Chapter Text
Runner's high isn't even real.
Well, okay, it is—but not during the run. During the run, it's blood in the throat, calves tight and crampy, and god forbid your AirPods run out of battery like today.
The sound of your trainers hitting the track is the only thing keeping you company as you finish out the last hundred meters of the race.
One, two.
One, two.
One, two.
At least the day was beautiful—sunshine and a cool breeze carrying you through that last stretch of rubber track. Sweat dappled your forehead, your lungs heaved, and your legs burned despite the smile on your face.
The meet was going well. You'd only been in one other event so far since your coach had already given you shit for trying to compete after your marathon last week. It wasn't even a real marathon— but a charity 5k for Alzheimer's. Ones you'd ran all the time with sponsor banners lining the path and volunteers spraying water at every corner, and purple ribbons given out to every participant who completed them.
Still, your legs hadn't forgiven you yet. They felt a little like jello now as you passed the finish line—first place, not that you even cared to check. This part was always your favorite anyway, the slow down after, the euphoric flush of endorphins through the bloodstream. The feeling of your lungs finally getting a full breath of air, head a little fuzzy as you smiled dreamily.
At least, that's what Pope imagined it felt like as he watched you from the bleachers.
He kicked himself for not checking to see if your Airpod case was plugged in when he visited your house late last night, unbeknownst to you. Sometimes he'd find you fast asleep with your phone still in your hand, headphones in, and he'd gently take your things and plug them in for you so you'd be set for the morning. He even filled your water bottle last night—five ice cubes from the freezer, just how you liked it.
When he'd gotten to your meet today, he'd heard your coach giving you a hard time while your pretty frame was bent in half, stretching your hamstrings. Your hair fell over your face as you looked up incredulously at the pair of Ray Bans and Lululemon wind breaker, your coach looking just as pretentious as always when he told you that you'd only be competing in two events today.
If Pope cared any less about your well being, he could've punched the guy for you. But alas, he cared more about those pretty legs to let you have this one.
He wondered, briefly, what you would do if he did it anyway. If you'd finally become aware of him in the way he was aware of you. What would you do if he walked up to Coach Garner and punched him bloody right there on the turf for talking down to you like that?
He let the scene play out in his head while he watched your sweat slick chest heave with each renewed breath, head tilted back as you took long swigs of Gatorade.
Pope's jaw twitched when he saw where you were headed as you walked off the track. J was there waiting for you. He smiled wide as he held up his hand for a high five, the two of you chatting away. Pope hardly realized how hard he was clenching his fists as his nephew's eyes wandered over your damp sports bra, the shine of your stomach and the tiny little shorts you wore.
But he told himself to be good—he was just supposed to watch. And he did. He watched you smile even bigger at his nephew, wishing, more than anything, that you'd smile at him too.
You had, once.
He couldn't help himself. All this watching—waiting around for the right moment. Pope had followed you through the mall one afternoon a few months ago while you wandered around with a couple friends, your little group weaving in and out of stores while he trailed behind far enough not to be noticed. He'd watched as your fingertips trailed over little displays of makeup and clothes, picking up things to admire only to check the price tag and put them right back on the racks. He remembered the tight feeling in his chest every time you did it. Told himself one day he'd buy you the entire fucking store of clothes. One day.
Your friends had stopped inside one of those overpriced boho shops, the kind with cream colored walls and dried flowers hanging from the ceiling, racks stuffed with soft little dresses and distressed things that probably cost more than they were worth. Pope had walked in after you before he could really think better of it, pretending to look through a table of folded sweaters while he watched you move through the store.
He started grabbing things—not even thinking, just whatever he thought would look pretty on you. He carried them around while he followed a few aisles behind.
With all his courage, he planned it so he was passing right by you when you turned away from a stand with plastic jewelry, making him spill the contents of his arms onto the floor in front of you. Jesus Christ, he’d never been that nervous in his life. Not robbing banks. Not carrying guns. Not kicking in doors.
"Oh, I'm so sorry—" you gasped, crouching down to help him pick everything up. When you handed them over, a little smile pulled your lips, a mischievous glint in your eye, "Are…all these for you?"
He'd been so flabbergasted that you were looking at him— looking in his eyes— and talking to him after all this time. He remembered just staring at you for a whole moment while you held the bralette up between two fingers, smiling all amused.
He'd made up something up about his wife being in the dressing room, waiting for her, something like that. But you'd just laughed again, warm and so sweet, piling the clothes back into his arms while he stood there holding lace and satin like an idiot, heart pounding so hard in his chest you'd probably been able to see it through his shirt.
"Lucky lady," you had said, laying the little lace thing on the top of the pile in his arms. Your voice had a lilt to it that stayed in his head for weeks after.
Lucky.
You'd thought anyone who would be with him would be…lucky.
Now, Pope watched from his spot on the bleachers while J walked beside you off the track field, the afternoon sun baking the pavement as you swung your backpack onto your shoulder. His nephew reached for it automatically and you let him take it, smiling at something he said before climbing onto the back of his bike.
His nephew was doing his due diligence, Pope would give him that.
And If all went to plan, you'd be at Smurf's tonight. Your first taste of his family, of his life. He wasn't sure how you would be with them, if you'd like them or hate them. Maybe both like he did.
He found himself picturing it all in his mind's eye, worry making him gnaw on his lip. You, at Smurf's long glass table beside the pool as she brought out heaps of homemade food like a normal mother with nothing to hide. She'd smile and call you baby and sweetheart, probably pour you a drink or four while asking questions in that gentle voice of hers that made people answer without realizing how much they were giving away. She’d ask about school first probably, then running next. Your family too. Smurf always knew exactly how to get there without making it feel like the interrogation it was.
He wondered if you'd fall for it, or if you'd be different from the rest.
His gaze dropped to his hands resting atop his knees for a second before lifting his eyes back towards your disappearing figure.
Would you be nervous around him too? Just like everyone else?
Eventually, when you’d completely disappeared from sight, Pope got up from the bleachers and made his way down the metal stairs, hands sliding into his pockets as he crossed the track parking lot. He barely noticed the rest of the events, the sound of feet hitting track and whistles blowing and the announcers calling next races. He could hear it all the way until he was across the pavement and climbing into his Jeep. He sat there for a second after shutting the door, watching the empty gate you’d disappeared through before finally pulling out onto the road.
The house he pulled up to half an hour later was small, a little run down and just a few blocks off from the beach. Yellow paint was peeling off the siding, the mailbox beginning to rust from the salt air. The flowers in the window boxes had begun to curl brown at the edges from lack of water, dirt dry and cracked beneath them. Wind pushed the storm door lightly against the frame over and over again with a hollow metallic creak while Pope sat in the driveway watching the front window.
He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, just waiting.
And then, just on time—three o clock on the dot —the door opened.
A woman in blue scrubs stepped out backwards first, still talking into the house before she turned around fully. Tired looking thing, mid forties maybe. There was a wet stain darkening the top of her scrub top near her clavicle, and her hair had started slipping loose from its clip at the base of her neck. She locked the door behind her, rubbing hard at one eye with the heel of her palm before heading down the porch steps. He watched her let out a long, heavy sigh as she walked out the front gate, weeds overcrowding the walkway as she made her way to her car, and pulled away.
Pope waited another minute before getting out.
The gate groaned softly when he pushed it open. He glanced once up and down the street out of habit before climbing the porch steps and pulling a key from his pocket. Inside, the house smelled faintly of cleaning supplies, of microwaved lunch and powdery sweetness from some old perfume on the furniture. There was the distinct smell of mothballs under it all, something that made Pope's nose scrunch.
“Good afternoon, young lady,” he called as he walked into the living room.
A small woman stood near the side window peering out toward the yard, one hand curled around the curtain. She was so frail and half his size, with tiny shoulders beneath a pale cardigan despite the heat outside. Her hair was soft and wispy like cotton around her face despite the fact she couldn't be older than 65.
When she turned and saw him, her entire face brightened after a deep scowl she'd been holding.
“Oh,” she breathed, smiling immediately. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”
Pope gave her a warm smile as she shuffled toward him carefully across the old wood floors, slippers dragging slightly against the it. He stepped forward automatically and wrapped an arm around her shoulders before she lost balance leaning up to kiss his cheek.
“You’re late,” she scolded gently, though the words blurred a little together. “I kept waiting and waiting. Our baby’s gonna be home soon and I haven’t even started dinner yet.”
Pope’s hand rubbed slowly against her shoulder blade.
“It’s alright,” he murmured. “She’s probably out with her friends.”
“She’s thirteen,” the woman said with sudden seriousness, pulling back just enough to look up at him. The smell of powder wafted up to him with her gaze. “Thirteen-year-old girls should not be out running around by themselves after dark. You know how girls are.”
Pope nodded easily like the conversation made perfect sense. “You’re right.”
She seemed satisfied by that immediately.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked gently, steering her slowly toward the couch. “You makin' that pot roast?”
Her face brightened again. “Your favorite.”
“Mm.” Pope glanced toward the kitchen where take out containers littered the counter. “Sounds good.”
Then, as he helped her down onto the couch, he asked carefully: “Did you take your medicine today?”
The woman rolled her eyes instantly. “You sound just like Everly.”
Pope smiled faintly. “Did you spit at her again?”
“She keeps bossing me around in my own house,” she grumbled, settling onto the couch cushions with visible relief once she sat down. “Telling me to rest. Like I don’t have things to do.”
Her eyes drifted toward the side window again. “The birds of paradise need trimming before summer comes.”
Pope followed her gaze automatically. The plants along the fence had overgrown wildly, bent sideways through broken slats of white fencing.
“I can take care of that,” he said.
She looked back at him, studying his face for a long moment in a way that made something tighten faintly in his chest.
He wondered if she'd seen him. The real him.
“You always know how to get your way,” she said finally, reaching out to pat his hand where it rested on her arm. “You have for nearly fifty years now.”
Pope lowered his eyes a little, smiling crookedly to himself as he reached for the orange prescription bottle sitting untouched on the side table.
“Only because I know you so well, sweetheart.”
You
It felt like you've always been waiting for something to happen.
No, not like…waiting for the other shoe to drop. The first shoe hadn't even fallen yet. It hadn't been dangled in front of your face like a warning, or like a carrot to chase, or like…anything.
It was why you often told your friends you couldn't hang out, why you couldn't join for study groups or go out for a cocktail. Because what if you were out of the house when someone came knocking on your door, telling you you'd somehow been chosen by a long lost aunt's dying breath to inherit her handsome pension? Or what if your soulmate pulled up on your street needing jumper cables and you weren't there? Or your biological father hadn't actually left you, but turned out to be Bruce Springsteen and showed up with a lawyer and a guitar and twenty-three years of backpaid child support? Things happened to people every day. Randomly. Constantly. You just had to be available enough for it to happen to you too.
And the thought of it all happening while you were busy drinking shitty margaritas at Chili's with Madison from work?
Absolutely not.
But it's also why you might've said yes too many times too.
Yes to volunteering at the SPCA when you were sick with the flu, because those dogs needed you, because what if you weren't there and no one else showed up — or your soulmate showed up there to adopt a cute little kitten and your life changed forever? You'd even once said yes to a front desk job at a sports clinic because the owner was the son of Carl Lewis' old college roommate, and even though that was probably the dumbest chain of connections you'd ever willingly participated in, six degrees from Kevin Bacon had to work eventually, right?
So that was probably why you'd said yes to joining J tonight for his family dinner.
You were a couple years older than J, thanks to your gap years working your ass off at said receptionist job in Ventura before coming back to Oceanside. That was before everything had really started going downhill at home, before you were tied like a buoy to that old house and the memories it held. And the ones it had lost. Those years felt lost to a job with no real future, no real connections, just waiting for the thing to happen and catapult you into your future. But all it did was force you back home with your tail between your legs, digging through scholarship sites at two in the morning looking for any school willing to take an average high school GPA and a few track medals seriously.
You felt lucky enough to find UC Oceanside—close enough to home, but just far enough that your life didn't feel completely stalled out.
You and J had hit it off in your first bio class, the lab somehow seating the only two seemingly competent people in the room next to each other. Everybody else either seemed terrified of the idea of frog dissections that they were hardly ever there, or deeply committed to skating by for a passing 'D'. By the fourth long, suffering look the two of you exchanged while the TA explained how to use a microscope for what felt like the hundredth time, you’d sort of just stuck together after that.
He was quiet in sort of way that didn't feel awkward. Most people made you feel like you had to perform around them, fill every lull of quiet, pretend to be interesting. J just listened. Sometimes he'd look over at you with this small, entertained twitch at the corner of his mouth and that was enough to know he didn't completely hate having you as his lab partner either. Soon enough he was opening up little by little, stories about his family between classes, about his uncles, his grandmother, life at the house, and you were telling him about your mom and your dreams of a future.
So when he'd come up to you after the meet today, your face still sweaty from the track as he took your backpack over his shoulder while telling you his grandma wanted to meet you—you'd said yes.
Because well…what if?
“So,” his grandmother, still called Smurf from some long-forgotten childhood story, carried on, “J says so many nice things about you.”
You glanced at him, a faint blush over his tanned cheeks as he hid his grin.
Around the table sat all his uncles, Smurf's sons. Baz lounged across from her at the opposite end, one arm slung over the back of his chair like this was his place, not the matriarch's. He was handsome in an easy way, quick to smile and steady with his eye contact. There was something slick underneath it, though. Not in a way you could quite place. But beneath the smiles and the ease in which he chose his words, you felt like he was already ten steps ahead of a plan you didn't know.
Next to him sat Deran, long sandy hair pushed back off his forehead, knee bouncing under the table, making the drinks ripple every now and then. He looked permanently stuck between telling somebody to go fuck themselves or cracking a joke at his brothers' expense. You could tell it was all in good humor when the corners of his mouth twitched like he'd never admit how often they made him laugh.
Craig sat across from you, broad shoulders still pink from surfing earlier, wafts of ocean air and weed filling your nose every time he leaned across the table to steal something off Deran's plate. He was definitely high, or drunk, or both. But at least he was a happy drunk.
"You're seriously majoring in biology?" he asked, ignoring Smurf's suggesting comment, staring at you like you'd told him you worked for NASA. "That's hot."
There was scuffle beneath the table, and you only just made out Deran kicking his brother in the shin.
"Ow. What the hell, man?"
"Stop hitting on her."
Craig shrugged, entirely unashamed. "What? Girls like compliments, dumbass."
"And that's as close to saying 'I love you' to one another that they'll ever get." Baz groaned out a long sigh, reaching to the center of the table for another beer and popping it open.
When you looked at him, your eyes accidentally flickered over the fourth uncle.
Pope.
Though, you weren't entirely convinced that was his real name. He'd barely spoken to you all night. Even when you'd introduced yourself he'd already been halfway to the kitchen before you finished reaching out your hand, sliding through the back door while you were still saying your own name.
He was staring now. Or—not really staring. His eyes were pointed in your direction, somewhere around your lap, but unfocused. You knew that look, what it looked like when someone got caught inside their head on a thought loop. His curly dark hair looked soft to the touch, nose smattered in freckles, almost boyish if not for the sharpness of his cheekbones and the heaviness behind his eyes. The patio lights caught in them strangely, tiny gold reflections flickering in all that green and brown and blue that didn't soften him. If anything, it only made him look farther away.
Smurf leaned forward towards you again, bracelets clinking against her glass, "As I was saying, J talks about you a lot. Says you're just as smart as he is, but I think he was being humble."
You smiled at her. Perfectly tamed blonde hair that brushed over the light chiffon cardigan that covered her shoulders, a smile on her filled lips with a margarita held to them.
"Sounds like he was being very generous." you chuckled, taking a sip of your own drink to hide your smile.
You saw J shaking his head out of the corner of your eye, swallowing whatever bite he'd just taken of his last fish taco, wagging his finger in the air, "Don't listen to her. Top of the class, kicks my ass on every exam."
Your smile widened. "Okay, narc."
Smurf laughed, delighted. "See? A gentleman, my grandson."
And then she added: "He says you live with your mother?"
Before you could answer, Baz snorted into his beer. "Jesus Christ, let the girl finish her margarita before the interrogation starts, Smurf."
"It isn't an interrogation," Smurf said lightly. "I like getting to know my grandson's friends."
Craig barked out a laugh. "That's exactly what somebody says before they ask for your social security number."
Deran pointed his fork at him. "Didn't you give your social security number to a girl at a gas station once?"
"She said she was some business woman in Europe!"
"And then she took your Ducati."
Craig looked genuinely offended. "Okay, first off, she borrowed it."
The table broke into overlapping laughter, even J ducking his head with a grin, and some of the tightness left your shoulders.
Smurf smiled patiently through all of it, completely unworried by the chaos around her. "Ignore them. They're animals. Tell me about your family, sweetie."
"Oh, yeah, I uh—I live with my mom." you said slowly. You looked down at your drink. "She's great, she um, teaches at Oceanside Elementary."
Smurf's whole face softened. "Oh, I love that. Takes a special kind of patience to work with children."
You smiled, smaller this time. "Yeah. She's really good with them."
And when you looked up again, it was at Pope.
Who was staring at you directly for the first time all night. You felt a shiver across your spine, and it wasn't from the overcast breeze of the ocean a few blocks away.
"Well," you cleared your throat, looking away from him quickly as you set down your empty glass, "this was really nice. Thank you so much for having me."
"You're not staying, sweetheart?"
"What, like, the night?" you asked, a little amused.
Smurf only smiled at you like the answer should've been obvious.
You laughed, a little disbelieving. "Thank you but… I should probably get home—see how my mom's doing."
"Then come for breakfast tomorrow," Smurf said easily. "The boys'll all be here. J can take you to class after. I'm making waffles."
"I really appreciate it, but I have practice and—"
"Then lunch, come for lunch."
You slumped a little back into your chair, studying her. Your eyes drifted around the table after a second, trying to understand the strange shift in the air. Baz had an entertained glint in his eye as he looked down the table at his mother. Craig looked vaguely around too, like he wasn't sure why it'd gotten so quiet. But even Deran was watchful, eyes flicking between you and Smurf over the neck of his beer bottle. Pope sat motionless, watching his mother intently.
Finally, you looked back at Smurf with a smile.
"Lunch sounds great."
"Sorry about that," J said beside you as he walked you down toward the road, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. "She means well, she's just kinda...I dunno..."
"Intense?" you offered.
He let out a quiet laugh, looking down at the pavement. "Yeah. Intense is a good word for it."
"No worries. My mom was—" you caught yourself, stomach twisting a little, "is kinda like that too. I'm used to it."
The night air smelled faintly like salt and somebody's bonfire down the beach. Behind you, muffled through the open patio doors, you could still hear Craig laughing loud enough to carry down the block.
"I'm glad you came," J said after a second.
You smiled back at him. "Me too."
For a second neither of you said anything. Cars hissed past faintly somewhere farther down the boulevard, palm trees rustling overhead. J rocked once on the heels of his sneakers before glancing back toward the house.
Your phone buzzed in your hand. It was your Uber telling you it was two minutes away.
"Please don't tell Smurf you got an Uber. She'll smack me for not driving you home—"
"Oh please, it's fine, just tell her my mom picked me up."
He smiled at that, nodding. "Okay. Fine."
The quiet settled again after that, easy enough that neither of you rushed to fill it.
Then, after a moment, he added, "They liked you."
Headlights turned the corner at the entrance of the street, the blue Toyota slowing towards the curb.
You started walking toward it, looking back at him over your shoulder. "Your uncle literally walked away while I was telling him my name!"
A quick grin tugged at his mouth. "That's a good sign. He's a creep, anyway."
You laughed under your breath. "If you say so."
The Toyota rolled to a stop beside you, warm air spilling out when the driver rolled down the window and unlocked the doors.
"See you tomorrow," J said.
You leaned on the car door for a moment. "Tell Smurf I like PB&Js."
He barked out a laugh at that, nodding as you slid into the backseat, the door shutting between you both with a soft thunk.
The house was dark and quiet when you arrived, the only sound the storm door clicking weakly in the wind even after you shut it behind you. You'd get around to fixing it eventually. Probably.
Your sneakers thudded softly across the worn hardwood as you toed them off.
"Mom?" you called out, shrugging your bag off onto the armchair by the door.
No response.
You frowned a little, dropping your keys into the porcelain catch-all dish on the entry table, the clatter loud in the stillness. The living room smelled faintly like it had been cleaned, your eyes flickering to the kitchen where your take out boxes had been thrown away. She must've had a good day.
You reached over and flicked on the little lamp on the side table of the couch.
"Happy birthday, baby!"
Your breath caught in surprise, but then, you let it out in a tired sigh.
"Mom..."
She stood there smiling brightly, holding a little grocery store cupcake in both hands. One of those six-packs from Ralph's with yellow cake and the thick fake icing that left a film on the roof of your mouth. Rainbow sprinkles scattered over it, a crooked little candle burning on top, wax dripping slowly down into the white frosting.
"Mom, we talked about this—" you said, looking at the glow of the ember, wax beginning to melt onto the stark white icing. "No candles in the house—"
"My little baby," she said warmly, eyes glassy with excitement, "finally thirteen."
You smiled, letting her hold the cupcake in front of you, and you looked at her for a long moment. The deep crow's feet branching from the corners of her eyes were crinkled as she smiled up at you. Her sunspots were dark and scattered over her temple and forehead from decades of yoga on the beach and drives down PCH in her convertible with the top down. Her hair white and wispy and no longer its natural shade. She still smelled faintly like the same powdery perfume she loved.
That was all before the neurons in her brain started breaking down and she forgot what year it was or where she lived. Or the fact that you hadn't been thirteen years old in a very, very long time.
"Thanks, mama," you said softly, and blew out the candle.