist as if he's a Victorian gentleman helping a recently-debuted lady off the carriage. A gentleman and a rogue. He's a crunchy bundle of contradictions and she finds herself itching for a bite. He can be a harmless distraction from the knot lodged in her throat. Until she sees it.
"Oh. my. god. These are- " she gestures wildly to the cookies. The red icing spells Happy-
"Anniversary ones." He supplies. "Pretty tasty though." He shoves another piece in his mouth and instantly regrets it, pausing mid chew for a vomit assessment. Eventually, he swallows with effort.
"And why are they the cornerstone of your pity party?"
"Oy!" he unveils the briticism he saves for last call in the Rabbit Hole "Why are you here? Bringing my pity party to ever greater lows? What do you need Dave for?"
The weed relaxes her, but it's the distance with an almost stranger that has her willing to admit her latest epic failure.
"Will you promise to match my confession with an even more embarrassing one?"
He huffs. "Without a doubt." They pinky promise, thumb pressing hers like a seal.
"I had a presentation downtown. Neal was supposed to drive me, my Bug is busted. He forgot."
"And offered some lame excuse?" he asks knowingly and she nods. Neal had a conveniently scheduled errand with his dad. The same dad who he hasn't spoken to in five years. At least he could be more creative with his excuses if he was about to stand her up. Again.
"It's not this, I mean, it is, but it's like my eyes opened to all the times he hasn't been there when I needed him and that just-"
Hurts, unveils parts of her childhood she's not ready to face.
"Sucks" she finishes dryly.
"You seem to be the person who'd confront him immediately, judging from your penchant for pub quiz justice." If the answer is not written on the appropriate non-napkiny form, it shouldn't get any points, sue her for yelling it at the quizmaster, it has nothing to do with the fact that she was losing the pop round. One thing you learn growing up in foster care, confront people or they'll keep fucking you.
"I did. We broke up…" she trails off until she sees his impassive face. "Why are you not surprised? Do I seem so gullible, so pathetic to people that it's only natural that my man left me waiting on the side of the road?"
"He didn't know what you drink," he says, as if this explains any of it. "We've been at the Rabbit Hole, what, a dozen times? Not once has he remembered your drink. Always trailing off and waiting for you to order. A man who's not even bothering with such basic information about you… he wouldn't bother with your needs." In response to her silent query, he adds, "Vodka Spritzer."
"Was I blind to it? All this fucking time. Even you noticed, and you usually have your hands full." The jab comes before she can think, but he lets it drop.
"Love Is Blindness. Jack White." She remembers him playing that song on the electric guitar, strong vocals with a tinge of melancholy in the chorus. "We choose to see the best in people when we're in love, which is bloody daft. Why shut our brains out to the signals, just when we need it the most?" A deep sigh ripples through him.
"Is this what happened to you? I didn't know you were seeing someone, long enough for anniversary pastries."
The weed relaxes them pleasantly. She takes off her leather boots and tucks her feet under her, waiting for him.
"Milah."
She squints, the name vaguely familiar and unique. "Who's Milah?"
He takes a huge drag, releasing the smoke in soft pillows of air.
"Professor McIntyre."
"Oh shit." A very talented, very married professor. In between puffs, he tells her how he had a thing for her and they became close when she was his thesis supervisor. Days turning to nights and academic discussions blurring into deep conversations. The allure of being ferociously self-assured and accomplished in a sea of college kids dipping their toes in life. The stolen moments and hurried touches.
"I thought me being her student was the problem, ethics boards and her job. But now I'm finished with my thesis, it's graded, no conflict of interest. Turns out I'm too much of a risk for her." She doesn't disagree, or judge. "You think I'm an asshole for messing with a married woman?"
"I think there's something deadly hopeful in you. You got into this with her, even if you knew deep down it would end badly. You're not stupid, I skimmed through your thesis. Even with David, you pestered him enough to turn the punches into drink invites and Stanley Tucci movie nights -yes I know about that. Pretty people think they can do anything, and for that, they do."
"Calling me pretty, Swan?" She rolls her eyes at that. "I prefer dashingly handsome, but coming from you, I'll take it. So what, is hope… hopeless?"
His eyes, ocean blue ringed with the pink of exhaustion, plead with hers, and she can't find it in herself to placate him. She sinks onto the couch, and he rests his head on her shoulder.
"Not all loves are meant to be."
—
Present Day
Waking up at six in order to sneak out of one's own house to avoid their roommate is another level of insanity. She doesn't risk any noise, heeled boots on hand so she'll put them on outside the door.
"Morning" his voice halts her in her tracks. Killian stands behind the kitchen island, an array of ingredients within reach as he prepares breakfast. "I wanna say… Esme?"
"Ha, ha. It hasn't been that long."
"Since we said more than two words or since you had a proper breakfast?" She ignores the accusation, coming behind him to take a mug.
"Where's Belle?" She asks but the only acceptable answer would be don't know, we broke up.
"Volunteering at the animal shelter."
Of course she does.
"We were hoping to do a movie night tonight." She almost spills the coffee at the royal we, like they're celebrating their anniversary at the Hampton's for god's sake. "Trainspotting. Drugs and the guy you love from star wars. You're welcome to join us."
"Pass,"she replies abruptly, and Killian raises an eyebrow in surprise. "I mean, I have to meet Elsa after work. For dinner. And drinks!" As plausible an excuse as any.
He sets down the towel and rests his hands on the table. "The same Elsa who's currently visiting her parents in Norway?"
Fuck you, Instagram.
"What have I done to warrant your constant dismissals?"
"It's not you-"
"Save it, Swan. The least you could do is give me the courtesy of an explanation, as you have no problem telling people why they annoy you. Not that I recall ever irritating you, considering you're hardly ever around anymore." He waits for her rebuttal that never comes. "Thanks for helping with the yard sale by the way."
Damn, she forgot. She promised she'd help him over the weekend, but she spent it bitching with Ruby instead. Shame courses through her veins and lunges on her throat. Jealousy is blinding her to her own shitty behavior.
He huffs, and she's transported back to their college days, one bad thing and he's blaming himself. Not being good enough for Milah, his band not making it big, Killian always looked at himself first.
"She's not bad, you know. Belle. If you dain to give her a chance."
So this is all for Belle's benefit.
"I'm not here to entertain your overnight guests," she instantly regrets the words as they leave her mouth.
His worried expression morphs into one of sadness, the weight of disappointment in her dipping off his shoulders.
"She just broke off a shitty relationship and moved to another state. Can you not relate to that?" he asks pointedly. She can, intimately and that makes it worse. "Offer her a modicum of friendship?" He tosses the salami and closes the sandwich neatly. "I'm used to jumping hoops for your friendship, Emma, but now you're being cruel."
Tears well up her eyes, a wave of emotion clutching her heart. She's behaving just like the people she despises—dismissive and rude when there's no possibility of reciprocating her feelings in the exact way she likes. Even if they're unexpressed. As she gazes at Killian, for the first time, she questions if she even deserves him as a friend.
"Here," he hands her the sandwich -her favorite- and a thermos with fresh hot cocoa. "Good luck on the Rodrix case." He remembered her big day, of course.
She doesn't deserve him. Not yet.
But she will fight.