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He finds her at a Life Support meeting, of all places. It's in some rundown church hall he's not even sure he knows his way home from; he had to promise the cab driver double the far before the meter even started running, for Pete's sake.
Not that he's used to living in a hotel, either, but he does at least know his way back to it from the quaint mom-and-pop corner store.
He thought he wasn't trying hard enough, or maybe he was just plain unlucky, when he'd run out of NA meetings to try. Like he had gone to that one on Saturday, but she went on Tuesday when he'd been at the next one on the list, sorted by alphabetical order and proximity to the old penthouse. He felt like a veteran now, almost; he never spoke and kept his eyes down, but he knows rock bottom as intimately as the people who describe it night after night - desperation and near-helplessness drove him to a few choices and a place he wouldn't choose to revisit either. It's not comparable, he knows, but once that clicks (his sixteenth try, in a high school classroom that reminded him of a whole other trial he'd rather forget) it's like he understands her.
And he thought he was doing this to find her, to ask her why one more time; he's forgiven her before he started and didn't even realise until the first time it wasn't her.
At first he looked past the glint of fluorescent light off blonde hair just regaining its shine, sure it's just another girl who looks like her from behind. He doesn't even sit next to her; just as close to the door as he can without being obvious about it.
It's like a family at this one though and he sticks out as new somehow; nobody questions him, but they all seem to know and shrink back, waiting for someone else to make the first move.
She left, or he kicked her out, or it was always going to end when he was found out. He doesn't even remember anymore; the only thing he holds on to is that she's not there, and he was happier with her than he seems to be without her. She didn't come to him once; and he thought he was relieved until he was so alone he would have given anything to have someone to talk to, someone to touch just so he knew other people still existed.
He thought Juliet knew where she was, but his own daughter wouldn't even spend fifteen minutes in the same room before making some excuse to leave again. Some of the truth had slipped out and bonded those two in a way he couldn't understand, and it was almost a physical pain to him that he wasn't a part of that - that it was his fault he wasn't part of that, that his daughter chose to leave him at all. She had been good with Juliet though; it had given him hope.
It surprises him when he realises he never lost that, just his ability to see it.
He knows it's her because Siobhan had never looked so vulnerable; Siobhan wouldn't leave the house without makeup and jewelry, especially not dressed in clothes that had stains and tears. It suits her, though.
She looks like Bridget.
He realises he's never really seen her before; the man he was wouldn't have looked at her.
She walks out; leaves him there to learn that this is where everyone goes when they have nobody else.
She's waiting for him outside; she's leaning against the fence, her beanie (pale brown wool, possibly handmade) pulled down to her ears and her hands in her pockets. Her jacket was fashionable a few years ago - a dark green puffer jacket with cuffs that he can see are frayed. Her skin is clear but dry.
He sees all this and knows he wants to hold her. Instead he stops, two feet away from her and waits.
"You found me," she says. "Were you looking? Or is this just another unlucky surprise?"
"I was looking. I wanted..." he stops because he doesn't know what words to say. He doesn't know what should come first or what she wants to hear or if this was just a bad idea of his and he should have moved on.
"Of course it's about what you wanted," she says, and it sounds harsh, because it's true and the truth is always the hardest, most brutal thing in this world.
"Are you alright? Do you..." he waves behind him instead of saying it, because it sticks in his throat.
"A last gift. It keeps on giving."
"Should I?"
She nods. "Maybe. I don't know."
He knows, then, that maybe she needs someone too. They can't be normal, after everything, after Siobhan, so there's no one who understands except themselves.
"Do you want to get coffee? I know a place. Quiet, you know?"
He nods and lets her lead.
He expected Starbucks, but this is the kind of place that still lets you get it black and in a mug that has tiny cracks from being washed and reused for years on end.
It's the best coffee he hasn't made himself since before.
"I'm sorry." He says it once the silence becomes too much of a weight between them that he's afraid they won't talk at all.
"I know. Me too."
He still doesn't know what to say. He asks himself what he expected and despite the image of her running to him that he's somehow dreamed up for himself, he realises he was never very sure at all.
"I was happier when I knew you."
"I felt safer."
He laughs, not unkindly, and she smiles. Her teeth aren't perfectly white and he wonders how much else he was too blind to see. "With everything that was happening?"
She nods, then asks what he is doing now.
He doesn't lie. She already knows him; he knows this now. He doesn't have to hide from her, nor does he want to.
She doesn't stay long; when she leaves, she only gives him a phone number and tells him afternoons only.
He doesn't ask why.