July 13th: Atlanta, Georgia.

Marina stared at me, but I could do nothing but sob. My efforts to mumble the sound were counterintuitive. My face was buried in my lap, but instead of quieting myself I began choking every time I accidentally inhaled the fabric from my skirt.

“Clara?”

Her voice was quiet. I couldn’t answer her. My entire body trembled, shaking against my will. Breathe, I told myself, attempting to focus on the pattern.

In, two there four, out, five six seven eight.

Fuck, what was the point?

“Clara, please.”

A voice crack. I averted my swollen eyes, and by mere glance I could see Marina had begun crying herself.

“No, no,” I struggled to say. This was all wrong. Before I could get another word out, her hand was on my shoulder again, as if attempting to hold the broken pieces inside of me together. “Pl-please don’t-- pl-lease-e d-don’t cry…”

“You’re scaring me,” she whispered, her voice quiet. She didn’t want to tell me to stop. Bless Marina, always tactful. Still, I needed to get a grip.

“I don’t mean to be l-like this,” I mutter, wiping my nose and leaning forward to rest my head on the dashboard. “I’m s-sorry, I can’t s-stop.”

“No, don’t apologize,” she said quickly, hesitantly removing her hand. “I just...god, Clar, I don’t know what the hell to do.”

“Make it stop,” I offered with a weak smile. Marina attempted to grin in return. She couldn’t. No one could, apparently not even me. “I love him,” I finally managed. For the first time, the car was completely silent. It was Marina who spoke first.

“I know.”

“I fucking love him, Marina, and this-- I don’t understand. This happened in a week. How can I be in a happy fucking relationship nine days ago, and now b-be told tha-- be told that--”

Ah, the crying. Right on schedule. A migraine would surely soon follow. Violently rubbing my eyes, I looked towards the clock only to remember Marina’s ancient car’s display fritzed long ago. After another unhealthy bout of crying, I forced my head back up.

“What time is it?”

Silence. “Marina?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s okay.”

“Just...what time is it?”

“It’s close to six. About five minutes til.”

I sighed. It had been over four hours since I had asked the question, and a mere forty minutes since climbing into the car. I couldn’t delay much longer.

“Right. Take me back, would you?”

“Are you sure? We really don’t have to, you know--”

I interrupted her, for the first time not crying, though the sound that came out might have been more distressing.

“Please. I need to get it over with.”

Marina didn’t argue. We drove in silence for several minutes, and it was only as we neared our old high school that she asked,

“Have you told anyone?” I shook my head. She nodded. Silence, and Marina turned her head towards me again. “Is he there? Do you want me to help you pack?”

“He left to go watch the game with Brent and the guys.” I could see the disgust in her face, but instead of defending him I looked away. There wasn’t a point of it, at least not right now. “Yeah, I don’t really want to do it alone.”

“He’s a coward.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Clara, he’s a fucking coward, and he’s damn lucky he’s not there while I am.”

I wanted to smile but again failed to find the willpower. We fell quiet once again. I studied every store and monument we passed. If this was the last time I’d make this drive, I wanted to memorize everything. Ten minutes passed and we finally reached the townhome. All the cars but mine were gone. It was a rare site, to see the house that empty. I climbed out of the car, hiding my face from the neighbors as I scurried up to the door. Unlocked, as usual. I always hated he did that.

McCoy was waiting for me, his orange tail flicking against the staircase the moment the door opened. I picked him up out of habit, holding him to my chest as I felt the tears pooling in my eyes. Even the smell of this place. Why had I not memorized the little things?

Up the staircase, to the right, I opened our bedroom door. Stuff was still neatly scattered, preserved perfectly from the night before as if completely unaware of the destruction it witnessed. I held the cat tighter, and he dug at my arm hard enough that I was finally willing to let him go. Dropping him to the floor, I stood in the center of the room, staring at the bed.

Nine days. How the fuck had this all happened in nine days? My mind reeled over every turn of events, but there was nothing to analyze. He left eight days ago for Birmingham for his sister’s birthday. There wasn’t even time enough to fuck things up.

“Where should we start?”

I jumped, forgetting that I was not alone. I didn’t look around to her, my eyes unwilling to leave the bed.

“Uh, I guess get the closet. My things are all on the left side, and the top three drawers. Just use whatever bags you can find.”

A small suitcase, a backpack, and three reusable shopping bags later, I had packed the clothes I could. My tshirts and sweaters remained untouched by the war, still sitting in the bottom drawer. I’d have to come back for it eventually, seeing as I’d have to come back for the furniture and camera equipment. My car wouldn’t fit anything more than this.

McCoy had returned to my feet. Fuck, this was impossible. Still, I had managed not to cry. Perhaps there were no more tears left in me. It seemed entirely possible.

Tossing Marina my keys, I sat down at the computer. “Just take down the suitcase, and I can get everything else. I just need to do something real quick.”

I signed onto the desktop, and immediately I was greeted with his abandoned browser. Email, social media, pictures, all pulled up. My finger hovered over the mouse, but I shook my head, pulling up the word processor I had intended. I had already begged for hours. I wasn’t going to spy on his shit, too.

The blinking cursor mocked me. For once, I couldn’t find the words to say.

Ten minutes later, I felt Marina’s hand on my shoulder. I looked up, and she nodded. I stared back at her, and when neither of us spoke I stood up, grabbing the remaining bags and glancing at the screen.

“Let’s go.” My voice broke. I didn’t look back. McCoy continued to follow me, purring at my feet as I ran down the stairs. I didn’t turn around for a final look. There was no point. The thing I’d need to forget were the details I never could. Shutting the door, I locked it behind me out of spite. I thanked Marina for helping. She apologized for not doing more. I hugged her bye, much harder than before, and quietly clambered into my car.

It had been five hours and fifteen minutes. Now, to find a place to sleep.

This is not a love story.

I need to be very clear, more clear than anyone has ever been about anything.

This is not a story of how I fell in love.

This is not a story about the years I knew Jamie, nor the ten days it took me to fall in love with him. This isn’t about the times I went home to Marina and relieved every detail of the movements he made and the intonation of his voice as he sang to the shitty music we had constantly playing in that tiny break room . I’m not going to ramble about how alive I felt when I was with him, and how I somehow believed even for one moment that he illuminated something inside of me no one else could.

This is an apology, but certainly not to Jamie.

To be fair, I don’t know how this is going to end. Right now, I’m sitting on the floor of a train station in a strange city waiting to see where I’m heading next. I don’t know if we’ll ever speak again. I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely out of love with him. All I know is I’m not going to share about how I fell in love. Despite everything, that experience is something I will only share with him, and even though he’s a giant dick who will never realize he’s the failing factor in all of his relationships, I’m always going to love that man. That’s always been something I’ve hated about myself: once I love you, I’m yours. You won’t be able to give me back to me, for part of me will always belong to you.

Thank god I still have my heart to give.

I should thank him for being such an ass, because that’s the only thing that has allowed me to sit down and tell this story.

This is, however, certainly a story about love. I just didn’t realize until now who this was about.

There’s a train to Seattle in twenty minutes. Sounds like a start. I’ve always wanted to see the Olympic Mountains.

August 3rd: Atlanta, GA.

Three weeks after.

8:02 AM.

It never got easier.

I laid motionless in bed for several minutes, unwilling to put any effort in to start the day. My arms were clinging to my pillow desperately as if it would decide to get up and walk out at any moment. Must have been dreaming again. There was yet a night where I didn’t.

I have no idea how much longer I laid there, but finally I managed to sit up and force myself to stand up. I glanced around the room. Where was I again? It was Friday, at least it should be. Right, it was the weekend. Back at the hotel.

Everything was starting to blend together. Guess that’s what happens when you’re suddenly homeless. Not that it ever got to a point I couldn’t handle, thankfully. I had enough friends in the area that would let me stay whenever they could. Marina had been the most help; her mother even invited me to come home with her daughter so I had somewhere to stay. I was starting to feel like a charity case, but until I could afford a lease or figure out something, it was what I had to do.

Except now, with Marina’s boyfriend’s family coming in this weekend, I had to vacate. The Super 8 near the university was the cheapest, and now, here I was.

I walked into the bathroom, squinting my eyes at my reflection. My hair frizzed in a mass around my face, which in its own right did a fair job of hiding my puffy eyes. I glanced at the time. Didn’t have time for a shower. This would have to do.

I returned to my load of shopping bags and totes, sifting through the unkempt wad of clothes until I could find a fresh pair. Near the bottom of the second bag I found a hat and somehow managed to hide my hair. The room was silent. I was alone. I mindlessly got dressed for the day.

Times like now, I’d normally cry. Not today. Today was going to be a good day.

Please, just let it be a good day.

Before long I was out the door, messenger bag over shoulder and phone in hand. I had only taken three steps onto the balcony when my phone started ringing. I looked at the screen and my heart sank. Miller Darden. Not today. I couldn’t be running this late.

“I swear, I’m almost there.”

“You haven’t even started driving, have you?”

I hesitated, but there was no point. Still, the lie escaped my lips before I could fight it. “Uh, yeah. I’m just getting off I-75.”

Liam’s gruff voice sighed. “Right. I need you to work both broadcasts tonight. Kerry’s with Logan on the field, so we need a someone for the evening show.”

I looked to my watch. 8:46. Twenty minutes late. I stammered for a moment as I fumbled for my keys, muttering some kind of affirmation as I quietly unlocked my car.

“Sure, no problem. I, uh, yeah. Sorry, yeah. That’s totally fine.”

The line cut off, and I pocketed my phone and threw myself in the car. Tossing my bag onto the passenger seat, the laptop slid out, the papers on top of it littering the floorboard. For the love God, I couldn’t catch a break. Forgetting it for the time being, I started the car and sped out of the parking lot. The station was about thirty minutes away. I was challenging myself to make it in ten.

For three years now I worked for the local news station WBIX-3. Miller was my executive producer. After high school, I was planning on going to film school in San Francisco, but finances and family arguments promptly crushed that dream. Instead I enrolled in our state university under broadcast news. Somehow I managed to find an internship with WBIX after a few months thanks to my media professor. I became assistant/runner girl for Jamie Kashton, the lead assignment editor for the morning broadcast.

And of course, as fate would have it, I did the stupidest thing I could do and fell in love with the man. It didn’t take long. I denied my even remote interest for weeks, but after spending sixty plus hours together at the holidays buried in paperwork in the newsroom I knew I was fucked. After about eight months, I began working full time as a production assistant for the 6:00 PM news. There’s where I met Evan Stewarts, the lead anchor of the broadcast. Serendipity would have it that after a few months, Jamie, Evan, and I were the last ones left at Old Town’s pub after a station outing. It wasn’t until the poor bartender on duty began stacking the table next to us we realized it was four in the morning. We said goodnight and shared a cab home, and our drunken selves ended up all crashing at Evan’s apartment since it was a convenient ten minutes from the station. After that night, we became best friends. It was inevitable, really. When you throw a group of people together who share the same passion with the same sense of humor and it is impossible not to form a bond. So the months passed, and before long we started doing everything together, and then, one on one.

When Jamie and I began dating, we kept it a secret from everyone, including Evan, for about four months. We found ourselves moving in together after my graduation from JSU, and when it became too much to hide, we told him. Not that it would have mattered. Evan was supportive with whatever we did, and he would have kept it a secret for us. Jamie was insistent on keeping him in the dark, but after I started showing up in his button downs and he came to work smelling like my apple shampoo, there was no point in hiding it. He still was my supervisor, so upon outing ourselves to the executive producers, Jamie put in his resignation and began working for an editor for our rival company, KBVT. I offered to leave instead, but it was his decision ultimately. KBVT offered more money, better hours, and less of a commute. I didn’t blame him. Now, a year and a half since then, I’m thankful he left. This April, Miller promoted me to associate producer. The job was about the only sanity I had anymore.

9:06, I pulled into the station’s tiny parking lot, diving headfirst into the floorboard to retrieve my papers and computer, stuffing them with little order back into my bag. I scurried into the building, fishing for the badge from within the abyss of papers, scanning in my entry and sneaking up the maintenance stairs to the fourth floor of the newsroom.

Panting, I made it to my desk. No notes, no blinking messages. Didn’t seem to be too late. Or at least not noticeably late enough for anything to be said. I hadn’t been on top of my game lately. It wasn’t a secret as to why, but people were smart enough not to talk ask about it. I kept myself together at work, and except for my less than put together appearance, most days it was unnoticeable. My emotions would only start to betray me when Evan and I would see each other, or when I would be tortured by the memories of Jamie’s time spent in the studio. Often I would disappear into an empty studio during lunch, only accompanied by my travel mug full of lukewarm coffee. Sometimes I’d cry, but more often than not I’d just revise the book of pitched stories left from the night before and distracted myself for as long as I could.

Three weeks. Surely the three week mark had to mean something would change. I’d go insane before long if it didn’t. I kept telling myself it was in my power to control how I felt, but everyone who knew reminded me it wasn’t. Heartbreak wasn’t easy, nor was it something you could just decide to be over. I was sick of being reminded that my heart would no longer be defective in time. Of course it would heal, and of course it took time. I just hated the pity, and hated even more the angst. The world didn’t stop revolving just because of a shattered heart. Either this emotion was earth shatteringly profound, or I just enjoyed being forlorn. I chose to believe it was the former, but only time would tell.

“Benson!” I whipped around to see Miller Darden approaching me, a smug smile on his bearded face. Miller was a large man, but by sheer mass alone. His shoulders were nearly twice the width of my own, and towering a good foot above me, he was a poster of intimidation. In actuality he was nothing of the sort and was remarkably friendly, but never was quite the person you wanted to screw over. I grinned in return, cursing through gritted teeth.

“Told you I was almost here,” I said, sitting on the edge of my desk. He mirrored my movement, taking a seat next to me.

“Good to see you before ten. Didn’t expect you until at least noon.”

I rolled my eyes, standing upright and moving around to my chair.

“I’m never that late. Commuting is just a bitch on Friday mornings.”

He didn’t let the words fully leave my tongue before he said, “Since you’ve been out and about, anyway, I need you to run and pick up the new shipment. Harrison wasn’t here to sign for it last night, so it’s waiting down at FedEx.”

I groaned, gripping the back of my chair and throwing my head back with frustration.

“I thought my days as runner girl were over.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, tilting his head to look back at me with a wide smile, “you’re almost an hour late. Might as well get some work out of you.” I stared back at him, but when he didn’t look away I sighed and dug once more for my badge. Throwing it around my neck, I withdrew my wallet and keys and headed towards the door.

“Hurry back, Lois Lane,” he called, and without looking around I shouted back,

“She was a journalist, not a producer!” and ran once more down the stairs.

9 AM traffic in the city was never friendly, but somehow I arrived at the FedEx on Seventh Avenue in under thirty minutes. That was the thing about wherever you went in Atlanta: wherever you needed to go, it was just over twenty minutes away. I ran into the store, greeted by a line for the counter. Getting in the queue, I pulled out my phone and checked my email. Just work and spam. No missed calls. Frowning, I tucked it away, but my train of thought was broken by an unexpected voice.

“Clara Benson?” I lifted my head, and no one but Lacy Backastow stood before me, a large package in her arms.

Lacy used to be a field reporter at the station, but she quit over a year ago to pursue a modeling career. She easily succeeded after just about two months, now having landed herself on the cover of three different magazines. We never particularly got along, mostly due to our drastically opposing political views, and the fact she held great disdain towards Evan, and of course by association, me and Jamie. Many drunken nights with the three of us were spent with Jamie telling stories about how much of a bitch she was even before I began working for the station. Still, she looked fantastic, her perfectly kept hair framing her face. She certainly acted happier than I had ever seen her, though it was not saying much given her demeanor was typically abrupt and coarse.

“Lacy,” I said, forcing a smile on my lips and leaned in for the obligatory hug. We awkwardly shifted around her box, and as I pulled back, I saw she was beaming. “What a coincidence, running into you. I didn’t think you were still in Atlanta.”

Tossing her hair back, she laughed, incredulous. “Oh, more of my business can be done by travel. You know me, I like settling down.” She gave me a sweet smile, one I was positive that was dripping with venom, and she looked me up and down before she said, “Still running errands for WBIX, I see. Some things never change.”

Attempting to hold the grin still on my face, I moved forward in line slightly, attempting to bid farewell.

“Associate Producer for six o’clock, so a bit’s changed. I’m just here on a favor for Miller Durden.”

“Of course,” she said, adjusting the package in her arms. “You’re looking better these days,” she said, and all I could think of was my baseball cap, vaguely clean black skirt, and plainly tired eyes.

I glanced back at her, moving further down the line. “You’re looking fantastic, too. Great shirt. I have it. Pulp Fiction’s one of my favorite films.” Pulling out my phone to check emails again, I said, “It was good to see you, Lacy.”

She glanced down to her shirt, shrugging as she returned to standing next to me. I couldn’t get rid of her that easily, apparently.

“Oh, I’ve never seen it. Jamie had a pile of things he was going to get rid of, and I needed a shirt this morning.”

I barely registered what she said before my head snapped back to her, my face hot.

“Sorry?” I asked, and her grin transformed into a grimace, through her eyes were still bright, almost brighter than before.

“You know, it’s lucky running into you here. We’ve been trying to get the rest of your things out of the house. It really was a bit intrusive, just leaving it around like that.”

I couldn’t speak. My jaw was ajar, my hands visibly shaking, but my mouth was dry. It was hot, the room spinning as my rage boiled to a dangerous level. The corner of her mouth twisted back into the grin, though she still attempted to look sympathetic as she said,

“We’ve decided to donate it. I know he asked Evan to move the rest out, but he wouldn’t do it for whatever reason--”

“I’m sorry-- you asked Evan to do what? Move my things out of my house?”

Lacy shrugged her shoulders, raising her eyebrows.

“I mean, it’s not your house anymore. It’s Jamie’s.”

I stammered for any coherent words to say, anything at all, but the man behind the counter called for the next person in line. I glanced over to him, but before I could step out of line and form a thought, Lacy beamed back at me and said, “Good to see you.”

And just as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. I stared after her as she sauntered out the door, the man at the counter raising his voice.

“Ma’am? How can I help you?”

I looked around, my eyes stinging and body still trembling. Hastily I approached the counter, sliding over the pickup slip. Silently I conducted the transaction, muttering thanks as I heaved the boxes off the counter, clambering back out on the streets. Packing up my car as fast as I could, my body felt numb as I gripped my phone, dialing the number I was trying to forget.

Two rings. Voicemail.

“You’ve reached Jamie Kashton. I am unavailable to take your call, but leave a message and I will return your call at my earliest convenience.”

I hadn’t heard his voice in weeks. It was a couple seconds after the voicemail beeped before I remembered to speak.

“Jamie, it’s Clara.” My voice was shaking. I had to compose myself. “You need to call me back. I need to return my key and arrange to get the rest of my things as soon as possible.” I remained on the line for a prolonged moment, debating whether or not to allow myself to speak more. Lacy’s smirk returned to my mind and quickly I hung up the phone, turning and kicking the side of my car. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I shouted, much louder than I intended. A few pedestrians turned to look, and I bowed my head apologetically and returned to the driver’s seat, not bothering to survey whatever damage I had done. Slamming my head into the steering wheel, I screamed in frustration, and then fell silent.

Lacy Backastow was wearing my shirt. Of all people, Lacy Backastow. It had been three weeks, and somehow Jamie had managed to move in and sleep with the one person we all hated.

I didn’t move. I have no idea how long I stayed like this, but when I finally raised my head I noticed the tearstains down my face. Scrubbing them away, I checked the time. I needed to get back to work. Staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror, I started the car, only beginning to drive back once I stopped shaking.

Once I was back in the Newsroom, both boxes in arms, I had calmed down. Stopping by Miller’s office, I dropped the packages off at his door, returning to my desk to find a note taped to my computer bag.

‘Tiger-- good luck tonight. Came by to give you something, didn’t know Miller had sent you out for bitch work. Answer your phone next time. --Evan’

My expression blank, I stared at the note, my eyes fixated on the words, ‘give you something’. He had gotten my things. Or, at least the important stuff, I imagined. Camera equipment, most likely. I had invested a good couple grand in getting proper filming equipment before film school, but when that fell through it became more of a side project as the newsroom became my primary focus.

Still, anger wasn’t a strong enough word for what I felt in that moment. Jamie hadn’t even given me the decency to call me for my things. He was donating it, and letting Lacy wear my clothes. And then, on top of everything, ignored my call. He was the one who broke my heart. He had no right to treat me like this, especially now.

And Evan was facilitating it.

Sitting down, I ran a hand down my face, checking my phone incessantly for an excessive amount of time. I pulled out my laptop and now half crumpled papers, littering my desk with today’s work. I was extraordinarily behind, but I only managed to focus on actual work for about twenty minutes before my phone rang. My stomach dropped.

Evan Stewarts.

Immediately I answered. “Where are you?”

“You know, a ‘hello’ would do just as nicely.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I thought I was the one who called you?”

I groaned. “Right, then. I got your note.”

“Still not the reason I called. You’re off your game, Benson.”

“I’m distracted,” I mumbled, balancing my phone against my face with my shoulder as I reached for a highlighter, attempting to still work. “What do you need?”

“I need to borrow you for a minute. I swung by before the red team meeting, but you were gone--”

“I know, I got your note.”

“Will you shut up and let me talk? You were gone, so I left the note, but after I talked to 10:00, and long story short, there’s a party tonight. But I need you in the control room to approve the storyboard for 6:00, since Miller is nowhere to be found.”

“I was gone for two hours, and you’re already lost without me.”

“Aren’t I always?”

I hung up, abandoning the papers at the desk. I headed towards the elevator, motioning to Mia Bateman, one of the nightly correspondents.

“Make sure someone’s on the assignment desk checking for alerts. I’m at least fifteen pages behind, so if something turns orange, call me.”

“On it.”

The doors slid open, and I pressed the button labeled ‘2’. When the doors reopened, Evan stood waiting, a stack of papers in hand.

“Took you long enough.”

“I came down the moment we hung up,” I said, brushing past him as I turned down the hall. He quickly caught up with me, but I couldn’t bring myself to look over at him. “So, storyboard. You need to keep the verdict for the Baxter the entire A block, and then shift to unemployment and the food stamp debate. Keep it political to warm up the chair for national news at 6:30.”

Evan chuckled.

“Yeah, I know the structure of my show. I needed you to restructure the C block for the rundown while I write my transcript.” Still I did not look up, and as we reached the control room, he held open the door for me and asked, “You doing okay today?”

I didn’t say anything. My gaze bounced around the empty control room, looking for any sign of my belongings. When I didn’t see it, I spun around and faced him once more.

“I ran into Lacy today.”

He raised an eyebrow and asked, “Lacy Backastow?” I nodded, pursing my lips and looking down at my feet. “She still just the same, I imagine?”

“She’s living with Jamie,” I said, and he hesitated before saying,

“But they hated each other.” I looked up at him, not saying a word. After a minute passed of silence his eyes widened. “What, you think I knew about this?”

“You’ve been talking to him.”

“Twice. I’ve talked to him twice since July.”

I rolled my eyes, tapping my fingers against my leg. I could feel the emotion bubbling inside of me, the anger returning. Keeping my voice as even as I could, I said,

“Jamie asks you-- not me, not the one who lived there-- he asks you to move my things out, and you don’t think to tell me? I had to find out from Lacy Backastow, who was wearing my fucking shirt?” He sighed, rubbing his chin and leaning back against the wall.

“I just-- I didn’t want to upset you.” We stared at each other in silence for a long moment. I refused to speak first. He closed his eyes, shrugging as he said, “All I did was t--”

“You moved out my things--”

“All I did,” he interrupted, taking a firm step forward, “was tell him I wouldn’t do it unless he told you what was happening. If it made it easier on him, fine. But not without him talking to you. So I didn’t. I didn’t know about Lacy, you and I both know why he wouldn’t have told me. This isn’t him, whatever this is, and I wasn’t going to help him screw you over even more.”

Frowning, I crossed my arms. But the note. I said just that.

“But, Lacy said he talked to you, and then you said you had something to return to me.”

He rolled his eyes, taking a few steps to the control board.

“Give you. I said I had something to give you. God, you know, for an associate producer you sure skim over the details of things.”

My eyes followed him, confused. He bent down underneath the control board, withdrawing a paper bag. I frowned, and when he met my eyes he smiled slightly, setting it on top of the desk. Evan rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the bag as he said,

“You’ve just been going through a lot these past few weeks-- really few months, and you’ve,” he stopped himself, and then just gestured to the bag, taking a step back. “I just thought you could use a pick me up, is all.”

I stared at him, taking a few anxious steps forward before peering into the brown bag. A bottle of wine was on top. I reached in to withdraw the wine, but I heard something shift as I lifted the bottle. Sticking my hand to the bottom, I grasped around until my hand caught the small box. A pack of Winstons was taped to the side of the bottle, with a note that read, ‘For emergency use only!’

“Now, I’m not endorsing my nasty habit,” he said, a small grin forming on his lips, “but when you’ve had a hell of a week and you’re halfway through a bottle of wine, well, sometimes going through a few drags helps alleviate things.”

“Evan,” I said quietly, rolling the bottle of merlot in my hands. A smile flirted with my lips, but when I looked up, he motioned again to the bag.

“There’s one more thing in there. Nothing fancy, just--”

“I’m going to smack you. You know I don’t like it when you give me things.”

He gave a quiet laugh, bowing his head.

“No need to kill me until you see what it is. It’s nothing special, really.” My eyes still on him, my hand returned into the bag. A thick envelope leaned against the side of the bag. Arching an eyebrow, I pulled out the manilla folder.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“It’s not paperwork or anything, I promise. Just open it, Benson.”

    My stare flickered between him and the heavy envelope, but when I flipped it over and opened it, I felt it slide out almost effortlessly. White plastic slid onto my hand, and I removed the rectangular object from the envelope, it dawned on me what it was.

    “I’m going to kill you.” He grinned, not seeming to mind. Dropping the envelope, I turned over the slate in my hands, the clapperboard shined under the fluorescents. I didn’t say anything, nor did I look up. Evan spoke in my absence.

    “Given everything going on, I figured you could use a bit of inspiration, or at least an excuse to go play around on your camera again. I’ve never stopped saying you should just say fuck it all and move to Los Angeles.”

    “You did entirely too much,” I said, shifting awkwardly as I stared in disbelief at the board resting in my hands. Mine. This was mi