thank you so much everyone for the reviews! not half of them being like "i didn't care about rilla and ken's relationship" lolll...he really is just ken. (sorry ken) also yes, shirley will definitely feature (although as for who he gets involved with...you'll see!)

title was inspired by "home by now" by muna (but i actually misheard one of the lines so this phrase does not appear lmao).

thought that we'd be home by now

In April, the letter from Redmond comes, confirming Rilla's seat for the entrance exam and detailing the exam dates and locations. Mother promptly sets about tutoring Rilla and Una and Carl, whisking them through subjects long-forgotten, and some that Rilla and Una had never learned. Rilla finds that she's a perfect dunce at Latin, but applicants intending the Household Science course need only pass three subjects in the entrance exam, so she throws herself into history, literature, and mathematics.

Una is quietly capable in most subjects, although her essays are always frightfully short — "The exam will ask for at least two pages," Mother tells her. Rilla is the opposite; she can go on and on once she gets impassioned about her subject. Carl, having the advantage of Queen's, mostly borrows Mother's books and studies off to the side.

In May, Walter's birthday comes.

In the year after Walter died, they had all gone to a spot in the garden where Mother had planted some June lilies, and they'd sat quietly for a while, drawing strength from each other. The year after that, they'd had a big dinner and shared stories and tried to laugh, tried to remember Walter the way he would've wanted them to.

This, the third year, they haven't marked in any particular way. Nan and Di have come home and Di is on the porch with Mother, her red curls against Mother's graying ones. Nan hasn't been seen since breakfast, likely off being comforted by Jerry. Jem, too, has disappeared.

Rilla doesn't wish to be around very many people today. She puts herself through a few paces of geometry (horrors) in the morning, then goes for a long walk, only wanting to be outside, to find somewhere that's easier to breathe. The house feels too small today.

She meets Una on the road to the shore, and they exchange smiles, but not greetings. Una wants to be alone too, Rilla knows.

And so she goes, close enough to the shore until she can taste salt and hear the gulls. She sits on the old fishing dock, staring out at the water, letting herself miss Walter. She tries not to, most of the time. He won't come back — the world before the war can't come back — and thinking about how much she wishes it would only pries the wound open again.

"You said Ken would come back to me," she says to the water. She's not usually the sort to feel as though she must talk to the dead, but the thoughts keep spinning around inside her, pushing against her insides, demanding to be let out. "I don't know if you really saw that — I don't believe you'd ever lie to me. Perhaps it was one of those strange faerie visions, where it seems one way but really means something else…or maybe your vision just wasn't real, after all." She sighs, leaning against the old wooden railing of the dock. It does seem silly now to believe that whatever gift Walter had, whatever bestowed upon him the presentiments of life and death, would have bothered itself with Rilla's romantic prospects.

She stays for a while longer, breathing in the sea air and listening to the hush of the waves, until the pain of remembering her brother turns into a dull ache once more. Eventually she hears voices coming up the lane, a few village boys coming by to fish. She brushes past them with a quiet greeting, turning back to Rainbow Valley.

She finds Jem in one of the old hollows, resting beneath a tree. For a moment, Rilla thinks of leaving him alone, but Jem's eyes open before she can slip away.

"'Lo, Rilla," he calls.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you," she says as he gets to his feet, bracing himself against the tree.

"You didn't," he assures her. "It's about time for me to be heading back to the house anyway — Dad gave me the morning off to brush up for Redmond, but I'm on hand for his afternoon and evening calls. By the way," he adds, "off to college with us in the fall, eh?"

"Yes, well," Rilla says, summoning a smile. "It's a new world, isn't it?"

"That it is," Jem says, his voice turning serious. He offers his arm to Rilla, and though she takes it, she feels his weight shift slightly to lean against her as they walk.

They walk slowly, silent for a while. A cluster of small birds scatters as they approach, hurrying into the trees.

"It's Walt's birthday today," Jem says, just the slightest catch in his voice.

Rilla swallows. "Yes."

She feels so horribly conscious of how green the grass is, the chirping of hidden birds as they pass under the trees, how sweet the scent of the flowers. How much Walter loved this valley, how he would have loved it see it as it is now.

"I never knew…I could miss a person so much," Jem says, his voice strained. "It's so god — so hard, you know, to be here sometimes. To look everywhere and see all the places he used to be. Did you ever — did you ever clean up his room?"

"No," Rilla says quietly. "Mother said…when you and Shirley came back…perhaps you might like to go through it and take — take his old clothes, and things."

Jem shudders. "It sounds childish, but I tell you, Rilla — I'm almost afraid to go in there. I just can't look at it all…see him writing at his desk…see his books where he left them…"

"I know" is all Rilla can say.

"He'd be proud of you," Jem says. When Rilla turns to look at him, he's smiling thinly, weathered eyes crinkled at the corners. "You've grown so much, Rilla. I don't know if you know it yourself — maybe you do — but you were just a kid when I left, and now you're — so grown and thoughtful. Walt always knew it of you. Whenever we joked about your little misadventures, he'd tell us you were going to grow up to be the most capable of us all."

Rilla's heart constricts, and she leans her head against Jem's arm. "I'm so very glad you're back, Jem."

Jem chuckles, and they walk for a while longer, his weight sagging just slightly against her.

Rilla doesn't know what compels her to speak the words aloud, but idly, she says, "You know, Carl Meredith says I'm just the same as he remembers."

No, that wasn't quite what he said — but she's sure Jem will start making fun if she says Carl was thinking of her, "picturing" her, though she's sure he didn't mean it at all like that.

Before the war, Jem would've laughed, said something like, Aw, it's 'cause you're not a bug, Rilla — although you are a spider, eh? Perhaps part of Rilla still expects it, for she's surprised when Jem says, "Well, you two were always chums, weren't you? I guess he knows you better — just like Walter."

"I guess he does," Rilla murmurs.

Shirley is meant to be home in July. He'd written several weeks ago, told them which rotation and ship he was expected on. Of course, everyone knows by now not to rely on the train schedules and expected return dates — there are delays everywhere, starting with the return paperwork in England, then the return ships, then the return trains.

"He mightn't come back today, you know," Rilla says cautiously, watching Susan whirl around the kitchen in absolute delight. "Hardly any of the boys have been on time."

"Well, perhaps not," Susan says grudgingly, "but Little Jem caught me unawares and that I shall never allow to happen to Susan Baker again. These monkey-faces will keep, anyway, even if he is delayed…"

Rilla looks to Mother for help, but Mother is rolling out dough for a pie, her gaze intent on her work. "Shirley always keeps his word," she says quietly.

Rilla looks down, reaching to help form the crust. Of course she believes in Shirley — it's only that it all feels too precarious — that Jem and Jerry and Carl and Faith and Shirley will all finally be home, that the waiting and praying will finally be over.

The hours pass and the pies cool. Rilla opens a mathematics textbook that Jem lent her and tries to memorize more geometry formulas. Nan and Di sit with her in the parlor, testing her — well, mostly Di; Nan loathes geometry and is only here "for morale", she says.

Midway through Di lecturing her on why an equiangular triangle is also equilateral, the doorbell rings. Rilla flies to the door, then pauses just before she opens it. What if it's just Una, or Mrs. Clow or Mrs. Drew, coming by with gossip and extra vegetables? But then she is suddenly sure it isn't.

She opens the door and shrieks, "Shirley!", flinging her arms around him before he can drop his bag.

His laugh is hoarse and he shuffles to put his bag down before properly hugging her back. "Hi, Rilla."

She pulls back to look at him. Shirley hasn't been gone nearly so long as Jem — only two years — but still, he looks so much older. His face is leaner, his shoulders are broader. Goodness, how much he looks like Father — Father when he was young, anyway, in his college photos and in the wedding photo on the mantel.

Then Mother and Susan and the twins are crowding the hallway, Susan saying, "I knew today was the day, didn't I tell you", Mother crying as she pulls Shirley to her, Nan and Di laughing and patting any part of Shirley they can reach — his shoulders, his brown curls, as though he's a child again. Rilla joins them, feeling tears prick at her eyes as she wraps an arm around Shirley, her other arm trapped in a tangle of Nan and Di's limbs as they hug him, too — almost in disbelief that they are finally all together again, as much as they can be.

Shirley's ears are just faintly pink when they let him go, the only sign that he's ever embarrassed. "I wasn't expecting you all to be home," he says, giving them a half-smile.

"We'd a premonition you'd be home today," Rilla says. "You would manage to still be punctual, wouldn't you?"

Shirley shrugs. "Got lucky, I guess."

"Are you hungry?" Nan offers. "Susan's been cooking up a storm for you."

Shirley ate on the train, but Susan insists he take a cookie, at least. He folds it neatly in a napkin and slides it into one of his khaki pockets, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "You're so good to me, Mother Susan."

"You must be tired, darling," Mother says. They've been through this all before, of course. The journey is long, and Shirley has been waiting the longest of all their boys to come back. "Why don't you get settled in and wash up? We'll have supper when your father and Jem come home."

Shirley nods, grabbing his bag and slipping past them before any of them can offer to help. He pauses at the foot of the stairs, as though he isn't sure which way to go, then he shakes his head and goes up.

"Name two battles won by Napoleon, and explain the consequences of each on the history and culture of Europe. Defend your arguments," Una reads aloud from a test booklet. Di and Nan had been rather overeager to get rid of their old school things, and bequeathed Rilla and Una with plenty of study material.

"Consequences of Napoleon's victories? Oh, I don't know," Rilla says with a groan, rolling over, the grass soft under her stomach. All this examinating is really wearing on her. "Everyone had to start speaking French, I suppose."

Una giggles, holding her sheaf of notes up to her face as though to hide her smile. "No. We just went over this yesterday, Rilla."

"I'm going to fail," Rilla says with a sigh. "Go on to Redmond without me — I'm far too stupid." Pillowing her head on her arms, the sun warm on her back and the grass of the Ingleside lawn soft beneath her, it doesn't seem like such a terrible thing.

"You'll do fine," Una says, reaching up to adjust the pins in her hair. "You're much more clever than you think you are, really."

Rilla laughs. Una can be funny, with how disarmingly frank she is sometimes, though she knows the other girl never thinks she is being so. She is almost like Walter in that way, too — she never goes along when someone is making a joke at their own expense.

"Rilla," Susan calls from the doorway. "You have a…caller." She says the word in a tone of voice previously reserved for Whiskers-on-the-moon and the guest minister who'd once trod on the Ingleside peonies with nary an apology. Not without some difficulty, Rilla rouses herself and goes to the porch.

"Who is it, Susan?"

"It's that Ken Ford. He insisted on speaking with you."

"Oh." Yes, she's heard that Ken Ford is back. It had spread through the Glen like a fire, naturally — the arrival of the Fords from the big city never passes by unannounced, and this time Ken has a pretty English girl in tow, all the rumors say. No one knows much about her or her people, but her manners and accent are charming, and she served as a nurse during the war, which speaks well enough of her, doesn't it?

"Of course, if you don't want to see him, I'll certainly send him away," Susan adds. Rilla very nearly smiles, sure she's not imagining the faint relish in Susan's voice. Perhaps she'll chase Ken off with an iron pot, too.

She could send Ken away, couldn't she? Some part of her wants to send him away — let him be cast aside, for once! Besides, what if he says something awful and heartbreaking, and she starts blubbering in front of him? What if Shirley or Jem comes in and causes a horrible scene?

But she is curious, too — burningly curious as to what he intends to say.

"I'll see him," she says. "Thank you, Susan."

Ken is waiting in the parlor, apparently transfixed by the photos on the mantel — as though he hasn't seen Mother and Father's wedding photo every summer for twenty years. He turns to look at her before she can announce herself.

Goodness. Would she have recognized him, if she hadn't known he was Ken? His face is weathered, lines around his eyes, a scar cutting across his cheek as though he's the villain from a novel. His dark hair is just faintly peppered with gray at the temples. For a moment, Rilla thinks perhaps it is all very well that their engagement is over — she can't imagine marrying this man, this stranger in front of her.

"Rilla," Ken says, and oh — the warmth of his voice, the low rumble of it — that has not changed at all.

He takes a seat across from her, hat in hand. His head hangs low, a dark curl falling over his forehead, still in an annoyingly attractive manner.

"I'm so very sorry, Rilla."

Rilla holds herself very still. Oh, she wishes he weren't so contrite, so she could properly rage at him, call him every word that's crossed her mind — faithless, coward, liar. Now she doesn't know what to do — she doesn't wish to nod her head as though she understands and forgives, but she can't summon up anger either, not when a blast of fury would only dissipate through the room without any resistance.

"You must know I never meant to hurt you," he continues. "I would've gone about it all differently if I could have — we had to marry for her to come back with me — but I would've waited if I could have. Explained to you first." He shoves his hands through his hair.

"I suppose now will have to do," Rilla says, her tone colder and paler than it has been in years.

"I truly didn't think…that after so many years…that you still felt…it was an impulsive thing to ask," he settles on, finally. "The more I thought on it, the more I felt I should not have asked. There are…so many things I didn't write home about. So many burdens that you shouldn't have to carry. It was a selfish thing, to expect you to wait for me. I didn't know if you would…I didn't think you should have."

Ah. Perhaps it had meant something to Ken — but not enough — and he had thought Rilla inconstant — incapable of understanding. He hadn't trusted her at all — thought her childish, capricious still. Not like his new wife. Clearly, Ken had trusted her to still care. Rilla inhales.

"I don't understand why you thought I would make a promise I didn't intend to keep," she says, letting acid seep into her tone this time.

Ken doesn't reply. He only bows his head again. The clock hand ticks insistently away — funny, Rilla thinks, the way one can hear the tiniest twitch of its springs between ticks, counting every half-second. She never noticed that before.

"I know I've behaved shamefully," Ken finally says again. "I don't deserve your forgiveness, Rilla — I only came because you ought to know that I am sorry — truly."

He pauses, then, dark eyes on hers. Rilla can't look at him. Her gaze slips over his shoulder, to Gog and Magog on the mantel. It rather feels like they're watching her, that there are thoughts and judgments unknown held in their silent, still gazes.

What can she even say, in this moment? Should she rage at him, like he seems to expect? Surely she'll only be proving him right, then, that she is too young to understand, to sympathize. Should she say nothing at all, hold herself high and regal and leave him alone in the parlor? Should she thank him, at least, for apologizing — the way Mother used to make her do? I apprethiate your apology, Nan, for stealing my doll, and yours, Kenneth, for letting me believe in you and build castles in the air for two yearth.

Does she wish to forgive him? Rilla doesn't know — all she wants in this moment is for Ken to leave, to stop looking at her, to let her be alone until her heart stops racing, until all the thoughts in her head stop swirling and she can catch them properly. She can't think of what to say to him right now — he can come back in another day — another month — next year, perhaps, and then she might know how to reply.

"I…" Accept your apology? No. Want you to leave? Not exactly, not in the way that Ken will understand it. Forgive you? No, not yet.

"I…suppose it doesn't matter anymore, does it?" Rilla settles on, finally, enunciating each word carefully. "But I am glad that…that you explained. And I don't wish to hold a grudge against you, Kenneth. Truly."

Relief crosses Ken's face, so clearly that Rilla almost wishes she had decided to rage at him. What business does he have, dropping the shame from his face so quickly?

He reaches for her hand, and something in Rilla's stomach clenches at the touch of his skin against hers, the first in three years. She feels calluses on his palms and the smooth band of his wedding ring — those things are different, but his touch is still warm, his hand still envelopes hers. Those things, she thinks, are the same — but she can't really recall if this is how it felt when he'd taken her hand, that night before he left.

"I'll always be your friend, Rilla," he says. "So will my family. My father and mother love you like another daughter. I should hate for you to think that anything could change that."

Rilla nods mutely. There. They have had it out, all the apologies and the acceptance. Surely he'll be on his way now.

"There's another thing." He looks down, not releasing her hand. "I'm meaning to invite you — all of you, Jem and the girls and Shirley, if he's back — "

He is, Rilla thinks, but doesn't bother to correct him.

" — to a little party in a few days. My wife…" He clears his throat. "My wife would like very much to meet you all. You needn't attend if you don't want to — I only didn't want you to be surprised."

Oh, how she does not want to go, not in the least. Just because she doesn't feel like fighting with him, that certainly doesn't mean she wishes to attend his parties — talk and laugh with him as though they're chums — see his new wife, good Lord.

Rilla lifts her chin. "If I'm free, I'll be glad to come. Anyway, I must be getting back," she says, standing and brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. "Una is here and we're studying for the Redmond entrance exam."

She's pleased to see that Ken looks faintly surprised. "You're going to Redmond?" he asks.

Rilla shrugs. "It's good work," she says, echoing Una's words.

Ken pauses at the door, looking at her as though he expects her to say something — or perhaps he is thinking of saying something more. But Rilla does not say a word, and neither does he, finally putting his hat back on and taking his leave.

The door latches shut with a soft click, and Rilla sits back down on the settee with an inelegant thump. Oh. Is it over, then? That…that was all that had to be said. Is this how it is — Ken, who has been on the periphery of her life since childhood, has now exited it for ever with a cool conversation? Not that she particularly wants to see him again, only…how final it all is. Already the conversation is running through her head, making her wish she could do it over. Should she have been crueler, made him beg? Said something, done something that might've convinced him that she truly no longer cared, that she had been doing perfectly fine without him anyway?

Well. At least she didn't lisp.

She takes a moment to compose herself, pinching color back into her cheeks, before she sweeps back outside to rejoin Una, determined not to cry.

Una peers at her. "Are you quite well, Rilla? Who called?"

"I…" The grass blurs into a sea of green in her vision. "It was just…Ken Ford."

"Ah." Una carefully straightens their scattered notes. "I heard he's married now."

"Yes."

Una doesn't say anything, just takes Rilla's hand in her own, patting it kindly before letting go. Una's palm is cool, just a little rough from cooking and cleaning — the manse will have to hire someone to keep house, surely, once Una is away at school...

Rilla swallows, feeling Una's gaze on her, patient.

"He asked me to wait for him," she blurts out. "Before he left. And he came to apologize for — for — "

"Getting married?"

"Yes," Rilla says, relieved that Una has filled in the words that are still so hard to say. "And oh, Una, I didn't know if I wanted to hit him or say nothing or — no, I shan't forgive him — but I was thinking of saying I did, just so he would go away. I just…"

She rips up a blade of grass in her fist. "I feel so very foolish. And it is so humiliating to be made a fool. I keep asking myself if I really misunderstood it all so badly — if I really imagined the things he'd said or how he'd looked. If I misread everything that was in his letters."

"Did he say if he meant it or not?"

"He did," Rilla admits. "He kept going on about how sorry he was and how it was only that he felt it would be unfair to me — somehow — to hold me to our promise. It was just so — horrible. It somehow feels worse that he's perfectly repentant."

"It hurts less when you can be angry," Una says gently.

"Yes." Rilla sighs, drawing her knees up to her chin. "I don't suppose there's anything for it. He's sorry — and I'm sorry that it all happened. What else am I to do?"

Una tilts her head. "Do you still want to marry him?"

"No!" Rilla sits up straighter, shocked at Una's implication. "No, I would never try to — ruin his marriage — or any such thing. I hope he'll be happy, for the sake of that poor girl who came all the way from England, if nothing else. I just…" She sighs again. "I wish he would just go back to Toronto. Seeing him all summer will be unbearable."

Una hums in response, and Rilla turns to look at her. She is idly tugging at a blade of grass, letting it slip through her fingers instead of pulling it up. Her pale mouth is turned down at the corners, blue eyes intent on the grass, as though there is something in it that no one else can see.

She feels very far away from us, Carl's voice echoes in Rilla's head. Guilt shoots itself through her heart instantly. How thoughtless of her, to be going on like this — despairing of Ken's presence, when Walter will never come back for Una.

"I'm sorry, Una," she starts awkwardly.

"Whatever for?"

"For…" Rilla starts, then stops. Una's brows draw together, almost challenging, and Rilla realizes — she is Mrs. Clow here, Mrs. Elliott, Susan. How are you, Una? You look awfully thin, and Una is rebuffing her just the same: Fine, I am perfectly fine.

"For going on like this," she murmurs. "It's all so silly, isn't it? I was just…a goose over him. I waited for years, I hoped…I really thought we were…"

Una's expression softens, and she gives Rilla's hand a squeeze. "He asked you to wait for him. You did nothing wrong, believing the words he said."

"That's what my mother said," Rilla says with a little laugh. "But people say otherwise, don't they — that men will say nice things, and it's foolishness to believe them until you've got the ring on your finger. Who did Miss Cornelia say that about? I think it was one of the Davis girls — well, anyway. It's in all the books, too, isn't it — only silly girls fall for the — the — Mr. Willoughbys and — "

"Perhaps," Una says quietly. "But I think it would be very lonely, not to believe in people. You oughtn't think of it as a…as a weakness, Rilla."

"Perhaps if people wouldn't lie and be careless with others' hearts, it wouldn't be a weakness," Rilla says viciously.

Una dips her head. She doesn't argue.

Rilla shuts her eyes, wondering if she ought to avoid Ken's party after all. She won't be able to stand seeing him there — but neither can she stand the thought that he'll pity her for staying away, think he's broken her heart so thoroughly that she can't leave the house. No, she must go. She only must think of a way to get through it.