Work Text:
In droves, everyone lines up to buy cards. Red and pink and cartoon hearts all over Bangor. Smiling, fretting over finding the perfect canned message to express their complete undying love to a future divorcee.
Chet shoves his hands in his pockets and lowers his eyes to the street.
Single people hating Valentine's Day is such a cliche that he's always tried to see the good side of it. Come on, the cashgrab aside – what's wrong with sharing the love? He'd argue convincingly, people would stop complaining, and on life would go, everyone forgetting this moronic holiday for another year.
Increasingly, as he enters his late forties, he hates Valentine's Day.
He's got a date tonight. It's rarely the same woman twice, but he's got a date most Friday or Saturday nights. A year ago, back in Pasadena, keeping to that kind of schedule was easier – tech princesses, research assistants, young divorcees, grad students; California was full of restless women. Chet is fully aware that he carved a reputation for himself – and not just as a biotech kingpin, with a penthouse condo and solid bonuses. There was always someone who wanted to stay at that condo. He rarely had to look.
Small town Maine, with all these cheerful families and old couples, isn't in any way an equivalent dating pool. But: he finds his share. His morality has been taking hits for years; he's not above bored housewives and soccer moms. He draws the line at trying to pull happy women, though – because in moments of scotch-induced honesty, Chet admits hope to himself. So he picks the women doused in desperation or curiosity or even as much boredom as he – and those are his favourites, the jaded, frustrated firecrackers who roll their eyes and want to be on top – he'll never settle down, not with any of them, anyway. And yet.
"Oh Jake, it's gorgeous!" Some barely-legal student cries to an equally young boy beside her, pointing excitedly to a wedding dress in a store window. "Could you imagine?" He smiles, kisses her cheek. The "don't walk" sign changes; Chet crosses the street.
He tries not to engage in too much self-reflection in this area, but he's really not sure why he persists with these weekends. It's almost embarrassing, at his age – no longer bragworthy, this behaviour so lauded at 25. His old college friends, with their marriage guts and whiny brats, love to pass judgment. When are you gonna grow up, settle down, man? Have some kids, relax? You're running out of time! He doesn't talk about it much. And it was definitely more acceptable in California. At 7pm on a dark, snowy, east coast evening — he feels a bit pathetic.
The hostess at the five-star restaurant knows him by sight and directs him instantly to his favourite table. He always arrives about a half-hour early, drinks something to take the edge off, and waits. The idea of a woman waiting for him, on him, makes him uncomfortable – he prefers to owe nothing. And, of course, he's cultivated the Perfect Gentleman routine over the years – so he knows what effect it has when, in suited regalia, he stands to shake her hand and kiss both cheeks, pull out her chair.
He orders an expensive glass of chardonnay, trying to distract himself from the early February weather, put himself back in California where this all made more sense, where he was further away from...
Ah. She's right on time.
"Good evening, Therese," Chet stands, both cheeks, pulls out her chair, flourishes and gestures jokingly. She giggles. She's young – not too young, a few years past a PhD at University of Maine, but young enough that his heart aches, a bit.
"Why thank you, Dr. Wakeman," her eyes sparkle. Not a good sign. Sparkling eyes always end badly, always want something more than he's prepared to offer. But her skin is flawless, her body sinuous, her lips full. He hates himself, but he knows what he wants tonight.
It happens sooner rather than later; they skip dessert. Her eyes keep sparkling. He lets her in to the house that private-sector savings bought. He makes sure she comes. She tries to curl up to him after. He needs a shower. She asks if she can follow. He feels filthy, weird, rotten inside. She kneels in the shower spray and he runs number sequences in his brain; hates everything that has brought him to this point.
She gathers her clothes and winks, next week?, and he smiles sadly, makes it clear where his interests lie, and her eyes go dull. Never mind, then. Take care, Chet.
In his underwear, he puts on his glasses and pours himself a drink.
-=-
"It's refreshing to meet someone who can go on a Valentine's date without giving a shit about Valentine's Day," this Friday's companion swirls her third gin and soda. They're sitting at a bar, listening to Radiohead, watching guys in leather jackets shoot pool. She's more his age, less his type -- but cynical, and sharp, and bored, and he likes her.
"Well, there's not a whole lot to appreciate about it," he hears himself being bitter, but he's had too much to drink already – she was late – and he suspects she likes the bitter ones. He met her a few weeks back at another bar, after a date that went sideways; he complained then, and she’s here now.
Jen bites into her lime, nodding carelessly. "I fucking hate pink."
Chet snorts – a genuine response, despite himself. "Yeah."
She drops the chewed lime back into her drink and juts out her chin inquisitively. "So what's your deal, anyway, Chet? No interest in marriage, kids?"
Another night, he'd tread more carefully – but he's at ease, and while Jen may not be an intellectual, she's more insightful than most. So he takes a sip of cheap whisky and shrugs. "Never really came up, I guess. I was busting my ass at school in my twenties; busting my ass at work in my thirties...then moved out to Pasadena and, well, you know how California is." He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Jen smirks. "I dunno. Married to my work."
"One of those," Jen says, but she clearly doesn't believe him. "Never anyone serious? At all?"
If he was someone looking for something real, someone not irreparably tarnished – he'd say something like this is great first date material! and they'd both laugh and he'd say gee it's nice to meet someone who can talk about this honestly right from the get go and Jen would say sure is and they'd get married and live happily ever after. But he doesn’t want to be that guy, Jen's nowhere near that girl, and at this point he's not even sure they'll be going home together. So he replies, "Well ----- " and cuts himself off because he has had too much to fucking drink, "Nah. Nah. No one."
"Uh," she raises her eyebrows, "sounds like there's a story there."
He glances down at his drink. Brush it off. "There's always someone, right? The one that got away?"
Her face softens. "Usually. Makes life interesting. I've got a coupla those, myself."
"Oh?" Chet looks up, hoping she'll continue if only so he doesn't have to. "Do tell."
"Just some beautiful piece of shit from high school," Jen sighs. "We were in senior Spanish together. We'd get high before class and just go at it in the back, y'know? Fuck. I'd hate to've been my teacher. But I came here for school, and he got stuck in the coke scene back in Jersey...wonder what he's up to, these days."
"You're from New Jersey?" Keep talking.
"Sure," she says, without an accent. "Got out as soon as I could. Maine's not much better, really, but at least it's not pretending to be something it's not. What?"
Chet realizes he must have made a face. "Oh. Sorry. I haven’t been finding that Maine agrees with me."
"No?" Jen gestures to the bartender, holding up two fingers. He does not need another drink. "It's not for everyone. Missing the sunshine, maybe."
"I think everyone misses the sunshine in February," Chet mutters, and Jen smirks again. "No, it's not that. I like the east coast – grew up in Boston, did all my school nearby. But everything here just seems...small. Too close together, somehow, but too far apart at the same time."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Chet pauses. "I'm not sure. I just don't feel like I belong here."
"Well," Jen smiles openly at the bartender as he drops off the drinks. "Where do you belong, then? Back in Pasadena?"
Chet drains his glass and picks up the next one. "Who knows."
"Well, I'll tell ya," she says, "there's no way in hell I'd go back to Jersey. Jeremy Santos or no Jeremy Santos. Some people get born in the wrong fucking space, y'know?"
He knows. He knows far too well. And for a minute he sees himself, drinking Jameson beside a forty-something with hard, experienced eyes, and he can't recognize any of it. This isn't him. This is a farce, a defense mechanism; Freud could write volumes. And before he can stop himself, the whisky says: "Or time."
Jen takes note, raises her eyebrows. "Huh?"
He almost wants to confide in her, tell her everything he's never dared to breathe out loud – all the things that keep him up at night, that he's been trying to forget for a decade. If he's going to tell anyone, it may as well be her: yet another of his distractions, yet another one night stand.
"Missed chances," Chet mumbles into his drink. "Impossibilities." She waits for him to continue. "Fuck it. I just – you know when you see someone and everything suddenly makes all the sense in the world, and you're sitting there struck by emotional lightning, and you know it's right, even if no one else could..." He coughs. Jen's eyes are widening. "Anyway. That happened to me. I think...well, I thought it happened to both of us. But the timing was...really, really wrong. Really wrong. So I waited. Hoped, when the time came, that she'd reach out." He feels ineloquent; he feels like his insides are decomposing.
"She didn't?"
Chet shrugs. "Time came a few years ago. Nada." He raises his gaze and Jen looks like she feels sorry for him. He’s lost his chance at brief oblivion tonight.
"Is it too late?" Jen sounds kinder than she has all night. Well, well; she thinks he deserves sympathy. If only she knew why the timing was so bad.
Another shrug, another sip. "It's kind of an awkward situation. I'm not really in a position to make the first move."
"Sometimes you have to."
"Well, this isn't one of those times," Chet snaps, and Jen's hard eyes come back. Shit. "It's complicated. It's complicated." I need another drink. "I shouldn't be talking about it anyway."
"She must be something else, huh." It's harsh, stated cruelly, but fair enough: he’s off his game and Jen’s feelings haven’t been much on his mind.
But he can't answer. No witty comeback, no lighthearted brushoff, no smile. Just broken eyes broadcasting a broken heart, showing everything he's so good at hiding during the day. She is so fucking special.
He knows he's screwed up when Jen starts backpedaling. "Hey – we've been talking all night and you haven't said anything about that job you're married to. Whaddya do to get all those nice suits?"
She might be teasing – he's in a sweater and jeans, tonight – but he met her in a suit, so maybe not. Either way, she's feeling bad and changing the subject. He feels like shit, but he answers as honestly as he can.
"Mostly just wait."
He shouldn’t be driving, but the sky is clear, and the highway is empty. He barely remembers how the night ended, except for Jen giving him a sad kiss on the cheek and wishing him luck.
As he concentrates on keeping the wheel steady, a road sign flashes in his headlights. Simultaneously, he realizes that he’s heading south on the interstate, in the complete wrong direction – and that he knows exactly where he's going, because he's had this route memorized since before moving.
He's trying to close the distance of the east coast.
He's driving to Connecticut.
He's driving to Yale.
He goes for another few miles, then pulls off at the next exit, rests his head on the steering wheel, and closes his eyes. Quietly, he reigns himself in, finally sitting up. "What the hell am I doing here?” he mutters to himself, all exasperation, no confusion. He knows what he's doing. He just can't do it.
He steers the car back onto the highway and starts back home.