#this doesn't really qualify as buffy/spike fic

[ifeveristoday]

Buffy Summers’s Diary (III)

[insert Dawn’s lament here]

My silly little thing has gotten a bit less sillier in this part. Carry on.

1 Lyft carpool with Anya

3 missing pens

1 maybe date

7 outfit options, all terrible

100 years of rain

 When I was little and it rained, my mom would bring me to the living room and watch the rain splash against our bay windows. Sometimes she would get out her box of cassettes and we’d listen to “It Never Rains in Southern California.” Of course, I would point out that the singer was wrong, because what was happening outside then?

She would just laugh, and shake her head. ‘Baby, it’s not that it doesn’t rain, it’s the feeling that LA is always sunny even when it rains.’

I didn’t understand back then.

Watching the sun stream into the street and shine on perfect rectangles of manicured lawns while I peeked through blinds – I understood a little better. LA carries on even when darkness surrounds you, is in you.

 Anyway, it rained today, a deluge even. Kendra arranged for Lyft carpools for the employees and I shared mine with Anya. She lives only twenty minutes away from my apartment, but she drives while I take the bus. I like Anya, but it’s impossible to make small talk with her. She doesn’t understand the concept and launches into whatever she’s thinking with no segues whatsoever. I need a mental crash helmet whenever I talk to her.

She asked me if I used her gift certificate – ‘It expires soon, Buffy. There’s a special sale going on this weekend, I really think you would find some helpful aids there.’

Before I can even respond, she’s off talking about the new vibrator line that’s come in, and the importance of using essential oils in the bedroom.

The backseat of a car never collapses into a black hole when you want it to.

She managed to ask a question about Xander among all the updates from the Magic Box and I guess my expression tipped her off. Her mouth thinned out and she crossed her arms across her chest.

‘What? I can’t ask about Xander?’

I’m just surprised that she wants to. Their romance was pretty volatile at the end.

‘No, you can. He’s fine – sent me a postcard from Cape Town. He seems happy.’

She slumped a little. ‘Oh. That’s nice.’

I’m going to regret this – like in five minutes, I’m sure of it – but I ask her anyway.

‘How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine. I’m the one who broke it off. I’m very happy, I’m busy, my jobs are going great, I found a decent hairstylist in this town – I’m fantastic,’ she babbled.

She straightened up again and looked out the window.

‘I’m happy that he’s happy,’ she said. ‘We’re almost there.’

The driver pulled up to our building five minutes later. He smirked at us as we got out.

 Anya works in a different part of the building than I do and our goodbyes were awkward as I got out of the elevator. ‘Remember the sale, Buffy,’ she said as the doors slid shut.

I’m just not in the mood for that kind of self-care.

 There is an office supply thief on this floor and they are stealing my purple pens. I had four and now I have one. This is ridiculous, we are all adults and surely we can use the office supply cabinet instead of just lifting pens from other people’s desks like thieves in the night.

Why would they even take my pens? Everyone in the office knows I use purple to revise my notes – I know everything is digital but there’s something comforting about the way a pen can glide over the paper. I like the weight of the pen against my palm and it seems more permanent than a blinking cursor on a screen.

  I moved a PR box and found my pens wedged underneath my monitor stand.

Good thing I didn’t write that email to HR complaining about pen theft and being known as the most uptight person on this floor.

I need a cup of coffee but I’m going to make tea instead.

William is lounging in the break room when I come in. He has a rapt audience, the temps and Harmony are there, hanging onto his every word.

I roll my eyes and head for the tea station. Just because a man has good bone structure, an accent, and a leather jacket doesn’t mean he’s the most interesting person in the room.

Okay, maybe in the top five.

 I sit at the lone unoccupied table and hear snatches of the conversation. William is doing research for his next novel. He reached out to several publications and my CEO accepted his request along with the offer of a guest column in the magazine. He’s going to be writing about his travels and whatever else interests him.

It sounds like a dream assignment but I remember my blog is important too. Kendra told me not to read the comments though.

 One by one the admirers flutter out of the break room as editors appear in the doorway, meaningfully clearing their throats. I’m still sipping my tea when William walks over to me and sits down.

 ‘So, Summers. I have a gift for you.’

‘Yeah?’ I say, playing it cool. I am a cool glacial woman of substance.

‘I do,’ he smiles and then reaches into his messenger bag. ‘Freshly autographed.’

He slides Saturday and The Chosen across the table to me. His fingers skim the covers carefully as if he’s touching something precious.

Saturday’s cover shows a picture of a black woman, her gaze defiant and steely. The Chosen has a more generic cover, its title picked out in shades of gold and bronze.

‘Thanks,’ I say as I turn The Chosen over and read the blurb on its dust jacket. ‘Oh. Fantasy’s never really been my thing.’

Except for the period Dawn and I would read Harry Potter to each other under the covers with a flashlight, but he doesn’t need to know that.

He lifts one eyebrow and I notice the thin white scar cutting it into two imperfect halves. ‘Try it, you never know. Or maybe Saturday is more your type.’

‘This the one with your lone female character?’ I lean back and gaze at him over my cup.

He laughs and rubs his chest. ‘Ouch. But fair – I’m going to be writing more female leads in my novels. Nikki won’t be the last.’

‘That’s her name?’ I nod at Saturday’s cover.

‘Yeah. Nikki Danger.’

I choke on my tea. ‘Her name is Nikki Danger? Are you writing the next Bond novel?’

His smile has a hint of teeth. ‘Says the girl named Buffy Summers.’

‘My mom gave me that name, and it’s after a famous singer, you Philistine.’

I heard Will use that once, during debate class in high school. It sounded cool then even though I didn’t know exactly what it meant.

‘I know. And love, I’m in the arts, not exactly a Philistine. Do you want to borrow a dictionary for next time?’

This asshole.

Then I realize what he said. ‘What do you mean next time?’

Full on smile, and is that dimple? ‘How about dinner after work – does tonight sound good?’

He stands up and leaves before I can complete my thought.

I open Saturday. He’s scrawled his phone number on the front page.

  So it’s not a date. It’s a friendly dinner. I’ve done that before. It’ll be like riding a bike.

I have an uncomfortable vision of William riding a motorcycle and I decide that I need some advice.

Willow’s answering machine picks up when I call, so I just tell her I’m looking forward to our weekend brunch.

Andrew screeches when I call him. Literally, I had to hold my phone away from my ears.

‘You’re going on a date with the Spike Pratt?’

‘It’s just dinner,’ I say, fumbling for my apartment keys. ‘I’m going to meet him at some bistro after work.’

‘Are you going home to change?’ Andrew demands.

‘Well, of course.’

‘Then it’s a date,’ Andrew says triumphantly. ‘If you didn’t care, you’d just wear your work clothes.’

‘My hair got wet this morning and it’s sort of frizzy,’ I say. ‘It’s not that big of a deal. And his name is William.’

‘Eh, Spike sounds sexier,’ Andrew says. ‘William sounds like an accountant.’

‘It’s a maybe date,’ I say. ‘I don’t know. I made fun of him this morning, maybe he’s just returning the favor.’

Andrew sighs.

‘Girl, how long has it been since you’ve been on a date?’

‘Not that long,’ I scan my desk to make sure I haven’t left anything important behind. ‘There was Owen and Parker…’ I trail off.

‘Ew, ew and ew,’ Andrew says dismissively. ‘A poet and a day trader? Buffy, Parker was gross, and Owen writes gay erotica on the internet. He hasn’t written a poem since leaving college.’

‘You’ve read some of it,’ I say. ‘And you’ve dated some highly questionable people yourself.’

‘Yes, both the poems and the erotica were terrible. And you can’t hold Warren over my head all the time.’

‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t cool of me. But he really was the worst.’

‘He really was,’ Andrew agrees. ‘Just go on the date. You never know until you try, right? You told me that once.’

‘Okay. Maybe it won’t be completely terrible.’

  It was completely terrible.

All of my clothes weren’t right. I have exactly three types of clothes – athleisure, work clothes, and clothes that are too big for me. I haven’t had the chance to donate them yet or buy clothes that fit properly.

It took me seven tries until I settled on something that wasn’t too much or too little for a casual dinner with a handsome man.

Okay, I admit it. He’s a good looking man.

 I called him on the way to the bistro. He didn’t answer until the third ring. He sounded strange as if he forgot that he asked me out to dinner in the first place.

‘I’m glad you called actually – I was about to call. I’m sorry, Buffy. Something came up and I can’t make it to dinner after all. Can I have a raincheck?’

‘What?’

‘You have every right to be angry at me, but I just can’t get out of this commitment. I’ll call you, love. All right?’

The dial tone rings in my ear.

 I ended up getting takeout from the bistro – it seemed stupid to go all the way there and not get dinner. The ride back to my apartment gave me time to sort out what exactly I was feeling.

It was a tornado of emotions. First, sheer relief. Then, a flush of anger prickling against my skin. Who does he think he is, I muttered to myself. Then seething resentment followed by an aching emptiness. He must have googled me.

 I don’t do that anymore. The last time I checked for myself was right when I got out of the clinic. All the headlines were some variations of ‘Fallen Olympian completes rehab’ or ‘Buffy Summers – where is she now?’

Even the Sunnydale Post had something about me and I only trained there for three summers. ‘Ex-Olympic Gold Medalist in Recovery for Eating Disorder.’

Simple and to the point – though skipping all the reasons why I got there. The byline was a familiar name – Freddie Iverson. He was one of the first people to interview me when I won my medal.

 ‘How does it feel being a champion?’

It feels wonderful. It feels like flying and your feet don’t touch the ground. It feels like nothing can hurt you.

 How does it feel to be washed up at nineteen?

Ten years later and I’m still trying to answer that question.

It starts raining as I clean up the rest of the takeout. I made myself eat every last bite.

 It never rains in California, but girl, don't they warn ya? It pours, man, it pours

 the lyrics are from “It Never Rains in Southern California” by Albert Hammond

and I’m working from the fancanon (in exalted circles) that Buffy is named after Buffy Sainte Marie who would have been very popular during Joyce’s time because you just know Joyce was a hippie.

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