Chapter Text
You've got to give a little, take a little,
and let your poor heart break a little.
That's the story of, that's the glory of love.
You've got to laugh a little, cry a little,
until the clouds roll by a little.
That's the story of, that's the glory of love.
The Sunday morning light filters through the kitchen windows and Scarlett sits at the island with her sketchpad, charcoal-stained fingers working over a portrait she's been refining for her portfolio. Ted is at the stove, spatula in hand as he flips pancakes. Henry is perched on the counter nearby, swinging his legs and narrating a particularly dramatic gaming session from the night before.
" – and then Liam just disconnected right in the middle of the boss fight. Like, mate, we'd been crushing for two hours – "
"Language," Ted says, though he's grinning.
"I didn't even swear!"
"Preemptive warning. All that English slang is sneakin' in."
Rebecca walks into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower. She drops a kiss on Ted's shoulder as she passes, then ruffles Henry's hair just to hear him complain.
"Morning," she says, settling onto the stool beside Scarlett before running a gentle hand down her back. "How's the portrait coming?"
"Getting there." Scarlett tilts her head, studying her work. "The shadowing on the jaw is still off, but I'm working on it.”
Scarlett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Unknown number. She almost ignores it, not ready to talk to anyone on a Sunday morning. But something makes her pick up.
"Hello?"
Rebecca notices the shift immediately. The way Scarlett's other hand stills. The way her shoulders go rigid.
"Yes, this is she."
Ted glances over at Scarlett before catching Rebecca’s eye with concern. Henry stops talking.
Scarlett's face goes eerily blank, her expression smoothing into something neutral. Rebecca places a hand on her arm.
"When?" Scarlett's voice is a whisper.
Rebecca's chest tightens. She can't hear the other side of the conversation, but she can read the subtle tension in Scarlett's jaw, the way her hand is gripping the phone. She sees something shift in Scarlett the longer she goes without speaking.
"A car accident." It's not a question. Just a statement, like she's confirming information for a school assignment.
Ted sets the spatula down carefully, moving closer and he gently takes Rebecca’s hand. Henry's eyes dart between the adults, picking up on the shift even if he doesn't understand it yet.
"Right." Scarlett's tone is measured, almost businesslike.
"No, we haven't spoken in over two years."
"Yes, I understand."
There's a longer silence and Rebecca can hear the faint murmur of a voice on the other end but can't make out words.
"What do you mean you can't...?"
For the first time since she answered the phone, there's a flicker of something in Scarlett's voice. Anger, frustration, maybe.
"I see."
Her hand tightens slightly on the phone. Rebecca moves to rest her palm over Scarlett's other hand.
"No, that makes sense. He's her husband." The words come out clipped. "Right. Thank you for letting me know."
She lowers the phone slowly, staring at the dark screen for a moment before setting it down on the counter with deliberate care. The kitchen is absolutely silent except for the faint sizzle of forgotten pancakes.
"Scarlett?" Rebecca's voice is gentle, careful.
"That was the police." Scarlett's voice is even, almost too controlled. "My mother died Friday night. Car accident."
Rebecca's hand tightens on Scarlett's. Ted moves around the island, turning off the stove.
"Oh, love," Rebecca breathes.
Scarlett shrugs, a small, jerky motion. "They needed to notify me. That's protocol, apparently. Next of kin and all that." She picks up her charcoal pencil, sets it back down. "Keith's handling everything. The arrangements. They couldn't tell me anything else."
"I'm so sorry," Ted says quietly.
"Are you?" Scarlett looks up at him, and there's something odd in her expression. Not hostility, exactly. Just... blankness. "I'm not. I mean, I should be, right? But I'm just... I don't know what I am."
Henry shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure what to do or say.
"There's no right way to feel," Rebecca says carefully.
"Yeah." Scarlett laughs, short and humorless. “I guess. How are you supposed to feel when someone who was supposed to protect you lets you get abused and then dies?”
Henry goes still, pausing his hands from taking a plate. His eyes flick to Rebecca, then to Ted, like he’s trying to understand a word no one has explained to him yet.
Scarlett stands abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. "I should... I don't know. Do something. There's probably things I should be doing."
"You don't have to do anything right now," Rebecca says.
"Don't I?" Scarlett's voice is still flat, but there's an edge creeping in now. "My mother's dead and I don't even know when the funeral is. If there even is one. If Keith will bother to tell me."
"We can find out," Rebecca says. "However you want to handle this–"
"I don't want to handle it at all." The words come out sharp, surprising even Scarlett herself. She stops, takes a breath. When she speaks again, her voice is back under control. "Sorry. I just...I need a minute."
She gathers her sketchpad and charcoals, tucking them under her arm. "I'm going to work in the office for a bit."
"Love, you should eat something first," Rebecca starts, but Scarlett's already moving toward the hallway.
"I’m not hungry."
Ted catches Rebecca's eye, a silent question. Rebecca gives a small shake of her head…let her go. Rebecca watches Scarlett walk down the hall, and then hears the soft click of the office door closing.
Henry breaks the silence first, his voice small. "Is she okay?"
"Yeah, buddy," Ted says, moving to wrap an arm around his son's shoulders. "She just needs some time to process. It’s a tough situation."
Rebecca stands, staring at the abandoned stool, the charcoal smudge Scarlett left on the counter. She moves to wipe it away with a cloth, then stops, leaving it there.
"Should I go check on her?" she asks Ted quietly, questioning her initial decision.
"Maybe give her a few minutes," he suggests. "Let her have some space to feel whatever she needs to feel."
Ted's hand finds the small of her back as he passes her.
Rebecca nods, but she can't quite settle. She busies herself making tea, but never drinks it. Ted plates up the pancakes none of them want anymore.
Henry stares down at his plate, pancake untouched. He pokes at it once with his fork, then stops.
Ted notices, but he doesn’t say anything yet. He finishes turning off the stove, then slides Henry’s plate a little closer to him as if that might help.
Henry still doesn’t eat.
Rebecca moves to the counter and mindlessly moves things around before making herself take a sip of her tea.
Henry’s voice breaks the quiet.
“Rebecca?”
She looks over immediately. “Yes, darling?”
Henry hesitates, eyes flicking toward the hallway Scarlett disappeared down, then back to his plate.
“When Scarlett said….” He frowns, clearly trying to find the right words. “About her mom. About not protecting her.”
Ted pauses at the counter.
Henry swallows. “What did she mean by that?”
Rebecca’s hand tightens around her mug. She sets it down carefully before answering, sitting in the stool next to Henry so she’s more at his eye level.
“She meant,” Rebecca says gently, before brushing his hair from his eyes, “that sometimes the adults who are supposed to keep you safe don’t do a very good job.”
Henry’s brow furrows. “Like…on purpose?”
Ted steps in then, resting a hand on Henry’s shoulder
“Sometimes,” he says carefully. “Sometimes they make bad choices. And sometimes they don’t stop other people from hurting someone when they should.”
Henry sits, taking that in. Then asks, “did that happen to her?”
Rebecca exhales slowly. “Some hard things did, yes.”
Ted adds, “but we are going to respect her privacy, because that is her story to tell. Understand?”
Henry nods once, sharp and decisive in that very thirteen-year-old way. “That sucks.”
Rebecca’s mouth curves into a sad little smile “It very much does suck.”
Henry pushes his food around on the plate. “Is that why she said she doesn’t feel sad?”
Ted and Rebecca exchange a look, trying to explain this complicated grief to a thirteen year old.
“It might be part of it,” Ted says. “Grief doesn’t always look like crying.”
Henry thinks about that. “Do we…do something?”
Rebecca reaches out, running her fingers through his hair again. “I think your dad is right. We just give her some space. And make sure she knows she’s not alone.”
Henry nods again, more settled now. After a beat, he picks up his fork and takes a small bite of pancake. “Okay.”
After about ten minutes, despite her own advice, Rebecca can't stand it anymore. "I'm going in."
"You want me to come?" Ted offers.
"No. Stay with Henry." She squeezes his hand briefly. "I'll be back in a bit."
Rebecca walks slowly down the hallway, pausing outside the office door. It's closed but not locked. She knocks softly.
"Scarlett? Can I come in?" She inhales softly, steadying herself. Her chest feels tight, but she reminds herself to be calm.
There's a pause before Scarlett replies. "Yeah."
Rebecca opens the door to find Scarlett sitting at the desk by the window, sketchpad open in front of her. But she's not drawing. She's just staring at the portrait, charcoal pencil held loosely in her fingers.
She glances at the charcoal smudges on Scarlett’s fingers and face and can’t help herself. She wipes a thumb gently over a smudge on her cheek.
“Looks like the charcoal fought back a little,” she says softly, with the tiniest smile.
Scarlett lets out a breath, and shifts her fingers slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“What do you need, love?”
"I don't know what I need." Scarlett turns to face her more fully. Rebecca thought she might have been crying, but her face is dry, eyes clear.
"She's been dead to me for so long anyway. This shouldn't matter. So I’m not sure why it feels weird."
"Because it's final now," Rebecca says quietly. "Before, there was always a possibility, however small. Now there isn't."
"A possibility of what? Of her suddenly becoming a decent person? Leaving him? Caring that I existed?" Scarlett shakes her head. "None of that was ever going to happen. And I…I don’t even know if I wanted it to."
She turns back to the desk and pulls her sketchpad toward her. "I should finish this. The portfolio deadline is next week."
"Scarlett."
"I'm fine." She picks up the charcoal, hand steady now. "Really. It's just...it is what it is."
The portrait she returns to is the same one she's been working on for days – a woman's face, features carefully rendered but also distant. Rebecca realizes with a jolt that it might be Scarlett's mother, though she's never asked.
Rebecca moves closer, resting a hand on Scarlett's shoulder. "You don't have to be fine right now. And you don't have to work on your portfolio."
"What else am I supposed to do?" Scarlett's voice is still flat, but there's a thread of helplessness underneath. "Sit around and... what? Mourn someone I haven't spoken to in over two years? Someone who never cared that I left?"
"You could just...be," Rebecca says softly. "You could come downstairs and let Henry tell us the rest of his story. You could sit in the garden. You could take a bath. You could do absolutely nothing."
Scarlett sets the charcoal down, staring at the portrait. "Is this her?" Rebecca asks gently, gesturing at the drawing. “I just realized I never asked you.”
Scarlett doesn’t answer right away, but tilts her head.
"I don't know. Maybe. I started it weeks ago and I can't remember what I was thinking." She touches the edge of the paper. "Doesn't really look like her anyway. Or maybe it does and I just don't remember her face properly anymore. It's not like we had any pictures together for me to look at."
Rebecca's throat tightens. She pulls up the chair from beside the desk and sits down next to Scarlett. "You don't have to figure it all out today."
"When then?"
"Whenever you're ready. Or never. There's no timeline for this."
Scarlett finally looks at her, and for the first time since the phone call, there's something other than blankness in her eyes. Something raw and confused and young.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Rebecca."
"I know, love. I know."
They sit there in the quiet office, and for a long moment neither of them speaks. The unfinished portrait stares up at them from the desk while Scarlett lets Rebecca watch over her.
______________________
The rest of Sunday passes in a quiet, muted way. Scarlett eventually comes back to the kitchen and accepts a plate of pancakes, but never does more than pick at them, and ultimately ends up on the sofa with her sketchpad.
Henry walks into the living room and stops at the end of the sofa.
“Are you drawing,” he asks, then adds, “or just…staring at stuff again?”
Scarlett lets out a quiet laugh. “Bit of both.”
He gestures to the cushion beside her. “Is it okay if I sit here?”
She shifts her legs to make room. “Yeah. Always.”
“Cool.” He drops down, careful not to jostle her, then immediately leans back. He glances at her sketchpad. “That for your portfolio thing?”
“Yeah.”
“Looks hard.”
“It is, sometimes. But I like doing it.”
He nods, satisfied with that answer, and goes quiet. After a moment of her staring, her sketchpad starts to slide off her knee. Henry catches the edge and nudges it back toward her without comment.
Scarlett looks over at him then and something soft crosses her face. She bumps his knee lightly with hers, an easy, familiar touch.
Henry grins, small and quick, then looks back at nothing in particular.
From the kitchen doorway, Rebecca pauses without meaning to on her way to make tea. She watches Scarlett lean just slightly into Henry’s space, sees the small knee bump and the faint smile that follows.
The tightness in her chest eases — not completely, but enough that she tells herself she doesn’t need to worry yet.
___________
Ted and Henry eventually leave around in the early afternoon so Henry can prepare for the school week.Ted squeezes Scarlett's shoulder.
“Bye kiddo, see you tomorrow.”
Rebecca watches the exchange with a soft smile. Ted presses a kiss to Rebecca's temple before heading out.
"Call if you need anything."
“I will.”
After they're gone, the house feels too quiet. Rebecca tries to work on some paperwork at the kitchen table to keep things somewhat normal, but she keeps glancing over at Scarlett, who is still curled in the corner of the sofa, pencil moving mechanically across the page.
She wants to do something, say something, but every option feels wrong. Too much pressure, or not enough support. She doesn’t want to be intrusive, but doesn’t want Scarlett to think she’s forgotten her. She and Scarlett have navigated a lot of challenges: panic attacks, living together, confrontations with Keith, and balancing sharing their lives. But this strange numbness is uncharted territory.
By evening, Scarlett still has barely eaten anything despite Rebecca's careful offers of tea, snacks, and a proper dinner. She goes through the motions – showering, brushing her teeth, saying goodnight – but it's like watching someone on autopilot. She told Rebecca it’s not a big deal, but her brain and her body are clearly in disagreement.
Rebecca pauses in Scarlett’s door on her way to bed. She takes in the room in a way she doesn’t often let herself do. It’s a far cry from the spare room it once was. Pieces of Scarlett’s art leans against the walls, sketches taped up alongside postcards and art from her inspirations. Clothes drape over the chair, shoes are kicked off near the bed. The space bears the quiet, unmistakable mark of someone who isn’t just visiting, but lives here.
Rebecca’s chest tightens at the thought — at how far Scarlett has come, and how fragile she seems to feel again.
"I'm here if you need anything," she says quietly. "Even if that just means sitting with you."
"I know. Thanks." Scarlett's voice is small, tired. "Night, Rebecca."
"Goodnight, love."
Rebecca pulls the door mostly closed, leaving it cracked like she always does, and heads to her own room. But sleep doesn't come easily. She lies awake, listening to the house settle, wondering if Scarlett's actually sleeping or just lying there in the dark, trying to make sense of feelings she doesn't know how to name.
____________
Rebecca finds Scarlett in the kitchen Monday morning like usual. Messy bun in place, dressed for school, standing at the counter making herself a cup of tea.
“Morning,” Rebecca says carefully.
“Morning.” Scarlett doesn’t look up as she fiddles with the mug.
“You’re going in today?”
“Yeah.” She pours the hot water. “I’ve got a presentation first thing. Can’t really miss it.”
Scarlett reaches for a second mug, pouring water for tea to steep.
Rebecca watches her for a moment, weighing her words. “You could take the day off, you know. I’m sure the school would understand.”
Scarlett finally glances over, sliding the mug across the counter toward Rebecca, her expression neutral. “Why? My mother dying doesn’t affect my ability to sit in a classroom. And I’d rather be busy than sitting around here.”
“Alright.” Rebecca doesn’t push. “But if you change your mind –”
“I won’t.” Scarlett snaps the lid onto her travel mug. “I’ll be fine.”
The word fine again. Rebecca’s starting to hate it.
“Scarlett,” she begins, then pauses, unsure how to phrase what she wants to say. “About the funeral. If you want to know the details – when it is, where – I could make some calls. Quietly. You wouldn’t have to contact Keith directly.”
Scarlett’s hand stills around the mug. For a moment she just stares down at the tea.
“You would do that?”
“Of course.” Rebecca steps closer. “You should have the information. What you do with it is entirely up to you, but you deserve to know.”
Scarlett nods slowly, still not looking at her. “Okay. Yeah. That would…thank you.”
“I’ll reach out to a few contacts today. See what I can find out.” Rebecca hesitates, then adds gently, “There’s no pressure to go, love. Or to do anything at all. I just want you to have the choice.”
“I know.” Scarlett finally meets her eyes, and there’s something grateful there beneath the careful blankness. “I appreciate it. Really.”
She checks her phone. “I need to go or I’ll be late.”
“Text me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Scarlett grabs her bag, then pauses at the door. “Rebecca?”
“Yes?”
“Is it…would it be bad? If I didn't go? To the funeral.”
Rebecca’s throat tightens at the innocence on Scarlett's face.
“Not even a little bit. This is entirely your decision, and whatever you choose is okay.”
Scarlett nods. “Okay.”
And then she’s gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Rebecca alone in the kitchen. She pulls out her phone and stares at it for a moment. She has contacts – solicitors, police liaisons from the restraining order process, people who owe her favors. Finding out funeral details shouldn’t be difficult.
She doesn’t actually want to do this. She’d much rather let Scarlett stay in the safe bubble of not knowing. Not having to make such a heavy decision - another heavy decision - at such a young age.
But no. Scarlett deserves agency. She deserves to make her own choices, even difficult ones.
So Rebecca starts making the calls.
__________________
Scarlett makes it through her presentation on autopilot. She knows she spoke, knows she hit all the required points about Impressionist techniques, but couldn't recall a single word she said if asked. Her teacher gave her a satisfied nod, which means it must have been fine.
Lunch is the usual chaos. Scarlett goes through the motions of grabbing a sandwich, some crisps, an apple, and sits at her usual table with Ava and a few others from their art class.
She unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite but it doesn't taste like anything.
She takes another bite anyway, because that's what you do at lunch. You eat. But she's not really hungry, and she's not really tasting it either. It's just... something to do with her hands.
"- and then he said the perspective was 'emotionally inconsistent,' whatever that means," Ava is saying, gesturing with a chip. "Like, mate, it's a still life of fruit. What emotion are you looking for?"
Someone laughs. Scarlett thinks she managed a smile. She picks at the crisps, eating them one by one without really registering the flavor.
"Scarlett?" Ava nudges her. "You in there?"
"Yeah, sorry." Scarlett blinks, refocusing. "What?"
"I asked if you're going to the exhibition opening on Saturday. The one at the borough gallery?"
"Oh. Um." Scarlett looks down at her sandwich. She's eaten maybe half of it. The rest sits there, bread slightly soggy from the tomatoes. "Maybe. I'll have to check."
"You should come. You've been talking about Natalia’s work since summer.”
"Yeah. Maybe."
Scarlett wraps up the rest of her sandwich, telling herself she'll finish it later even though she knows she won't. The apple goes back in her bag, untouched. She's eaten enough.
When lunch is over she dumps the remainder in the bin.
________________
Instead of heading to the library like she usually would for her free period, her feet carry her to the art studio. It's mostly empty – just a few younger students working in the far corner.
Scarlett drops her bag by one of the easels and stares at the blank canvas in front of her. Her portfolio pieces are all planned, clean portraits and still lifes rendered in charcoal and watercolor, every line deliberate. But she doesn't feel like using her usual materials today.
Instead, she grabs acrylic paint. Black, first. A deep red. Then gray.
She doesn't sketch or plan first. She just starts painting, moving her brush in harsh, aggressive strokes across the canvas. The colors start to bleed together, dark and murky. There's no form to it, no composition. Just a lot of movement and mess. She doesn’t even really like it, but she keeps painting.
"Scarlett?"
She doesn't stop painting. "Yeah?"
Mrs. Chen, one of her art teachers, comes to stand beside her easel. She's quiet for a moment, taking in the canvas, likely noticing its difference from Scarlett's usual meticulous work.
"This is quite new for you," Mrs. Chen says carefully. "Abstract expressionism?"
"I don't really know what it is." Scarlett's brush drags another line of black across the canvas. "Just felt a bit like doing something different."
"It's quite visceral. Very moving." She pauses, clearly wanting to say more. "Is everything alright?"
"Fine." The word comes out automatically. "Just experimenting."
Mrs. Chen nods slowly. She's clearly not convinced – Scarlett can tell from the way she's still watching – but she doesn't push. "Well, experimentation is important. And art can be very therapeutic. Just remember, your portfolio deadline."
"Is next week. I know." Scarlett dips her brush back into the black. "I think I’ve got that done. This isn't for the portfolio."
"Alright then." Mrs. Chen lingers for another moment before moving to check on the other students.
Scarlett keeps painting. The canvas is getting darker, muddier. She's layering colors without letting them dry properly, and they're all bleeding into each other. It's ugly. Messy. It's all wrong, but she doesn't stop.
By the time the bell rings, her hands are covered in paint – the black and red are smeared across her palms and under her fingernails. The canvas looks like nothing and everything at once. She can't tell if she's made something meaningful or just created a mess.
She steps back, staring at it. Then, without really thinking about it, she picks up the palette knife and scrapes a harsh line through the center of it all.
"Scarlett?" Ava appears at her elbow, bag slung over one shoulder. "You coming? We've got Literature."
Scarlett blinks, coming back to herself. "Yeah. Sorry."
She places a tag on the easel so no one touches it, and starts to clean up quickly, wiping her hands on a paint-stained rag, but the colors don't come off easily. She can feel Ava watching her, eyes flitting between Scarlett and the painting on the easel.
“This is…different from your other stuff.”
“Just trying something new.”
"Are you okay? You've been kind of quiet today, and you weren’t in the library."
"I'm fine." Scarlett caps the paint tubes, not looking at her. "Just tired, but thanks."
"Right." Ava doesn't sound convinced, but she doesn't push either. "Well, come on. You know Mr. Patterson gets pissy when people are late."
They leave the art room together, and Scarlett doesn't look back at the canvas she's left drying on the easel. She's not sure she wants to see it again.
In class she sits in her usual spot by the window and opens her notebook. Mr. Patterson is talking about thematic symbolism in their current novel, but Scarlett doesn’t really hear any of it.
She finds herself doodling in the margins instead – harsh, scratchy lines that don't form into anything recognizable. Just marks on paper.
Ava passes her a note. Seriously, you ok?
Scarlett writes back. Yeah, just an off day
It's not entirely a lie. It is an off day. Just probably not in the way Ava thinks.
When the final bell rings, Scarlett packs up slowly while Ava waits for her by the door.
"You want to grab coffee or something? Maya's working at the café until six."
"Can't." Scarlett shoulders her bag. "I have to get home."
"Alright." Ava studies her face for a moment. "But hey, if you want to talk or whatever... you know where to find me."
"Yeah. Thanks."
Scarlett splits off from Ava to head home, and notices her hands are still stained with the paint that wouldn't quite come off. The colors have seeped into the creases of her palms, dark lines that look almost like they're supposed to be there.
________________
Scarlett is at the kitchen counter when the front door opens, books spread out in front of her but untouched for long enough that the page numbers haven’t changed. A glass of water sits next to her.
“Hi, love.”
Rebecca’s voice comes first, then the sound of keys hitting the bowl by the door. She pauses when she sees Scarlett, eyes flicking from the open notebook to the faint smudges still staining her fingers.
“Hey.”
Rebecca nods, already moving toward the kitchen. She fills a pot with water, sets it on the stove.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
There it is again.
Rebecca glances over, and notices Scarlett rubbing at her thumb, a faint trace of red still there. “Art class?”
“I went to the studio during my free period.” Scarlett closes her book. “Just messed around.”
Rebecca nods. “I thought I might find Ava here when I got home. I know you two have been talking through portfolios.”
“She was going to get a coffee. I just wanted to come home.”
“That’s alright.”
Rebecca turns the heat on under the pot. “Have you eaten anything since lunch?”
Scarlett hesitates a bit. “Not really.”
“Alright,” Rebecca says, easy. “I was just going to make some pasta.”
“I’m not really hungry yet.”
“Well it will be here when you’re ready.”
Scarlett nods.
“Did you hear anything back about the funeral?” Scarlett asks, eyes fixed on the table.
Rebecca turns, resting her hip against the counter. “I did. It’s on Friday. A funeral home in Twickenham. No church service”
Friday. Four days away.
“Okay.” Scarlett swallows. “Thanks.”
“You don’t have to decide yet,” Rebecca says gently. “ I just wanted you to have the information.”
“Kay.” Scarlett gathers her books. “I’m going to my room to finish this.”
“Alright, love.”
Upstairs, Scarlett drops everything on her desk before her phone buzzes with a text from Ava.
I dunno what’s going on but I can listen if you need to talk.
Or just hang. xx
Thanks. Just a bad day.
See you tomorrow.
Scarlett stares at the message for a moment, guilt about lying settles in her chest and she decides to send her another message.
I’ll fill you in tomorrow, promise.
She sets the phone face down and lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
________
Rebecca takes out the rest of the dinner ingredients as she thinks about Scarlett. She is tempted to text Ted, to talk through her worries, but she's not sure what she'd even say.
She knows she needs to give Scarlett space. But she's also worried that the space will feel like neglect or abandonment, and the line between the two feels impossibly thin right now.
Her phone buzzes. It’s Ted, as if summoned by her thoughts.
How's she doin’?
I'm not sure. She's holding it together, but I can't tell if that's healthy or if she's just... not processing any of it.
I know you’re keepin’ an eye on her. She’s been through a lot but this is something totally new.
As best I can without hovering. I’m worried about pressuring her, but also that I’m giving her too much space alone.
Rebecca pauses, and hesitates before continuing. Not wanting to betray Scarlett’s confidence, but she needs to know if her worry is valid.
She's barely eating. Not refusing, just...going through the motions. A few bites here and there.
How bad? She never really ate those pancakes yesterday.
She only took a tea with her this morning. And she said she ate at school but I don't think she's telling me the whole truth.
I know it's only been a day and a half, but I'm concerned. She said she’s not hungry for dinner and she usually is so excited about meals.
Just keep watchin’ I think. I’m sure I wasn’t doin’ much of anything healthy after my dad died.
Me neither. I drank myself into a stupor and had a meltdown.
So I'm trying to figure out when concern becomes intervention.
You'll know. Your instincts with her are good.
I hope so.
Want me to come over? Bring Henry? Might help to have some noise in the house.
Maybe tomorrow? Let me see how tonight goes.
Alright. Call if you need anything. I mean it.
I will. Thank you. 💜
Rebecca thinks about the paint she saw on Scarlett's hands earlier. Black and red and gray, nothing of her usual charcoal or bright watercolors.
She picks up her phone and searches "grief in teenagers." The articles are full of warning signs: withdrawal, changes in eating or sleeping patterns, loss of interest in usual activities, difficulty concentrating.
Scarlett is ticking boxes Rebecca doesn't want her to be ticking.
But it's also only been two days. Is it normal? Is it concerning? Where's the line?
Rebecca sets the phone down. She can't parent from a Google search.
She hears Scarlett's door open upstairs, and then footsteps on the stairs before Scarlett joins her in the kitchen.
“Do you need help with dinner?”
Her voice is small, quiet.
Rebecca nearly says no out of instinct, wanting to let Scarlett rest. But then she catches herself. Maybe helping is better than sitting alone upstairs. Maybe Scarlett needs something to do with her hands.
"Sure," Rebecca says. "Chop the vegetables?"
Scarlett nods and moves to the cutting board, washing her hands first. Rebecca notices she scrubs them longer than necessary, even though the paint is already gone.
They work in silence for a few minutes. And the discomfort in it almost makes Rebecca nervous.
"Did your presentation go alright?" Rebecca asks, keeping her tone light.
"Yeah. Fine." Scarlett's knife moves steadily through a pepper. "I got through it."
"I'm sure you did more than just get through it."
"Maybe." Scarlett's voice is flat. "I don't really remember it, to be honest. I just...went on autopilot."
Rebecca glances over. "That happens sometimes. Especially when you're stressed."
"I guess."
More silence. Rebecca adds pasta to the boiling water, watching it swirl.
They finish cooking together in near silence. When the pasta is ready, Rebecca plates a portion for Scarlett, though she already knows most of it will go uneaten.
They sit at the kitchen table. Rebecca takes a bite. Scarlett twirls pasta around her fork but doesn't lift it to her mouth right away.
"It's quite good," Rebecca offers.
"Yeah." Scarlett finally takes a small bite. Chews. Swallows. Sets her fork down. Picks it up again. Another bite.
Rebecca watches without watching, trying not to make it obvious. Scarlett manages maybe a third of her plate before pushing it away slightly.
"I'm full," she says. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." Rebecca keeps her voice neutral even though her chest tightens. "You ate plenty."
She didn't. They both know she didn't. But Rebecca doesn't push.
After dinner, Scarlett helps with dishes, then drifts back upstairs.
Rebecca texts Ted again.
She ate a bit at dinner. Maybe five or six bites. She said she was full.
How's she seem otherwise?
Detached. But, she offered her help with dinner, and the dishes.
Well, that’s a bit of normal, at least.
Just keep an eye on her, baby. I will, too.
Rebecca sets the phone down and goes to clean up the rest of the kitchen. As she's putting away the leftover pasta, she makes a mental note. If it's still like this by Wednesday, she'll say something. Gently, but firmly.
For now, she decides to watch and wait. And hope she can tell the difference between giving Scarlett space and letting her slip through the cracks.
Twenty minutes later, there's a soft knock at the door. Rebecca opens it to find Ted on her doorstep, two paper bags in hand.
“Ted?”
“Hi, baby.”
"We said tomorrow," she says, but she's already stepping aside to let him in as he drops a kiss to her cheek.
"Changed my mind. Felt like you could do with some lovin’." He sets the bags on the counter. "Plus, I’m thinkin’ you probably didn’t eat much either if you were worried about Scarlett."
“But Henry…”
“Beard’s hangin’ out at my place with him for a bit.”
Rebecca's throat tightens. "You didn't have to."
"I know." He pulls her into a brief hug, pressing a kiss to her temple. "But I wanted to. How is she?"
"She’s…quiet. Definitely not herself at all." Rebecca leans into him for just a moment. "I don't know what I'm doing, Ted."
"Yeah, you do." His voice is gentle but certain. "You're bein’ exactly what she needs. Just keep showin’ up. And you’re gonna look out for her, and be here whenever she figures out what she needs."
They eat at the island, trying to keep their voices low so as not to disturb Scarlett. He just sits with her in the quiet and somehow that's exactly what Rebecca needs.
When he leaves an hour later, Rebecca feels a bit steadier.