Joe Goldberg X You - Tumblr Posts

Bloodroot in the Suburbs -  Prologue

a/n veryyy different than anything I’ve ever written before but the new season of You has me feeling a certain way lmao 

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: Y/n meets a neighbor, and finally gets a part time job so that her sister will leave her alone. Little does she know she just agreed to spend most of her free time in a lion’s den. 

Y/n’s POV. 

I remember a time in which my sister and I were the same. Or at least similar. A time in which we could share stories with each other and spend the entire night giggling over foolish things. A time in which we were the same. 

But that time is long gone...so far gone I even have trouble picturing it. I guess that’s what happens when you have a sister that’s almost ten years older than you. When you’re little you bend over backwards to be like them, listening to music and getting invested in shows a little too mature for your age group. But at one point, a line is crossed, and you are both in parts of your life that can’t overlap at all. 

Like how I want nothing more than to be in the part of my life that revolves around taking risks and succeeding and running a part of the world...and Sarah wants to be in the part of her life defined by motherhood. 

Don’t get me wrong. I get it--I love babies, there are days in which I see a mother cuddling a baby and think I want that. And then my phone will ring, the baby will start to fuss and I’ll mumble a genuine apology as I ignore yet another call from my editor. That will leave me grateful for the alarm on my phone that reminds me to take my birth control. Not that there’s been a concrete reason for taking my birth control since the whole Ashton situation... but it helps the cramps and I like my routine, so morning birth control alarm stays. 

And it rings at the breakfast table, earning me the slightest, hesitant side eye. Sometimes I think Sarah believes that birth control is contagious, like me taking the circular pill is impeding on her ability to conceive a child. 

“Water, y/n?” Tom doesn’t seem to hold onto that kind of thing. He’s always helpful to me, nice. I think he knows that even though Sarah and I bicker more than ever, he’s not allowed to have negative opinions about me. I know that if I had a boyfriend and he said anything about Sarah--even if it was right--I’d have his head for it. Something I’m not scared to take advantage of because...well, Tom’s rich and he has nice rich people things. 

“Yeah, Tom, I’d appreciate it. Could you also grab me one of the croissants you picked up from the french place?” 

He opens the box, eyes the last 7.50$ croissant, and he puts it on a plate--a glass one, not a paper one--and gives it to me along with a glass of water...and not regular water, cucumber water. Oh, the way the other half lives. 

“I’m surprised you’re awake for breakfast.” Sarah hums, lifting her mug of tea to her lips. I know she misses coffee, but every mommy blog says that coffee is basically uterus acid. So she drinks hormone stimulating tea now, decaffeinated and sweetened by artisanal honey. 

“I’m sorry that my life falling apart has made me a little depressed.”  

She sets her mug down. “You’re staying here, hiding from the city on one condition--a condition you agreed to.” Great, it’s not even noon yet and I’m already getting this lecture. “You can’t just wallow here. You need a life...friends...a job. All you do now is read, look at articles about you, and stand out in that garden.” 

The irony of her telling me to get a job leaves a sarcastic response wedged so thoroughly in my throat, I’m scared to take a bite of my croissant. “I could always take a page from the l/n family hand book and marry rich.” 

Tom pauses, I feel a hint of guilt for making him a casualty in a war he has nothing to do with. 

“Y/n--” 

I take a bite of the pastry, forcing it down. “Sorry, Tom--it’s not about you.” Sarah glares. “What? It’s not--Alex married super, mega, blood money rich. And mom’s latest boyfriend, he’s basically like the guy that made Apple.” 

“Speaking of mom’s rich, new boyfriend--why don’t you go stay with them?” 

“Because I’d kill their northern Europe, romance buzz--duh.” It’s easy to play off the discomfort of the fact that my mom doesn’t particularly want me right now during an argument like this. “I’ll look into getting a job. Madre Linda may be gossipy, but the one good thing about the suburbs is that they’re willing to overlook a New York, locals only scandal.” 

“Hm,” Sarah sighs, which means she’s at least somewhat appeased. “Now if I could get you to stop ignoring the calls from all those literary agents that want you to write a book.” 

I do not have the energy for this conversation. Unlike desperate-to-be-prenatal Sarah, I do drink coffee. I live off of it. But no one else here does, meaning that needing a cup of it is the perfect excuse to disappear. “I’m going to go get some coffee, maybe email some people back at the cafe and google jobs.” 

I finish the croissant, take my birth control, and disappear out the front door. Tote bag slung over my shoulder, laptop, phone, and wallet inside, I go outside the back door. It’s risky here, in the garden. I like to get lost here, the signal is terrible, which means I can pretend that everything on my phone doesn’t exist. I’ve taken to gardening because I needed a challenge, and the house that blocks the sun over this spot did make growing anything here that. I haven’t been here long enough for there to be much back here, but the seeds are starting to sprout. 

Sighing, I walk away from my labor and start moving towards the front gate. And...now the latch is stuck again. It’s always doing this, especially when I’m desperate to disappear. I swear this gate can tell when I feel trapped and it finds humor in making it worse. I pull on it, rattling the gate slightly.

“Stuck latch?” The voice comes with no warning, I almost jump. This is a neighborhood. People notice things in the suburbs. And it’s not like some creepy man is approaching me--it’s the same guy I’ve seen leave the house right next to Sarah’s. He’s a neighbor, a father, with a baby strapped to his chest. “They uh--they have a tendency to do that, something about the way the lock was manufactured.” 

“Oh,” I hope that seemed polite. I haven’t really spoken to him or his wife, but they seem like nice people. Their baby is adorable, and Sarah says that they’re courteous neighbors, always attending neighborhood functions and never being noisy, unless you count the sound of a baby crying in the night, but Sarah’s understanding of that...and maybe even a little jealous. “And here I had convinced myself that it was something personal.” 

Bad joke. Terrible, weird, illogical joke. And yet he almost smiles, the corner of his mouth turning upwards slightly. It’s here, beneath the sun that I notice that his features are worth more notation than I’d previously given him. He’s objectively attractive, with a sharp jawline and patient eyes. He’s married. Then again, just thinking someone is pleasing to look at is normal. It’s not like I’m attempting to seduce him in front of his house, with his baby attached to him in one of those harness things. Still, I drop my gaze after silence seems to enhance his appeal. 

“Even if the gate is sentient and trying to imprison you,” he steps forward, crossing the space between us, “there’s a guaranteed way to beat it.” 

He releases the hand of the baby in favor of wrapping his fingers around the top of the gate. He uses his other hand to twist the latch at an angle while tugging at the gate. It opens, the hinges just barely creaking.

 And just like that, he’s freed me. “My hero.” 

“Knight in shining armor, saving the damsel in distress from the villainous piece of metal, trapping her.” I almost laugh. 

The return of the silence uneases me because of how easy it is. “Not sure if I’d consider myself a damsel or in distress.” 

His eyes widen, the baby coos. “No I--uh--I didn’t mean it like that--”

This time I do let myself laugh. “Relax, I was just messing with you.” He exhales, easing a little too quickly. “Cruel, I know, considering the new baby must be taking so much of your energy.” I stop holding myself back, I exaggerate my expression as I finally turn my attention to the child. He’s so, so cute. I think I get why Sarah wants one so badly. “He’s so adorable, I’m sure he’s more than worth it, though.” 

“Yes, definitely worth all the lack of sleep and energy. I never really understood the whole ‘it takes a village’ thing until now. My wife and I don’t ever feel like enough.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you two are doing a wonderful job. After all, he’s healthy and smiley...and just so cute I think I’d be careful about bringing him around here or my sister might just try to snatch him up.” Another terrible joke. “Kidding--I swear, she’s just really trying for a baby and I kind of forgot not everyone knows about that--but she’d never...I mean of course she wouldn’t kidnap your baby.” Great job, y/n, the neighbors definitely won’t think you’re weird now. The longer he’s quiet, expression revealing nothing, the more nervous I feel. And then...just the slightest hint of a smug smile appears. “You’re messing with me by letting me ramble in order to get back at me, aren’t you?” 

He smiles more freely now, though there’s still reservation. “What you do to yourself without my interference is not something I can be held responsible for.” His tone is pure innocence, the ‘I’d never do anything wrong’ behind his eyes clear. “I do feel the need to thank you, though, in a town made up of momfluencers and people with multiple nannies...it’s hard to feel like enough.” 

Even though I’ve never been in his situation, I think I understand him. After all, not feeling like enough is exactly what got me in trouble in New York. “Well, I’m sure you are...though, if you’re ever in dire need for help, I’m just across the street and have absolutely nothing going on as I take refuge in my sister’s house, a fact she can’t stop reminding me of.” Once again, I’m giving too much to a stranger. “I’m actually trying to escape the gate’s prison so that I can be productive over coffee. One can only put off a temporary job search for so long.”

He’s silent for a long second before drawing his eyebrows together. “That’s a surprisingly good idea.” What? “We could use the help, if you’d like to skip out on the job search. My wife recently opened a bakery, and her mom has been helping out with child care, but I’m not sure that’s going to be working as much as it used to.” 

Oh--is he--is he saying what I think he’s saying? “Oh, no I didn’t mean you’d need to hire me. I did a lot of babysitting in high school and college, and sometimes I miss it...but I--I’d be happy to just help out, y’know. Neighbor to temporary-neighbor.”

“Oh, no, I could never leave you with this handful and not pay you something.” 

“He seems easy.” 

“Now--you should have seen him this morning when his bottle wasn’t warmed up to exactly 98.6 degrees.” 

I laugh, surprising myself by the fact that I’m actually weighing his offer. “At least let me send you some references first.” 

He hesitates, dismissal at the tip of his tongue, but I guess I look determined enough because he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, unlocks his phone, and hands it to me. “Text your number and my wife and I will look at them, but I’m sure you’re overqualified.” Something odd settles in my stomach. I’m sure you’re overqualified. Does he know who I am? “You babysat in high school and college, I’m not sure I ever dealt with a baby before him and I’m left alone with him all the time.” 

Oh--okay, it’s fine. No one here has yet brought up my past job, though I’m sure some of the gossipy women are waiting for it. That’s why I’ve been limiting my socializing here...that and the fear of becoming trapped here. I politely laugh and text my number. 

He takes his phone back, reading the short message. Hi, this is y/n, your neighbor’s sister. “Y/n.” He says my name so softly, I’m not sure he said it for my sake. He recovers quickly, returning with a polite smile, “Hello, you.” 

“Hello to you, to...” I trail off, waiting for him to provide a name. 

“Joe,” he says, “I’m Joe--and this,” his hand moves upwards so that he can let his son’s curious hand wrap around one of his fingers, “this is Henry.” 

“Joe and Henry.” I place one hand on the gate a little awkwardly. Why does this feel strange. “It’s a pleasure, meeting you both.” 

“The pleasure’s ours.” He takes a slight step back, expression loosing some of its humor. “He um...I have to get Henry back for his nap.” 

“Of course, I’d hate to keep you.” 

He takes a more confident step away, waving once before turning towards his house. I guess technically I don’t need to go to the cafe now. Though he was probably just trying to be polite, a maybe-job could appease Sarah. Still, though, I want coffee and I want to be away from here for a little bit, so I walk down the street, closing the gate behind me. 

------

Joe’s POV

Your hero. You called me that. And I liked it. The terrible part is that...I liked it. I want to be that for you, a helper not a taker. You don’t belong in Madre Linda, surrounded by suburbia, but you have to be here right now. I read the articles, I know what you’ve been through. 

And if I play this right...maybe I can help you through this, and then you’ll leave, return to the one place I know I can never go back to. New York--what happened to Beck, that’s waiting there. So in a way, that’s good...because I know that anything we have is temporary. I will help you heal as thanks for providing me solace in this hell hole, and then my life will once again only be about being a good husband and father. 

But you’re not making it easy for me--the way you lit up for Henry, the way you so easily volunteered to help me in order to help him...and you’d do it for free. I can’t help think about what a great mom you’d be, or at the very least...a kind stepmother. Not that I could ever leave Love, not with knowing what she’s capable of. What she’d do to you if she found I was thinking of you, let alone seeing you as any type of maternal figure for her son. 

The babysitting thing isn’t something I should have offered. But it’s true, we need the help. And maybe, if Love just sees you as a neighbor...as a victim that we’re helping, because those tabloids really ripped into you, y/n, she won’t think to hurt you. Not that I’d ever let that happen, but having you close could diffuse a bomb before it starts ticking. 

Because I knew from the moment I saw you, sitting on a blanket in your sister’s backyard, an Agatha Christi in your hand, I was meant to protect you. Maybe you’re even meant to be my one, but I know that I can never find out. I have to let you go...for you, for me--for us. 

Bloodroots in the Suburbs - Chapter One: The Babysitter 

prologue 

a/n soooo happy with how this story has been received!! here’s chapter one :) 

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: In a town full of au pairs and staffed houses, nanny cams are just standard practice. It’s not Joe’s fault that the new babysitter keeps getting phone calls. 

Joe’s POV.

You’re a natural caregiver. That much is clear from how much time you spend outside, watching and pruning the pitiful green square you’re desperate to turn into a garden. I’m sure you will, something about the way your eyebrows draw together when assessing the tiny, green sprouts tells me that you’re a force to be reconned with when you’re determined. And you definitely are.

You take such care with your plants, how could I ever need a reference to trust you with my son? Trust. That’s the perfect word for us, y/n. You don’t belong here, you’re not one of these fake, cookie cutter emblems--you’re real. I can trust you. Not with everything I’ve done, no, or with feelings that are still unfortunately brewing. Feelings I promise I will keep in check. I swear I’ll do everything I can to keep them on a leash.

You’re young and you’re meant for more than this place, I refuse to give you strings, especially when getting tangled in my web could cost you your life in both a metaphorical and literal sense. I know your career feels shot right now, and I really feel for you. I mean one New York agent gets caught trying to take advantage of you, and you’re the one getting punished? How is that fair? I thought this generation believed women...but that’s just what the media wants us to think. A point you brought up in the first and last interview you did after the scandal. That interviewer kept asking sexist questions and no one in the world was willing to defend you, that’s why you lost your patience. If I had been there, I could have protected you. I’m here now, though, and I promise I’ll make up for my absence.

“Joe? Can you watch Henry today? I know I said I’d take him, but Sherry called me about an event she wants me to cater. It sounded like the mommy blogging convention of the year, which means I have to pick up groceries and try recipes for about a thousand different dietary restrictions.”

I have to look away from you. I have to pretend that there was never anything intriguing about the window that looks out over the front lawn even though you’re standing there, only a road dividing us. Still, I’m not too disappointed, because Love has given me the perfect opportunity to introduce the idea of you.

This feels like playing with fire. If Love ever senses the way I feel about you, you’ll never get to leave here. You’ll never get to do anything again. But I know how to be smart, I know how to be attentive enough to keep her doubts away. And if you’re the girl across the street, the babysitter, you’ll blend into her background. It’s not like I can keep you completely away from her, I would if I could...but you’re across the street from me. I know the monster that lives in me can’t shut you out when you’re right there, so in need of my help, even when it comes to opening a gate.

So I know I can’t put you away, somewhere safe...which means I need to hide you in plain sight. Which is exactly what I’m doing. “I can’t, shift at the library.”

“The usual sitter’s out of town, so I guess I should tell Sherry I can’t do it.”

“Or...” This needs to seem like an idea I’m coming up with right now. “You know the family across the street?”

“Sarah and Tom?” She nods once, adjusting Henry on her hip. “Yeah--they’re great, but I don’t think either of them are up to babysitting. They want a baby too much to be around one that isn’t theres.”

“No, no, of course not. There’s actually someone else living with them--Sarah’s sister, I met her while taking my walk with Henry yesterday. She mentioned wanting something part time and she has babysitting experience, and a strong list of references.” That’s completely true--you texted me your resume about half an hour after we met. You added a smiley face at the end of your text. Does that mean you’re already thinking of me as more than just the random dad from across the street?

“Sarah’s sister?” Love pauses, she’s thinking about it, trying to put a face to the label. “Oh--I’ve met her. She’s been by the bakery, she’s a good tipper, seems nice.” This is working, but I can’t seem eager. “Isn’t she a party girl? Sherry said something about her needing to flee New York City.”

Indifference. Indifference. You make it so hard not to defend you. My hero. You said it politely, a partial joke, but I intend to make it a reality. “Sherry likes gossip. Party girls don’t move to the suburbs if they want to keep being party girls.”

She pauses, desperation is making her a little more open to the possibility of a stranger watching Henry. “You want to let her watch him?”

Love doesn’t sound suspicious. There’s the slightest bit of tiredness in her voice, she’s just discussing the prospect of hiring a new babysitter. This is going to be the most important reaction. I need to play you as sympathetic, someone who I could feel protective of, sure, but not in a romantic way. Right now, I’m thankful that you’re younger than us. “She probably came here because she wanted to abandon her past. I see us in her.” Love’s eyes round slightly, good, she’s sympathetic. Time to seal the way that she sees you, and y/n, I want you to know that this next part makes me feel terrible, but it needs to be said. A nail in the coffin for your safety. “She seems like a good kid.”

Ugh, saying that left a terrible taste in my mouth. You’re not a child. Considering the ways I’ve thought of you, the ways I’ve pictured you, it’d make me a fucking monster to think of you as a child. Which is why Love needs to think I see you as that.

Henry spits up onto a blanket on Love’s shoulder; I feel you, buddy. Love wipes his mouth with the fabric. “Okay--that’s a good point.”

“And if it makes you feel better, I can try to duck out of work a little early, surprise her a little. See how she is with Henry.”

She bounces Henry comfortingly. “Yeah--could you?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay, then can you see if she’s available? Because I need to be at the grocery store like now, because the deadline is super soon and--”

“I’ve got it.” I step towards her, moving until I’m close enough to take Henry into my arms. She lets the way our hands touch linger before leaning upwards. She kisses me and I kiss her back. It’s a quick peck, nothing really, but it’s enough to make me wonder what It’d be like for us to kiss. For our lips to touch. “Go. Go make keto, vegan, paleo, fast ending pastries so that all the mommy bloggers can tell everyone you’re the best.”

She grins. “Thank you.”

I adjust the way I’m holding Henry. Now, I have an excuse to talk to you. To bring you here and allow you to slip into our lives like you’ve always been here. “It’s what I do.”

Love leaves, purse in hand. I wait until her car is out of the driveway before looking for you out the window. You’re no longer in the garden. You must have gone back inside. I hate to think that you might have plans. Neither I nor Love would hold it against you, considering that this is extremely last minute...but things have just worked out too perfectly.

I cross the street, Henry in my arms as I knock on the front door. You open it--not your sister or brother-in-law. You. Did you see me from the window? Were you hoping that I’d come back to you so soon?

“Joe! Hi.” You’re happy to see me, it’s more than politeness, I can see a warmth in your eyes. Maybe you want to entertain the idea of me but you can’t bring yourself to. You don’t want to be the person that destroys a marriage. I understand, but you’ve destroyed nothing. If anything, you’ve cultivated me into something new. Something with purpose.

“Hi,” I could get lost on this front porch with you. “I know this is insanely last minute, but Love just got this catering job and I’m scheduled to work, so given yesterday’s conversation, I was wondering if you could come over and watch Henry.”

You smile, eyes moving from me to Henry and then back to me. The warmth of your expression tells me that I’ve done the right thing.

“She’s available!” A voice interrupts us.

You turn your head, throwing a slightly irritated glance behind you. “Sarah!” You turn back to me, eyes softening as a form of apology. We were interrupted, and you feel bad about that. “Sorry about her.”

Your sister appears in the doorway. I see the family resemblance--same hair color, same eyes. “Hi, I’m Sarah Burrell, I’ve seen you around the neighborhood. Tom and I keep meaning to invite you and your wife over for dinner, but he’s been so busy with work lately.”

Right, your brother-in-law’s ‘work’. He’s a Burrell, as in Burrell Pharmaceuticals. Also known as the company that supposedly created the first, secret COVID vaccine that only the ridiculously rich could afford. Buzzfeed thinks the Burrell vaccine--which was never confirmed--was administered to the Queen of England and the entire royal family. But then again....that’s Buzzfeed.

Still, the point is your brother-in-law might be the richest guy in Madre Linda. He’s also the youngest of three, meaning that he’ll never have to look at the business side of Burrell Pharmaceuticals. It also means that Tom’s side business of creating healthy, sophisticated energy drinks’ is completely unnecessary and overly pretentious. Does the world really need an energy drink with 0 trans fats that’s white truffle flavored? We both know the answer to that.

"Hi, Sarah.” Your sister reaches out her hand. I take it. “Don’t worry about it, Love and I have been busy with the bakery and...him.” I bounce Henry once, letting all the attention move off of me. Sarah smiles, but there’s a tiny bit of stiffness there. A stiffness so subtle I don’t think she’s aware of it. You weren’t kidding when you made that joke about how badly she wants a baby. “Which is why I’m so thankful to your sister, who’s offered to help us.”

Sarah nods, ready to let you go.

“Babe--is someone at the door?” Great--the man behind escargot flavored energy drinks himself. He appears in the foyer, in a Ralph Lauren collared shirt, dirty blonde hair shagging over his eyebrows. “Oh--hey, you live across the street, right?”

“Yes, I’m Joe and this is Henry.”

“Oh--what a cute little man.” He coos at Henry, who is his father’s son, because he really doesn’t seem impressed. “We’ve been meaning to have you over for dinner, but I’ve been slammed in the office.” Fighting several FDA lawsuits. “I own a company that makes high end energy drinks.” I nod, pretending that I’ve never heard about it. “Oh, speaking of, there’s a new flavor I’ve been developing and I brought home a sample, and I’ve been looking for someone to try it.”

I’d literally rather put anything else into my body. “That sounds great, but I really need to get to work.”

“It’ll take a second, I’ll go get us two glasses.” My digestive system will never forgive me if I don’t get out of this.

“Tom, he’s busy.” Thank you, y/n, you’re trying to save me. “I don’t--”

He comes back, holding out a glass of dark liquid. “Told you it’d only be a second.”

You’re giving me a look that says sorry. A look that tells me that I don’t need to do this. But I’d do anything for you, even drink the tar being handed to me. I take the glass, forcing myself to swallow the liquid in it. And--it’s so much worse than I thought. It’s bitter, and...and fishy.  

Tom is watching my reaction. I turn my grimace into a smile. “It’s um...I’ve never tasted an energy drink like this.”

“Good, right?!” I nod, fighting the way the energy drink seems to want to come back up. “It’s caviar flavored.”

The things I do for you, y/n. “Y-yeah, I got that.” He grins. “I’d love to drink the rest of this, but I need to get to work.”

“Of course,” he takes the glass back. “Well, good to finally meet you, and thanks for the feedback.” I almost say ‘anytime’ but realize that he might take that literally. “Oh, um--I have these tasting parties with other guys from the neighborhood, I’ll be sure to send you an invite.”

I’drather lose another finger. “I’ll keep an eye out, man.”

He smiles again, nodding before disappearing. Your sister squeezes your shoulder once before saying goodbye to me and disappearing into the house. As soon as they’re gone, you laugh. The sound is so warm it makes the lingering taste of acidic, liquid caviar worth it.

“I can’t believe you actually drank it.”

Look at you, making me smile after one of the weirdest, unneeded interactions I’ve experiencing all week. And that’s saying something in Madre Linda. “Hasn’t he gotten you to drink anything?”

“No,” you shake your head, attempting to dismiss a smile. “He thinks I’m allergic to like twenty different things.” You laugh again. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get you out of here in time.”

You’re still holding in a partial laugh, we’re still joking, and yet I know that there’s something genuine about the reaction. Something behind your eyes tells me that you do feel a little bad, a little guilty. You’ve been told to apologize too many times and some of that’s sunken into you.

“I have a feeling he would have caught me at some point.” We stand there again, quiet. It’d be too easy to lose time with you.

But you don’t like the quiet. Or at least, you’re not used to it. Because the quiet means you’re being seen and you’re used to people interpreting you incorrectly. I can see it in the way you stand, the correction of your posture, the way you angle your head. You want to be seen as perfect, flawless. You don’t have to be perfect around me. And it’s scary, y/n, I know--but I won’t run from you, and then you’ll understand that you’re safe with me.

“Probably.”

I nod. “We should get going.”

You take a step forward, one hand reaching for the door handle. “Yeah, we should, I’d hate to make you late for work.”

There isn’t a shift for me to be late to, but you don’t need to know that. “Right.”

We walk together, a polite distance between us, and yet, when I turn to open the door, the back of our palms brush. The contact is more surprising to you than you realize, you take a partial step back as I open the front door.

I want to show you around. I’m not particularly attached to this property, it’s a nice house, Quinn blood money made sure of that, but it doesn’t mean much to me beyond a way to assure that Henry gets into a good school. But I want you to be comfortable in my house, I want you to be comfortable around me. It’s the least I could do, considering the way you’ve helped me. Without your assuring presence, I think the suburbs would have driven me crazy. But you’ve been here, outside in your garden, letting me know that I’m not the only one drowning in the mundane.

But you’ll get suspicious about why I’m not in a bigger hurry to get to work. So this will have to be a rushed interaction. “He had a bottle a little over an hour ago, which means he doesn’t need to eat for a couple hours, but if he gets fussy there’s another bottle in the fridge. If that doesn’t work, try putting him down in the nursery, it’s the first door upstairs. He might whine at first, try reading to him, there’s a stack of books in there--Fitzgerald is his favorite.” You raise an eyebrow, amused at what you’re probably assuming is a joke. “There are diapers and changing supplies under the diaper table in the nursery, uh...” What else should I tell you? “I wish I had more time to show you, but--”

“Oh, no,” you dismiss, always polite, always ready to help, “you’ve told me enough, I’m sure Henry and I can figure out the rest.”

You extend your arms, ready to take Henry. I squeeze him once before handing him to you. Our hands touch as you adjust the way you hold him. I don’t want to move back. Carefully, I let my fingers move past the back of your palm and onto your forearm. You let me move your arm so that you can better support Henry’s head.

I know I’ve agreed to keep my feelings in check, but seeing how naturally you hold my son. You’d be good for Henry. We’d be stable, a perfect family. But even thinking of this is putting you in danger. Love would kill you just because I cared about you, if I ever tried to do anything...

I can’t. I’m taking enough risks as it is, doing what I can to satiate the monster in me. “I think he likes you, and that’s a real compliment because sometimes I’m not even sure he likes me.”

You rock slightly to keep him calm. “That has to be in your head.” You say it with no judgement, a slight hum in your voice as you tilt your head. “You seem really great with him.”

Is there something in the way you say that? Something in the way your eyes soften? Or is that just what I want to be seeing? Women are drawn to babies and the men that are responsible for them. Let it go, let it go, let it go. I’m not going to get as attached to you as I’ve gotten to other people. Everything about you is temporary.

“Please, if I could get him to stay as calm as you are, I’d get hours of my day back.” You laugh slightly, cradling Henry’s head. It’s just me, you, and Henry, and I can’t remember the last time things felt like this. Complete. Like the family I had always pictured. You feel it too, that’s why you haven’t looked away yet. You may not have a name for the feeling, but that’s okay.

Henry starts to mumble, interrupting our moment. You look down, rocking him a little more. “Not to kick you out of you out of your own house, but speaking of hours that you can’t get back, aren’t you running late for work?” 

It’s too easy to get distracted with you. I need to focus. “Right,” I step back, towards the front door. “I’ll see you soon.” 

You rub Henry’s back patiently. “We’ll be here.” 

I walk out the front door, grabbing my keys from a table at the house’s entrance. I get in my car, driving away for your sake. I leave the neighborhood, driving towards town. I end up parking in an alleyway between two stores that Love won’t need to go to for baking supplies. There’s nothing illegal or particularly sketchy about what I’m doing, but I put on a dark baseball cap and slump into the driver’s seat of my car anyways. Better safe than be recognized by a neighbor and forced into a conversation about baby food allergies or preschool introduction letters. I pull out my phone, clicking on an app that takes two seconds to load. The screen shows me the camera feeds.

I’m not the biggest fan of technology, or Sherry’s blog, or...Sherry, but I do need to thank her for her blog post on the best nanny cam on the market. You’re still in the living room with Henry. I click on the camera you’re closest to, letting it become full screen. 

You’re good with him. You’d make a good mother, something I wish I hadn’t noticed but can’t stop thinking about. You’re attentive, focused, even though your phone rings often. You don’t take the calls, of course, your full attention is on Henry.

 Who’s calling you so much? Unfinished work in New York? A concerned friend? Maybe your mother? Or is someone waiting for you? They seem obsessive, y/n. You’re uncomfortable. 

When Henry falls asleep, the phone rings again. This time you finally answer, I unmute the feed. 

“...Stop calling me. I changed my number and didn’t give you my new address for a reason.” You hang up before shoving your phone angrily into the pocket of your jeans. You let out a frustrated sigh before wiping your face with your hands. Are you crying? 

Whoever has been calling you has hurt you. Really hurt you. If I could get your phone, just look at your call history, I’d know who they are. And then--no, the person is far from you now. They don’t have your address, they don’t have to be taken care of right now. Those are the kind of impulsive thoughts that make Love unstable. 

Henry starts crying, you wipe your check with the back of your palm one last time before going back into the nursery. 

You recover like nothing happened, and you do it so well I have no choice but to wonder how long you’ve been dealing with the way the person on the phone makes you feel. 

The time passes more slowly after the interruption. I can’t stop seeing the way your phone rang, again and again. The way you let it go on and on until you finally exploded. Is no one looking out for you? You’re twenty, you were in school until your career took off. Do you have an old roommate you talk to? Is that who the problem is? You’re one of the youngest people to ever be given their own New York Times column, so being able to relate to your coworkers is off the table. Your life fell apart, and you came here...to your sister, who’s caught up trying to have a baby. What about your parents?

And who is calling you so much? You’re never on your phone in the garden. I’ve seen you on the phone at the window before, and you seemed fine. Is the stranger always calling? Why? Who are they? 

This isn’t about me or about my urges. I want to know you, to figure you out, but I said I wouldn’t do that. I’d barely started with Natalie and look what Love did. I’m only going to help you...but can I do that without knowing you?

The phone rings again. You ignore it, leaving it on the kitchen counter before reaching into the fridge to find a bottle for Henry, who’s hungry crying. Who is that? They won’t leave you alone, you need someone to make them. You...you need me. 

Stop it. Care less. I don’t think I can leave you alone. You need someone that cares about you, and I’m trying to be that without getting attached. I need to--are they calling you again? Damn it, I need to know whose calls you’re ignoring.

I lock my phone, dropping it onto the passenger seat before taking my car off park. It’s a reasonable time to come back. 

Parking the car in the driveway of the house, I’m relieved to see that Love’s not back yet. Never thought I’d say this, but thank god for Sherry and her entire army of mommy blogging monsters. 

I open the front door, and it takes me no time to find you. You’re with Henry, sitting with him on the couch. And your phone is still on the kitchen counter. 

“Hi.” 

“Hey,” I walk over to you, taking Henry back, “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble.” 

“Oh, he was great.” You were great, don’t sell yourself short. “And you were right about FItzgerald, half a chapter of The Great Gatsby, and he was out cold.” So you like the book with her, huh. Henry’s rejection aside, I think today was successful. Or at least it will be when I think of a way to get that phone number. 

“Told you, he’s his father’s son.” 

“Fitzgerald’s great, it’s hard not to like him...though I do think Zelda deserves more credit.” 

“You got me there.” I adjust my grip on Henry. “Sometimes in a marriage, things end up like that.” Why did I say that? I have no idea. It’s way too early to test the waters on how much you care about the fact that I’m married...I shouldn’t be doing it at all. 

You nod once but your expression reveals nothing. “It’s a big decision.” Sometimes it’s the wrong decision. “I’m sorry, do you mind if I use your restroom?” 

“Of course--second door on your left down the hall behind you.” 

You walk away, not even glancing in the direction of your phone. The moment you’re gone, I walk to the kitchen counter. Your phone is password protected, but the missed call number is on your notification screen. I pull my phone out of my pocket, taking a picture of yours. Your phone starts buzzing again, this time it’s a call from your sister. When you don’t answer, she texts you immediately. 

Ashton called the house phone asking about you. Maybe you shouldn’t come back for awhile, he’s crazy enough to have been calling from the airport. 

Who the fuck is Ashton? 

--

Chapter Two - Kill Habits, Not People 

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Taglist: @maggiecc 

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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