GET TO YOU (BROMANCE)

[WHITLEY DENT]

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December had held more a gift for Whitley Dent than just the sort of presents that gathered underneath the Christmas tree. Actually, the white artificial tree she had obtained for the benefit of Brawley had been more bare than she would have preferred. The little guy was four now and deserved more than everything that Whitley could give him. Everything was not enough, even when she had slaved more than forty hours a week at the country club. She had wrangled in odd jobs that would allow her to pocket more money, which was directly put into the fund of supplying Brawley with a Christmas his premature mind would be able to recall for ages to come. In such a sense she had failed, but with the other presents Whitley had flourished, setting down the very basis that would pave Brawley’s future for the rest of his life. A ruddy camcorder had captured the toddler reciting the lines of Harry Potter, a favorite of his, in a posh British accent that had surprised Whitley. False hopes had driven Whitley to upload the recording through a public computer at the library, sending it off to the talent agency that was based only a few miles way, in a city considerably larger than Sapphire Bay. A few days before Christmas a child talent agent had given Whitley a call, expressing that she had a desire to meet little Brawley in person, to see if he was suited for a roll in a movie production being filmed on the outskirts of Bluewater. Elated, Whitley had agreed, amazed that a miracle had actually happened in the holiday season.

Work, work, work. It was really the only thing that she had been familiar with lately, not a social life or relaxation or anything that would stem out of personal choices. Grounds maintenance was the job she had been shoved into for the past few weeks, since all of the positions on the hospitality front and kitchen plane had been completely filled. Front desk personally stood out to Whitley as her favorite, regardless of the aging ladies in their expensive tennis suits and grayed men in their golf whites she had to handle. A false smile and eager tone could be feigned if it meant that she was going home with a larger check at the end of every two weeks. But no, the managers had figured out that Whitley naturally was more durable than the bulk of the woman who were employed at the country club. They had watched in awe when she had left her post in the kitchen to aid the elderly groundskeeper who had overturned a lawnmower. After the incident her job slots had changed, directed more towards the jobs that involved strength and the landscape of the club. The work was tiring and the hours were ridiculous, beginning outrageously early in the morning and keeping her at the club until every last goer had left so she could tend to the grounds. Linette had no qualms with watching over Brawley while mama had to step out to earn the money she needed to support her child. She was only bursting with pride, satisfied that her charity case was no a mother who twisted herself around to make sure that she gave her child the most comfortable life possible. She would never be able to pad his life with the luxury items, but she was working hard to assure he had a decent life.

This was the first time in weeks that she had been offered a break, finally time to let her stress melt away. Even if it were only for a day, she was thankful for the twenty four hours of peace where she would not have to worry about the schedule for watering the plants or how the grass had to be manicured. Brawley was not a component of the equation, since Linette had agreed that it would be no bother for her to take him to visit the talent agency. Whitley had wanted to be present but tiredness had ruled that out as a possibility. Instead she was going to linger around the house, in her lazy clothes while she stuffed her face with an abundance of junk food. That was exactly how the day had went, until evening had swept around and Linette and Brawley had yet to return home. If they were out then why was she laying around at home like a good for nothing bum? She got dressed immediately, throwing on something acceptable and grabbing the keys to her less than presentable car. Her aims weren’t big, she only wanted a cup of coffee and some place to sit that actually had other life buzzing around. For far too long she had been her only company, which surely could not be good for her sanity. Workers at the small coffee shop she frequented knew her by name and had memorized her order. A petite vanilla latte with a scone, it was never anything different. She entered, one of the workers noticed her, and the order was awaiting her at the country. Where her order had been she set down seven dollars, leaving a flaky tip. By the window she sat down, staring out at the people passing by while she sipped slowly at the scalding liquid.

[PORTER MIDDLETON]

PORTER WAS DRUNK, AND HE HAD BEEN FOR DAYS, PERHAPS WEEKS. HE COULDN'T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME HE WAS SOBER. HE KNEW IT WAS BEFORE CHARLOTTE HAD LOST THE BABY, BUT HE'D LOST TRACK OF TIME AS HE'D SUNK DEEPER AND DEEPER INTO A FUNK OF DEPRESSION, SELF-LOATHING, AND GUILT. BOURBON WAS HIS POISON OF CHOICE, BUT EVEN THAT HAD BEEN GETTING OLD LATELY. HE WAS TIRED OF EVERYTHING AROUND HIM - EVERYTHING EXCEPT CHARLOTTE ALTHOUGH HE DIDN'T KNOW HOW OR DIDN'T HAVE THE STRENGTH TO PROVE TO HER OTHERWISE - AND FOOD AND DRINK HAD BEGUN TO TASTE LIKE ASH. HE ONLY ATE TO SURVIVE, AND BARELY EVEN THAT CONSIDERING HE DIDN'T REALLY GIVE A DAMN IF IT ALL ENDED NOW. PORTER HAD NEVER FELT SUCH RAW, INTENSE EMOTIONAL PAIN LIKE HE'D BEEN FEELING AT THE LOSS OF HIS AND CHARLOTTE'S UNBORN CHILD, AND NOW AT THE POSSIBLE LOSS OF CHARLOTTE AS WELL. HE'D WALKED OUT ON HER; THAT WAS UNACCEPTABLE. SHE WAS IN A STATE OF DEPRESSION WORSE THAN HIS OWN, AND ALL SHE'D WANTED WAS FOR HIM TO PROVE TO HER THAT HIS LOVE FOR HER COULD LAST THROUGH ANYTHING, AND HE'D WALKED OUT. AS HE'D KNOWN ALL ALONG: HE WAS A COMPLETE AND TOTAL ASS.

STUMBLING OUT OF THE TOWNCAR HE'D CALLED TO CART HIM AROUND TOWN TO WHERE EVER HE WISHED AT THE MOMENT, HE BRACED HIS ARM AGAINST THE WALL OUTSIDE OF HIS MOST RECENT DESTINATION AND TOOK A LONG DEEP BREATH BEFORE RELEASING IT IN AN EQUALLY LONG AND DRAWN-OUT SIGH. HE NEEDED TO GET A GRIP ON HIMSELF. NEVER BEFORE HAD PORTER MIDDLETON BEEN THE IMAGE OF DEPRESSION, SADNESS, OR LONELINESS AND DEFINITELY NOT ALL THREE SIMULTANEOUSLY. ALWAYS, HE'D BEEN THE POSTER BOY FOR BEING CAREFREE AND LIVING ON THE EDGE. HE'D NEVER BELIEVED IN LOVE UNTIL CHARLOTTE FELL INTO HIS LIFE, AND NOW HE'D EXPERIENCED MORE EMOTION THAN HE HAD IN ALL OF HIS TWENTY-TWO YEARS BEFORE THIS ONE. FEELING LIKE A WEAK SAP DIDN'T IMPROVE HIS MOOD ANY EITHER. HE'D ALWAYS FELT LIKE THE ONE IN CONTROL OF HIS LIFE, AND BECOMING A BYSTANDER WAS NOT IDEAL. IT MADE HIM ANGRY, AND THAT FUELED EVERYTHING ELSE.

HENCE THE REASON HE WAS ALONE STANDING OUTSIDE OF A COFFEE SHOP IN A LOWER CLASS PART OF TOWN WHERE HE DIDN'T HAVE TO SEE OR HEAR ABOUT ANYONE HE KNEW IN HIS NORMAL LIFE. THE LAST THING HE NEEDED WAS HIS FATHER OR CHARLOTTE OR CHARLOTTE'S MOTHER TRACKING HIM DOWN AND BRINGING UP EVERYTHING HE WAS RUNNING FROM. HE DIDN'T INTEND TO RUN FOREVER, BUT HE NEEDED TO RUN FOR NOW. HE NEEDED THE SPACE; HE MUST FORGET. EVERYTHING HE WAS DOING WAS SELFISH AND RELATIVELY THOUGHTLESS, BUT RIGHT NOW, HE DIDN'T CARE. HE HADN'T THOUGHT ABOUT HIMSELF IN MONTHS, AND HIS SELF-CENTERED OLD SELF REARED ITS HEAD AND DEMANDED TO BE NOTICED.

FINALLY, AFTER WHO KNEW HOW LONG, HE PULLED HIMSELF UP, STRAIGHTENED HIS SHIRT AND JACKET AND MARCHED INTO THE COFFEE SHOP. HE'D ORDERED HIS DRIVER TO PARK THE CAR SOMEWHERE DISCRETE SO HE WOULDN'T STAND OUT MORE THAN HE ALREADY DID IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD. HIS CLOTHES, ALTHOUGH BEING THE MOST CASUAL TONED-DOWN OUTFIT HE HAD IN HIS ENTIRE WARDROBE IN ADDITION TO BEING WHAT HE HAPPENED TO BE WEARING WHEN HE'D WALKED OUT ON CHARLOTTE, WERE STILL A HIGHER GRADE THAN MOST OF THE PEOPLE WHO PASSED HIM OR SAT AROUND THE SHOP, AND HE WISHED HE BLENDED IN EVEN MORE. IT ACTUALLY WASN'T VANITY; IT WAS MERELY A DESIRE TO BE NO ONE FOR AT LEAST ONE NIGHT.

ORDERING A SIMPLE BLACK REGULAR COFFEE, HE TOOK THE DRINK, TOSSED A TWENTY DOLLAR BILL IN THE TIP JAR AND BROUGHT IT TO HIS LIPS TO BEGIN SIPPING. THE COFFEE MAY KNOCK OFF ENOUGH OF HIS MONTH-LONG BUZZ THAT HE'D BE MORE COHERENT THAN HE HAD BEEN WHEN HE'D LEFT HOME, SO HE HOPED HE COULD WORK THAT BACK UP BEFORE HE HAD TO FACE ANYONE HE KNEW, BUT FOR THE TIME-BEING, HE KNEW HE NEEDED TO FACE SOME OF HIS FEARS. SO LOST WAS HE IN HIS THOUGHTS AS HE MEANDERED THROUGH THE HALF-LIGHT OF THE COFFEE SHOP THAT HE DIDN'T NOTICE THE YOUNG WOMAN SITTING ALONE AT HER TABLE UNTIL HE'D TRIPPED OVER HER OUTSTRETCHED FOOT AS SHE LOUNGED BY HERSELF. HIS COFFEE TIPPED FROM HIS HAND, MISSING HER AND THE TABLE BY MERE INCHES, AND CRASHED TO THE FLOOR, SPLASHING ALL OVER HIS SHOES AND THE BOTTOM OF HIS PANTS. NORMALLY, IN THIS SITUATION, PORTER WOULD BLAME HER FOR BEING IN HIS WAY AND GET ANGRY, BUT HE WAS SO UTTERLY DRAINED FROM THE PAST FEW WEEKS THAT HE DIDN'T HAVE THE ENERGY. HIS HANDS FELL TO HIS SIDES AND HE ALMOST SIGHED AUDIBLY BUT CAUGHT HIMSELF. REACHING UP TO HIS FACE, HE WIPED HIS HANDS DOWN OVER HIS TIRED EYES AND SIGHED. BEHIND HIM WAS A NAPKIN DISPENSER, AND HE PULLED OUT A HANDFUL OF PAPER NAPKINS, AND DROPPED THEM ONTO THE PUDDLE. "I'M SORRY," HE MUTTERED TO THE GIRL. SHE WAS PROBABLY THE FIRST PERSON HE'D EVER APOLOGIZED TO IN HIS LIFE, NEXT TO CHARLOTTE.

[WHITLEY DENT]

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January was going to be a better month for Whitley and Brawley, she would see that perks would only come out of the thirty days of the month. Already three weeks worth of work were lined up for her to take the chance and exceed the basic work schedule of forty hours a week. Forty was such a small number when Whitley looked at it in a bigger picture and on a larger scale. Turn that forty into dollars and it would only be sufficient for a tiny amount of food for her growing man, whose appetite seemed to be doubling with each day. Her effort to try and care for her son amounted to a huge mound of care, stress, and pure adoration. All of the hours she spent fretting over where his future would lead could be seen as outrageous to other people who were her general age. Whitley could never live a life like any of other twenty-two year olds that littered the town. Did that ever once matter to her? Hell to the no. Her life was perfect the way it was, with her little tyke and the way she was scrambling frantically to have some semblance of a structured life. A beautiful crazy life was all that Whitley wanted and it was exactly what she had. Nothing else could have ever made her so content, not a house picketed with a pretty white fence and a furry friend patrolling the yard while her husband looked at her fondly as she cooked. Ironically enough, chaos was the one component that gave her a sense of peace.

The coffee shop was the place where she could completely unwind, shed off the woes of the weak and melt into a state of total relaxation. She was allowed to remain tucked back in her corner with the dim lighting, under one condition. There had to be some sort of reason why she was floating around the shop, which usually meant she had to have an order sitting before her while she slowly bit away at her scone or sipped at her coffee with complete hesitance to finish the cup. Brawley usually was crawling around her mind, tying up what tiny space she would have to free her thoughts. In the safety of Linette's stern watch she did not have to worry about the well being of her child, well actually, her nephew. All of it was so backwards, because he was legally called her son and the name of his mother on his birth certificate was Whitley E. Dent. Their feigned relative status was solely to make it so that Whitley's reputation in the town would not be damaged with the marks of a teenage pregnancy. Her whole life would not be spent at the country club. At one point she didn't believe that she would ever have goals, that had been a time when her thinking was out of whack. Twenty two years old now she finally had her own dreams, to better herself in ways she would have never thought at the tender age of sixteen. I've come a long way from that lost girl sitting in the diner, Whitley mused, reminiscent smile stuck her face while she blew at the steam tendrils curling off of her coffee.

No one ever ventured back into the area of the shop that Whitley had silently deemed as her comfort zone. Nothing more than a few scant seats rested about, with an overused candle placed smack dab in the center of tables lazily rung around the alcove of the shop. From here the stage wasn't in sight and the trek to the front counter could be called bothersome. She had become comfortable on her own, lounging more carelessly than she would have if anyone else had been in her company. It was the very reason why habitually her boot clad foot had folded out from under her, spilling over into the area that could be deemed as the walkway. Some stranger had completely surprised her, foot smashing into her's with his coffee narrowly flying by her by some amount of inches. He grumbled out an apology, reaching behind him for some napkins. Quickly Whitley jumped up, alarmed by his distressed state and sorry that she had somehow caused him some trouble. "Keep your apologies, I'm the one with the wild foot," she lamely quipped, grabbing some more napkins from the dispenser and carelessly dropping down onto her knees. Filth was the least of her worries. She gently urged him out of the way, spreading out the wads of napkins to absorb the spilled liquid quickly. "I can pay for a dry cleaner's bill to fix that stain on your pants," she offered, looking back at him, studying the legs of his pant more closely. "Which must be pretty expensive, if they are from the same brand of your shoes," Whitley observed, immediately picking up the fancy brand from the emblem on his shoes. He was a high class man, so what was he doing in a low class coffee shop?

[PORTER MIDDLETON]

AS UNACCUSTOMED TO APOLOGIZING AS PORTER WAS, HE STOOD SILENTLY AS THE GIRL FELL TO HER KNEES AND TOOK THE NAPKINS FROM HIM TO CLEAN THE MESS. HE ALSO WASN'T USED TO CLEANING ANYTHING, AND HE COULDN'T REMEMBER A TIME WHEN HE HAD. EVEN WHEN HE AND CHARLOTTE HAD DESTROYED THE KITCHEN THAT ONE TIME, LITTERING THE ROOM WITH FLOUR AND OTHER BAKING INGREDIENTS... AH, CHARLOTTE. PORTER CLOSED HIS EYES AND SIGHED INWARDLY AT THE THOUGHT OF HER. HE LOVED HER SO MUCH IT HURT, AND IT MADE HIM ANGRY BECAUSE HE FELT SO WEAK FOR THE EMOTION. HE KNEW HE WOULD DO ANYTHING, GIVE ANYTHING, FOR HER, AND THAT SCARED HIM. THE FIRST TIME HE'D BEEN SCARED OF LOVING HER, HE'D RUN OFF AND SLEPT WITH HER BEST FRIEND ON A STUPID, STUPID ATTEMPT TO GET HER OUT OF HIS MIND. BUT, THAT TIME, HE'D BEEN TRYING TO DENY TO HIMSELF THAT HE LOVED HER. NOW, HE KNEW BEYOND THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT THAT HE LOVED HER, BUT HE SCARED HIMSELF WITH HOW MUCH. ONCE HE'D BELIEVED THERE WAS NO SUCH THING AS LOVE, BUT NOW HE KNEW IT NOT ONLY EXISTED, BUT IT COULD OVERPOWER EVERY OTHER EMOTION A MAN COULD FEEL. THE PAIN HE'D FELT FOR CHARLOTTE (AND FOR HIMSELF, HE HAD TO ADMIT) AFTER THE BABY DIED HAD OVERPOWERED EVERYTHING IN HIS MIND TO THE POINT IT HAD BURNT OFF THE LIQUOR HAZE HE'D BEEN PUTTING HIMSELF IN, AND HE'D HAD TO SINK DEEPER AND DEEPER INTO IT EVERY DAY.

AFTER LONG MOMENTS LOST IN HIS OWN THOUGHTS, PORTER LOOKED DAZEDLY DOWN AT THE GIRL AT HIS FEET. SHE WAS THE TYPE OF GIRL HE WOULD USUALLY CRUSH JUST BECAUSE HE COULD: BEFORE CHARLOTTE, THAT IS. SHE SEEMED SWEET ENOUGH, AND MAYBE IT WAS HIS WEAKENED STATE, BUT HE DIDN'T FEEL THE NEED TO BREAK HER. HE'D BEEN THE TYPE OF RICH DOUCHE, IN THE PAST, TO MAKE SOMEONE FEEL HORRIBLE JUST BECAUSE HE COULD. HE'D ENJOYED SLEEPING WITH WOMEN AND THEN UNDOING THEM IN SOCIETY LATER. NOW, HE HAD NO NEED FOR THAT KIND OF BEHAVIOR. HE HAD CHARLOTTE. OR HE'D HAD HER, PAST TENSE. HE WASN'T SURE ANYMORE, AND THAT TORE HIM UP MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE COULD. WHEN THE GIRL MENTIONED THE OBVIOUS PRICE OF HIS SHOES, HIS EYES WIDENED SLIGHTLY AND HE REACHED DOWN TO GRAB HER UPPER ARM, PULLING HER TO HER FEET. HE INTENDED THE GESTURE TO BE GENTLE, BUT HIS EXTREMITIES WERE FEELING RATHER NUMB FROM A COLD ENTIRELY INTRINSIC. LOOKING INTO THE GIRL'S EYES WITH HIS ICE BLUE-EYED GAZE, HIS BROW DREW DOWN SLIGHTLY AS HE EXAMINED HER FACE. "HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? ABOUT MY SHOES?" HE ASKED, RELEASING HER AS HE REALIZED HE'D BEEN HOLDING HER ARM FOR A LONGER-THAN-SOCIALLY-APPROPRIATE LENGTH OF TIME. NOW THAT SHE'D MENTIONED THE NOTICEABLE QUALITY OF HIS CLOTHING, HE FELT LIKE HE HAD A SPOTLIGHT ON HIS HEAD IN THIS LOWER CLASS COFFEE SHOP. HE'D COME HERE TO BLEND IN WHERE NO ONE IN HIS SOCIAL GROUP WOULD RECOGNIZE HIM, AND NOW HE STUCK OUT FOR A DIFFERENT REASON.

"I'M... EXCUSE ME..." HE SPOKE, SINKING INTO THE CHAIR WHICH HAD BEEN OPPOSITE HER AT THE SMALL TABLE WHERE HE'D BUMPED INTO HER. HERE HE WAS ON THE LOWER CLASS SIDE OF TOWN, ALL ALONE, AND ALL HE COULD THINK ABOUT WAS CHARLOTTE AND HOW HE'D SCREWED UP WITH HER... YET AGAIN. HE HAD NO ONE. SVETLANA HATED HIM FOR WHAT HE'D DONE TO HER BOYFRIEND IN A STUPID ATTEMPT TO 'SAVE HER', AND CHARLOTTE WOULD PROBABLY NEVER FORGIVE HIM FOR HIS LATEST RAMPAGE. HE WAS LOST TO HIS OWN WORLD, AND NOW HE ALREADY DIDN'T FIT INTO THIS ONE. PORTER MIDDLETON WAS A LOST MAN.

[WHITLEY DENT]

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Any man with manners would have gently scolded at Whitley snatching some more napkins to stoop down on the floor and wipe up the spill. Even if it had been her fault, they would have grabbed the napkins from her hands and help her up, insisting they were able to tackle the mess, but thank her for being so willing to assist. Clearly the guy who had been attacked by her foot was not average, meaning that the basis of life she knew did not apply to his ways of thinking. As a lesser citizen she was the one who should be wiping up the coffee, maybe even apologize a few times in a groveling way that would create atonement for the man who was watching over her. Actually, Whitley wasn't sure if he was gazing over her clean up job, which was coming along efficiently because of plenty of practice she performed at the country club. It didn't matter, the man had look distressed and Whitley couldn't have lounged lazily while he bent over to take care of the spill. He could grumble at her if he wanted, she just needed to clean up after him, seeing that it was something that wouldn't trouble him. In some ways she was too kind of a soul, giving to people who clearly had not deserved the attention she shone on them. Hardships of the past had granted Whitley with the ability to see that she needed to bless others, give them all that she never had. The world was like a child to her, as incredibly cheesy as it sounded.

Focus had been spent on the man's mess that she was wiping up with the napkins, which were now all soggy and beginning to tear. His cup had been large, too big of a puddle for her to clean with the measly number of napkins that she had grabbed. The fancy shoe comment had been an idle way to spark conversation, not a device that would get her pulled roughly by her arm, something that would have been done back in her poorer days. Surprise loosened her grasp, causing the napkins to fall from her grasp and plop down onto the ground. Whitley's hand flew up instinctively, covering over his tightly folded one to pry away his fingers. No right had been given to him to try and handle her like she was a disobedient child. Blue hues met, Whitley's own stare ready to blaze with fury that was prodded at by this man's blatant disrespect. "I'm surrounded by your lot all day. Names like that on your shoe all dropped casually all the time," Whitley directly explained, looking more intolerant with each passing second. Soon she would go and aim to smack him, the most effective way to have his hand on her loosened. Because God knew that he was ten times over stronger than she was.

Sense must have been gifted to him because his grasp on her was removed and he fell back into the chair that was seated across from where she had originally been seated. Defeat and tiredness were etched deeply into his, a look of utter misery that transformed her irritations towards the stranger into one of pity. Nothing in his life had to be right, not with the look that was on his face. Whitley smoothed down her crumpled jacket and glanced at the man. She disappeared for a few minutes, returning back to the table with a plate of assorted baked goods and a large cup of straight black coffee. The plate was placed before the stranger and she carefully placed the cup next to it, then went to go and sit herself back in her own chair. "My son swears that cookies and cake can make anything better, so let's see if his theory holds true," she brightly told him, smiling widely and reaching for her own scone.

[PORTER MIDDLETON]

HER AFFRONT AT HIS REACTION TO HER KNOWLEDGE OF HIS SHOE BRAND SHOULDN'T HAVE SURPRISED HIM. HE WAS BEING INCONSIDERATE - AS CHARLOTTE WOULD HAVE SURELY REMINDED HIM - AND THE GIRL HAD EVERY RIGHT TO BE OFFENDED AT HIS BEHAVIOR. SO, AS HE SANK DOWN INTO THE EMPTY CHAIR, HE SIGHED AUDIBLY TO HIIMSELF. HE REALLY WAS AT HIS LOWEST LOW. HERE HE WAS, ACCOSTING STRANGERS ABOUT HIS SHOES, WHEN HE SHOULD BE BACK AT HOME ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES BEGGING CHARLOTTE TO FORGIVE HIM YET AGAIN. HE WAS TIRED OF ALWAYS BEING THE FAULT IN THE SITUATION, BUT HE HAD TO CHANGE HIMSELF FOR HIS ROLE TO CHANGE. WHEN HE THOUGHT OF CHANGING HIMSELF, THOUGH, HE FELT LIKE AN OLD DOG WHO JUST COULDN'T LEARN ANY MORE TRICKS. HE'D BEEN STUCK IN HIS WAYS FOR SO LONG, HE WAS BECOMING UNTRAINABLE. HOW MUCH LONGER COULD CHARLOTTE GET THROUGH TO HIM THROUGH HIS THICK SKULL? THERE HAD TO BE A POINT WHEN HE ALLOWED HIS LOVE FOR HER TO ACTUALLY HELP HIM INSTEAD OF CONSTANTLY RUNNING FROM IT. RIGHT NOW, AS HE SAT LIMPLY IN THE CHAIR AS THE GIRL LEFT THE MESS ON THE FLOOR TO FETCH THE TRAY OF CONFECTIONS, PORTER FELT THAT HE HAD NO ONE. HOW MUCH MORE FORGIVENESS COULD CHARLOTTE HAVE IN HER? SVETLANA PROBABLY WOULDN'T FORGIVE HIM FOR WHAT HE'D DONE TO NOLAN, AND HE REALLY DIDN'T HAVE ANYONE ELSE. OTHER MEN WEREN'T PRONE TO BECOMING FRIENDS WITH HIM BECAUSE HE HAD ALWAYS HAD THE TENDENCY OF GETTING ALL THE GIRLS, AND OTHER RICH YOUNG MEN WERE AS STUCK UP AND DOUCHY AS HE WAS. SO THEY DIDN'T GET ALONG. PLUS, HIS OWN FAMILY CONSIDERED HIM THEIR BLACK SHEEP, SO HE DIDN'T EVEN HAVE THEM TO TURN TO. HE FELT LIKE A BLACK HOLE IN THE UNIVERSE, SUCKING IN EVERYTHING AROUND HIM BUT LEFT WITH NOTHING.

THE SMELL OF THE BAKED GOODS HIT HIM BEFORE HIS MIND REGISTERED THE TRAY. SLOWLY, HE LIFTED HIS EYES TO SEE THE OPTIONS, AND HE BRIEFLY WONDERED WHERE THE GIRL HAD GOTTEN THE MONEY TO BUY IT - HIS OLD SELF REARING UP TO WONDER IF SHE'D PICK-POCKETED HIM IN THE BRIEF MOMENT THEY'D BOTH BEEN ON THE FLOOR - BUT HE PUSHED THE WONDERING AWAY. JUST BECAUSE SHE WASN'T AS RICH AS HIM DIDN'T MEAN SHE WAS LIVING IN A CARDBOARD BOX ON THE STREET. FOR SO LONG, HE'D LIVED SO HIGH ABOVE EVERYONE ELSE THAT HE FORGOT ABOUT THE SUBTLETIES OF SOCIETY. THEN HE THOUGHT ABOUT HOW MUCH MORE GIVING PEOPLE LIKE THIS YOUNG WOMAN WERE - SPENDING HER MONEY TO BUY FOOD FOR A COMPLETE STRANGER WHO HAD BEEN RUDE TO HER - WHEN SOMEONE IN HIS STRATA WOULD HAVE SNUBBED THEIR NOSE AT HIM AND WALKED THE OTHER WAY, TOSSING A TWENTY AT HIS FEET. HE SMELLED LIKE A MONTH'S WORTH OF FERMENTED BOURBON MIXED WITH SWEAT, AND HE CERTAINLY WASN'T HIS BEST IMAGE RIGHT NOW. HE HADN'T SHAVED IN DAYS, AND HIS FIVE O'CLOCK SHADOW WAS MORE LIKE TEN O'CLOCK SHADOW BY NOW. ONLY THURSTON, HIS LOYAL BUTLER, COULD STAND TO BE AROUND HIM, AND THAT WAS MOST LIKELY ONLY BECAUSE PORTER PAID HIM TO DO JUST THAT.

LOOKING UP AT THE GIRL ACROSS THE TABLE AS SHE MUNCHED ON HER BRITISH PASTRY, HE SLOWLY TOOK AN APPLE OATMEAL MUFFIN FROM THE TRAY AND PICKED AT IT. "COOKIES AND CAKE RARELY MAKE MATTERS WORSE, THAT'S FOR SURE," HE AGREED WITH A WEAK ATTEMPT AT A SMILE. GLANCING DOWN AT THE FLOOR WHERE HIS PUDDLE WAS BEGINNING TO COALESCE, TURNING INTO AN UNSTOPPABLE FORCE OF STICKY FRICTION, HE SIGHED AND KNEW HE NEEDED TO TAKE CREDIT FOR HIS ACTIONS. JUST LIKE WITH CHARLOTTE - HE WOULD HAVE TO GO BACK AND CONVINCE HER HE WAS WORTH ANOTHER SHOT OR HE'D DIE WITHOUT HER - HE HAD TO FACE WHATEVER HE'D DONE BADLY BEFORE HE COULD MOVE ON. SETTING THE MUFFIN ON THE TABLE, MOSTLY UNTOUCHED, HE GATHERED MORE NAPKINS AND BENT DOWN ON HIS HANDS AND KNEES TO BEGIN WIPING UP THE STICKY COFFEE PUDDLE.

[WHITLEY DENT]

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He had to have a story behind the reasoning why he was loitering in a lesser known coffee shop, which bordered on the sketchy side of town. ‘Poor’ didn’t properly fit as a description for the part of Sapphire Bay, the piece of town that Whitley called home and had spurred connections to soon after settling down. ‘Average’ would be the word Whitley would choose as a companion for the places she frequented, completely respectable but nothing that shone out against the gray backdrop of the city. This man had a veil of shimmering unknown surrounding him like something that he couldn’t shake off, even when he ducked into a nameless shop to grab some java. A swish of his classy jacket, the rustle of his perfectly crumpled shirt, and the material of his shoes stuck out like something compared to a blue jay nestled among a bunch of doves. Not that doves and blue jays were usually seen together, Whitley’s mind just had birds swooping around as remainders of Brawley’s past obsessions. Worry set as the true reason why Whitley was fretting over him, even after he had ungentlemanly handled her, throwing rough questions her way. Disorder had to be fueling him to turn a place where he clearly did not belong. Whitley wanted to know what was wrong, despite the fact she had no clue of his identity or any hint towards his current problems.

His world could be falling down and all she had to offer him was pastries and baked goods. That damn plate had been expensive, the only one left from what the bakery had dropped off in the morning. Whitley always felt tempted by the muffins and foreign pastries, currently having to deny herself the pleasure of the sweets. Money she doggedly worked for had better places to go than coffee shop purchases that would only temporarily fill her stomach and add more calories than she needed.Still, she was satisfied when he picked out an apple oatmeal muffin, a concession that she figured was something ritzy he devoured if he ever awoke on time for breakfast. She had to tame her thoughts because they were romping off onto judgmental grounds she made a point to veer from. Comfy, she reclined back in the chair, staring at her coffee which she now guessed had completely cooled. Whitley bit deeper into the scone, smiling against her chewing at the half hearted comment the stranger offered as conversation. “I am afraid to say that isn’t the whole truth,” she corrected, glancing down at the plate full of baked goods. Brawley would have attacked the plate had he randomly waltzed in. “Too many baked goods and you will suffer from a major stomachache,” she said, laughter hinting in her eyes. She knew from personal experiences with her son, holding him curled up in a blanket while he watched a show on BBC.

Both his muffin and coffee were abandoned, with the drinker and eater now on his hands and knees. Napkins were in his grasp and a grimace set unattractively on her face. Nearly the whole sticky situation had been cleaned, expect for the bit she had missed after the man had made a personal goal to seek out why she had been knowledgeable on his shoe brand. Her coffee was also left to grow cold with Whitley back on the ground, looming across from the stranger who now took it up to be the janitor of the coffee shop. “This doesn’t seem like the job for you,” Whitley tentatively said, reaching out to work the napkins out of his grasp. She tilted her head up to look at him, realizing her face was hovering closer to his than she had expected. “Uh...hi...” Whitley gave him a dopey grin, eyes lighting up bright enough to offer a light source for the whole shop.

[PORTER MIDDLETON]

PORTER HAD BLOWN HIS ENTIRE LIFE OUT OF PROPORTION, AND HE WAS SLOWLY COMING TO REALIZE THAT, BUT HE HAD NO IDEA HOW TO MAKE IT ALL RIGHT. HE'D NEVER BEEN THE ONE TO HAVE TO APOLOGIZE FOR ANYTHING - EVEN THINGS WHICH HAD BEEN HIS FAULT - AND HE HAD NO IDEA HOW TO DO IT. SO CLEANING THE MESS VIGOROUSLY WAS HIS BEST EFFORT AT MAKING RIGHT WHAT HE'D DONE WRONG ALREADY WITH THIS GIRL. HE DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HER NAME OR ANYTHING ABOUT HER OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT SHE NOTABLY ATE AN ENGLISH PASTRY VERSUS THE AMERICAN ONES SHE'D OFFERED HIM, AND FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE, PORTER MIDDLETON FELT... BAD THAT HE HAD TREATED A LOWER CLASS PERSON BADLY. IT WAS A PATHETIC REALIZATION, BUT A REALIZATION NONE-THE-LESS.

AS SHE FELL DOWN BESIDE HIM TO HELP HIM FINISH CLEANING, PORTER SHOOK HIS HEAD AND GENTLY TRIED TO URGE HER BACK TO HER CHAIR, BUT HE JUST ENDED UP COMING FACE-TO-FACE WITH HER BENEATH THE TABLE. WITH THEIR FACES ONLY INCHES APART, HE WAS MOMENTARILY SURPRISED. SHE WAS AN ATTRACTIVE YOUNG WOMAN WITH HER BLOND HAIR AND BRIGHT EYES THAT SEEMED TO ILLUMINATE THE ENTIRE ROOM. SHE WAS SO VERY DIFFERENT FROM CHARLOTTE.

CHARLOTTE.

HER BROWN EYES AND BROWN HAIR, HER FLASHING SMILE, HER WILD SIDE AND HER SOFTER ONE, THE TEARS STAINING HER FACE WHEN SHE'D FOUND OUT SHE'D LOST THEIR CHILD, THE FROWN ON HER FACE WHEN HE'D SURPRISED HER ON TOP OF THE EIFFEL TOWER BEFORE SHE UNDERSTOOD HIS INTENTIONS... EVERYTHING ABOUT HER AND THEIR TIME TOGETHER FLASHED IN FRONT OF HIS EYES EVEN AS HIS FACE WAS INCHES FROM THIS OTHER GIRL. HE HAD GONE DOWN THIS ROAD BEFORE, WITH SVETLANA, AND HE HAD PROMISED CHARLOTTE AND HIMSELF THAT HE WOULD NEVER TRAVEL THAT ROAD AGAIN. SHAKING HIS HEAD TO CLEAR HIS MIND, HE BACKED AWAY FROM THE GIRL AWKWARDLY JUST AS HE HEARD THE BELL ON THE ENTRANCE DING TO ADMIT ANOTHER CUSTOMER. "OH, I'M..." A VOICE BEHIND HIM CAUGHT HIS ATTENTION AS HE HEARD A CHILD'S VOICE CALLING FOR HIS MOTHER. PORTER WAS CUT OFF AS A SMALL BOY RAN PAST HIM AND LEAPT ON THE GIRL IN FRONT OF HIM. SITTING BACK ON HIS HEELS, SEEING THE CUTE LITTLE BOY, PORTER WAS SUDDENLY OVERCOME. HE HAD NEVER SHOWN EMOTION IN FRONT OF ANYONE EXCEPT CHARLOTTE, BUT HE FOUND HIS EYES GROWING FULL OF TEARS AND HIS VISION BLURRED. "EXCUSE ME..." HE CHOKED, STANDING AND RUSHING FROM THE STORE AND OUT INTO THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT BEYOND. HIS TOWNCAR HAD TO BE SOMEWHERE NEARBY, BUT HE COULD SEE NOTHING AS THE CITY'S LIGHTS BLURRED IN HIS VISION. CHARLOTTE... HE MISSED HER SO BADLY... THEIR BABY... IT WAS ALL GONE...

[WHITLEY DENT]

.

Help was generally something everybody as a whole would eagerly welcome. Humans were designed to do only as much as they needed. Any extra worked seem silly, because it was completely unnecessary and only called for the use of more effort. Effort that could be put to use in other situations that were more critical. Whitley was accustomed to cleaning up a variety of messes, spilled coffee being one of the more easier ones. It was made known that she would easily oblige to wiping up the rest of the mess herself, since this man seemed to be lost in a pocket of his mind where Whitley no longer existed. He could have left, really, because Whitley felt like she was being more of a bother to him than anything. Or maybe he needed the company and was not willing to voice his loneliness. Whitley couldn't be completely sure on either option. People would more difficult to read nowadays, glazing over their problems with crafty ways she had not once ever thought of. Desperation drove them to such measures, it was wholly pathetic.

She refused to budge when he placed his hands on her shoulders to gently push her away. Her foot placed carelessly in the aisle has been as much of a factor into the spill as his disregard for his surroundings. If anything Whitley wanted to pull the blame on herself to make this man's heart a little lighter of a load. Whatever plagued him was not being assisted by more guilt of acting rudely to a lower class civilian and shaming himself by crouching under a table to clear away a java mess. "It's completely okay, you don't need to help me clean up the mess," Whitley cooed out, hoping that he would feel touched by her sympathy and fall back into his seat. Her motherly nature was setting in now, seeing this man in despair was beginning to pull on her heart chords. Earlier on he may have roughly handled her, but now her face was close to his and some life had returned to his eyes. Whitley didn't have the slightest clue was to what she was doing, his face was close and it felt nice having someone so near. She couldn't be blamed when she began to lean closer into him.

Brawley shattered whatever moment was going to transpire between the two. He had a handsome face, his eyes were full of hurt and for a moment Whitley wanted to be the cure. An eager son clomping through the coffee shop and leaping into her arms had cleared any intentions Whitley had invented. She held Brawley tight in her arms ,ready to crawl out from the under the table and introduce her little man to the stranger man. He was out from under the table before she could even speak, saying some apology and stumbling his way out of the door. Whitley kept a secure hold on Brawley, navigating her way from under the table and out of the shop, calling back to Linette and continuing her way down the street. In the darkness she could see his leather jacket, he was walking around in what seemed to be confusion. "Wait!" she called after him, latching onto Brawley more tightly so she could jog to the man. Careful, she grabbed at his arm, holding onto the smooth sleeve of his jacket. She waited until he turned around, looking at him with eyes full on sincerity. "Come back to my house, you don't have to stay long. I just want to make sure you're okay."