8. Someone

MY NOTEPAD REMAINS empty even as November turns into December. I'm just frustrated. I can't come up with anything. Fucking Seifer. Leave it to him to task me with no less than a complete life do-over. I guess he figures he's done it, so why can't I?

I try to imagine his path—a fling with Rinoa one summer, and then brainwashed by Ultimecia the next. Then it's a judge, a jury, and off to prison. Twenty-five years, no chance for parole. He fights for an appeal, which he loses. Cid steps in. The lawyers get replaced with better lawyers. He gets a second appeal, wins. And just like that, he's free after three years, which seems mercifully short and far too long all at the same time.

Sometimes, I wish I could be like him. I think on some level, I've always wished I could, even when I really didn't want to admit it. He's just always been so resilient; he never gives up on himself. It doesn't matter if all the odds are stacked against him. He'll fight back. And hell if that hasn't paid off. He seems so content with where he's at, now. I don't think I've ever had that.

No wonder he calls me a bitch. I've never experienced hardships like the ones he's faced head-on; my problems are all trivial by comparison, and they only ever seem to stem from one source: me. It's a lot like that old phrase, "everywhere you go, there you are". Some people find a way to rewrite the narrative, and some people just keep reading the same sentence over and over and over again, expecting the words to rearrange themselves. Count me in the latter group.

—

INEVITABLY, MY MIND goes back to Rinoa. I don't particularly want it to, but I've never had much luck with forcing my thoughts to go in the direction I'd like. But the more I reflect—on wants, on life, on everything—the more it all seems like all paths start and end in the exact same place: with her. It's making me nuts. I wish I could turn that obsessive, desperate part of my brain off. Douse it in bourbon, quell it with a joint. Nothing works. The desire only quiets, then returns.

Sitting at my desk and staring at my laptop screen does little to help, either. I surrender and shut it down before stepping out onto my patio to have a cigarette. But even my bad habits dredge up memories. How angry she was when she caught me for the first time. The way her frown would deepen and bridge across her nose when she smelled it on me. How she'd always, always ask me to quit.

I think I'd started around eighteen, after a Lunar Cry cleanup mission in Esthar had gone sideways. We'd suffered heavy casualties, one SeeD and two Estharii soldiers killed, another dozen injured—a total disaster. Xu and I were stuck alone outside the Presidential Palace, reeling from reporting our failure to Kiros of all people, and she'd offered me one. Of course I accepted. At that point, I'd take anything if I thought it'd fix my head even a little bit.

Rinoa didn't find out for months, maybe even a year. I'd tried hard to hide it. But then she caught me after a date one night. I was drunk, and I let my guard down. I guess I'd figured by then she must have known; how could she not? I found out quickly how mistaken I was when her eyebrows knit together and her jaw came down, letting out the faintest gasp. But she didn't need to be loud for me to know I had just burned out a good night with the flick of a lighter. And she was furious.

It took about a week of cold shoulders and fighting over text messages, but eventually Rinoa, being the person she is, forgave me. She always forgave me. And I got comfortable with it; her relenting was something I could count on, a safety net to catch my transgressions. It almost made my downward tilt unnoticeable, at least at first. The Xanax helped, too, of course; it made me spaced out, detached. It didn't take long before the smoking became the least of her concerns. Our bond was turning sour, curdling into rot.

It wasn't constantly like that, though. My spiral had moments where I tried to claw my way back, times when I tried to wake up. The moment that stands out now is obvious. I remember her asking me if she ever saw us having a baby. I said, "No." Emphatically. I didn't want to bring a child into this world. Not my world. I was toxic, I was poison. A kid with a burden for a father seemed unfathomable.

But then she started crying. Crying hard. I asked her what was wrong; she should have understood where I was coming from. She was faced with me every day. It was easy to see I was little more than a sick waste. I didn't understand it, at least not until she motioned toward the bathroom.

The positive pregnancy test was sitting on the sink, two undeniably blue lines marking our fate—we were going to be parents.

I think that moment, realizing I was a dad-in-wait, was the most scared I'd ever been. I knew nothing about parenting. I had no frame of reference. Cid and Laguna, they were just fragments of father figures at best. But Rinoa was in the same boat; she lost her mother when she was small, and her father was near-absent most of her life, leaving her to be raised by a small army of au pairs and hired staff. Add on top of that the fact that we were twenty-four and twenty-three, still practically kids. Dumb ones. Beyond SeeD, beyond this boxed life, we knew nothing.

We were fucked. Rinoa didn't want to believe that though, ever the optimist; she went to Zell's mom, went to Matron, went to her grandmother, went to anyone she thought could help guide her. I admired her for trying. Especially during the hard weeks. Weeks where she'd be sick or nauseated for her entire waking hours. Weeks of whirlwind emotions. Weeks of swollen ankles. Weeks of pain.

I knew I had to clean up my act. And I put an actual effort in at first. I got myself off the benzos and stopped drinking. That was the hardest. My anxiety rebounded in full force, clouding every thought in my mind like a cataract. I didn't sleep for days. After that, it was the return of the insomnia that had been so prevalent in my pre-Xanax life. I couldn't think, couldn't concentrate.

Still, I pushed through. I had to. It wasn't about me, after all. I had to do better for this baby, and I didn't have a lot of time. I bought a book on parenting, somehow managed to read it twice. Did prenatal classes. Helped Rinoa when she was sick, or uncomfortable, or tired. It had been so long since I'd made an attempt to be her knight; devoting myself to her again felt almost foreign.

We even started to get along then—at least for a little while—after endless months of tension and resentment. I remember sitting on the couch with her one night, marvelling at the roundness of her belly, feeling the smooth surface for kicks. It felt like I was touching something rare, something that would never come again, like a pearl unearthed from the sand. A daughter. By that point, we knew. She asked me if I had thought of any names. I hadn't. I wasn't creative; I was kind of hoping she'd have it figured out.

Her list was long. She started rattling it off, some names bland, some weird, some just bad. Some, I think she'd gotten from Selphie, who'd taken to making up words or mashing two names into one. Those were the worst. But similarly to figuring out what I want in life, it was easier for me to say what I didn't like than what I did. Rinoa started to get annoyed; I think she thought I'd leave her with a short-list, but instead, I left her with nothing at all.

I apologized, and she looked at me with those big, warm eyes. I remember her telling me it was okay as she reached up to push my hair away from my face, something she was wont to do, and then me, catching a glimpse of her small wrist tattoo: a pair of angel wings and a treble clef. Something to remind her of her mother, she'd once told me. My mind started running on that line, her angel motif, her musical background. And then I blurted out her name.

"Harper."

—

I COME TO a complete stall on my life do-over as days continue to add up with no progress. And my thoughts of Rinoa don't seem to subside, either; rather, the opposite as I pick up Harper and see the black Range Rover parked outside again. It's the third or fourth time I've seen it there, always sitting in the exact same spot.

I'm at the point where I keep waffling between fear and jealousy. There's definitely someone. It makes me absolutely fucking mental that he hides, too. Whether he's tucked away somewhere in the house or sitting in his SUV under the cover of tinted windows, I'm not sure. It shouldn't matter. Goddamn my neurotic brain. I can feel the neurons rubbing together, trying to start a fire.

I look at Harper. If I was low enough, I could ask her about him, but I resist. I don't want to drag her into my paranoid world. My mind spins out quietly instead, cycling through insecurities like a playlist on shuffle all the way home.

For one, I already know this guy is better than I am. He has to be. He's certainly motivated enough to have a job that lets him afford that kind of SUV (which, not to mention, is a hell of a lot nicer than my fucking Honda with something like 100,000km on it).

I wonder what he looks like. Is he taller than me? That's not a hard feat to achieve. I imagine he's got perfect vision. Straight teeth, too. Always well-dressed.

And what about vices? Sure, he drinks, but it's just social, not a necessity. He doesn't smoke either, and he's probably been stoned less than a handful of times ever. In fact, I bet you he works out four times a week, probably has a trainer and a meal plan. Not to mention, he's smarter than I am. And funnier. And happier.

And he sure as hell doesn't waste any time obsessing over an empty notepad. Range Rover guy definitely knows what he wants out of life.

I might just drive myself crazy. Fucking hell. The only thing that slows my tangent is the view of the headlights settling on the townhouse. I pull up into the driveway, shut my average man's car off. If I didn't have Harper, I might not have ended up back here at all; knowing me, I'd probably ask Quistis to meet me at The Oxford instead, or maybe I'd even head to East Deling to rant at Seifer again (and of course I'd get drunk enough that I'd need him to call me a cab ride home).

Tonight though, for better or worse (but most likely better), that's not the case. I let Harper out of her carseat, and right away I notice that she has eyes only for me, her smile as wide as ever. Part of me can't help but wonder how long it'll be until that look turns cold. One day, she'll be old enough to see me for what I really am. It's enough to make me feel like I need to apologize now for being such a fucked up father, to tell her I'm sorry that I'm so worn down, or that I can barely keep my head on straight.

Her smile slumps a bit, and I can see her face contort into a look of concern. "Are you okay, Dad?"

I nod. "Yeah, Harps, I'm fine."

God, I really don't deserve this kid, but I don't know what I would do without her. She's only four-years-old and she's already saved me more times than I can count. I manage a smirk mixed in with a sigh, and I pick her up, carrying her and her backpack inside.

"I can walk, you know!" she says.

I don't want to let her go. I just want her to stay like this, small in my arms. I pull her closer and kiss her cheek. "I know."

—

ELLONE ALWAYS SEEMS to think that if I have a problem, I should go to Laguna. I get it; she has this whole different relationship with him that I never got to experience. She knows that fatherly side, his potential as a parent. And yes, he is probably good at giving advice—I just don't know if I'm there yet.

So I shouldn't be surprised when she tosses the same recycled line my way after I invite her for dinner Saturday evening. I guess I'm still a bit disappointed, though. I thought maybe she'd have something insightful to say, something to help me figure my shit out. Maybe it's too tall an order—I'm practically asking her to tell me what I should do with my life. I've just been getting so tired of looking at an empty notepad and having no answer whatsoever.

"You know, he's not going to judge you," she sits forward, sticks her elbows on the dining table. "He'd be happy you reached out."

I shrug and turn my eyes down to my empty plate. "It's just…too personal."

"Per-son-al," Harper parrots, looking quickly to me for approval.

I smirk. "See, she gets it."

Ellone rolls her eyes. "Okay, so what, then? You want the whole big-sister-knows-best lecture?"

I roll my eyes right back at her as I get up. I clear the empty dishes from the table, carry them over to the kitchen, load them into the dishwasher. Harper follows me and asks if she can play with her cars. I nod. Better that she doesn't hear this, anyways. I don't need her wondering why her father is having an identity crisis right now (preferably not ever). She bounds off to her room, yelling a long, muddled "thanks" as she heads upstairs.

I finish cleaning up and turn my focus back to Ellone. I realize I haven't answered her question, left hanging in the air between us for a good five minutes. She's looking at me, her eyebrow raised up in waiting as she tilts her head. "Well?"

I already have a good idea what she's going to say. She'll give me a million different ways to take better care of myself, and she'll tell me that life isn't so bad. Of course, she'll be right about all of it, too. But knowing the conclusion is still different from hearing it out loud. I lean on the island, give her a half-smile. "Sure, hit me with your lecture, Miss Loire."

"Okay, first of all, don't call me that, Commander Leonhart," she snaps back.

Ugh. Touché.

"Secondly, you know I love you right?"

Those words always hit me weird. I think it's because I feel guilty. I've always found a way to hurt the people who have ever dared say them to me—Rinoa, Ellone, Laguna, Quistis, even Harper. I can't really tell you why, other than to say I'm just fucked up. It's like I have this need to distance myself from the ones who bother to care. If I think about it, it's amazing that there's anyone left in the world that loves me at all. Do I deserve to accept it? They would say yes, but I'm still unsure.

"Yeah." I try to shove my inner turmoil down into a corner. "...I love you, too, so what?"

And saying it back is just as difficult as accepting it. I don't really have a good reason why. It's just three stupid little words. I guess it all boils down to that same fear—that one day there won't be someone on the other end to reciprocate. I have to remind myself not to think like that. No one can predict the future, right?

"So I just wanted to make sure," she says.

I think the thing about my sister is that she's almost too nice, too forgiving. She always tries to plan her words carefully, forever making concessions so as to not hurt any feelings. I think it stems from her power, which has always left her with a heightened sense of empathy. I'm the complete opposite. I urge her to get to the point.

"That's it?"

Her lips purse together for a second, thin. "No, that's not it."

"Then what?"

She stands up and sets herself across from me at the island. "Don't take this the wrong way."

Well now, that's always a good start. I feel like I've been told that exact phrase more times in the last five years than I have in the previous twenty-four. What have I done to set myself up for that kind of talk? Well, plenty actually, nevermind. I meet her gaze and give her a small nod. "I won't."

She smiles, not a happy one. It's the smile she does before she says something she thinks might sting, a gentle look to soften the blow. I wonder if her students see this exact face before they're about to be reprimanded. "It's hard for me to give you any sort of advice on what you might like when you don't do anything."

I give her a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she sighs, "you just don't do anything. How do I say this?" She takes a small pause. I can see she's trying to reconfigure, trying to get her thoughts straight. "What does your week look like when Harper is gone?"

Bland. Boring. A bit sad, maybe. I don't know. I shrug.

"Let me put it another way. What do you do when she's gone, Squall?"

Dwell on life while listening to Revolver? "I work."

"...And?" She tucks her hair behind her ears and clasps her hands together. It almost looks like she's praying for me to give her some sort of affirmation.

I relent. "There is no 'and'."

"Exactly," she says. "All you do is work. And you don't take care of yourself. I'm worried about you—"

"—Don't." I hate it when people worry about me. It just reinforces the fact that I'm a burden on their lives, someone who's nothing but a drain. I wish I could change. I just need someone to point me in the proper goddamned direction, because right now, I'm dizzying myself trying to figure out where the hell to go.

"Squall, listen." Ellone reaches across the island and rests her hand on my arm. My immediate reaction is to pull away, but I don't. Instead, I cast my eyes down to see her palm covering up part of my Griever tattoo. She continues, her voice softer, somehow, "It's not that I don't want to help you figure out what it is you want out of life. I do. It's just that no one can answer that but you."

On some level, she's right. I remember as a kid, and then as a teen, spending all day lying in bed, begging for a way to make it easier to rely on people. The irony that I'm leaning into others to fix something I can only do myself isn't lost on me.

"How do I do that, though?" The question falls out of my mouth before I can give it the benefit of a second thought.

"For starters, I think you need to take a step back," she says. "You've got this incredible ability to see the bigger picture, but I think that's part of the problem."

"Oh?"

She nods. "Just start small. Pick one new thing to try. It doesn't have to be over-the-top." Her smile turns lopsided. That look, I recognize, is reserved for me. Her big sister face. "And maybe smoke a little less weed, hm? Or how about, don't drink every night of the week?"

I laugh. "You're not supposed to know about that."

"Well, you really suck at hiding it." She pulls her hand back and motions to the empty whisky bottle I've neglected to throw into the recycling. "But if you're still hung up after all that, I think you should talk to your dad. Get some perspective from someone who's been where you are."

I wish I could find a way to be more comfortable with Laguna. I've lived so much of my life in parallel with his, but he's got a good twenty-seven years on me. There's a lot of experience to draw on there. Truth be told, I'd probably have a lot more things figured out if I could see him as a dad instead of a man that entered my life as I was hitting the cusp of adulthood. My nagging question of what-do-I-want might've even had an answer already.

I think I'm uncomfortable because I'm afraid. It's like everything else. I push away what I don't want to lose. I know it doesn't make any sense—it's a perpetual complex—but in my head, if something isn't that close to begin with, then it won't hurt if it's suddenly gone. That attitude made a bit of sense back when I was younger, an orphan child. Not so much anymore. But what makes sense and what my mind does are two different, divergent things. Every time I am near Laguna, that mass of anxiety seems to rise up to the surface. It holds me back, stops me from ever getting too attached.

And I know on some level that I just need to get over it, especially if I'm going to give Seifer's advice a real shot. Otherwise I'm going to keep struggling the way I have been for weeks already. It wouldn't be the first time I've reached out to Laguna, either; I've asked his opinion on plenty of things in the past. But they were always benign things: I'd ask him which album should I listen to next, or what I should get Ellone for her birthday, or how to make Annette's Dollet onion soup.

This isn't benign at all. It's real. At least, it is to me.

"I'll think about it," I finally say.

—

JUST WHEN I feel like things might be getting a little bit better, something always seems to come up and put me right back in my place. I'd spent most of Sunday thinking about what Ellone said—how I should take smaller steps, how I should cut back on my vices, how I should reach out to Laguna. It's all so much easier said than done, but I know she's right. It's just difficult for me to wrap my head around.

I wonder what it would be like if I actually managed to ask my father for help. The very thought of it makes my anxiety spike. Still, the prospect of getting some actual insight, of finally getting a grasp on what to do, does seem to ease some of the apprehensions I've been carrying with me. Maybe I'd even have some sort of familial breakthrough. Wouldn't that be strange? To actually give Laguna a chance to be a parent—it's something I've secretly wanted for years, even though at times it's been hard for me to admit. I just need to figure out how to finally move forward, to get past my fear and bridge the divide.

I try to keep a positive mindset as I take Harper back to Rinoa's house. I put on The Beatles and watch her in the rearview mirror, her face brightening at the sound of Here Comes the Sun, her favourite song. She starts to sway her feet and bob her head in time to the music, and she sings along, her interpretation of the lyrics jumbled enough to make me laugh. Still, she manages her way back every time George sings out the words, "It's alright."

If only things could actually be alright. Maybe then I would be okay with what comes next. But this isn't Abbey Road, not even close, and as I pull up to Rinoa's, my breath makes a quick exit from my lungs. Positive mindset? It's been sideswiped, crashed out, nothing more than burning wreckage lying on the wrong side of my mind. Because of course I've made it just in time to see Mr. Range Rover himself, kissing Rinoa before heading out her front door. I adjust my glasses and try to get a look at him as I park my car.

Even at a glimpse, I can tell he's the embodiment of my insecurities, the affirmation of everything that was in my head. Blonde hair, clean cut, tall, fit. He sees me driving towards the house, and his pace picks up. Damn him. He's too quick; he slips into that fucking SUV and drives away before I can manage to collect myself.

I look back at Harper once more, who seems completely oblivious to my impending breakdown. I'm certain Rinoa has told her to say nothing of this man; she probably fed her something like, "Mom just needs to tell Dad in her own way." I get it; it's the right thing to do, not involving our daughter. I just wish this didn't all have to feel so goddamned secretive.

As I help Harper out of the car, I'm actually grateful for my SeeD training of all fucking things. It helps me manage to hold my shit together long enough to fake a smile for her, a task that feels more and more difficult as I walk up the steps that he just walked down.

Rinoa keeps herself stoic as she stands there, holding the door open. My face, in turn, betrays nothing to her—I make it a mission to not let her see how bothered I am. Giving any indication would be like defeat. If we still shared a bond, I wouldn't stand a chance, but now it's more like a game of chess. Her eyes meet mine, scanning for some sort of sign, long enough that for a second, I worry that maybe I've cracked.

She knows I've seen him. The secret is out in the open now, bare for me and all her neighbours to see, no longer deniable. I could say something if I wanted to, call her out, tell her that there's no point in trying to sweep this under some rug. But instead, I say nothing. What end would that even serve? A fight on the front step, right in front of Harper?

Her stare hangs in a moment more, and it makes me anxious, like maybe she's expecting a fight. But then she flashes that same smile she always does when I drop Harper off. An exhale draws out of me as I hand her the backpack, and she plays through the usual well-rehearsed small talk. "How was she this weekend?"

"Good," I say. "We got to visit with Ellone."

"Nice," she says as she kneels down and wraps her arms around Harper. All I can think about is how her arms were around someone else no more than two minutes ago. Fuck, this should not be hard. She thankfully turns her attention away from me and gives our daughter a quick kiss. "Did you have fun with Auntie?"

"Yup!" Harper says, and then looks up to me. I'm sure she can tell I'm upset, even though I'm trying hard not to show it. "I had fun with Dad, too!"

This kid. I want to cry. Or scream. I don't know. She wriggles out of Rinoa's grasp and runs back over to me, arms outreached. I pick her up, exactly how she didn't want to be picked up only a couple nights before, but this time, she laughs and plants me with a kiss of her own. It's enough to make my resolve wane, and I catch myself burying my face in her hair, trying to do everything I can to not fully break right here on the landing.

"I had fun with you too, Harps."