On The Green: 1
Ezra x f!reader
Rating: Mature (violence, slight gore, killing - typical Ezra 😌 — will be explicit in later chapters)
Summary: Two strangers meet.
a/n: New series alert! Man alive first chapters are hard, and so I am going to yeet this into the universe before looking at it anymore. I owe everything to @bageldaddy for educating me hardcore and for being so extremely kind and thorough, and to @the-ginger-hedge-witch for her Ezra eyes and inspiration and to @familyvideostevie for her support and enthusiasm and notes. It took a VILLAGE to get through this one. Enjoy meeting our stranger. :)
--
You come to surrounded by unnatural stillness.
An absence felt in the air surrounding you, there is something about it that tugs at the foggy corners of your brain, beckoning you closer to the surface. You try to listen for anything beyond the ringing in your ears, and there is…something.
A beeping sound emerging through the fog, its incessant chirping grows clearer. You blink slowly, your limbs made of lead when you try to turn your head. Instead of trying to investigate, you let yourself slip slowly back into the lush darkness, closing your eyes.
But the strangeness of the silence tugs at you, and the beeping gets louder.
Splices of memory come through in sharp flashes:
The deep, bone-shaking tremble of turbulence.
The grating sound of tearing metal.
Beeping - so much fucking beeping, every sensor in the transport pod going off - and the whole cabin jerking to the left, your body weight pushing against the fabric restraints, your dad’s voice raw with hoarseness as he screams orders at you and –
Oh shit. Your dad.
Your eyes pop open, and you sit up - or rather, you try to, but every muscle resists. Battered and bruised, you fumble at your harness with clumsy, shaking fingers. Looking up as it finally clicks open, you’re about to leap from the chair when you freeze.
He’s there next to you, unmoving.
Dead.
“Dad?” you whisper.
You can see without even checking for a pulse that he’s gone. That’s the feeling that pulled you awake, the vibration of life gone from the air. The stillness weighs heavy in the small space, and the beeping gets shriller somehow, more noticeable in the utter silence.
The pod shrinks to a claustrophobic dome, and your breathing starts to come fast. Harsh, rapid exhales out of your open mouth and then you’re vomiting, right onto the floor. A cold sweat breaks out under your thermals, and you swallow hard against more bile that threatens to come up.
There is blood splattered on the dash, pooled around the buttons. A deep gash gouged across his temple, his left eye already swollen beyond recognition. You stare at the dark, pulpy wound that runs with blood and with a heave, lose the remaining contents of your stomach.
To have hit his head like that, he must have unbuckled and tried to fix something mid-crash, but why? Why the fuck would he do that? He knew better than that. You try to think about the sequence of events, but there is only a blur. A foggy, black spot in your memory, hazy images obscured by panic.
You remember pieces: watching Puggart Bench grow smaller as you ascended through the atmosphere. The vague details of your father’s latest scheme, along with promises that this would be your last job. The frustration you felt at those words – ones you’ve heard a million times.
You remember rolling your eyes and slipping on your headphones, and then scolding you for not paying attention after he jabbed you in the shoulder to take them off, and then…this. Somehow this. Guilt settles deep in your gut.
Keeping your dazed eyes glued to the floor, you ignore the blood and beeping and the dead fucking body. You crouch low in the safety of your chair, winding your grip around the harness strap as an anchor and you sit for a moment, trying to steady your breathing.
You sit.
And sit.
–
“Think she’s got anything left?”
The words spread condensation across the lower half of his visor, and Ezra listens for an answer he already knows isn’t coming.
He always asks anyway: a constant dangling bait, in hopes his partner will bite.
He hasn’t yet.
Ezra bends back over the rough dug pit, his fingers splaying through the loose dirt. Anything worth digging for is sealed in his case already, but he stalls, thinking.
He had watched the pod streak across the sky; the sight not unusual on the Green. Mercs and prospectors landed here every day to try their luck on the uninhabitable planet, but the speed in which the pod broke through the sky was unusual. Ezra could tell it was going too fast, even from the ground. His dark eyes had tracked the potential opportunity’s descent from behind the shield of his visor, and when the ground shuddered with the impact, he felt it through his gloves.
If it had landed safety, protocol would be to keep his distance – no use needlessly engaging in a potential threat. However, he doubted that was the case after watching it fall to the earth like a stone. If he had to guess, the occupants were probably dead, and therefore, in his favor.
His old pod flashes through his mind; nonfunctional and by now, probably stripped bare. If he doesn’t get there quickly to stake his claim, this one could fall to the same fate. It didn’t look sizeable by any stretch of the imagination, but he doesn’t need big.
He just needs enough to fit one man, and his case.
Ezra keeps his voice light and conversational.
“Did you feel that?”
He looks up at his silent partner, and is met with a blank stare. Or at least Ezra assumes it’s a blank stare, with the man’s visor blackened. He can’t see his face, and has never been able to. He’s had many offers of partnership while on the Green - some out of desperation, some through coercion, some forced upon him – and though his current partner is one of the latter, he had been secretly pleased at the sheer size of him. Brute strength a valuable commodity; the hulking man is more of a utility than a partner.
“Think it’s worthy of our time to investigate, or do you suppose there won’t be much left after a landing like that? If you want, I can go it alone?”
Met with more silence, both from his partner and from the unforgiving atmosphere of the Green, Ezra grimaces with annoyance when his partner starts to walk in the direction of the site without him.
“Hang on now. We approach together.” Climbing out of the pit, the loose soil slips under his boots. He scrambles up as quickly as he can, unwilling to see his chance at the remains slip through his dirt-crusted fingers.
“Now then,” he breathes heavily. “I think it would be befitting of us to use caution in our approach. The passengers may still be alive, and feeling panicked enough to pose a risk. I think –”
The hulk appears to listen to half of what Ezra says, and then turns abruptly mid-sentence, walking away.
Snatching up his case, Ezra switches off the comm link in his helmet and his expression falls from tactful to annoyance. His eyes narrow on the man’s broad back, his fingers itching for his thrower.
Grumbling, he follows.
“Fucking idiot.”
–
You’re going to have to touch it.
You wonder what it will feel like – stiff with rigor? Still pliant with traces of warmth? Heavy and impossible to move?
In all the ways you imagined you’d probably find your father dead, you somehow hadn’t thought about the logistics of actually moving his body. You imagined someone else would be the one responsible for it. Medical staff, most likely, who were used to the clammy skin and the stiff weight of death.
Not you.
Yet another thing you’ll have to do unwillingly for him.
The reason you’re on this godforsaken planet in the first place, he’d forced you along to help him pay a debt owed for those fucking drops he relied on to get through his days. Days that bled into nights spent waiting for him, more his parent than his child. A freefall into the nomad life since your mother died, you’d been trailing behind him for years - an afterthought, only remembered when he needed something.
A reluctant digging partner when he forced you to be, but also a navigator, a cook, a laundress, a caretaker. You were a lot of things to him, but never the one you wanted to be the most.
Never a daughter.
Your eyes slowly scan the disarray of the cabin, taking in the damage. For all the things he asked you to do, he had kept you in the dark when it came to any actual useful skills that might help you in this situation. Prospecting, digging, self-defense – anything that would have afforded you a glimpse at the possibility of independence – all of those were kept from your reach.
Never a mechanic either, unfortunately for you. How the fuck you’re going to fix this thing, you have no idea. The manuals for it were tucked away somewhere, but they required at least a basic understanding, and you have barely that.
You could stick with the harvesting plan he had vaguely outlined to you on the way here (assuming you could even find the gems, let alone dig them up), try to come back and fix your pod during the evenings (assuming you could even figure it out) and then try to catch the next slingback home (assuming you could even get off this planet).
Your other option would be…none. There are no other options.
The entire situation expands into something overwhelming, each step far outside your base of knowledge and your breathing starts to come fast again. You scold yourself, willing it to slow.
Panicking again isn’t going to help shit.
Wrestling with your emotions, you take a deep inhale and close your eyes, focusing on the first step.
Before anything else, you have to move him.
–
Through the edges of lush greenery, a pod.
Ezra tries to tamp down his excitement, kicking his senses into high alert to scan for whomever it belongs to - but there is nothing.
Fucking silence, the bane of his existence.
Though in this case, a good sign.
His own pod taken from him months ago in a standoff between himself and his former crew, this off-white piece of rubbish appears as treasure to him. It’s banged up for sure: one of the engines loose from the frame and the metal surrounding the bottom crumpled from hard impact. Unlikely that anyone survived the crash, anticipation thrums through him at the harvest in front of him.
Keeping his expression measured, he beckons his partner to approach with him, silently advising caution.
The idiot doesn’t though. Instead, he stomps forward and punches at the hatch button with force.
Ezra frowns deeply, anger slipping into his tone. “Hey,” he reprimands sharply.
The man pays Ezra no mind as the ramp slowly opens.
–
One hand extended towards your dad’s shoulder, it hangs hesitantly in the air for a moment. Inching forward, you try to summon every ounce of bravery that you have and just when it’s about to touch—
A loud thump sounds outside the pod, and your hand jerks back. Crouching low along the side of the pod, you crawl through the ship's scattered contents all over the floor and grab the thrower, trying to desperately wind a sufficient charge for a shot or two. The rummaging outside grows louder, and you crouch behind your chair, gripping the weapon in your sweat slick hands. Panic floods through your veins, the sharp stink of fear oozing from your pores as your body shivers with adrenaline, and you flex your hold on your weapon.
The door to the pod opens with a hiss, and two men emerge.
One slighter than the other, which isn’t saying much—anyone would be slight compared to the size of the second man. You aren’t even sure how he managed to get into the pod, between the width of his body and his height.
Rising swiftly, you point the weapon at them.
“Stop,” you force out, trying to mask the tremble in your voice.
The lithe man freezes, surprise showing on his face for a split second before disappearing. Tilting his helmet in thought, he speaks.
“Now this is something I’ve never seen in all my time in the Green,” he muses with a drawl. “A little girl.”
A statement, not a question, and you bristle while he continues to study you curiously.
“Leave, or I’ll shoot.”
Your finger flexes on the trigger, and he raises his hands in front of him.
“Calm down, little bird. My partner and I merely ventured this way to see if all was okay after that crash we heard.” His eyes scan the cabin, a scattered mess. “Seems it was quite the landing.”
Shuffling your stance a fraction closer, you keep the thrower trained on them. “I’m fine. Now please. Go.”
“Doesn’t look like you’re fine.” He sounds completely unbothered, like you aren’t pointing a weapon directly at him. Taking a slow step forward, he peers around you. “Your partner sure doesn’t seem fine.”
“He’s not my partner. It’s my –” You freeze, scolding yourself for immediately volunteering information and his gaze drops down to your father’s lifeless form. The stranger's face sobers, and he looks back at you.
His jaw shifting in thought, his partner seems to grow bored of the conversation and takes a heavy step forward, advancing on you.
“Stop,” you try to order, panic creeping into the command, but he doesn’t. He keeps going, his large arm reaching towards your thrower. His massive grip choking the barrel, he rips it clean from your hands before you can even think about stopping him, and you crouch back behind your chair, trembling.
“My apologies for my partner, little one. He’s not keen on having weapons pointed at him. You can understand, I’m sure. Why don’t you come out from behind that chair and let’s talk. A deal, if you’re open to it.”
You don’t want to strike a deal with them. You know that any deal you attempt to broker on your behalf is going to be in their favor no matter what the conditions are. Your father never taught you the skills of negotiation – those were always done out of sight. Your mouth dries, sweat beading along your nape. What fucking deal could there even be to make that doesn’t end up with you dead? Or worse?
With so much happening in the last two hours, it’s hard to process anything, let alone a negotiation with deadly strangers on a hostile planet. How you handle this situation could be literally life or death for you, and you beg your brain to pick up pace.
Please. Please. Come on, think.
Your mind still struggling but knowing you’re running out of time, you force yourself back up.
“The deal was leave, and I won’t shoot.”
He only grins at that, and rage at the unfairness of it all flares bright through you.
“Besides, why should I believe anything you say? You’ll probably just kill me the first chance you get.”
“Why would you assume I intend harm?”
You don’t have anything to say to that, instead looking at his partner. Fear at his sheer size displays clearly on your face no matter how hard to try to mask it. “Why else would he steal my gun? Shoot me first before I can shoot, right?”
“If that was the case, he would have shot you already.” He lets a beat pass, his eyes narrowing in their focus on you. “Still could though, I guess.”
There is something behind the indifference in his voice, something in his eyes that begs you silently to listen to him — but then his partner raises his thrower, and several things happen at once.
You whimper, dunking behind the tattered chair.
The smaller man whips his railgun from his hip, pulling the trigger.
You scream, and the bullet hits his partner square in the chest.
The larger man stumbles forward as if to grab him but the smaller one shoots him again, the second shot landing in his gut. The force of the close shot pushes the larger man backwards, his heavy body slamming into the pod wall.
He slumps down, collapsing into a lifeless heap.
There is a beat of weighted silence; your form frozen.
The roguish man’s profile faces you: dark features partially obscured by the dome of his helmet, you can see closely shorn brown hair in matted disarray with a shock of white that smears just above his temple. Black eyes that glimmer in the fluorescent light, the edges lined with age. Tanned skin, a strong nose, plush lips under a mustache.
He stares at his dead partner with something akin to satisfaction, and it turns your stomach to think of not only how quickly he resorted to violence, but also how much he seems to enjoy it.
“Well would you look at that. Now we have two to move.”
Still in shock, the violent scene in front of you startles you just as much as his nonchalance does. You watch as he turns to face you; a hooked scar marring the skin under his eye.
“Now little one,” he says with seeming politeness. “You ready to hear that deal?”
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a vision trip
part 1 part 3
one day with a familiar face in a foreign country
word count: 10.4k
It's May in Paris. The breeze is light and the air is sweet. Alex sits in a cafe, picking at his nails, waiting. He nurses a coffee, but it's too bitter, and he's too nervous to ask for sugar or cream. He debates ordering food but decides to wait for his counterpart. He's tired. Too many shows and an overwhelming amount of traveling. There isn't much keeping him awake other than the people bustling around him and the person he's awaiting.
She was supposed to be here at 12 and it's 12:10 now. He won't complain. He isn't one for punctuality either. He can't think about the show tonight. It's draining but he'll soak up every minute of it. He just doesn't want to wait. He wants to take a nap. He'll wait 10 more minutes and then leave. It's fair enough.
He's tapped out. People-watching in Paris is quite a thrill. People sitting outside are smoking and he wishes he picked a seat out there so he could at least have a cigarette keeping him awake. There's a couple across the street either arguing or just passionately talking. It's hard to tell the difference.
Then, the chair across from him screeches across the floor loudly, drawing his eyes up. All the color drains from his face, his ghostly appearance recognizing the phantom that stands before him. His heart has fallen out of him. It's lying on the floor somewhere, the blood spurting out of it. Alex is certain he has fallen and hit his head and this is the dream sequence that plays in the movie. He's lost in a circle of time. It could be minutes or seconds, he sits there with his mouth begging to catch flies.
She smiles. That same fucking smile. Bright, pearly, the kind she'd give that made him want to lean in and kiss her. She looks the exact same. Even has a bandana on, although, now it's tied around the back of her head, holding that blonde hair back. It's longer now. She's dressed in jeans and a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up. It's almost like they are matching. Could be, if they wanted to with his trousers and white button-up.
He blinks like twenty times trying to clear his vision, make sure of this sight. Confirm this is real. It stays the same. "Holy fucking shit," he finally utters.
Her smile grows wider. "Wow," she sighs, "your French has gotten much worse. You're supposed to say bonjour."
Alex finally allows a smile to crack his face, despite his certainty that this can not be real. "What—what are you doing here?" His brows furrow, still unable to take in her whole image.
She takes off the saddle bag. It's leather this time. Not her old cloth one with the pins. She sits fully down in the chair across from him. A wide smirk displays across her face as she rests her head on her left hand. "Interviewing you."
As if this interaction couldn't get crazier and his jaw could possibly hang open wider. "Seriously?"
She gives him a pleased nod. "I don't usually do music but someone atmy work mentioned the Arctic Monkeys concert coming to town and the opportunity for an interview and I begged my boss."
He tries to quail his quickened heartbeat but she isn't making it simple. None of this is simple and he's gone dazed and crazed. He must have. "I can't believe you're here. You're in front of me. I feel like you're so calm and I've completely lost it."
"Well, I knew I would be seeing you again for about a month and I tried to regain my cool in front of the bathroom mirror for about 45 minutes. Do you want to go do that?" She points behind her to the toilets with a dream-inducing grin. She's proud of that joke.
"I might have to. Go in there and se branler." He motions jerking off loosely with his hand and it gets that precious fucking laughter out of her.
"You remember any French other than that?"
He gives a quick shake of his head. "No, not really." Prompting more laughter from her. He stares at her, giving her a thorough examination. "I can't fucking believe it. It's been 11 years, you know, how fucking crazy is that?"
"Don't tell me that." She rests her forehead in the palm of her hand. "I'm still trying to deal with turning 30 and that was 2 years ago."
He's amused by her. It's 11 years ago and yesterday for him. He feels they've snapped right back into place. No time has shifted and they are 21 again and this is what life would have been like if they had July in Paris. "So, you finally figured out your life," he recalls her ramblings. Revels in them.
She shrugs. "For the most part. It took a while but we're here. It was kind of, well, our day in Brussels helped point me in that direction. You probably don't remember"—he remembers everything, seriously—"but you made this compliment about how I had all these good questions or something and I thought, after you, well, told me about the whole band thing, and I figured out how big you actually were that I could do that for a living. Interview people. I don't usually do rockstars though not since you."
A thumping rings in his red-hot ears. He tries to take a deep breath and has to try several times. "What do you usually do?"
"Mainly the art section. I go to at least a dozen gallery openings every week but I love it."
"It sounds perfect for you. You helped me understand Magritte."
She smiles with pride. "You always had a keen eye. I only pointed you in the right direction."
He lets out a puff of air loudly and shakes his head. He doesn't look down at his hands but already knows they're shaking. "I'm sorry. I just can't fucking believe you're in front of me. I didn't think I'd ever see you again."
She giggles. "I didn't really either."
He becomes a tad solemn as he leans on his hand, closer to her. "Can I ask you something?" She nods. "Why didn't you come to the Paris show?"
She leans back in her chair and her demeanor shifts. She's remorseful-looking and toying with her hands. He supposes that habit has stayed the same. "I wanted to. I tried to be but I had got into this journalism program in Boston. I saw you there but I didn't think you'd want to see me after ditching you in Paris. I didn't really know how to get backstage or anything either. I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Don't be sorry. Why did you think I wouldn't want to see you?"
She tries to hide her face. "I swear I wasn't searching you up every night and stalking you but I saw you and your girlfriend back then, uh, Alexa. Didn't want to impose on anything because that was back when I didn't have the belief of women and men being friends."
"Like Harry Burns? I'd want to see you no matter what." He doesn't want to admit to her how hurt he was by her not showing up in Paris. How her name had been on every backstage list for the Favourite Worst Nightmare tour. Let alone that embarrassed trolling around Paris he had done. His start with Alexa, however serious that relationship ended up becoming, was rooted in getting over Lottie. He still hadn't fully dealt with that last part. Not until she sat in front of him and he realized.
"I had a different mind at 21," she explains. "I changed therapists."
He throws his head back in laughter. "What was the final straw?"
"Well." Her eyes drift away from his, looking down at her locked hands. "Moving to America was the main reason. I couldn't deal with any more defense of porn-addict boyfriend."
Alex takes a sip of his coffee, forgetting its bitterness, but enduring it to indulge in her sweetness. "She never let up on that one?"
"Not really."
Lottie orders a cappuccino and Alex, unsure of what to do, says, "You know, I have a concert later tonight."
"I know. I'm gonna go if that's alright. For the article and everything." She says it like she's informing him, rather than asking for permission.
"Well, I don't have to be at the venue for another couple of hours and I've never really gotten the chance to explore Paris." The smile that spreads across her face tells him she knows what he is thinking.
She snickers, "I should get a flat day rate for being your tour guide."
He leans forward on the little cafe table between them. "Come on, I'll give an exclusive. Complete unabridged day with a rockstar."
She giggles. "My boss would be very mad if I didn't take that."
"Perfect." He means every bit of that. His 21-year-old self's fantasies are finally coming true. Imagining life as it truly should have been. He thinks how much he has changed since then. How much he has stayed the same. She's stayed the same in his mind. A ghostly presence in his mind. An angel that came and visited for a day. She looks much of the same, especially compared to his differing appearance. Longer hair, less scrawny, light stubble regrowing post-goatie. He's grown into himself more, no longer an awkward boy under a hoodie. He's getting hot under his suit jacket. "So, what have you been up to the past 11 years?"
George points a finger at him. "Aren't I supposed to be asking you questions?"
He smirks and leans back in his chair. "No, see that's part of the deal. You tell me what you've been doing for the past decade and answer all my questions and I might tell you exclusive material. But you have to hold up your end of the bargain."
She raises an eyebrow but smiles and nods. "Let's see the last 11 years. I mean, I lived in Boston for 5 years. About 5 years too many."
"Why? Did you hate it?"
She tilts her head back and forth in an indifferent gesture. "It's a nice city but I don't think I belong in America. I fell into a fantasy there. By the time I had been there 5 years, I felt I had been living a lie the whole time. You know, I didn't like my apartment or my friends or even my job and I was 26 and it was either change my shit now or live like this for the rest of my life."
"Yeah, yeah. I feel that now. I've been out in LA for about 5 years now but had never really settled until this past year. I loved it my first year. It was so different than anywhere I've ever lived but last year was the first time I had been there a full year and I think I hate it."
"America's a mess now anyway. I couldn't imagine living in LA. It doesn't seem fun."
Alex shrugs. "I like it but I think I've fallen away from it. And everywhere is a mess now anyway. Brexit's happened and England's a mess and I haven't even lived there fully since 2008 but part of me thinks I'd like it."
"When I moved back to Paris after Boston, I felt my whole body realigned and I'm not one for that energy crap but I think there has to be something to these places because I immediately felt a relief I had never felt in Boston." His head is filled with thoughts of telling her, I know exactly what you mean, I feel it right now looking at you.
"Maybe after this next tour but I don't know if me girlfriend would do it. She already moved out to LA for me. I'd feel shitty making her move to a whole other country."
"Is she American?"
He nods, even though he has a feeling she already knew that but she's trying not to seem like she already has all the answers to him already from her research. "You seeing anyone?"
Her face crosses. "Kind of." Her resolve breaks with a laugh. "God, how embarrassing is it that I'm 32 and kind of in a relationship?"
"I think you're fine. 32 is still young. You don't have to worry about that for another decade."
She leans forward with intensity, the same level she had at 21. "Except, I'm getting down to the wire here as far as having children." He throws his head back in laughter. It's nice to know that she hasn't changed a bit in 11 years. "I'm serious. And, I know, I know, science is so advanced these days and there are millions of children to adopt and blah blah blah but I don't want to be a 50-year-old pregnant woman or a single mother. I mean, I'm not opposed to it but I don't think there's anything wrong with having the fantasy of the nuclear family. Except I don't know if I really want that or that's just societal pressure I'm feeling."
It's deja vu for him of the romantic nostalgia variety that if he could package it into a pill and take it as a prescription forever, he would. "You said the same thing in Brussels."
She groans in frustration. "Great, so I'm a broken loop. I'm a woman moaning about men and babies. I put shame on all the feminist icons."
He waves his hand at her. "I think you're fine and it's nice to know how you feel about these things, even if it's the same. I feel that way right now."
"With children?"
"Yeah, I mean, most of me friends have settled. Everyone in the band has kids and I don't know if I want that. Me girlfriend wants that, I think, but I can't imagine touring and having kids at home. I still feel too young to have kids or to get married."
She groans, "Yuck. Don't even get me started on marriage."
"Don't believe in it?"
"I don't want to. I think if I was with someone who really wanted it then maybe but when I was engaged it felt like such a doomful thing."
She nonchalantly says it but he needs to know. "You were in engaged?"
Lottie gives a small head nod and sips her cappuccino. The subject is still an odd one for her. "For about 6 months in 2012. It was a disaster, to say the least, mostly on my part. He was a good guy but I was too immature to settle and he was the last thing keeping me in Boston. Once that ended, I came back to Paris."
"You were engaged to an American?" He leans forward with intrigue. It shocks him for some reason.
She furrows her brows. "Aren't you dating an American?"
"Yeah, but it's different," Alex excuses.
"How?"
There isn't actually a difference other than bubbling jealousy but he can't admit that. So, he shrugs. "I'm a lowly Brit and you're a sophisticated French girl dating an American, let alone one from Boston."
She tilts her head in slight agreement. "He was awfully rowdy."
"Was he a big Red Sox fan?" Alex jokingly asks.
She sticks her tongue out and shakes her head. "Yuck, don't talk to me about baseball. Sports is the primary reason I left. His family had season passes and it was like the Salem Witch Trails if you didn't go to every game."
"See this is why I can't picture you engaged to an American."
"Fair point," she says. "What about your girlfriend?"
"Oh." He doesn't know why he's taken aback by the question. It makes him stir with guilt. It's not that he doesn't love his girlfriend, he has a fucking tattoo with her name, but suddenly Lottie sits down in a cafe in Paris across from him and he is thrown.
"She's great." He stops there but then Lottie stares at him and he realizes he's being short. He stares down at his cup. "She's—she's funny, beautiful, and very lovely." The description doesn't exactly help his case.
She doesn't push him any further. In fact, she smiles, and says, "She sounds nice. I'm sure you don't deserve her."
Alex chuckles initially at the comment but it grows painful inside of him. He struggles to digest it and the words weigh heavy as it turns from a joke into the truth. He shakes it off as best he can. "Who is this 'kind of' relationship?"
She sighs loudly. "We met at this weird work function. He works as a freelance photojournalist and travels to these warzones for months at a time and then he'll be here for a month or 2 before heading off again."
"Wow," Alex utters. How can I compete with a warzone photojournalist who is kind of her boyfriend? He shakes it. You don't need to compete because you have a fucking girlfriend, you idiot. "That's cool." Idiot.
"Yeah." She displays a similar demeanor as him: outmatched with no chance of catching up. "It's—he's a good guy. He does this incredible work but I can't help but constantly feel undercut by him. It's not his intention but—no offense to you—I'm telling him about some avant-garde art show I just reviewed and he's like 'That's great, I'm photographing Syrian refugee camps.' You feel like a complete loser next to him."
"You're helping keep art alive and maybe I'm stroking me ego too much but isn't that what we need during all these shitstorms? It feels like the only thing keeping me sane at times."
She leans forward onto her hand and smiles and, fuck, he feels his heart skip a beat. He can't shake her off of his skin, off his mind, off his heart. If he was a smart guy—a good guy—he'd do the interview, and leave. Play the show and leave France. Go home to his girlfriend and leave Lottie as a fantasy in his mind for the rest of his life. But then he thinks about his 21-year-old self who swore he wouldn't let her become that to him. Someone he would lie awake at night and imagine what life would be like if he got her. She's danced in and out of his mind through the years, but he'd be lying if he didn't think about what would have happened if she showed up in Paris. She got on that London-bound train. If they exchanged fucking phone numbers. He can't lie awake and think what would have happened if he didn't shun her. "Do you want to walk around now maybe?"
"Sure." She eagerly stands up.
She opens her bag and takes out her wallet. He holds his hand out. "You have to let me pay for your coffee, at least. I never paid you back for the hotel." The thought of the hotel room sends shivers down his spine.
Alex tosses a few bills to cover the check and then some. She giggles, "You finally have Euros."
He shrugs with a hidden smirk too shy to show him how pleased he is that she remembers. Even if it's his dorky mistake. "A little more prepared this time."
They exit the cafe into the Latin Quarter with Lottie leading the way to their next location. Their pace is the same as it was in Brussels. In step with one another through talks of one another's lives.
"What has the last 11 years been like for you?" She returns his question to him. "I mean," she admits, "I know some of it."
Alex narrows his eyes at her. "You've been keeping tabs on me, Lottie?"
She breaks eye contact away from him and shrugs but the smile that breaks through tells him everything he needs to know. He gets too much of a kick of that. "Well, you're not the easiest to avoid. I also did get really into your music after, you know, Brussels and all."
It pleases him until a realization drops his heart into his gut. He looks for a display of any reaction on her face but she keeps steady and walks ahead. He won't say it if she doesn't. Maybe she doesn't even know. Maybe only he paid attention to that kind of thing. Maybe only he paid attention to their hotel room number.
"I mean," he exhales loudly. "Everything you know is probably the extent."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, come on, in the last 11 years all you've done is music. That's not true."
And, sure, it's not, but it kind of is. He doesn't want to tell her about his ex-girlfriends and he doesn't need to indulge her in whatever stupid stories he has of LA. "I think it is. It sounds pretty depressing, doesn't it?"
She shakes her head. "I don't think so. You're living a pretty cool life. Unless you don't see it that way."
"No, it's just..."
"What?"
"I feel like I've been in the same place since I was 21. I'm stuck in some cycle that I can't stop. I know I've changed and I've had experiences. I mean, I lived in New York for a little and I've been in LA for a while but when you're touring for more than a year at a time for pretty much a decade, it's hard to feel significant changes."
"I feel the same way since moving back to Paris."
"Really?" It's hard to feel like anyone knows how he feels. Everyone around him has had big life changes and he feels...the same.
"Boston was a whirlwind but it was my 20s. Now, I get up and go to work every day and I go home and repeat it. I have friends and we go out for dinners but I'm not getting married, I'm not having children, and I'm not visiting Antarctica. I'm still. For years, I liked that feeling but now..."
He finishes, "You feel stuck."
"Yeah. I swear I'm not depressed. I'm not going to throw myself in the Seine or anything."
He chuckles. "No, no. I know what you mean. It's just growing pains."
"Pft," she says, "at 32 I thought that would be over with."
"I don't think it ever goes away."
"At least I'm not getting zits anymore."
"Small victories."
She points her finger out. "There's this park, the Luxembourg Gardens, down the road. It's beautiful if you'd like to go."
And just like before, where she leads, he will follow.
"My father died last year," she tells him.
He isn't sure what to say. For the first time, he touches her, places his hand on her arm. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head and shrugs. "No need. I never really knew him."
"Oh," he says, "I didn't know that." He suddenly realizes that the perception he had of Lottie for the last decade has been shaped by one day, not even a full 24 hours. A time they spent together where he didn't even know that she never knew her father.
"Yeah, I never—I don't talk about it very much. I feel like I've finally started to work through some of the childhood trauma shit that I swept under the rug for so many years. My parents' relationship was complicated."
"In what way? I don't mean to be nosy—"
She interrupts to reassure, "Never. You never are." She smiles over at him like a sunray. "I like telling you these things. It feels like a vessel I can put it in and send out to sea. I know you'll never tell another soul, right?"
He motions locking his lips and tossing the key. It makes her giggle and he forgot the thrill he got from doing that.
"My father was married when my maman had my brother and me. Never divorced his wife. I have a half-sister I've never met. She's like 20 years older than me."
Alex doesn't mean to have a visible reaction but he can't help but utter, "Wow."
"Yeah." She slips her hands into her jeans' pockets. "I don't know. I've been trying to work my way through all of it. I think I feel grief over it but I'm not sure if I'm mourning his death or the potential relationship we could have had."
"I don't know. I've never been in that type of situation with death. You know, the finality of everything. But with people that I've drifted away from, I imagine all these what-ifs." It's hard to ignore the person he's talking about is right next to him. "What I could have done differently to make them stay or like me or whatever but I've realized that no matter what you do it doesn't change the way the other person is. With your dad, I can't imagine not wanting to know you. Something must have been wrong with him."
"Probably," she agrees before laughing. The thickness of the conversation is split in two as they both laugh lightness into the air.
"So, you just grew up with your brother and mother?" Alex asks.
Lottie pulls a face, scrunching up her nose and pursing her lips. "I wish. My mom had her series of boyfriends. Some better, some worse. Nothing bad and she never married any of them but it was a weird revolving door. The longest one was the British diplomat. That's why my English is so good. Well, if I do say so myself."
"I still can't speak a lick of French so you're 1000 times better than me."
"I can't help it if I'm so fabulous," she jokes as she skips into the gardens. He's left watching her cheer from six paces behind. Mirth floods him and he feels a snap inside him like a glowstick coming to life. She's lit him up all over again. Prescribed him exactly what he needs. If he was smart, he'd leave now. He got his fix and he should go to the concert venue and leave it at that. He walks into the Luxembourg Gardens.
Alex follows her as she walks through the green parterre of gravel and lawn. The area is decently populated but the wide expansion of the park prevents any crowding. He can't stop staring at the back of her. It's not in some sexual desire way. He's not staring at her ass. He's not really focused on one area. He watches the way her trainers plant their way into the ground. The way her bandana flutters from the wind. The way her hair moves slightly side-to-side with each movement. He wonders if she takes him in this way. Noticed the way his loafers tap into one another every once in a while when he's walking. The way his hands are in his jacket to prevent the wind from blowing it around. The way he has had to keep pushing his hair behind his ears.
Then, she stops and sits in one of the metal chairs they have, Alex sits across from her, and she says, "Your hair is longer."
Witch! She must be psychic. He pushes his hair behind his ear again as if on instinct. "Yeah, that's different. It's changed a lot through the years."
"Yeah, I know. The quiff was a funny one."
"Are you mocking me?" He leans closer and teases.
She giggles. "No, never."
"You don't look too different to me."
She scrunches her face up and scoffs, "Yeah, how plain am I."
Alex shakes his head slowly. "Not plain. You don't need to change anything about you. You were beautiful then and you're beautiful now." He's trending in territory he shouldn't but it makes her smile, like really smile. She turns her head away from him and covers her mouth with her hand.
"Whereas you still look ugly," she mocks with a smug smile.
His jaw opens dramatically. "You are mean, Lottie."
"I'm kidding," she reassures. "You've always been a charming-looking man."
"You make it sound like I'm some dandy."
Her face twists up again. "What's that?"
"A dandy?" She nods. "For once, I know something you don't."
"You know many things I don't."
"Yeah, right."
"I can't carry a tune to save my life. In fact, I should win an award for not attempting to ever play music."
"I don't know. I think if you applied yourself to it you could be good."
"Are you trying to recruit me to your music school, Mr. Turner?" It's the first time she's said his last name ever and he realizes he doesn't know hers.
"You could be a good triangle player." She punches his arm when he says that. He asks, "What's your last name?"
She smirks. "Guess."
"I don't know. Something really French."
"No. Guess."
"I don't know," he says again. "Something like Bonaparte or whatever."
"No. Guess."
"We're going to be here all day if you don't at least help me narrow it down."
She grabs hold of his face, hands on his cheeks, which are growing embarrassingly rosy. "My last name is Guess."
His face drops. "Wait. Your last name is Guess. Charlotte Guess."
"Yes and ew. Don't call me Charlotte."
He sighs loudly, "I don't know, Charlotte. You put me through a lot of trouble there."
She relinquishes her hold on his face and leans back in her chair. He's unnerved by how the cold rushes to his body as soon as she isn't close. "You'll manage."
She oozes cool, always has. She props a leg up on the chair and leans back with such freeness that wasn't there 11 years ago. She's not twisted up inside, she looks relaxed. He wants to ask her how to get there. Lately, he's felt like knots of stress. Any effort to dissipate has been met unsuccessfully because he can't put a finger on what's causing all of it.
"You know," she says, "I do have to interview you at some point."
He waves her off. "I know, I know, but I'm still adjusting to the fact that I'm seeing you right now. I want to know more about you."
That hint of a smile comes back to her cheeks. "Like what?" The tip of her shoe knocks on his shoe and he isn't sure what to make of it. Looks down and wishes he could take a photo of it.
"Do you still paint?"
She bites her bottom lip and shakes her head in disbelief. "You remember that I paint?"
Alex doesn't see it as a big deal. Why wouldn't he remember all those little things? "Yeah, and you're a decent cook, right?"
"Jesus," she lets out under her breath. A quickened heart rate and a brush of pink to her cheeks. "I don't even think my mother remembers I paint. I still do it from time to time. I was never very good at it."
He shakes his head. "I doubt that."
"You never seen anything I've painted."
"I don't need to see it to believe it. If you think it's bad it's probably better than what most people, including myself—especially myself—can do."
"Well, maybe if you're lucky I show you something."
"I'd like that." He hates how much he'd like that. "What do you paint?"
She shrugs. "This. That. Abstract kind of things. I like painting faces but I'm not very good at that. I get the proportions all mixed up."
"Like Magritte or something?" He chuckles.
She shakes her head. "Not quite. More like that botched restoration of that Jesus painting."
Alex can't help but think of the two of them standing before A Stroke of Luck and the cigar, but not a cigar painting (so, screw him, he can't remember the name of it). His mind can't help but reminisce on them in the park sitting in the grass afterward. Lottie, delicate and cherubic, picking flowers to place behind his ear, and then, kissing her. If he reaches out into the memory, he can practically still feel his hands on her skin.
"Do you want to go to another art museum?"
"What like the Louvre?"
"Sure."
She laughs. "I am not going to the Louvre."
But Alex is already standing and reaching his hand out to her. "Come on, I've never been."
She sighs and places her hand in his. It's soft like a baby's freshly washed skin. His hand feels rough against the smooth surface, callouses old and new can be felt. Alex pulls her up out of her chair and they begin to walk to the park's exit. "How have you never been to the Louvre?"
"I've never had time," he explains. "Generally when I've visited Paris it's been for a limited number of days."
"But didn't you record the album in La Frette? Couldn't come in on a day off for the Louvre?" She's still holding his hand. He's not being responsible, he knows.
In fact, he's passed irresponsible when he leans in close to her ear and says, "I missed when you didn't know anything about me."
She giggles and shrugs her shoulders. "I'm the one taking you to the Louvre at 1 in the afternoon with no tickets. I think you can manage the sacrifice."
"You must go all the time considering your job," Alex says.
Lottie says, "Oh, I haven't been to the Louvre in over a decade," before bursting out into laughter.
"And you're shaming me for having never gone?"
She lets go of his hand and wags her finger at him. "Hey, I have at least gone. Multiple times! And the Louvre isn't exactly a place getting new and upcoming art all the time." She drops her hand back down to her side. Their hands never re-intertwined. "The last time I went I was 17 and I made out in the staircase with Alain Millardet the whole time."
"So, you really saw all the sights." He follows her directions as they cross the street.
Lottie gags from the memory alone. "He was a horrible kisser and we ended up getting caught by an employee. They told our school—our Catholic school, by the way—and it was the only time I ever got in trouble. The only thing that lessened the blow was that my maman was away with her boyfriend and never found out."
"You were a goody-two-shoes in school," Alex teases.
Lottie squishes up her face. "What does that mean?"
He grins at the way her little button nose is scrunched up, her eyes slightly squinted, the wrinkle formed between her brows. "Just means you're a rule follower."
"Oh." She giggles. "I just didn't get caught." Every inch of her intrigues him. The secrets she has buried deep within that he has an eagerness to uncover. The flip of her hair as she walks her way down the streets. Her hands clutch the brown leather strap of her bag. Those blue eyes glancing over at him as ripples of laughter echo through her.
They begin to cross over the Seine when she tells him, "This is the Pont des Arts. It used to be covered in locks, you know, the thing where couples put a lock on the bridge and throw away the key, but they had to remove it after the bridge nearly collapsed, which thank god because I had one with my ex-boyfriend on it and I couldn't bear the thought that we would be locked here together eternally."
Alex chuckles and puts his hands in his pockets. "Me first girlfriend did that with the lock she used for her locker. At the end of the school year, she wrote our names on the back and locked it to a fence. About a month after we broke up, I walked by the fence she'd put it on and it was gone. She had gone back and removed it."
"Aw," she coos, "poor girl. You probably broke her heart."
"Thanks for your lack of pity for me, Lot." She grins at the nickname. "How do you know she didn't break my heart?"
"Because only a heartbroken girl would go back and remove the lock."
"Yeah."
Alex gazes up and spots the glass pyramid, realizing they've already made their way to the Louvre. The courtyard is populated with people taking pictures of and with the structure. Someone is playing violin, likely busking, in the distance.
As they approach the building, Lottie gasps and then begins to laugh. "What?" Alex asks with a hint of his own reactive laughter.
She gives him a funny frown. "It's Tuesday, isn't it?"
Alex confusedly responds with a dragged-out "Yeah."
She snickers. "The Louvre is closed on Tuesdays."
They both just take to laughing in the middle of all the tourists. Lottie clutches his forearm, which he reciprocates, making their arms plank over each other. Then, Lottie suddenly stops, stands up straight, and looks him in the eye, saying, "Time for me to interview you."
Alex chuckles, "Nice try." He takes to guiding them out of the courtyard, walking ahead of her. "Where to next?"
She's right behind him. Alex can feel the edge of her bag touch his butt. "Are you trying to get me fired?"
The pleasure he gets out of taunting her should probably be illegal. "You'll get your interview," he promises. "I've already given you so much unknown information. I've never been to the Louvre, still to this day, my French is horrible, and I'm desperate to see some art so why don't you show me some of yours."
They pause at a crossing. "Are you trying to invite yourself to my apartment?" She has a habit of making him flustered easily. Her fluttering lashes flapped away at him. He swears they blow an ocean breeze his way.
He plays a tricky game. "Well, if we go to your apartment, maybe you'll finally get your interview." The light flashes green and he walks ahead.
She trails behind fighting a crooked grin. "I highly doubt that."
Alex hums.
Either way, they headed off in the direction of her place. Down the stairs to the metro where they wait for the 4 train. The platform is sparsely crowded, predictable for a Tuesday afternoon just before rush hour.
"I have to say something." Her demeanor is coy. She's holding her hand in a fist up against her mouth. Her eyes peer up at him demurely. "I've been debating whether to say it or not but I figure out with it. No secrets, you know."
Alex nods curiously. "Okay."
"The song."
The two words make a chill go through him. Spins around his spine and hits each vertebrae. She does know. He can't help but physically react, muttering, "Oh, god," and placing his hand on his forehead in exasperation.
She giggles at his reaction. He is only calmed by the fact that she doesn't sound pissed. Still, he feels embarrassed. "It's one of your most popular songs."
Alex doesn't care. He lived up off the hope that she had somehow missed that one. Or she only ever listened to the most recent album for her work assignment. When he wrote it, it was felt under the impression he would see her again. Not under the impression that in 11 years he would be standing on a metro platform with her about to be interviewed by her.
He re-establishes himself. He gets his footing, drops his hand from his face, and looks over at her. She's still looking amused by his reaction. The train pulls up to the station. "Which one?"
He is able to get a chuckle in when her jaw drops slightly. Feeling he has the upper hand, he hops on the train, having her dash behind him. Alex finds two empty seats and takes a seat next to the window. Lottie sits down next to him.
She seems to have composed herself. Tight jaw and curious lips. "Now, I meant 505, what are you on about?"
Alex shrugs. "Pft, who said 505 was about you?" He is staring straight ahead, calm, cool, and collected.
Her eyes are glued to him, watching his every move. "I'm not an idiot, Alex, I can read. Our hotel room was 505."
"Oh, what a weird coincidence." He is almost chuckling with pride in his humorous fibbing abilities.
"Come on. I doubt many girls were lying on their side with their hands between their thighs for you, Alex." That memory strikes him hard. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can still trace the outline of her body in his mind, memorizing every crevice.
He chuckles with a wide grin. "It was a nice memory."
She crosses her arms in a pleased manner. "I knew it was about me."
"Yeah, well, I had a lovely time with you." His eyes are intently on hers. A knowing smile is splashed across his face.
She returns the favour. They are in a duel with their eyes, fighting grins in their smiles. "Me too."
"Good."
She leans in closer. "Now, what's this other song about me?"
Alex looks away from her, gazing at the station they are approaching. "I think this is our stop."
He tries to stand up and she grabs his arm and yanks him back down. "Shush. You have no clue where we are even getting off."
Her hand stays gripping his forearm, keeping them steady. His gaze is resistant if ever pleasurable. His eyes trained on the doors and unsure of what to say, tossing between giving it up or burying it away. He plays with his hands, bringing them together, and then apart, and then back together. "I wrote this song, you know, in the, uh, hypothetical sense."
She rolls her eyes. "Okay, whatever that means. Out with it. You know, people are usually flattered by the thought someone would think of them enough to write a song about them. Let alone two."
"Alright," he calms. "The song isn't really all about you. I guess, you sparked the original idea."
She gestures for him to continue. "And?"
"Cornerstone."
She leans back against the train's wall. A small smirk plays on her face. "Really? You were seeing me all around town?"
He can't help but smile, although, forced to shield it behind his hands covering the surface area of his face. "Don't make me sound like a creep."
"No, no. It all feels like flattery." She looks like she wants to say something else but keeps it to herself. He's tempted to ask but she's pointing slowly to the train station and softly saying, "This is our stop."
They get up as the train stops. The doors stay closed though. "Flip the handle up," Lottie says.
He grabs hold of the door handle and follows her instructions. The door opens at a quick speed. So quick that Alex, still with his hand on the handle, nearly gets his arm yanked off. Lottie erupts in laughter behind him. He sucks in a breath and steps off the train. She places her hands on his shoulder as she follows behind him, too blind with laughter to properly guide herself.
"You're really making a fool out of me today." Alex turns around as they ride the escalator up.
She's still emitting giggles when she says, "I'm sorry. It was too tempting though."
Her apartment is just outside the metro station. The building, Haussmann in style, is cold and dark in the stairwell. Lottie tells him to watch his step as they head to the second floor before she flips on a switch outside her door. Before she unlocks it, she turns and tells him, "I'm a messy person and you have rudely barged in on me so you can not judge."
Alex agrees and she unlocks the door. She has, of course, exaggerated the mess of the place. It's a loft of a decent size. Her bed is in the far corner, unmade with a plum-coloured mandala-printed blanket thrown over it. Clothes from this morning are strewn about the floor. Her kitchen is small and her plate from breakfast is still in the sink. In the back corner, across from her bed is a collection of canvases. They are all turned inward making him unable to look at any of them.
Lottie stands awkwardly in the kitchen, hands behind her back, bobbing on her feet. "Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water? Alcohol?"
He chuckles at her delivery, struck by her grace. "I'll take a tea."
"Okay." She busies herself with that as he examines the room closely. A shelf of books piled to the brim. There's a vase of flowers on a lower shelf. On the bottom: a record collection. He smiles to himself. "Can I put on a record?"
"Sure," she absentmindedly says. She's showing Alex her tea packets: black, green, mint, ginger. Black, he picks.
She stills at the opening strings. Her heart patters at the clacking of the castanets. I found my love in Portofino...
She dips the tea bags into the hot water and turns around. She leans against the counter, staring at him at the place he has taken on her small loveseat. "You know, I got a record player because of this album."
His arms are crossed and he looks pleased with himself. "Inspiring a new generation to buy records. You know, AM is one of the best-selling vinyls of the 2010s."
She squints playfully. "Are you usually this boastful about yourself?"
"Stop, you're making me feel like a self-absorbed asshole."
Lottie crosses her arms, playing his game back to him. "What's the saying? If the shoe fits."
"Hush now. Sit." He pats the seat beside him. The air is thick and she cuts through it by walking over to him with two cups of tea.
She prompts hopefully, "Interview time?"
Alex ignores her. "You know, I went and bought my own copy of this."
"The record?"
He nods. "God, I'm such a dweeb."
She shakes her head. "No. It's a good record."
He gazes over at her knowingly. His chin is tilted down and his eyes are blazing at her. "I didn't buy it because it was a good record."
Suddenly, she breaks. "You can't do that."
Alex gets the message, turns away, and focuses on the warm mug in his hand. "I know. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"No," she reassures, calm and clear, "it's fine. I just can't sit next to you in my apartment with you saying things like that and not..."
"Not?" He tries to get more out of her.
She gazes over at him knowingly. Her chin is tilted down and her eyes are blazing at him. "You know."
He nods.
"I still have that photo of you. The one I took on that hill. It's buried deep in a drawer somewhere." She's tempting him and she knows it. She's not abandoning the topic of their romantic evening. She's not insisting on conducting an interview. She's flirting.
Alex smiles back pleased. "I probably look like a dork."
"Yeah," she dryly agrees making him laugh. "But a cute dork."
"Whenever I came to Paris, I would walk around, duck into all these cafes, and I had these visions of seeing you there. That's where Cornerstone came from," Alex confesses.
"I changed therapists because of you," Lottie confesses.
"What?"
She leans on her arm against the back of the couch. "It wasn't because I moved away. I came back from Brussels and told her about you and she said that you were a fantasy but not a realistic man. I shouldn't get my hopes up on delusions and should invest myself in some reliable man. That I was falling for a rockstar who probably did that thing all the time. The whole time she's saying this to me, I'm thinking, 'She has no fucking clue what she's talking about. Reliablity? Who has reliability at 21? My porn-addict boyfriend.'"
Alex laughs. "I still really love this porn-addict boyfriend of yours."
"Well, you and my therapist." The room goes quiet. She sinks into a corner of the couch and sighs. "So, you were the final straw."
"I've done that cafe shit every time I've been to Paris."
"What?" She sits up straighter.
"I just—I've always wanted to talk to you again. It felt weird when you didn't show up in July. I figured, or maybe hoped, something big happened for you not to be there."
She's stiff and awkward and looks down at her legs, awkwardly stiff. "I tried to be there. I wanted to. You have to know, if it weren't for the program, I would've. I mean, I still go to your shows, and listen to your records, and, for crying out loud, I harrassed my boss into letting me interview you. He probably thinks I'm some obsessive fan."
"Harrassed?" He raises an eyebrow in amusement.
Lottie looks up sheepishly with a shy smile. "Yeah, well, at this rate, I'm not even gonna have an interview."
"You'll have an interview. I'll give you the best fucking interview." There's something in the way he looks at her. The tone of his voice makes her believe he is a lion and she's the gazelle he's waiting to maul. But those eyes, soft and dreamy. Eyes she could fall asleep next to every night.
"And then you look at me like that and you think you're the soppy one. I'm falling to bits over here. I've felt crazy for 11 years but then you look at me like that."
"Why'd you feel crazy?"
"I thought I made the whole thing up in my head. Like I was some psycho who imagined a whole night with you just because I liked your song. I mean, I ruined every relationship because I was hung up on you."
"What?"
"And now I'm ruining any possible relationship with you by blabbing on about this. I can't help it, you've infected me, you've ruined me, and I sound crazy." She's messing with her hair to really emphasize this fact. "But I'm stuck on the Boston T, riding the slowest train ever, sitting next to this guy I'm about to marry, and we have nothing to talk about, and all I'm thinking is 4 years ago I got on the wrong train."
Her breathing is heavy. Rattling and refusing to calm her heart down. She can't distinguish what his eyes mean.
Alex is quiet when he speaks. "Fucking hell, Lot."
Any move he thinks about making is interrupted when she quickly stands from the couch and separates herself from him by pacing in the kitchen. She clutches her hands around her face, cheeks trying red. She takes a deep breath and says, "I think you should leave. I'm sorry for that whole display. I'm so lost in myself and I'm crazy and I'm sorry."
Alex stands and takes a step toward her. She takes one back like they are the same side of a magnet repelling one another. "Lottie."
"I'm sorry."
He takes a moment for himself too. Runs his hands through his hair, heart pounding he puts his hand over to still it and takes a deep breath. "No," he insists. "First, you're not crazy. Second, I haven't seen you in 11 years and I have thought about you for too long to let you go—go on that other train again." Something chokes him inside. Maybe it's the guilt, the thought of his girlfriend back home. Maybe it's Lottie, who looks two steps away from crying, and all he can think about is being left on that train platform again. "Third, we have to do the interview."
"Oh, god, that stupid interview." And then he laughs. So, she laughs.
Alex attempts to step toward her again, cautiously like she's a cat he is afraid he is going to scare off. She stays in her place. He leans down and hugs her. She's hesitant but then she hugs back. Tight like they are each a moment away from slipping out of one another's grasp.
Alex pulls away, but keeps an arm around her back, pushing them toward her front door. "So, let's go eat some lunch and do an interview."
She sniffles and then smiles over at him in a remorseful manner. "Okay."
They head to the cafe on the street corner. The conversation grew lighter and Alex joked that he still didn't get to see her paintings. She countered that she still hadn't interviewed him.
On opposite sides of the table, each holds a cigarette and chats over an ashtray. Lottie asks him questions regarding the album and Alex answers formally, which is almost too proper and comes off more jokey than serious. Nonetheless, she quotes him on it.
He grows hot and takes his jacket off, halfway through, around the time their dishes arrive. The interview, more-or-less, ends there as they each inhale their meals and split the stack of bread. "I'll be here tomorrow too, you know."
She nods. Of course, she knows.
"We could do the Louvre then."
She smiles with amusement at him. "You're really obsessed with the Louvre."
"I'm determined to go and now to get you to go. Maybe we'll makeout in the stairway and get caught by one of the nuns." The comment is cheeky and they both laugh at it, even if it should hold more guilty weight than it does.
A woman then approaches them. She's old, enough to be someone's great-grandmother. She speaks in French to Lottie, who has grown a furrowed brow, as she repeatably says no to the woman, who holds up a necklace at her.
"What's she saying?" Alex inquires.
Lottie sighs and says warningly, "Alex."
The woman smiles big and looks over at Alex. She speaks very broken English, but tells him, "Her neck, nothing." She gestures over to Lottie's bare neck, the way her top pulls down (notes of cleavage, but he's got to get his mind out of the gutter), accentuating the bareness of it. Alex has shameful thoughts in remembrance of kissing it. Fuck, he's screwed, if the pull of his pants says anything. The woman holds the necklace high in her hand. "For beauty. Beautiful woman needs beauty."
Lottie begins to speak in French to the woman as Alex wordlessly reaches into his wallet and pulls out a bill. The woman lights up in delight and accepts the €20 as Lottie shakes her head. "Her ears, nothing," the woman tries to push more.
Alex cheerfully says, "No, no, just the necklace. Merci beaucoup." The woman attempts again but Alex ignores her and her English is too poor to keep trying for another sale.
Lottie is staring at him. He can't decipher if it's a look of pleasure or unease. "You shouldn't have done that."
"The necklace is nice and I gave the poor woman some money. Now put it on."
She stays still for a moment but gives in and sits up to accept the necklace. It's simple. A chain with a small blue pendant on the bottom. It matches her eyes. She mutters a thank you, if for the gesture alone. After a few careful tries, she clasps the necklace. "I'll probably get some sort of infection from it."
He chuckles. "Probably."
They sit in silence with one another. They are stuck in the middle of a staring contest where fireworks spark between them. Alex breaks it and looks down at his empty plate, a flush of shyness overcoming him. "Can I ask you something?"
"Are you interviewing me now?" She giggles, pleased with her joke.
"Hey! I let you get all your questions in. It's my turn," he insists.
She relaxes back in her chair and crosses her legs. "Okay."
"What do you think would have happened if you got on the train with me? Or if you showed up to the concert?"
It draws a rough breath out of her. "We wouldn't have worked out."
His heart stills. It's not the answer he expected. All that wishful thinking that had swirled in his mind for the last 11 years. The feeling that if he had been able to convince her or was able to find her, they'd be living happily ever after. "Really?
She shakes her head. "Are you kidding? I was a mess. I had no idea of a future for myself. I would have been in Paris or Boston and you would have been on the road all the time. I would've definitely been one of those girls who thought you were cheating on her the whole time. I probably would have convinced myself of it and not believed you when you told me the truth. I was born the product of an affair. It is my blueprint to assume every guy I'm with is getting it somewhere else."
Alex feels hungover with guilt at the thought that what he is doing right now might as well be an affair, if only emotionally. He sighs, "Yeah, I mean, I was a mess for like...forever." They both laugh. "Every time I feel like I've gotten my shit together. Something comes along to pull the rug out from under me."
"What's it this time?" She's staring at him, doe-eyed and smiling.
He can't think of an excuse. So, he's honest. "You."
She's not offended by it. She smiles, though she does try and suppress it. "We should probably go to the venue. Right?"
Alex nods like hiding himself from the Parisian streets will get him out of this mess. Lottie insists on paying the bill, mainly because she isn't paying the bill, her work is. They could take a car over to the venue but Alex is overly enthusiastic about riding the metro over. "I have to redeem my shame. You know, in London we just have the button, so I can't be blamed for not knowing how to open the train door."
Lottie rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."
At the venue, Alex gives Lottie a quick introduction to his bandmates. He says nothing more than, "This is Lottie, the journalist," but they all respond with knowing looks. Alex gives her a tour, mostly through her insistence that it would be cool for the article if she could set the scene for the reader. Alex says, "You're a painter with your words." She rolls her eyes and he gives her the tour.
"And a soundcheck, what's that like?" She asks before, you guessed it, soundcheck.
Alex shrugs. He tends to be short with answers for most interviews, but with Lottie it's different. Not once has it felt like he is being interviewed. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing. "It's...good. You know, making sure everything works. Good, fun."
She's cheery with her questions like the kid who constantly raises their hand in class but she's endearingly earnest and the way she scribbles notes in her little notepad makes it feel so much more authentic than when someone sits a tape recorder in on their conversation.
She watches soundcheck in the same way. She'll write a little note at the end of each song but then she'll rest in her chair and observe the full play out.
Backstage, Alex separates himself and Lottie from the rest of the group, which is notable. He wishes they were walking around still, escaping all their responsibilities just like they were doing in Brussels. He supposes that's growing up.
Lottie says, "It's good. Last time I was a bumbling clueless girl with no idea of her future. Now, I'm a bumbling clueless woman with no idea of her future."
"Oh, come on, you have a great job. You're interviewing me and that might be one of the hardest tasks ever and you're doing amazing," Alex reassures.
She nods. "I know. I love my job but that's all I have. It's crazy when we were in Brussels, all I wanted was to figure out what I wanted to be. I finally did that and I feel just as lost."
"In what way?"
She thinks for a moment, deciding how she wants to form her words. "I wish I was like my old self more. You know, I used to be so hopeful, so romantic about the world. About myself. About the future. Now, I just think I'm going to be alone forever." She is quick to correct herself. "And—and I don't mean I have nobody. I have a great set of friends. I love my life but when I look toward the future, I see nothing. For so long, I didn't know what I wanted but there were always possibilities. Now, I don't know."
"I feel the same way," Alex confesses.
Lottie lifts her head in surprise. "Really?"
He nods. "It's what used to be so exciting about my life. Being in a new city every day and being able to set your own path. I still like most of that stuff but I feel behind everyone else in a way. You know, like how all the guys have kids and I don't think I'm ready for kids but should I be ready for kids? Do I want that? To be married? To have a family?"
"I don't think you're ever ready for that kind of thing. You are just ready for the feeling. You'll never be prepared enough for children that's what everyone says but I had a thought a while ago when, well, I had this pregnancy scare, which really was terrifying because the guy I was with is not a guy you want to have children with. My first thought for so long would have been 'I don't want children. I will not be birthing anything in my lifetime.' But when I had this scare, I think I liked the idea. Then, the test was negative and I breathed a huge sigh of relief." Alex chuckles at her dramatics as she talks with her hands. "But for those couple of minutes, I thought that being a mother wouldn't be so bad."
Alex smiles at her. "You'd be a great mother."
She looks up at him, all hopeful and disbelieving. "Do you really think so?"
Alex nods. "A few anti-depressants and you'll be fine."
Lottie rolls her eyes and raises her hands and starts moving her fingers. "Say stop."
"Stop."
She stops, extending her middle fingers only, flipping him off.
"That's good. Can I steal that?"
Lottie shrugs. "I don't have copyright on it."
A stagehand comes over and they realize how much time has escaped from them. Alex shuffles fixing his jacket as he stands, going into rockstar mode. "How'd I look?" He imitates a deep voice, gruffly and surly.
She giggles. "Like an asshole."
"You're so kind to me, Lottie."
"Maybe lose the jacket," she advises. Total professional opinion and not because he has three buttons loose on that white button-up that make her crave his skin. She's going too far, she knows, but she's a single woman. It's fine for her to observe.
Alex shakes his head and tightens his hands around the lapels. "I'm going to keep it on just to spite you." (He takes it off 4 songs in).
She walks him up the stairs to the stage but then says teasingly, "I'm going to watch from my assigned seat if that's alright with you."
He chuckles. "I'll look for you in the crowd."
She turns to leave and it's almost like she's fading from him all over again. Sure, they could get drinks after this and there's that rough plan for the Louvre tomorrow, but the image of her back to him walking away strikes something in him. "Hey, Lottie!" He calls out.
Alex catches her before she walks down the stairs. She turns around, curious eyes, curious smile. He's 21 and he's on a train to Brussels. He's 32 and he's in a cafe in Paris. No more what could have been. He knows.
"I think it would have worked out."
Lottie looks at him from across the wing. He toys with his fingers, hopeful eyes, hopeful smile. She's 21 and she's on a train platform in Brussels. She's 32 and she's backstage at a concert in Paris. No more doubts. She knows.
"I think so too."
*
a/n: part 3? i don't know. maybe...
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