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BloodRoots in the Suburbs - chapter two

Chapter Two: Kill Habits, Not people

prologue 

Chapter One: The Babysitter 

*pls let me know if you prefer longer chapters with longer times between updates or shorter chapters that are up faster,, i’m trying to work out a writing schedule lol

a/n yall i just woke up and the amount of support this fic has gotten has made my heart feel so warm!! love yall!! and if you like it so far just wait until we get to the chapters i need to listen to taylor swift to write lmao 

...also off topic but they’re putting harry styles in the mcu?? yeah they did that for me i love it 

Series Summary: Bloodroots are such a strange flower--white and innocent looking yet undeniably poisonous. It has no place in the safest neighborhood in CA. Then again, neither do you. The suburbs are killing you, and no one understands that...at least you think no one does. I see that in the way you roll your eyes when your sister presses the issue of when you’re going to get back on your feet. I see that restlessness when you’re in the small plot of land that you’ve actually managed to turn into some type of garden. I see you; I understand you. And if it wasn’t for the confines I bear to protect my son, I’d let you know that. But for now, I settle for knowing that the two of us are equally trapped, and I take some solace in that. I feel bad about it, I do, considering that from what I’ve gathered you spent most of your life being considered the perfect, ideal golden girl that was nothing but potential. And now you’re no longer the gifted child, the one that’s first to raise their tiny hand in class, the one that knows everything. But that’s okay--because I’ll make my selfishness up to you.

Chapter Summary: What’s a cup of coffee between two neighbors? Nothing, until Joe realizes that people die a lot easier than habits do. 

Joe’s POV

Who the fuck is Ashton?

Your sister is texting you to not come home for awhile in case he’s on the way to her house. Your house.

Maybe the person calling you is more of a problem than I thought. I want to help you, I really do, but I’m not sure I can justify it yet. I’m not alone anymore, I have a son to think about, and with how impulsive Love is, I need to keep myself under control. Henry can’t grow up with two murderers as parents, he’ll end up in the system and I know what that does to a child. 

But I won’t let anyone hurt you, either. I promise.

You come back with no warning. “Hey, have you seen my phone? I thought it was in my back pocket, but--”

I turn the screen of your phone off. “Just found it.” 

You don’t even look at me oddly before taking it. You’re not suspicious at all. Are you always this trusting? The kind of trusting people like Ashton have no problem taking advantage of? Your home screen turns on--another text? From your sister or the source of the problem? You frown, your eyebrows faintly drawing together. 

“Something wrong?”

This isn’t about confirming what I know. What I’m really trying to figure out is how much you trust me, how much you’re willing to tell me. You shrug off your concern, shoving your phone into the back pocket of your jeans as you look back at me. “Worried older sisters, a tale as old as time.” 

Worried older sisters? Are you really this dismissive about the issue, or are you putting up a brave front for the neighbor you don’t really know yet? I thought we already had more than that. 

“...And ex-boyfriend’s tend to exasperate that instinct.”

So there is more of a connection here than just a distant, neighborly politeness. You let me know that it’s not all in my head, and I’m thankful for that. I’m also thankful that I know what Ashton is. Ex-boyfriend. An ex-boyfriend so bad you still feel the need to downplay everything he’s done to you, but you can’t hide all of it. Not from anyone that takes the time to note the look behind your eyes. Not from anyone that cares to pay attention. The rest of the world might be ignoring you, willing to let you fend for yourself, but not me, y/n. You’re not alone.

I wish there was a way to let you know that. But I can’t say it to you, not yet. “A boyfriend from New York?” 

Your frown makes me regret me regret mentioning where you’re from. The fact that you’re from New York and that you left the city in less than amicable circumstances is no secret. I understand needing to disappear and having limited options, but you picked a hell of place for privacy. 

“Yeah.” You wipe your hands on your jeans. “He’s from New York.”

I can save this, there has to be something I can say to get you to stop looking like a kicked puppy. It might have been too soon to test the waters around the New York subject. You’re resigned, tired about the inevitable conversation that forces you to relive what you believe are mistakes.

“And you need a break from New York?” An obvious question, I know, but I need to hear you say it. Maybe you don’t belong there anymore. I’m not deluded enough to think that you could ever belong here, but there must be somewhere...not LA, not again. Maybe you belong somewhere like DC now, the Washington Post would be lucky to have you, and there are a lot of bookstores there, old bookstores that could--

No. No. There’s no way for me to insert myself into your future. I can’t...I’m not supposed to try to. I hold Henry a little tighter, trying to remind myself why I have to be careful. “From him--I don’t need a break, I need an early retirement with a...401K.” You’re funnier than I realized, I’ll never doubt you again. “From New York, I don’t know. I can’t live with my sister forever, but I--sometimes I feel like I need the city, which is a weird thing to feel.” 

You’re meant for more than the mundane, of course being surrounded by it makes you feel like you’re disappearing. I understand that; I understand you. “It’s not.” 

Your eyes soften. You’re not used to being seen without someone asking for something in return. In New York, you thought people were seeing the real you when you wrote, but the moment the editors saw your talent, they exploited it. They squandered you, and you’re just starting to see it. 

“There are other cities.” You have a talent for knowing when you’re treading on serious grounds. I can feel you turning away, maneuvering your feelings in a way that has to be practiced. “News never ends in Washington.” 

I smile more than I should. Already, we’re on the same wave length. Like we’re meant to be, like I was always supposed to find you. Find you here, not in New York where you believed that you ran the world and I believed that my one was Guinevere Beck. Here--where I need you and you need me. 

“I think DC’s worthwhile.” I’m trying to let you go, I really am. “But I...I don’t know much about it.” 

You nod once, no sign of rejection on your face. “Neither do I, to be honest.” I want to tell you that we can learn about it together. I want you to picture a world in which we’re together. I want--I want you. “Well, thank you for letting me watch Henry, I should go before I overstay my welcome.” Like you could ever do that. “You must be tired from work.”

Do you really think I don’t want you here? And what about the text your sister sent you? Are you going to dismiss it? Maybe when you brushed it off as your sister being overprotective, you weren’t trying to appear together in front of a stranger. Is that how you actually feel? Your sister seemed to be scared of him. She said he was crazy enough to get on a plane and come here. He knows you don’t want to talk to him, he could be dangerous. For all we know, he wants to hurt you, y/n. 

Your phone rings. I know you want to hide the way you’re feeling, but I see it. The way your body tenses. “Not too tired.” You nod once, so distracted you’re not questioning why I don’t ask about the phone call. “Do you want me to walk you back?” 

You almost smile. I can feel what you almost say: it’s just across the street. “I um...I think I’m going to go to that coffee place at the end of main street before I go back.” At least you’re listening to your sister. “My sister doesn’t keep it in the house anymore, I think a part of her believes that if it’s in her cupboards the toxins will leak into everything and somehow make it into her uterus.” The moment the words are out of your mouth, you cringe, shutting your mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that out loud. I sound like a sucky person and I just said the word ‘uterus’ to you.” You grimace again. “And now I’ve said it twice.” You shake your head, apologetic. “I’m just gonna go before I say something else dum--” 

“No, no.” It’s nowhere near the worst I’ve heard. Love felt comfortable expressing all of her pregnancy. “I um...I could actually go for some coffee.” I shouldn’t be doing this. I--I have to do this. Someone could be after you. “And Henry needs his daily walk.” Too definitive, I need to ease off. “If it’s not an imposition. You know, if you want your alone time, I totally get it, after dealing with--” 

“No.” Your chin tilts less than an inch upwards. You want me to go with you. “I like company, but definitely don’t feel like you have to.” 

“I definitely don’t feel like I have to.”

You smile. The look erases all of my hesitation. “Okay...then let’s go.” 

With Henry in his stroller, we walk outside. I try to casually watch your sister’s house--there’s no new car in the drive way, and there’s nothing to indicate that someone that’s not supposed to be there is inside.

 As we pass the houses down the street, you stay at what you consider a safe distance...but it wouldn’t take much for me to get our hands to touch. You want me to have the option to brush our fingers together, the option to hold your hand. 

All of us walking together to get a mid afternoon coffee. It feels natural. Like we’re supposed to be one family. You feel it the way you felt our connection in your front yard. You still don’t have a name for this feeling, and it’s starting to pull at you, but you’re not as uncomfortable as you were the first time you felt it. That’s how we’ll be--you’ll see that there’s nothing scary about being seen as long as I’m the one looking.

I’m going to let you go. I let out a breath, doing all I can to focus on what’s directly in front of me. Henry is calm in his stroller, but his presence is enough to remind me what I’m holding myself back for. I’ll do anything for my son, which means I need to stay with Love, which means there’s no guarantee I can protect you from her. 

“You’re going to be disappointed in my coffee order.” The comment comes with no warning, and neither does your sudden lightness.

“Disappointed?” I know you have to hear the smile in my voice, but there’s no point in trying to hide how your good humor makes everything feel right. This is how it’s supposed to be. 

You nod, turning your head slightly to watch me as you walk. “My coffee order is painfully un-enigmatic.” 

Un-enigmatic? I laugh. Okay, I’ll give you that one. “One, you’re implying that a coffee order is a worthy indicator of whether one is or isn’t an enigma. Two, un-enigmatic isn’t a word.” 

“Is to.” 

“Is not.” 

Your eyebrows draw together sharply and your lips press together into a line I have no choice but to describe as obstinate, but the corner of your mouth betrays you, tilting upwards and letting me know that you’re fighting a smile. Our argument is nothing more than a way to pass time, but your expression just makes me want to give in. It makes me want to give in on anything. You can be right about everything forever. 

“I used it in an article once, multiple editors read it, and none crossed it out.”

The warmth that returned to you is beginning to fade. You’re thinking of The New York Times again, of what they did to you. Of what that asshole editor accused you of so that he could get away with the way he harasses female writers. “Yeah, and since when is the New York Times known for their judgement?” You smile, but it’s nothing like the one before. This one is for my sake. “Not since they let you go, that’s for sure.” 

Your grin isn’t exactly happy, but it’s not sad either. I’ll take it for now. “Thanks.” 

“I’m serious, the idiot that fired you is going to regret it.” 

You tilt your head slightly to get a better look at me. “The ‘idiot that fired me’ has two Pulitzer Prizes.” 

“So?” How could he be better than you? You’re half his age and already working directly beneath him. He probably used that scandal as an excuse to get rid of you before you could lap him. “One day, you’ll have three.” 

You drop your head when you think I’m not looking so that I can’t see the way you’re trying to fight a real smile. I’m not exaggerating, y/n. Look at how far you’ve come with no one particularly looking out for you. Imagine how successful you could be if I was there for you. “And you’ll be able to say you knew me when.” 

We’re only a few steps away from the coffee shop. “That I will.” 

I try to open the door for you, but you beat me to it, holding it open so that I can push the stroller through the entrance. When the door falls shut, you don’t hesitate to wander towards the back of the coffee shop. You stop at a table that’s tucked far away enough from the window that people walking by won’t immediately notice you, but not so far that you’re distant from sunlight. Your life must revolve around that--wanting to be in the sun, but being afraid of the window. 

We sit across from each other, Henry’s stroller tucked out of the way, between a wall and our table. “So what is your un-enigmatic coffee order?” 

You place your hands on the table, leaning towards me in a way that makes the collar of your shirt lower itself slightly, hinting at just a little more cleavage than what would be considered polite. Are you being more than friendly? “Caramel iced latte, extra cold foam.”

...At least you’re honest. 

“Don’t laugh.” 

I tried not to, y/n. “I am--I’m not laughing.” Your eyebrows draw together, skeptical. “I am just appreciating your honesty.” 

The way you glare at me makes it even harder to keep a straight face. “Appreciating my honesty? Really?” 

“Yes.” You don’t believe me and I can’t even blame you for it. “Your coffee order isn’t funny.” You raise an eyebrow. “It’s not, it’s the--it’s the way you presented it. Who describes a coffee order as a way to determine whether someone is or isn’t an enigma?” 

You blink, a hint of doubt on your face. “What’s your coffee order?”

A change of topic, I’ll let you have it. “Half a packet of cream.” 

Your eyebrows draw together, frowning in surprise. “That’s it? That’s your whole order?” I nod once, you frown in a way that makes it hard to keep my smile in check. “That is so not fair.”

Okay, you can’t get mad at me for laughing at that. “How?” 

“Because that’s the kind of coffee order that’s like...full of intrigue, and mystery and--” You sigh, grinning, “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I wish I could. “Save your debate for when I get back with our coffees.” 

You turn as I stand. “I can get my coffee--” 

“No, no, you stay here with Henry.” You’re not convinced, you’re not used to people doing things for you the way you do things for them. I turn away before you can say anything else. You’ll get used to people doing things for you. 

I walk up to the counter, ordering the coffee and paying for it as the barista makes it. When I come back, you’re looking at your phone. Do you look worried, or is that in my head? You smile when you see me, pocketing your phone as I sit down across from you. 

“Your unremarkable, un-mysterious coffee.” 

You like that I’m joking, that we can have banter. “Thank you.” You take the cup from me, the tips of our fingers brushing. Could that have been on purpose? “How much do I owe you for the coffee.” 

“Nothing.” It’s the truth--after all you’ve given me, what’s the cost of a five dollar cup of coffee? 

You don’t seem to see it my way, that’s why you’re glaring in a way I think you imagine is intimidating. “Joe.” 

I take a sip of coffee. “Y/n.” I use the same sharp tone that you used. “Hey, I still owe you money from babysitting.” 

“I told you, you don’t--” 

“And I told you, you’re getting paid whether you want to be or not.” 

You hold your hands up in mock defense, easing into your seat. “Fine, but this better come out of that.”

I mean this with only love, y/n, but that’s never happening. “Okay, I concede.” Your eyebrows draw together, you’re still suspicious. I need to change the subject. “So how was Henry?” 

“Amazing, you may have the world’s greatest baby.” 

“He was putting on a show for you.” 

You laugh slightly between sips of your drink. “Sarah told me you guys were new here.” 

“We moved for Henry, you can’t beat the schools.” You nod, even though school districts have nothing to do with your world. You want to understand me. “I lived in LA for awhile, but I’m from Brooklyn.”

The corner of your mouth turns upwards. The city, something in your wheelhouse, something you know how to understand. “Brooklyn?” I nod. “Do you ever miss New York?” 

Oh, this conversation. There’s only so much I can tell you about New York. “Sometimes, but sometimes you have to know when it’s time to let something go.” Like this--I need to take my own advice and let you go. Henry coos, reminding me of the permanent link I have to the unstable monster that would kill you if she ever even suspected I’ve thought about you.

“You’re right.” You nod, trying not to frown. You’re thinking of what happened to you, of what you’ve lost. “But sometimes that’s easier said than done.” 

I know exactly how you feel. “If letting go was easy, there’d be less screwed up people in the world.” 

You tilt your head to the side, something warm outshining the shadows of your past. See, y/n, I can help you. “That’s fair.” You take a sip of coffee, a bit of foam lingering above your top lip. 

“You um...you’ve got some...” You look down, embarrassed as you wipe at the spot right next to the patch of foam. 

“Did I get it?” 

“Um.” You’re watching me carefully...or is it expectantly? I move my hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop me that I know you won’t take. My thumb brushes against the top of your lip, the rest of my fingers gently pressing beneath your jaw. The foam isn’t there anymore, but my thumb still is. 

I can’t move away. I don’t want--I can’t let you go. There has to be a way for things to work out...don’t I owe it to us to try? You’re my one, y/n, I know it. I’ve always believed in the concept, the one person you’re meant for, your one soulmate. Candace wasn’t committed, Beck was a child that kept choosing ways to hurt herself, Natalie only saw me as entertainment, and Love...she’s unstable. But you--you’re worth fighting for. It might be messy, but there has to be a way, love always finds a way. I don’t have to be some kind of handcuff, maybe there’s a way for us to have everything. Maybe there’s a way for us to have Washington together. 

I’ve felt sure that I found the one before, but this...it’s different. I know it is. 

 I brush my thumb along the slope of your lips, feeling your warmth, your softness. You hold still, your eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights. 

You want this too, you feel our connection and it scares you for so many reasons. You’re not the type to go after a married man, much less a married neighbor with an infant son. And after what happened in New York, you’re in no state to take risks. You’re also just generally scared of being known and cared for--probably because of Ashton, who--if your sister’s texts are to be believed--probably a stalker. 

All of these things are reasons for you to back away, but you don’t. If anything, you lean closer as much as you dare, just angling your head slightly. Your lips part and I hold my breath. What are you going to say?

A ringing sound forces reality to crash around us. You pull back completely, muttering a quick--and awkward--thank you, before checking your phone. If I didn’t have it out for Ashton before, I really do now.

You frown--are you upset that we were interrupted or is something else wrong? “Anything important?”

“No,” the response comes a little too fast, and you can’t quite look me in the eye. That’s okay--I’m affected by the moment we just shared too. I can be patient, I can put in the work that I need to so that you can feel comfortable being cared for. “I um--loose ends in New York.” 

Loose ends that fly out because you won’t answer their obsessive phone calls? “Oh.” 

“Nothing bad,” you assure me with one quick nod. “Editors keep reaching out.” 

Oh, a tale as old as the social media age. You may not have benefited from a post #metoo world, but they still want you to be apart of it. They want to make you the latest of the club of petty, scorned women. They’ll have you work on a book a ghostwriter helps you with so that it can published before the news cycle can get bored of you and then they’ll send you to onto one of those talk shows where women yell at other women in the name of empowerment. They want you to take an injustice and re-market it into something viral--it’s a brutal blow to feminism, but as far as career strategies go, it’s not the worst. 

But you don’t want that. You don’t really know what you want, that’s why you came here...into a town that could have come from that universe in A Wrinkle in Time. “Oh, should I expect a tell-all?” 

You look away from your phone screen, wrinkling your nose. The look tells me I was right about you. You find the idea of exploiting what you’ve gone through nauseating. Maybe one day you’ll be able to talk about it, write about it even, and make the asshole that decided his dick was worth more than your career suffer, but you need time. You need someone to help you heal. “No, I can’t even write a cohesive email about what happened let alone--” You cut yourself off, reaching for your cup even though most of what’s left is ice. You don’t want to talk about this, especially not with me yet. I’m still a little more than a nice stranger, someone to be polished around. I can wait until I’m not, so I let it go. “At this point they’d take anything, but...” 

Anything? Now that’s different--don’t get me wrong, it’s still an exploitation of what you went through so that some publishing house can get money, but at least they’re letting you pick the format. “But?” 

You tap your nails on the counter. You’re nervous now. “I’ve always wanted to write a book, but like this...it feels like--god, this is going to sound stupid.” 

How could anything causing you so much stress be stupid? “You’ve told me your coffee order, I doubt it’s worse than that.” 

You look up again, almost smiling. You appreciate the joke. “It feels like cheating.” I don’t react because I know from the way that you blurted out the words like you were ripping off the world’s most adhesive bandaid, there’s more. “If I write a book, and it gets attention and everything I’ve ever wanted works out...and it’s because agents and publishers were interested in me because of what he did--it feels like cheating. It feels like my entire career will be his, and that’s exactly what he said.” Your eyes are wider now, practically glazed over. Please don’t cry over him--I don’t know what I’ll do if I see you cry over him. I don’t know if I have the self control to not search up flights to New York the second you walk away if you start crying because of him. “Forget I said anything--I told you it was stupid. And it’s not like I’ve really been able to write anything since...”

It was worse than the papers said. I don’t know how anyone could talk to you about it and not see it. He did more than just offer you something...he really hurt you. The man’s name had been kept out of several articles, but I know he wouldn’t be hard to find. He wouldn’t be hard to get rid of. You weren’t the first young writer he said he wanted to work with, you’re just the first to say something. There are no doubt more victims who were silenced, who settled in court but got nothing. It wouldn’t make me a bad person to get rid of him. I know I don’t want to do things that could make me a bad parent, but I don’t think this would. I mean, I don’t want to raise my son in a world in which men like the one that hurt women like you get away with it with no consequences. 

“Y/n, there is no world, no universe, even, in which he gets credit for anything you do.” You nod, your expression softening slightly but not exactly relaxing. I don’t blame you, you’ve probably been told that by every person that you’ve told that to. I watch you carefully, desperate for any clue on how to help. How can I take your hurt away, y/n? Tell me and I’ll do it, please. “Do you want him dead?”

Shit--I shouldn’t have said that. You’ve known me for less than 48, you don’t have any background on my sense of humor yet, maybe I can play it off as a joke? Shit, you’re still looking at me like that. 

“What?” 

“I kind of exaggerated, a little, but I was just trying to see how angry you are. Not that you’d kill him, or that anyone would, but there’s this saying about anger and sadness and how most anger is just sadness...but that’s bullshit, because you should be angry--but not murderously angry, it’s--” 

You save me from myself with a laugh. An almost teary, awkward laugh. “Relax, I didn’t think you meant it literally.” Thank god. “I don’t know how angry I am--it comes and goes, and--sometimes I think I wouldn’t mind pulling off a kind of The Count of Monte Cristo-esque situation.” Are you joking? Do you want him gone? “I shouldn’t have said that.” 

“At least it’s the murder that involves the least violence.” 

You don’t quite smile, but at least you’re relaxed again. “Thank you.” 

“For what?” 

You shrug before relaxing further into your seat. You’re trying to shrink away from me, from what you feel. “The company, the coffee, not making me feel crazy.” 

“Anytime.” You nod, finally smiling again. “No I mean it--literally ‘any time’, my only options for friends here are men that virtual reality their porn, and spend a lot of time in the wilderness for no reason other than that they can, and men that make me drink caviar flavored, zero calorie energy drinks.” You laugh, the sound so genuine all of my bad thoughts are forgotten. 

“The wives are nice,” your defense is weak and you know it, “if you actively try to block out most of their gossiping.” So that’s why you’ve buried yourself away, confining yourself to your backyard, and only bearing the real world out of necessity. “Natalie seemed the nicest, but that might just be because she wanted a friend.” Of course you liked Natalie. “It’s terrible, what happened to her.” 

“Yeah, it really is.” 

“Did you know her well?” 

Outside of our almost-affair and then covering up her murder? No, not really. “She was right next door, I saw her but we didn’t talk often. Had a glass of wine with her once, around the time I moved in...but I didn’t know her well enough to be able to talk about her too much now without feeling...” How do I word this in order to get you to stop asking questions I can’t let you ask? 

“I get it. Grieving someone you barely knew because they suffered a tragedy feels weird and kind of wrong if you do it openly.” ...Yeah, not quite, but let’s go with that. “I’m glad you’re honest.”

 Ah, so you’ve met Sherry and you know about the way she twisted Natalie’s interference as a tool to gain more followers. You don’t know it, but this is just proof of how good you are--you won’t even turn your own pain into profit for no reason other than financial. You want to wait until you’re no longer hurt so that you can be tactful, I respect that. 

“I am honest,” I agree, “and I meant it when I said we should do this again.” 

You hesitate because you’re not sure if my offer is out of pity. The way your eyebrows draw together tell me you can’t stand pity. “I’d like that. I’d like to be friends.” 

Friends. If that’s what we need to be for now, I’ll take it. I’ll be patient. And if I want there to be a chance of this working out, I need to be tactful. Which means I can’t let myself get lost in our moments together. Love will be back soon. “Well, friend, I’m ready to go if you are.” 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” 

We walk out together...a little slower than the pace we used to walk here. You’re more at ease now. You’re getting used to talking to me. You ask about my job, what I did before this...I lie as little as possible. You let me get in a few questions. By the time we’re rounding the block, I know that you’re the youngest of three. Your sister is two months shy of being ten years older than you and your brother is four years older than her. You’ve felt like the forgotten child more than you’d ever admit to yourself, but you’re not bitter about it. At least not towards your siblings. Your mother is a mystery...you speak about her like she’s an expensive vase you’ve never been allowed to touch. You never mention a father. You do mention a few good friends: an old roommate waiting for you in New York named Sicily--and you don’t let me get away with laughing at the pretentiousness of naming a child Sicily--and two girls that you used to go to NYU with, Camille and Charlie. 

We’re only a few feet away from your house and I’m sadder than I should be. I’ll see you soon...and if Ashton’s there, waiting for you--

There’s a car in the driveway that wasn’t there before. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s him. The car is nice, it could belong to your brother-in-law--maybe he just got back from work. Or--

“Oh my god...” You stop walking, I tighten my grip on Henry’s stroller. Is it him? What kind of unstable person would follow you from New York? 

The driver’s door is opened, both of us stay still as someone comes out of the car. Their back straightens as they shut the car door. It’s...

“Colin!” Your enthusiasm isn’t making me feel any better. “You’re here!” 

The guy--who is honestly, way too tall for you--walks around the car. You take off, running to hug the stranger. Colin. He didn’t come up today when we were walking back to the coffee shop.

You pull away from the hug first, but Colin seems to try to make it linger. “Colin, you’re here.” 

“You didn’t think I’d leave you here by yourself forever.” Maybe you did, considering that he didn’t. help you in New York.

“No, not forever.” Your tight smile tells me you’re thinking what I was thinking. It’s easy for anyone to come in like the good guy after the aftermath of an incident, but he didn’t jump into the burning building to save. “Please tell me you’re not here on behalf of the agency. I’d hate to have to kick you out.“

He works at an agency? He doesn’t care about you, y/n--he wants to use you the same way everyone else does. Why else would he show up now? If he cared, he would have been there for you before. “One, you can’t kick me out I’m staying in a hotel.” Doesn’t mean she has to let you hang around. “And two, don’t be so cynical--I missed you, babe.” Babe? Don’t be so cynical? Is this really your type, y/n? Sleazy men that are genetically pre-dispositioned to dismiss every emotion a woman feels? “And who’s this...” 

"Oh, this is Joe...and his son, Henry--they live across the street.” How comforting, you didn’t completely forget my existence the moment you saw this guy park his escalade and step out in a suit that’s way too tight for a man his age. Note the sarcasm. 

“Joe.” He doesn’t like me. I know it the moment he looks me in the eye--I can see it, the silent ‘thanks for watching her until I decided I was done being busy, but back off now’. “And Henry.” He waves, i have to bite back to urge to tell him to not look at my son. I’m holding it together for you. “Nice to you meet you guys.” 

“Yeah, good to meet you too, man.” I can be polite for now. For your sake. I need to know who he is. I need to know how large of an obstacle has just been thrown into our already difficult path, and I can’t exactly find out in front of you. “I had fun getting coffee, but if I don’t get Henry back for his nap, his entire schedule will be off. Do you mind if I drop off the baby sitting money off later?” 

“Oh, no--I don’t mind at all, do what you need to do for Henry, and I’ll see you two later.” And I’ll be seeing you first. 

I wave a goodbye to Colin, because I’m holding onto the performance I need to give for you. After I turn around, I hear him whisper a sharply skeptical, “Babysitting?” To which you reply with a terribly giggly, “shut up.”

Who is this loafer wearing, neatly trimmed stubbled asshole? I don’t know, but I know I’m going to find out, because despite all the wrong things you said...you were right about one of them: I’ll see you later. 

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