21. Lost

I SPEND THE remainder of my suspension splitting my time between Harper, visits with Quistis, trips to Monterosa Vinyl, coffee outings with Ellone, and more dates, a handful of which are okay, a few that are mediocre, and a couple that are just plain bad.

One from the bad category came courtesy of Karina S., 33, who thought that coming on strong would somehow be a good way to lock down a partner. During our dinner, only three topics were covered. One, her last boyfriend, who broke up with her because he didn't want kids. Two, her so-called mission to find a husband so she can start having kids. Three, the number of kids she wants to have (three, spaced one year apart, ideally one girl and two boys, not in that order).

Needless to say, I am good with just the one kid. The thought of having another, let alone three more, is alarming at best and batshit crazy at worst. Not to mention the incessant husband-talk. Call it a throwback to my abandonment issues, but even just thinking about that level of commitment is…anxiety-inducing. A turn-off. All of the above.

Coming down from that horror show, I thought, albeit naïvely, that my luck would somehow shift. Not so. After sharing the plight of my endeavours with Ellone, she decided to take matters into her own hands. I don't have the heart to tell her that her so-called match for me was the worst of my outings so far (yes, worse than ex-obsessed Jenna). I won't go into all the details, but let's just say if your sister tells you she knows a great girl from work, she's probably lying to you.

The date in question, Margot (last initial and age unknown), was the worst parts of poetry slam night and Whole Foods rolled into one cliché. We're talking body odour, hemp shoes, soapbox lectures on the merits of veganism, political rants about the government and Garden and men in general—the fucking works.

I honestly do not know how Ellone ever thought I would be even remotely compatible with her. Maybe it was because she's a music teacher, but I couldn't connect with her even on that topic. Every artist, no matter whom I mentioned, was too mainstream, too overplayed, too something. Add on more than a few glimpses of sweaty armpit hair as she got worked up about society's lack of appreciation for underground musicians, and I found myself wondering what exactly I had done to Ellone to deserve this.

But even though my nights with both Karina and Margot were objectively terrible, they ended in largely the same manner as my better dates, with me home alone, smoking pot, listening to my records, and wondering if I'm going to be single forever.

I think it's the utter lack of connection to this point that has me most afraid. There's something off about every single one of these women, something that inevitably keeps me from wanting more—be it kids, commitment, or compatibility in general. No one ignites any sort of spark, no one feels right.

No one is the one.

—

MY RETURN TO work goes about as awkwardly as expected. I'm relegated to prepping budget spreadsheets and reviewing mission reports, officially as a way to "ease myself back into my job", and unofficially as a way of keeping me from touching anything important. I know I haven't done much to quell any doubts about my job performance, but Xu's complete lack of confidence still manages to find new ways to surprise me.

The whole thing feels like a backslide. And that's not to say that I'm against the idea of working, but I was definitely getting used to not stressing about Garden on a daily basis. There's just too much politicking, both internally between Xu, the Headmaster, and myself, and externally between SeeD and our clients. And if my last encounter with Robinson told me anything, it's that I've become jaded to it all. Really jaded. It's a feeling that permeates every second I'm on the clock, to the point where I'm completely worn out by the end of each day. And that, in turn, emphasizes the backslide even more.

Still, in spite of everything, resuming my job comes with relatively little friction, which would be great if not for the fact that I've become hyper-aware of the time I'm wasting. It's like suddenly I'm coasting on auto-pilot all over again; there's no motivation, no care. I take more smoke breaks than I should. Sometimes, I stand around in my kitchen just to kill time.

I'm worried that everything is blurring together on me, like my life has become this track stuck on repeat, the same cadence, the same conversations. I get handed more spreadsheets and more reports that I mostly skim over, I endure thinly veiled check-ins from the Headmaster, and I sit on endless video calls with Xu and senior leadership, going over deployments and budgets and bullshit I'd rather put out of my head. (Side note: I've become pretty adept at pretending to care while I swipe left on women I have equally little interest for. Seems like a good skill to have, right? Maybe I can put it on my resumé.)

The days start going by, tallying up into weeks, and February ends in little more than a blink. In its wake, a dangerous routine starts to form, one that I don't like, but comes almost organically: hours wasted at work, nights out on mediocre dates, nights in smoking weed and drinking bourbon alone, weekends with Harper and Quistis that go by all too fast. With Garden back in my life, everything just feels so automatic, so programmed.

It's almost as if I'm caught in some neverending fucked up cycle, like I'm spinning around and around a clogged drain. Eventually I'll sink, but in the meantime, I'm stuck floating amidst the dirt. Maybe I should have spent my suspension job hunting instead of meeting women and shopping for records. Then I might've never had to return to this mentally exhausting, soul-sucking gig.

—

MARCH ARRIVES ON the border between solace and surrender, the mark of warmer days ahead and the death of winter. Washed away by a near-constant downpour, the snow that once served as a beautiful bane for the past few months starts to melt, revealing in its place bits of dead grass and decayed leaves that have been buried since December.

Rinoa turns twenty-nine during this time of renewal; I text her a quick happy birthday message, which earns me a "Thanks!" in response a few hours later. Normally, I'd be spending this particular day reflecting on my time with her, wondering what it might have looked like had we not split up. This year, though, I'm more concerned by the fact that I'm officially in the final six months of my twenties, and while I'm glad to be nearly rid of winter, I also can't shake the feeling of the clock counting down.

Work might've been a nice diversion, a step above the emptiness, but all throughout the day, my head keeps shuffling through the same pile of thoughts, never in the same order, but always on repeat nonetheless: what if I'm still alone this time next year; what if this is still my life when I'm at the end of my thirties, or forties, or fifties; what if I never figure out what I want; what if this my fate after all? Am I destined (or damned) to live this life until I die?

I just feel so goddamned lost. I don't know what to do from one day to the next, let alone with the rest of my stupid little existence. It's enough to drive me mad, and I start to wonder if I should keep clinging tightly to the rope, or if I should let a few inches slip by. It'd be so easy to drink the anxiety away, or get stoned to the point where the thoughts are blotted out of my mind.

But maybe clinging onto the rope is all I have right now. It's already bad enough sitting with the stagnation my new routine has afforded me; leaning into my vices yet again just feels, I don't know, wrong, somehow, at least tonight. I decide to text Quistis instead, ask if she's up for dinner and some mindless TV. Unlike Rinoa, she replies back right away, with a note to meet on Commercial for a street market, stating that it would be good for me to get out of the house.

"And try to pretend like it's not a chore," she adds with a wink emoji.

"Whatever."

I finish my work, close down my laptop. Throw my leather jacket on over my hoodie and hide my mess of hair under my Deling City Warriors baseball cap. There's only a small drizzle of rain as I drive down to Commercial, far less than the downpour that had saturated the city all throughout the morning and into the early afternoon.

I've got Blind Melon's self-titled album playing over the stereo, running counter to the sound of my wipers. When Change comes on, I find myself singing quietly along and wondering if such a thing is even possible. I mean, it's happening all around me, but I'm pretty sure I'm still standing in the exact same spot in spite of my recent efforts. Of course, Rinoa says I seem better, and sure, I've been getting out more, meeting new people—trying, as it were. I guess I just don't feel all that different yet.

At least, not when it comes to myself. Quistis, on the other hand, I'm still figuring out. I've finally decided that something with her has changed, notably so (and no, it's not just Seifer's stupid asshole words sowing chaos in my mind). I can't quite define what that something is yet, though, except to say that it's more than a little bit terrifying.

The analytical side of me, flawed as it is, wonders if that's why I've been going on so many dates. Maybe each one is just a deflection, a way to stop myself from feeling what I fear the most. Blame it on my abandonment issues (again); I've got all this unresolved bullshit swarming around my brain, breeding a very specific brand of paranoia. And it's that paranoia that creates the chorus—this pessimist's voice—telling me that what I'm feeling is rooted solely in the attention Quistis has given, that it would never be reciprocated, that I almost cratered our friendship once before and don't I fucking dare try it again.

And it's that echo of don't dare that resonates through my head as I approach my destination. The market has several blocks of Commercial closed off; still, I manage to find a parking spot on an adjacent street and make my way to what looks like the entrance. Quistis is already there, dressed in a trench coat and Hunter rain boots as she waits underneath her red umbrella. It's only a moment before she spots me coming and looks me up and down; a small, almost playful grin appears.

"Dressed for the weather, are we?" she asks.

"You look like a tourist," I counter.

She rolls her eyes and closes the umbrella as she turns to walk toward the vendors, tents upon tents of artisans and vintage clothing dealers and jewellers and knick-knack peddlers. There are a surprising amount of people lingering about; it seems like most are unbothered by the wet and the cold. Count me among them. To finally be rid of the snow, to spend time outside—it feels nice, maybe even a bit relieving, especially given the cabin fever-inducing time I've spent back at work.

Quistis moves slowly from booth to booth, taking her time with the ones that spark her interest. She tries on dainty gold rings and thin, silver bracelets; makes a stop to smell homemade soaps, bars of coconut and lavender and lilac; and scans over prints of mushrooms and regional foliage done by a local artist. A man selling used books has a copy of The Sneetches and Other Stories that she plucks from a box marked "Children's". There's a hint of a sad smile that forms on her lips then, something like nostalgia harkening back to her own broken childhood as she turns the pages.

"Think Harps would like this one?" she asks after a moment.

I nod. "Definitely."

She shuts the book, pays the vendor. He puts it into a paper bag for her, which she tucks under her arm. The sad smile stays with her even as she moves on. I think about asking her if she's okay, but I'm worried that doing so might open a door she'd rather leave shut for the time being. Instead, I just follow close behind as she passes over the freeze-dried candies and snacks, and heads toward the woman selling brightly-coloured ceramic wares, mugs and plates and bowls, all made by hand.

For the most part, I'm content just to go where she goes, weaving our way around other attendees as we take the tents in a block at a time. I do take a quick detour once however, to check out the vendor selling vintage t-shirts. A lot of them smell like must, most are faded, prints cracked. He's got a few band shirts, mostly of pop artists that have come through on stadium tours, but the bulk of his collection is pretty random: the cover art from a box of Corn Flakes, one advertising the Rinauld Coast Hotel & Resort, another for the now-defunct 107.5 WKDC Radio.

(Past me might've ironically worn the red Coke is It! tee around the offices at Garden just to see what kind of rise it'd get out of Xu. I smirk at the thought.)

Still, nothing's really all that wearable, at least not for me, and I leave the t-shirt vendor empty-handed. As I start looking for Quistis, there's a man who calls out from behind his table, making wild claims about alternative pain relievers and miracle cures for cancer, a modern-day snake oil salesman. Maybe it's part of whole my quick-to-judge trait, but I fucking hate guys like that. The false hope they push is only one thing; what they sell can be downright deadly when presented to a gullible enough mind. Part of me wants to light up a cigarette and blow the smoke at him, but I think better of it amidst the crowd and continue on my search.

I eventually find Quistis standing at a booth further up the street, one selling gemstones and crystals, a few select stones from Shumi. There's a comment that forms in my head about her turning into some sort of hippie, but I stop myself before I can say it out loud. It takes only one glance to notice how incredibly still she is, how she's just staring almost right through the table. It's as though she's become completely transfixed on the amethysts and aquamarines that have been carefully laid out on the white cloth.

"Hey…" I gently tap her shoulder, try to draw her from her reverie.

She jumps. "Oh!" A sheepish look crosses her features as she shakes her head slightly. "Hey, I didn't notice you coming."

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah, I just…" She trails off as she pulls her eyes away from the stones. "Ever since we stopped using the Guardians, it's just… There are all these memories that pop up at the strangest times, you know?"

I know. There are several that come to mind, most I'd rather forget. Times of war, times of loneliness. Pieces of my childhood. Lots of hurt.

Quistis lets out a long sigh. Her shoulder slump, just a bit. "Sorry, I'm okay."

Part of me wants to ask her what she's thinking, but I decide to change the subject instead. "Hungry?"

She grins. "Is that your way of saying you're hungry?"

I smile back. "Maybe."

At the furthest end of the market sit several food trucks; the smell of deep fried everything manages to tangle its way through the damp air, reminding me of the fact that I haven't had anything since breakfast. There's burgers and fries, Pad Centran, wood-fired pizza, a colourful array of boba teas. It's almost too much—I'm hungry to the point where the abundance of choice has me feeling paralyzed.

Quistis doesn't seem to have the same dilemma. She makes a beeline for the street tacos. And she's clearly sensed my hesitation, too, because she puts in an order for both of us, which we then eat standing around a small enclosed fire in the middle of a soaking wet seating area.

There's a lone street musician underneath a tent, a girl with an acoustic guitar playing I Can't Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raitt. Dinner and a show—this night is starting to feel more like a date than any of the dates I've been on in recent weeks. Better company, no shitty small talk. Still a lot of baggage, sure, but at least it's familiar—there aren't any surprises lingering around, no disdain for my having a kid, no vitriol for exes.

I think I hear Quistis let out another low sigh, but as I listen closer, I realize she's actually humming along, mostly in key despite past claims of musical ineptitude. My eyes cast down to the darkened pavement. It's moments like these that I've been trying to do a better job of holding onto—the feeling of rain, light, mostly drizzle, the heat from the fire, the sound of her quietly carrying tune.

When I sense the weight of her stare, I can't help but look back up at her. That's when she turns red, her embarrassment only emphasized by the glow of low flames. The humming stops.

"I, uh…" She blinks.

I give her a small nudge. "You're not as bad as you think, you know."

"Still not great," she says with a half-laugh as she tosses her food wrapper into the fire pit. "Not like you or Selphie."

I follow suit, watching as bits of cardboard and parchment paper turn to ash. "I'm not the best at it, either."

"That's not true," she says. "I've heard you."

I raise an eyebrow. "When?"

"Sometimes," she starts, drawing out the word along her wry smile, "you'll have something playing on your record player and you'll start to sing along. You try to be quiet about it, but I catch you anyways."

I feel the blood rushing up to my face; I'm almost certain I'm redder than Quistis was no more than a minute before. God, how many times has she heard me? A dozen? Maybe more? I cringe to think of the numerous fuck-ups she's been privy to with my karaoke-at-best voice (not that I'd ever do karaoke, either). It's only when I feel her arm wrap around my waist that my mind breaks off its track.

"Geez, Squall, don't take a compliment or anything," she says. "Besides, I…really like it."

I can't help but tense up at her touch; the feeling of her hand tracing lightly up and down my side leaves me unsure of what to do, what to think. Yes, it's been months since our near-hook-up, but I'm still worried about the proverbial line, afraid to unwittingly cross it. My heart's racing, breathing sharpened. And I'm sure she's aware of my anxieties, too, because she gives me this apologetic look as she starts to withdraw. I don't want her to, though, and I find myself bringing my arm up to rest across her shoulders before she can get too far.

The closeness feels nice. Maybe too nice. It occurs to me for just the hint of a moment that I could get used to this, a flash thought that sends my mind into a spiral. I start to panic. What in the fuck am I doing now? Oh god. Have I already overstepped? I'm afraid to move—my grasp becomes wooden, my posture pin-straight. It's only when she leans into me and relaxes that I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding.

"The memory that came back," she says after a moment as she watches the fire, "was of my foster mother."

"Oh?"

"She used to take me to markets like these. Sometimes she'd buy me books, or hair clips, or candies. But mostly she was hunting for crystals and jewels." The sad smile returns. "Future heirlooms, she'd say. Sometimes she'd look for things she'd want to be buried with."

"Seems a bit dark, talking to a young child about stuff like that," I say.

"She wasn't well," she says.

I nod. "I remember you telling me that."

Quistis pauses, considers her words. "She tried her best. She just didn't know how to be a mother, especially not to some kid that wasn't fully hers."

"I'm sorry."

Quistis shakes her head and clumsily readjusts the book bag under her arm as she tucks her hair behind her ear. The rain is beading up, turning strawberry blonde and silver strands dark. "Sometimes, I think about looking her up. But…I'm afraid of what I would find out. Is she okay? Is she still living with that man? Would she even remember me? God, I don't even know if she's…if she's—"

"—Sometimes, it's just better to keep the memory," I say. I can feel her getting worked up at the thought, all those memories coming up to the surface, an old wound picked open once more. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze, hold her just a little tighter.

"Yeah, maybe," she concedes with a small head shake. "I just wish… It's stupid, but sometimes I wish she didn't go away, you know."

"I know."

I feel her shiver then, the small fire pit no match for the cold, wet March night. I use my free hand to remove the umbrella from her wrist and open it up above us.

"Not afraid of 'looking like a tourist'?" she asks.

I smirk. "Nah."

"Well, you're way too late. My hair's already ruined," she jokes. The wry smile returns, albeit, briefly.

"You can wear my hat," I tell her.

"Yeah right, thanks," she says. I don't have to see her eyes roll to know that she's done exactly that.

"Anytime."

Things get quiet for a moment. She moves in closer, her arm wrapping further around my waist as she leans her head onto my shoulder. I wonder if she can hear my heart hammering around in my chest. The beat is thunder in my ears, intense enough that I can feel it in the back of my throat. It's all pretty fucking overwhelming, maybe even a bit sad—all this time, I've been hiding back behind my walls, getting stoned, drinking. I think I was trying to avoid feeling exactly this. But there's nothing to hide behind right now.

I'm pretty sure I'm being split in two. There's the part of me that's here with her now, huddling together underneath her bright red umbrella; the part that lets me rest my cheek on the top of her head; the part that has me singing quietly along as the street musician plays Here, There and Everywhere, one of my favourite songs off Revolver.

Then there's the other part of me that is scared shitless. So much for don't dare. It's not just that I'm conscious of all the complications between us—our decades-long friendship, her relationship with Harper. I'm also worried about hurting her the way I hurt Rinoa, or even Zurie to some degree. I don't know what I would do if I damaged someone like that ever again, let alone her.

Thank fuck Seifer isn't here to see this. He'd be the first to catch on to the meltdown in my head, which he'd of course waste no time in calling out, and then—

"—Squall?" My name is low on her lips. There's a sniffle. Whether from the cold, or something else, I'm not sure.

"Yeah?" I say.

A whisper. "Don't go."

"I won't."