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Karen sat on her bedroll, knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them in a way that felt too small, too childish.
The canvas walls of her tent seemed uncomfortably closer than usual, pressing in with the weight of what she'd done.
'What she'd done'—Jesus, so dramatic. Though right now, Karen couldn't decide if it was appropriate or not.
Outside, someone was laughing—Sean, probably, by the sounds of it—and the sound grated against the inside of her skull like nails on slate.
Her fingers twitched.
She could still taste the whiskey, sharp and burning and—and wrong in a way it never used to be. Used to be... comfort. Used to be the only thing that made the world blur soft around the edges, something that could help her laugh and help her make others laugh and help her function like an ordinary human being.
Now? Well. Now it just tasted like failure.
Three months, she thought, and the number felt huge and pathetic all at once. Three whole goddamn months and I threw it away for—for what? For feelin' bad? For bein' scared of nothing?
She didn't even know what had set it off. That was the worst part. Just... woke up wrong. Woke up with something crawling under her skin, something that made her want to shed herself entirely, and the bottle had been right there and her hands had moved before her brain caught up and then it was over. All of it. Every night Molly had stroked her hair and told her she was proud, every morning Karen had woken up without her head splitting open, every small victory—gone.
The tent flap rustled.
Karen's spine went rigid. She knew that sound—knew the particular way Molly moved, quieter than someone in skirts should be able to manage. Knew the rhythm of her footsteps, the way she paused just outside like she was giving Karen a chance to tell her to leave.
Karen never did. Never would.
But tonight, God, tonight she wanted to.
"Karen?"
Molly's voice was soft, lilting even in just her name, that Irish accent curling around the syllables in a way that usually made something in Karen's chest go warm and loose. Tonight it just made her want to hide.
She didn't look up. Kept her eyes fixed on a spot on the canvas wall where a stain had formed—coffee, probably, or dirt. "Hey."
The word came out rougher than she meant it to. Rougher than it should, slurred just enough at the edges that anyone who knew what to listen for would catch it immediately.
Molly would catch it immediately.
The tent flap lifted, and Molly stepped inside, letting it fall shut behind her. The space suddenly felt impossibly small—just the two of them and the mess Karen had made of herself, all crammed into a few feet of canvas and dirt floor.
Karen still didn't look at her. Couldn't. If she looked at Molly right now, if she saw that face, those eyes that had been so proud of her just yesterday—
Shit. No. Can't. Can't do it.
"You're being awful quiet tonight." Molly's skirts whispered against the ground as she moved closer. Karen tracked the sound without meaning to, her whole body tuned to Molly's presence in a way that felt pathetic and necessary all at once. "Didn't see you at the fire earlier. I thought maybe you were—"
"Was tired." Karen cut her off, the lie clumsy and obvious even to her own ears. "Just... needed to lie down."
She was still sitting up. Still hunched over her knees like something was going to come crawling out of the dark if she didn't stay vigilant.
She probably looks like a creep.
A pause. Long enough that Karen could feel Molly thinking, could practically hear the gears turning in that sharp mind.
"Are you alright?"
The question landed like a stone in water. Karen's jaw worked, teeth grinding together hard enough to hurt.
Damn you and your... watching skills. Karen thought in a mental grumble.
"'M fine." The words came out flat, unconvincing. She shifted her weight, and the world tilted just slightly to the left—not enough to send her sprawling, but enough that she had to catch herself with one hand against the bedroll. "Just... long day. Y'know how it is."
"Karen."
Something in Molly's voice had changed. Sharpened. Karen knew that tone—it was the one Molly used when she was about to call someone on their bullshit, when she was done dancing around the truth.
Karen pushed herself up to standing before she could think better of it. The tent swayed—no, she swayed, and she overcorrected, stumbling half a step to the side before catching her balance.
Shit.
"I'm fine, damn it," she ground out, sharper now, defensive in a way that felt like broken glass in her throat. She still wasn't looking at Molly. Couldn't. Instead she fixed her eyes somewhere over Molly's shoulder, at the tent wall, at nothing. "Don't—just don't start, alright?"
There was a short pause before Molly spoke again, as if she wasn't quite sure what to say. "I... Don't start what?"
Molly's voice had an edge now, confusion bleeding into something else. Something that sounded like it might be hurt, and that was worse, that was so much worse than anger would've been.
Karen's hands were shaking. She shoved them into her pockets, then pulled them back out, then crossed her arms, then let them fall to her sides. Nothing felt right. Her whole body felt wrong, too loose and too tight all at once, like her skin didn't fit properly anymore.
Stop moving, you idiot. Stand still. Act normal. You can fake normal, you do it every godforsaken day.
Except she couldn't. Not with Molly watching her, not with the alcohol making everything feel slippery and unmanageable, not with the shame crawling up her throat like bile.
"You're drunk."
Not a question. A statement. Flat and certain and knowing.
Karen flinched. She felt unable to control the movement, her body jerking as if she'd been struck.
"I'm—" The denial died on her tongue. What was the point? Molly could see it. Could probably smell it on her, the whiskey seeping out of her pores, poisoning the air between them. "I—well, I had a couple drinks. So what? Ain't a crime. Everyone else does it."
"You haven't had a drink in three months."
"Yeah, ... well." Karen turned away, started awkwardly pacing just to have something to do—three steps one direction, turn, three steps back. The tent wasn't big enough for this, wasn't big enough to hold all the things she couldn't say, but she moved anyway because standing still meant Molly might try to touch her and if Molly touched her right now Karen might actually break apart. "Maybe I got tired of being sober. Maybe it ain't worth it, I don't know?" She shrugged, trying to add a form of non-chalance to her words. The attempt crashed and burned.
She didn't mean it. She did mean it. She didn't know what she meant anymore.
"Karen, stop—just stop moving for a second and look at me—"
"Why??" The word came out harsh, almost cruel. Karen spun on her heel, still not meeting Molly's eyes, staring instead at the curve of her shoulder, the line of her collarbone. "So you can tell me what a fuckin' disappointment I am? So you can—"
"That's not—" Molly's voice cracked, just barely, and it was so unexpected that Karen's brain stuttered over it. "I just want to understand what happened. I want to help—"
"I don't need help."
Liar. Liar, liar, liar.
"I'm fine, I'm—I just had a bad day, alright? One bad day. It don't mean anything."
"It means you broke three months of—"
"Jesus—I know what it means!!"
The shout ripped out of Karen before she could stop it, loud enough that she immediately worried someone outside had heard. Her chest was heaving now, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The tent was spinning—no, she was spinning, or maybe the world was, everything tilting sideways in a way that made her stomach lurch.
She pressed her palms to her temples, fingers digging in hard enough to hurt. Trying to make herself just stop and shut up.
But she couldn't. Couldn't get her breath to even out, couldn't get her hands to stop shaking, couldn't make herself look at Molly because if she looked at Molly she'd see disappointment or pity or worse—she'd see that same look Dutch always gave Molly, that distant disinterest, that I'm-already-done-with-you expression that meant Molly wasn't worth the effort anymore.
She's gonna leave. She's gonna take one look at you and realise you're not worth it and she's gonna walk out and you'll be alone again and—
"Don't touch me!"
The words came out strangled, desperate. Molly had taken a step closer—Karen had heard the rustle of her skirts, felt the shift in the air—and panic had seized Karen's lungs in a vice grip.
Molly froze.
Karen squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep breath. "Just... don't, alright? Please."
"Why not?"
The question sounded wrong. Too quiet. Too small. Molly never sounded small.
"Because I—" Karen's throat was closing up. She forced the words out anyway, each one scraping against her vocal cords like sandpaper. "Because I fucked up, alright? I know I fucked up and I don't want you to—I mean, I—"
She couldn't finish. Couldn't make her mouth form the words she was thinking of because all of them were true and none of them were enough.
Silence.
Karen kept her eyes closed, kept her hands pressed to her temples, kept breathing even though it hurt. Waited for the sound of Molly's skirts retreating, for the tent flap to lift, for the final proof that she'd ruined this too.
"You think I'm going to leave."
Karen's eyes snapped open. She still wasn't looking at Molly—couldn't—but the words hit her like a slap anyway.
"You think I'm like him?"
"I didn't—that's not—" Karen's voice cracked. She started pacing again, more frantic now, three steps, turn, three steps back. "I don't think that, I just—I know I messed up and I know you were proud of me and now I've gone and ruined it and I don't—I can't—"
"Karen."
"—can't even look at you because I know what I'll see and I can't handle that right now, I can't handle you bein' disappointed in me because you're the only person who—who—"
"Karen, stop."
Molly's voice cut through the spiral, sharp enough that Karen finally actually stopped moving. Stood there in the middle of the tent, swaying slightly, arms wrapped around herself like she could physically hold all her broken pieces together.
"Look at me."
"No."
"Please."
The word was so soft, so careful, that it made something in Karen's chest crack open. She lifted her head slowly, reluctantly, and finally met Molly's eyes.
Molly wasn't looking at her like Dutch used to look at Molly.
Molly was looking at her like she was something precious. Something worth holding onto.
And that was somehow worse. That made the crack in Karen's chest split wider, made something hot and awful press behind her eyes, which just led to more panic because no way in hell is Karen going to cry in front of Molly.
"I don't understand what's happening here." Molly's hands were clasped in front of her, fingers twisted together tight enough that her knuckles had gone pale. She looked... uncertain. Afraid, almost. "I want to help you Karen, but—... But I mean... you won't let me near you, you won't talk to me proper, and I'm—I'm trying not to think it's because you're—because you've decided I'm—"
She cut herself off. Bit her lip. Looked away.
Karen's stomach dropped, and the sensation was so unexpected that she spent a moment just staring at Molly. Taking in her hunched posture, the way she made herself smaller when she was uncertain — a contrast to the way she'd stand tall around camp, fanning her face and exchanging small smiley looks with Karen when no one was watching.
"You think I'm..." Karen didn't finish, but she knew she didn't have to. Jesus, Dutch messed with Molly's head so bad she gets terrified the moment there's some distance. Fuck. Karen knew that.
Molly didn't respond. Didn't have to. The answer was written in every tense line of her body, in the way she was holding herself like she expected a blow.
And suddenly the shame wasn't the biggest thing in Karen's chest anymore. Suddenly there was something else—something that uncomfortably and unfamiliarly felt like being gutted, like watching Molly think for even a second that Karen would treat her the way Dutch had.
"I did it again." The confession burst out of Karen before she could stop it, raw and ugly and true. "I was sober for three months and tonight I—I don't even know why, I just—I don't know, I felt wrong and I drank and I kept drinkin' and now I'm—I've ruined everything and I'm so fucking sick of it I just—"
Her voice broke. It splintered into something that sounded dangerously close to a sob.
She clamped her mouth shut. Pressed her lips together hard. No. Not gonna cry. Don't cry. You don't cry, you've never cried in front of anyone, not even her, don't start now—
But her eyes were burning. Her throat was burning. And Molly was looking at her with something soft and aching in her expression, and Karen couldn't—she couldn't—
The first tear spilled over.
Then another.
Then she couldn't stop them.
"Shit," Karen choked out, scrubbing viciously at her face with her palms. "Shit, shit, I'm sorry, I don't—I don't do this, I don't—don't look at me."
"Come here."
"No—"
"Come here."
There was steel in Molly's voice now, the kind of command that didn't leave room for argument. And Karen was so tired—so tired of holding herself together, so tired of pretending, so tired of being strong when she felt like she was made of nothing but fault lines.
She stumbled forward. Molly met her halfway, arms coming up to wrap around Karen's shoulders, pulling her in close and tight.
Karen buried her face in Molly's neck and fell apart.
The sobs were ugly, wrenching things that tore out of her chest like they'd been buried there for years. Maybe they had been. Maybe she'd been holding them back her whole life, every disappointment and failure and moment of I'm not good enough packed down deep where no one could see.
But Molly could see now. Could feel Karen shaking against her, could hear every broken sound she was making, and she wasn't leaving. Wasn't pulling away. Was just holding her tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of Karen's head, fingers threading through her hair.
"It's alright," Molly murmured, her own voice choked with something that might've been tears too. "It's alright, love. I've got you."
"I'm sorry," Karen gasped out between sobs. "I'm so sorry, I tried, I really tried—"
"I know you did. You just had one bad night." Molly's fingers moved in slow, soothing strokes through Karen's hair. "One bad night after three months of fighting. That's not failing, that's just... that's just being human."
"But you were proud of me."
"I'm still proud of you."
Karen pulled back just enough to look at Molly's face, to search her expression for any sign of a lie. Found nothing but sincerity—raw and open and real.
"How?" The word came out small, confused, but still thick with tears. "How can you be proud of me when I just—"
"Because you're still here." Molly's hands came up to frame Karen's face, thumbs brushing away the tears still streaming down her cheeks. "Because you're not hiding this from me. Because you're letting yourself feel it instead of pretending everything's fine. That takes more strength than you know."
Karen wanted to argue. Wanted to insist that she was weak, that she'd proven tonight just how weak she really was.
But Molly was looking at her like she hung the moon. Like she was something valuable.
Like she was loved.
"I was scared you'd leave," Karen admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thought you'd look at me like I was... like I wasn't worth the trouble anymore."
"Never." Molly's thumb traced the curve of Karen's cheekbone, gentle and deliberate. "Do you hear me? Never. You could fall down a hundred times and I'd still be here. Because I love you, Karen, and that doesn't change just because you had a bad night."
Something in Karen's chest loosened. Not all the way—the shame was still there, the disappointment in herself, the knowledge that she'd have to start over—but it wasn't suffocating her anymore.
She let out a shuddering breath. Leaned into Molly's touch.
"I don't deserve you."
"Stop that," Molly murmured, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Either way, you're stuck with me anyway."
Karen huffed out something that might've been a laugh if it hadn't been so waterlogged with tears. "Lucky me."
"Exceptionally lucky." Molly guided Karen back down to the bedroll, settling beside her and pulling Karen's head into her lap. Her fingers returned to Karen's hair, stroking through the tangled blonde strands with infinite patience. "Now. Tell me what happened. Not the drinking—I mean before that. What made tonight different?"
Karen closed her eyes. Let herself sink into the feeling of Molly's hands in her hair, the warmth of her thigh beneath Karen's cheek. Tried to find words for the formless dread that had settled over her earlier.
"I don't know," she admitted finally. "I just... woke up feelin' wrong. Like somethin' bad was gonna happen. Like I was gonna lose—"
She cut herself off. But Molly understood anyway.
"Lose me?"
Karen nodded, feeling her face heat up despite Molly's comfort.
"You're not going to lose me." Molly's fingers traced small circles against Karen's scalp, and despite everything—despite the alcohol still sloshing through her system and the shame still clinging to her skin—Karen felt something in her start to relax. "I promise you that. Even when you're scared, even when you slip up, even when you're convinced you're not worth staying for—I'm staying. Understand?"
"Yeah," Karen whispered. Then, after a moments hesitation, quieter: "I love you."
"I love you too." Molly leaned down to press a kiss to Karen's temple. "And tomorrow, when you wake up with a headache and regrets, I'll still love you. And we'll figure out how to move forward together. Alright?"
Karen didn't trust herself to speak. Just nodded, her eyes already growing heavy, exhaustion finally catching up to her.
Molly kept stroking her hair. Kept murmuring soft reassurances that Karen only half-heard. Kept being exactly what Karen needed, even when Karen hadn't known how to ask for it.
The last thing Karen felt before sleep pulled her under was Molly's fingers scratching lightly at her scalp, the gentle pressure making her let out a sound somewhere between a sigh and something almost like a purr.
"There's my girl," Molly murmured, sounding amused and fond and utterly besotted all at once.
Addiction... isn't easy. Because that's what this is, an addiction. Everyone at camp's seen what's happened to Swanson, how he derailed from respected preacher of God to money-stealing jittery fool. Karen hasn't quite descended to his level yet — she doesn't plan on adding morphine to alcohol, anyway. But if she keeps on going like this, she might end up like him.
Karen pressed her cheek against Molly's thigh, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
Well. That's what the phrase "try again" is for, I guess.
So... that's what Karen's gonna do.