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"I'll be right behind you. Okay?"
"You promise?"
"I promise."
Spencer leans in, placing a brief, but tender, kiss on Trina’s lips. His eyes linger on hers and for a moment, they are lost in one another. He briefly glances at Ace, who rests quietly and calmly in Trina’s arms.
"I promise," he whispers again, nodding, in an attempt to reassure her but also, she thinks, to reassure himself. She watches as he scurries off, in the direction of the Haunted Star, trailing behind his uncle Victor, disappearing behind the trees, into the dead of night.
And that's the last time she sees him.
She remembers the escalating dread and anxiety, in the pit of her stomach, as she watched the drone move closer and closer to the ship. She remembers the beeping of the keypad as Laura and Curtis rushed to dial their WSB contact to postpone the attack upon learning about Spencer's whereabouts. She remembers the deafening blast, that echoed in the air, mimicking fireworks and the bright lights that subsequently followed, as the ship engulfed in flames. She remembers the scattered shards of the ship's material, an assortment of planks and steel, that found refuge on the nearby shore.
“Spencer,” she whispers, watching in horror as the vessel where her first love stood, was blown to smithereens. She’s paralyzed. In a state of shock. She drowns out all the background noise, including Laura’s cries, instead, choosing to watch as the night sky returns to its earlier form. Dark and starry. She is broken out of her daze when she feels Ace snuggle further into her neck. Panicked, she averts her gaze from the sky to the baby, lying on her torso.
'Thank God! He’s asleep,' she thinks to herself, grateful that he didn’t witness the frightening event that she had, moments earlier.
“Trina, take my brother and go. I'll be right behind you,” she remembers Spencer saying, before he left them. She holds Ace a little tighter, gently caressing his little arm with the tip of her finger. Her grasp might’ve been a bit too tight because she hears him let out a faint cry before starting to fuss. She closes her eyes, gently rocking the half-asleep infant in her arms.
“Shhh, it’s okay, Ace,” she whispers.
“I’m here,” she says, before realizing that her words hold little consolation to the infant, considering she’d only seen and interacted with him a handful of times. Regardless, she finds herself consoling the baby and whispering soothing words in his ear, in an attempt to comfort him. She smiles a little when the fussing stops and Ace settles down, resting his head on her shoulders. She adjusts the thin blanket he’s wrapped in, making sure to cover his head from the arctic chill.
That's when she hears it. The sirens.
She tries to drown them out by focusing on the pitch black sky above her. She finds herself, seeking out stars – anything, really – to distract herself from what just unfolded in front of her.
'Don't go there. Don't think the unthinkable,' she tells herself.
Despite her best effort, her eyes, burn, welling up with tears.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, reassuring herself, more so, than Ace.
“He’ll come back to us,” she says, a level of certainty in her voice. Alive.
‘Won’t he?,’ she briefly ponders before, shaking her head, pushing the negative thought away. Unfortunately, the damage is already done. She feels the floodgates open as another tear streams down her face and a small cry escape her lips.
The following hours are a blur. Flashing lights and loud sirens. An onslaught of paramedics and other first responders. Divers and the rescue team scour the shore and water for any survivors – one in particular, if she were being honest. She was soon reunited with Liesel and those who comprised of Port Charles’ makeshift cavalry, in addition to Laura and Curtis, Valentin Cassadine, Anna Devane, Drew Cain and Holly Sutton. They all commended her for her valiant efforts and she theirs, thanking them for rescuing herself and the other hostages. Laura and Anna were soon huddled around, what Trina assumed to be WSB agents, getting inundated and briefed, with any and all, updates. Valentin and Liesel had been shuffled off to receive medical attention. After much pleading from Curtis, she agrees to briefly leave the site and get checked out by the paramedics however, she refuses to part with Ace, cognizant of Spencer’s parting words to her. Once she’s received the go-ahead, she’s ready to return to the scene where she witnessed the crime, and watch the divers engage in the rescue efforts. Instead, Curtis and Laura, who had calmed since earlier, urge her to get some much-needed sleep in one of the nearby bases, promising to update her if any news arises. She refuses, shaking her head.
I’m not leaving you.
Her words to him ring in her ears, as she attempts to stand firm in her conviction and await Spencer’s return. She wants to see him in person and ensure that he’s okay– it’s easier to do in-person than by phone because then, as she told TJ not too long ago, then she’ll know– that he’s really okay. Selfishly, she, also, wants to be the first one he sees so he understands just how much he means to her.
“I am certainly not going to get what I want here,” he once said to her, her mind drifting to a conversation they had a few months back, as they sat on a park bench outside of Kelly’s. It was just before Christmas and their second run-in after his release from Pentonville.
“And what’s that?,” she asked, her voice soft and coaxing, curious about the words that were on the tip of his tongue. Maybe, her's. Name, that is.
“To know how it feels when you matter, so much to someone, that it hurts them when you’re gone,” he finished, before pausing briefly.
“I’ve got the reverse down pat – I know all about hurt – just not, the part, when it’s returned,” he adds, diverting his eyes from hers to stare at the cobblestone pathway. She’s silent for a moment, trying to find the appropriate response when Curtis interrupts them with news of the then-latest hook attack, which would ultimately be Rory’s death.
‘No,’ she says to herself. She wants – needs - to stay here and see this through. See the boy, who’d stolen her heart, ascend from the frigid cold waters and wrap her arms around him tightly, whispering how grateful she was that he was okay. He’d probably make some snarky remark and she’d gently swat his arm, in jest, but smile because he had fulfilled his promise to her. He’d come back.
“No, I’m staying,” she tells Curtis and Laura, who eventually relent. Though she’d prefer to keep Ace close, honouring her promise to Spencer, she knew it was safer for him to be indoors, in the warmth, so she hands the sleeping infant over to Laura, who temporarily leaves with the scene, ultimately entrusting Ace with Anna, while Curtis, Laura, Valentin and herself did first watch. The others are escorted to the nearest hotel while Drew and Liesel head to the airport so that Willow, Joss' sister-in-law, can receive her bone marrow transplant.
Trina and the others watch the search and rescue personnel travel up and down the shoreline. Her eyes narrow - laser-focused on the highlighter orange search and rescue vessel as it zigzags up and down the coast, its faint light flashing every now and then. She briefly averts her gaze, shielding her eyes to avoid the bright light as the boat lights, momentarily, face her direction. She glances at the ground, eyeing the charcoal-coloured carpeted flooring. Herself and the others had been relocated to a nearby rescue coordination centre to wait out the rest of the search efforts.
When she shifts her eyes back to the window, she settles her gaze on the rescue personnel by the coast. They ascend up and down the shoreline like little ants, in search of food.
Food.
Bait.
Sharks.
Scraps.
She curses herself for involuntarily partaking in a mental game of word association. She shudders as her brain spirals, immediately thinking of the worst scenarios. She switches her focus back to the water. The longer she watches the rescue crew, the more her stomach fills with dread.
'Shouldn't they have found him by now?,' she wonders to herself, subconsciously biting her fingernails. She immediately stops, wincing when she accidentally clips the tip of her index finger, drawing a small amount of blood. She lets out a small sigh of frustration. She feels a migraine coming on and guesses that it's, probably, because she hasn't eaten for the last few hours. Despite her stomach grumbling - a clear sign of her need for food - she refuses, even when the WSB agents bring something for herself and the others to eat - she's too nervous.
With every minute that passes, Trina grows more and more exhausted. She assumes that it's sleep catching up with her, after a restless, last few days. She strains to keep eyes open, gently rubbing her eyelids every few minutes. It seems to, however, wield little effect as she catches herself dozing off, while leaning on the windowsill.
And that's the last thing she sees, before shutting her eyes, for the night.
Flashing lights, dancing with the waves, beneath the moonlight.
She wakes up, several hours later, in an armchair, bleary-eyed and wrapped in a blanket. The room is empty, apart from herself and a WSB agent standing in the nearby doorway. The sunlight streams in, from the window, above her and she, instinctively, hoists herself up to bask in the morning sun like she used to do as a child during a trip to the beach. She closes her eyes and - for a second - she feels a sense of relief. She feels light. Like she can breathe again.
Until she hears it.
An ear-piercing wail. A sound she won't soon forget. Before she can stop herself, she is bolting out of the room and down the corridor; the blanket that once shielded her, now discarded on the floor. She descends down the hallway, in search of the noise's source.
The cries lead her to a small room, where she finds Laura, on her knees, sobbing, in front of a WSB agent. Trina recognizes as one of the first contacts they spoke to, after the yesterday's events. She's puzzled for a moment before noticing the sullen expressions on Anna, Holly, Valentin and Curtis' faces and she panics.
It couldn't be- could it?
'No,' she tells herself.
“Mayor Collins- what is it? Is there any news? Did they find him?," she asks wearily, making her presence known. All eyes flock to her and suddenly, she feels like an abstract piece, on display, in the gallery that sticks out like a sore thumb. It dawns on her that she might look slightly rattled but she doesn't care. Frazzled expression. Tired eyes.
It couldn't be.
Laura turns to face her - her eyes red and puffy, evidence that she's been crying. No words are exchanged and the two fall into, some sort, of unspoken dialogue.
And she knows.
Laura's eyes say it all.
She recognizes that same sadness, in her own eyes, when she lost her father and Rory. Or when Joss lost Oscar.
She turns away, a feeling of dread washes over her. She struggles to keep her composure as she feels her body start to tremble. She struggles to form words, almost refusing to accept what she, now, knows to be true.
“No,” she cries out, her voice wavering. She shakes her head in denial.
"I would've known," she pleads, as tears start to fall from her eyes. She would've felt it.
That invisible tether that binds them would lapse. That rich emotional intimacy they share - their deeply-entrenched connection and mutual adoration of the arts - solidifies their status as soulmates.
And that's when she feels it.
A pang of sadness hits her, like a ton of bricks and that's when she sees it. Him.
A body bag being carted down the hall by a transfer service operator. Her eyes widen and she swiftly turns back to face Laura, pleading her contest.
To Trina's dismay, she doesn't.
And before she knows it, a pain-riddled wail escapes her lips. She hastily covers her mouth - her breath tickling the palm of her hand - as if that’ll change the outcome. Her knees buckle and suddenly, she’s crumpled on the floor, in the fetal position. She closes her eyes, tuning everyone else out, instead choosing to focus on her increasingly shallow breaths.
"You promised," she says to herself.
You promised you'd find your way back. To me.
"You promised," she whispers repeatedly to herself, as she feels her cheek, hot with tears and her body start to numb.
She doesn't remember much, upon returning to Port Charles. She dissociates, often - her awareness of time is severely warped. She, sometimes, finds herself darting between past and present, recounting her memories of him. Spencer.
She doesn't like to say his name aloud. It's bittersweet.
She longs for more time with him and is resentful that she can't have it. Such a thought feels selfish - she's not the only one grieving - and she feels a twinge of guilt.
From their first meeting, or so she thought, at the time, in the park, on those early July days and their frequent flirting to finding out about Esme and the havoc and trail of devastation that she’d soon leave in her wake. Spring Ridge. The sex tape. The trial. Pentonville. The hook killer.
It was one thing after another with them. Their timing was always off— until it wasn’t.
Their albeit, brief, time together on the ship was magical; quite ironic, given the circumstances.
And she doesn't regret a moment.
She'd gladly do it all again.
The fear.
The terror.
All of it - just for one more moment with him.
She spent that time with the person she loved most. The many hugs. The kisses - so tender and sweet. Passionate and full of longing. She could’ve sworn they were made for each other – she fit perfectly in his arms, every curve and crevice, carved, in precise measurement with the other in mind. Like the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
She’d bury her head in his chest, inhaling his scent. Earthy - a mixture of cedarwood and ginger with hints of vanilla. Sometimes, absentmindedly, she’d find herself, gently tracing tiny circles, on his chest, with her index finger. And sometimes, he’d laugh, wiggling and squirming out of her grasp as he descended into a fit of giggles. She’d learn then, that he was extremely ticklish. And his giggles, which would, occasionally, blossom into full-blown belly laughs, were as smooth as honey. It reminded her of the hearty, cheerful laughter that mall Santas would often break out in, over the holiday season. The kind of laughter that was infectious, so much so, that she’d often starting chuckling too.
She missed feeling his chin rest atop of her head. It gave her a sense of security. Stability, especially when she felt like the ground, beneath her, would give way. In the last few months before his death, he became the rock she most desperately needed him to be, during the trial ordeal. He became her sounding board, and her his, during the hook attacks, in an attempt to avenge Rory’s death. They, in time, got closer and reforged their friendship, becoming closer than they ever had. Wouldn’t it be their luck that they’d become official, on the same night, that Spencer was kidnapped with her, unknowingly, tagging along for the ride?
Eventually, they – herself, Ace, Laura and company - all make their way back to Port Charles, reunited with - almost - all of their loved ones. Her first memory, as she steps off the tarmac, is being in her father’s arms. His hold was strong and she swears her torso's, on the verge, of going numb but she doesn't care. She can't remember a time where she’d ever been so excited to see her father - well, except when he “returned” from the dead and after her mother's revelation about her paternity – but those were stories for another time. She also remembers her mother’s eyes - how kind they were after all the unpleasantries between them, mostly on her end. Though, those acts of animosity and avoidance felt justified, and maybe they were, at the time, she can't help but feel grateful that Portia doesn’t hold them against her, instead, choosing to cling onto her, rambling on and on about how sorry she was for keeping her paternity a secret.
At the memorial, she finds herself sandwiched between Laura and Alexis, in the first pew. Several other close family members make up the row, including Spencer’s Uncle Sonny, Dr. Kevin Collins, Aunt Liz and Cam, who’d come home from Stanford to attend the service. She also spots various other relatives and friends - including Sam, Kristina, Molly, Dante and Michael - a few of Spencer's many cousins - sitting in the subsequent row, with TJ.
While her parents may not have been his biggest fans, she finds them sitting a few rows back, showing their support for her and Laura. Spencer's father doesn’t attend, which she can tell, is particularly tough on Laura. She can’t help but reach out and squeeze the older woman's hand, a show of support, when she winces at someone, a few rows back, mentioning Nikolas’ absence.
“I’m sure he would’ve loved to be here,” she whispers in Laura's ear, mustering up a weak, but reassuring, smile. The older woman appears grateful.
“He probably got caught up in something,” she adds, though she’s not quite sure she, herself, believes this. I mean- what’s more important to a parent than their child? It would be months until anyone discovered that he was in a coma and being held captive by Mason Gatlin as leverage against Ava and Dr. Gatlin-Holt.
The service is packed to the brim, filled with all the townsfolk - most of which, she doesn’t recognize. She spots Ava, across the aisle, in a pew, a few rows back. She's conversing with Curtis’ friend, Nina Reeves. To Nina's left, she spots her aunt Liesel; Trina summons a little smile when she catches her fellow hostage's eye. While the two had had minimal interaction aboard the Haunted Star, Trina strangely felt the need to nurture that intrinsic bond through that shared experience - call it, some weird misguided survivor's trauma. She'd been one of Liesel's first visitors, at the hospital, after the successful transplant with Willow, which she was happy to say, they were both on the mend.
The memorial is a somber occasion. She often finds herself, turning her head and craning her neck to watch the exit, in hopes that, Spencer'd barge through the doors, at any moment. That he’d make some snarky remark and apologize for being late. Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen and she trudges on, listening to the words of Laura and other loved ones recall their favourite memories of him.
Birthdays.
Holidays.
Lila's Kids.
The Nurses' Ball.
She lets out a tiny giggle as Emma Scorpio-Drake, Anna's granddaughter, recalls Spencer's childhood crush on her and recounts their silly antics, with Joss and Cam, growing up.
Trina doesn’t speak at the service - though Laura asks - she politely declines.
‘What would she say?,’ she thinks to herself. Their whirlwind romance had been all-consuming but fleeting. Short-lived.
She thought it was more appropriate for those who knew him longer to share their memories of him but she, internally, sought comfort in the fact that she, probably, knew him best.
She stares at his picture, on the program, for a good portion of the ceremony, tracing small hearts with her finger. The picture selected, is one she recognizes, they’d all taken at Cam’s farewell send-off, a few months back. Trina recognized the Charlie’s backdrop and could see the sleeve of her patchwork blouse in the bottom right of the photo. It must’ve been a candid Laura snapped, amid the calamity of Cam showing up with Esme, who, speaking of, sat at the back of the church, with quick access to the exit, so she could tend to Ace, if he got fussy.
She still had yet to regain her memory - or so, she said - but seemed somewhat grateful to Trina to keeping Ace safe after Laura disclose the preceding events, in Greenland, to her. To be honest, Trina hadn’t thought too much about trying to catch her faking her amnesia since her return home - she’d been preoccupied with more pressing concerns despite her parents and Diane’s insistence.
Every now and then, it dawns on her that she’s lost both of her boyfriends in the span of a few months. She, once, jokingly referred to herself as a Black Widow, which her mother and Joss found less than amusing.
Losing Spencer feels different than losing Rory. The latter was there for her when she needed a friend most. He was kind, smart and creative like her. A suitable match for a sensible girl.
But it wasn’t, exactly, love.
I mean, sure, in a way, she loved him - cherished him, even. He was a friend, first and foremost. He was trustworthy and reliable - all the things a girl should want - but Rory would never be him. Spencer.
Its thoughts like this that make her feel guilty. As though, she's undeserving of mourning him.
Sometimes, his name is on the tip of her tongue and she chastises herself for daring to use it. She blames herself - in some way - she always will, despite Joss' words. It's not your fault.
She used to spend hours, rewinding their last few days together in her head. Thinking of all the things she could've done differently.
Even though, she's rarely at the PCPD these days - every time she is, she recoils. She flinches as she walks past Jordan's office, thinking about how, while she was looking to break up with him, he was out there, losing his life because of his connection to her. She's wracked with guilt.
Guilt that he couldn’t be, to her, what she was to him.
Unfortunately, her heart had already been stolen by another. Losing Spencer was a whole different kind of pain - it was less riddled with guilt. She felt a deep yearning for him. She still does. And for a long time, she found it difficult to get out of bed, spending countless hours, reading the inscriptions he wrote, in the art books he gifted her.
She's surprised how resolved she feels. A sense of solace that she didn't expect. Grateful for the short but fulfilling bliss.
If it was fair, in her short life, to say she had a great love, he’d be it. The one she'd look back at, fondly, when she’s old and grey, with grandchildren of her own. The kind of love that sends you into a daze and make you wish you were 21 again. That is how he is canonized to her.
His shaggy brown locks.
The wispy strands of hair that stood on the name of his neck.
The small mole in the middle of his back.
His laugh.
His smile. She swears he should've done Colgate commercial, at least, once.
The playful glint in his eye when he was up to something mischievous.
Hell, she, sometimes, even misses his snarky quips, coated in arrogance and entitlement.
She misses it all. Any and everything that makes him him.
It's been a few months since everything's gone down and she's doing okay. Relatively.
She occasionally has nightmares and it feels like she's re-living the explosion. She awakes panicked and covered in sweat but then, quickly reassures herself that it is only a dream.
She wraps up another semester at PCU and moves out of the dorm, settling in a two-bedroom apartment with Joss as they, each, embark on a new journey.
Joss being pre-med and her being pre-law.
While art remains her true passion, she finds it saturated with painful memories that she'd - at present - like to forget. She avoids old hangouts like the Chuck and the Jerome Gallery, strangely finding comfort in dance clubs and bars.
And that's where she is now.
Dressed in a sparkly silver mini on a Friday night.
Swaying her hips to the music as she gets lost in the crowd. The music is glaring and she squints under the strobe, disco, lights. The place is packed with fellow college students like herself.
Joss was supposed to meet her but as usual, she's late. She rolls her eyes, figuring her tardiness most likely had to do with Dex Heller. And to be honest, she doesn't mind.
As she drowns it all out, letting the music take control - she feels him. This happens every now and then.
Sometimes, her hair stands on end and she swears it feels like he's breathing against her neck. She shudders, closing her eyes. Telling herself: This isn't real. He isn't here anymore.
A few deep breaths later and she's okay. Good as new.
Every so often, she mulls over what he'd think of her life now.
Law? Dancing?
She chuckles, thinking of a snarky quip he would've made. Oh, how she misses him.
She is drawn out of her reverie when she feels a tap on the shoulder. She turns to see Joss and smiles at the blonde, who gestures for them to head to the bar, away from the blaring music. She nods, trailing behind, and that's when she sees him. Standing among a sea of faces.
Just as she remembers him.
Disheveled hair.
Playful eyes.
Clean-shaven.
Bruised.
A slight gash on his bottom lip.
He looks good and she swears he smiling straight at her.
She blinks. Momentarily averting her eyes as if, daring this - him - to be true.
And just like that - he's gone.
She redirects her attention to Joss. They're almost at the bar.
'We're going to have a good night,' she tells herself.
She watches at the bartender slides them each a shot of tequila. They grimace, biting into the lime wedge, as they take in the rowdy college crowd around them. They turn to each other, exchanging a knowing look before descending into a fit of giggles. They, then, link arms before getting lost in the slew of loud, obnoxious students doused in a mixture of axe body spray and sweat.
Oh- they'd definitely have a good time.