Archive of Our Own

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The first thing Nesta noticed upon getting off the plane was that Feyre was tipsy. Not just tipsy but absolutely blotto, a boneless kind of drunk that earned her the stink eye from flight attendants and luggage handlers alike as they exited the plane slowly and she clung tightly to Rhys’ arm for support.

Nesta, in Rhys’ wake, pointedly thanked them all with a pained smile. 

Absolutely unbelievable. 

“So how was first class?” she asked dryly once they’d disembarked, eyeing her younger sister’s swaying form. Rhysand had propped her up onto a pillar near the small airport’s baggage claim; Feyre had quickly become the main entertainment for a nearby gaggle of middle-school girls who weren’t even trying to hide their giggles about her.

“Amazing,” Feyre slurred, blissfully unaware. “I wanna do it again. They give you a hot towel and a blanket and a face mask and—Nes, did you know that booze is free in first class?”

The pitch of the girls’ giggles spiked behind them. Nesta rolled her eyes, then shot a poisonous glare over to their teenybopper audience. “I’m pretty sure airlines make up the difference with the cost of the ticket. Jesus, Feyre, how much did you have?” 

“Uh… a couple gin and tonics?” She grinned, glancing at Rhys, who let out a low chuckle.

“A couple, she says. She had three, then half of my negroni. My little lush,” he said fondly—and in that patronizing way Nesta both despised and had come to expect from him. He turned to her, then, with a smile that didn’t fully meet his eyes. “Happy to upgrade your seat on the way back, Nes, if you want to help keep her company. I know how protective you can be.”

Nesta flinched slightly, both at his tone and the familiarity of the offer, then pasted on an equally false smile. “Nesta,” she corrected. “And thanks, Rhys, but I think you can handle it. I have a date with a window seat and the newest Sellyn Drake novel.”

“Not with the mystery person who keeps making your phone buzz?” He arched a brow, all conspiratorial charm.

There was no chance in hell that Nesta would be discussing her electronic pen pal with him. She leveled her best don’t fuck with me glare at him, and Rhysand raised both hands in mock surrender. 

A klaxon sounded and the baggage claim carousel groaned to life. The trio lapsed into silence as they began to scan the sea of identical black and navy blue luggage sets for their bags. Feyre sagged heavily against her pillar while Rhys—perhaps in apology, or out of some misplaced sense of chivalry—rather gallantly gathered all of their checked items without asking and played luggage Tetris with them on a trolley, stacking them just so. 

“Nice bag,” he remarked, as he placed her flame-print carry-on on the top of the stack belonging to him and Feyre. Naturally, their luggage matched.

Nesta’s carry-on was tacky—but that was the point. “Stands out,” she replied with a shrug, nodding her thanks. “If you give me a second when we get outside, I’ll text Elain to let her know to come around from the cell phone lot—”

“No need,” Rhys interrupted cheerfully. “I got us a car so we could stay out of peoples’ hair. Elain and Lucien are probably losing their minds with party planning, after all. Need a ride?”

Nesta bristled. “… given she’s probably already here, I’ll stick with the original plan,” she muttered, shaking her head. She debated adding something more, something that properly expressed just how irritated she was that he’d changed their plans without warning anyone...  but unfortunately, they were in a public space and those middle schoolers didn’t need any free lessons in creative profanity. So she took a breath instead, adding, “I think Elain was banking on all of us going with her, you know—she said she’d picked up Feyre’s favorite snacks and was looking forward to meeting you on the way into Ithaca.”

Rhys leaned in slightly, which only made Nesta bristle further. “I have a jumbo pack of sour gummy worms and a bag of beef jerky in my backpack. I promise, Feyre’s covered. I also made us spa reservations for the afternoon, in case anyone made dinner plans—tell Elain that we can meet her later at the hotel for a drink, if they want, and sorry for the miscommunication.” He smiled, then ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Huh. I guess you’ll be needing your bag if you’re going with her.”

He plucked it neatly from the top of the pile and set it onto the ground with all the enthusiasm of a man handling a dead fish. Nesta’s light blue eyes met Rhys’ dark, nearly violet ones for a long moment, and he opened his mouth to speak. But Feyre beat him to the punch: “Ready to go, babe?”

Snapping his mouth shut, he turned away from Nesta and nodded at her. Nesta watched his face morph completely, from the neutral-to-annoyed expression he usually wore when she was involved into something softer, more affectionate. “Sure am, darling. Here, lean on me… let’s go get a car.”  They took a couple of steps before he turned to address Nesta one last time. “Give Elain our best!” he called cheerfully.

“Wait, is Elain not picking us up?” she heard Feyre inquire as they strode towards the rental counters.

“Dick,” Nesta muttered once they were out of hearing range. Sadly, not quietly enough: the middle schoolers erupted into a new chorus of giggles as she walked to the exit.

Elain somehow always managed to be a ray of sunshine—even while standing in the absolute cluster that was the airport pick-up area on that particular grey, drizzly afternoon. Nesta watched her face slowly contort in confusion, then fall as she realized it was only her eldest sister waiting, though. Silently, Nesta wished for Rhys to get a flat tire on the way to the spa. 

“What did I do to deserve that look?” she attempted to joke, climbing into the front passenger side and clicking the seatbelt buckle into place. 

“Oh, you didn’t… sorry!” she called back from outside. “I’m very happy to see you, just confused. Where are Feyre and Rhysand?” Nesta watched Elain cock her head to the side to try and see around the thick cement pillars flanking the exit doors. When neither of them appeared after another long moment, she slowly shut her trunk and walked back to the driver’s side door, to the consternation of everyone waiting behind her in line. “Did something happen to their baggage?”

“No, they’re here but…” 

How much to reveal? With a deep breath, Nesta decided to just rip off the bandage. “Rhys mentioned something about renting a car and taking Feyre to a spa this afternoon. I last saw them headed in the direction of the rental kiosks. He told me to thank you and that they’d see you later.” She offered Elain what she hoped was a sympathetic look.

“Oh. I wish they’d told me first,” Elain said a shade too calmly, like someone who was desperately trying not to sound annoyed by the unexpected change in plans. Not that Nesta blamed her; gas wasn’t cheap, and her baby sister’s continued, constant attachment to her creepy older boyfriend got very old, very fast. 

But it was in the way Elain blinked hard once, twice, and then shook her head before tartly muttering, “Well, I got snacks that I knew Feyre would like, but I guess we can eat them now,” did Nesta realize that something else outside of Rhys’ general inconsiderateness was off. Elain could be high-strung at times, but she wasn’t usually so... 

Petulant? Grouchy?

She pondered the right word to use as Elain rummaged around in the backseat for a reusable grocery bag, plopped it into Nesta’s lap, then merged out of the airport pick-up zone more aggressively than usual. Under the guise of wrestling with a package of sour gummy worms, Nesta took a moment to really take stock of Elain and her surroundings.  

Her sister’s little hatchback was messier than usual. Elain was always a little cluttered—she’d never been great at noticing stray mugs or leaf clippings left on the countertops—but her car wasn’t usually so full of stray paper coffee cups, crumpled receipts, or Amazon boxes for return. And she herself looked thinner than usual, with dark circles under her eyes; her normally bouncy curls looked dull and frizzy.

Nesta frowned. Something was definitely up.

“So…” she began hesitantly. “How’s life…?”

“Oh, things are good,” Elain chirped, a shade too quickly. “Lots to do, you know how it is. So—you found the sour gummy worms, but there’s also that one brand of jerky Fey likes—the expensive one—and some chocolate-covered coffee beans for you, plus the rosemary and black truffle potato chips she said Rhysand—” 

Nesta cut her off. “… are they?  Good, I mean?” 

Elain didn’t answer right away. And when she did—of all the reactions in the world—she laughed, in a sort of resigned way that managed to also be just this side of unhinged. “It’s… I…I feel like such a pill for even feeling like this,” she began, her nervous titter dying down. “I’m just a little stressed about some things, that's all. Nothing you need to worry about.”

“You’re my little sister,” Nesta said. “It’s my job to worry, Lainey.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to judge me for it.”

“Elain! I would never.”

Elain chewed her lower lip, and tapped the steering wheel with her fingers for a few seconds in beat with the terrible song playing softly on the car stereo. “It’s just that… planning this engagement party and the wedding has been a lot of work, you know?” 

Nesta nodded, staying quiet to give Elain space to breathe and compose herself—none of the Archeron sisters were particularly good at voicing their emotions. “And also, my committee members are breathing down my neck for more results to go into my qualifying exams, but I’ve been distracted with my research since the engagement, and… everything about the wedding has been so expensive. Like… really expensive.” She winced, then glanced over to Nesta.  

“I thought Lucien’s parents had a lot of money and wanted to help?” 

A long pause. “They do. And they have been. But Beron—Lucien’s father— is… um. He’s such an asshole, Nessie. And opinionated. And every decision we try to make is either too low class or too expensive.” 

Nesta blinked; Elain had already warned her and Feyre off of interacting with the man, but to hear Elain express her feelings about him so baldly was unusual. “Helene, Lucien’s mom, is wonderful and she’s been a good buffer. I don’t know how she put up with him as long as she did, but… anyway, we were trying to pay for as much of the wedding stuff as we could, but two grad student stipends don’t get you very far. And you know how it is: the moment someone opens their checkbook…”

“The more say they have in whatever they’re paying for,” Nesta finished, as some of the reasons for Elain’s stress became more immediately obvious. Memories of their own mother flashed in front of Nesta’s eyes: the degree of influence she’d had over every stitch of clothing they wore and their schedule from dawn to dusk, even what their eventual weddings would look like.

“They’ve definitely opened up their checkbook,” Elain confirmed, with a sigh. A long moment of silence followed as Elain changed lanes, before continuing, “Promise you won’t tell anyone else this, especially Lucien—I’ve been trying to keep a lot of this from him since he’s been writing this thesis, but… while Helene’s very sweet, she also has a tendency to just sort of… swoop in. And take over.” 

At that, Elain hazarded a quick glance over to the passenger seat and offered Nesta a faint smile. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore, though… it helped some just to get it off my chest. How are you?” 

Nesta blinked at the unexpected shift in topic. “I’m… good.” 

It was mostly true, anyway. While she thought about what else to add, she plucked a blue and orange worm from the bag, popped it in her mouth, and grimaced at the assault of high fructose corn syrup and citric acid. These were definitely a Feyre food. “Keeping busy. Went to a conference,” she added once she swallowed, ignoring the way the sourness made the glands under her tongue ache. “Nothing you’d be interested in, though.”

“Hey,” Elain chided softly. “I’m an academic too. Try me.”

Nesta snorted. “How do you feel about Donor Relations and Special Collections outreach?” 

She watched Elain wrinkle her nose with distaste, even as she kept her eyes on the road. “Point taken.”

The conversation drifted after that to various other topics: how Emerie and Gwyn were doing alone in their Boston apartment (“getting on one another’s nerves, like they love to do”), Elain and Lucien’s menagerie of pets and their garden, Nesta’s sketchy landlord. But the longer they chatted about nothing, the more her own quiet anxiety began to creep up, growing harder to ignore. 

Nesta knew what question was coming; historically, Elain was a bloodhound when it came to sniffing out even the smallest clues about Nesta’s personal life. And so, it was almost a relief when Elain just finally asked: “So what’s going on with that guy you’ve been texting…? Is that still a thing?”

Nesta groaned loudly. “Jesus. Not you too, Lainey.”

Elain raised one hand off the steering wheel in surrender. “I’m sorry! I just want my big sister to be happy, that’s all.”

“I can be happy without a partner, you know. It’s called ‘finding my own joy’.”

“I know you can, Nessie,” Elain reassured her in a softer voice. “And I’ll drop it. For now. But you should know that ‘finding my own joy’ sounds suspiciously like a self-help book.”

Nesta couldn’t help her chuckle. “It is one. Gwyn tried to get me to read it.”

Elain laughed—this time loudly and more brightly, sounding more like herself—and Nesta breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 

The building where Elain had dropped her off—The Argos—was a nice hotel, too large and modern-looking to be a proper bed-and-breakfast but too small and homey to compare to a Ramada or Holiday Inn. “Boutique,” Rhys had called it with faint, derisive amusement, before they’d left for upstate New York. She wondered whether Rhys had ever spent a night at a Holiday Inn in his life. 

Within minutes, though, any trepidation she might have had dissolved. Someone had handled check-in ahead of time—she’d practically been handed a keycard the moment she produced her driver’s license, before being ushered upstairs by a smartly-dressed valet to a corner room overlooking a prim, tree-lined street full of Victorian and Craftsman houses. The inside of the well-appointed room was all crisp white, hot pink, and polished wood accents—definitely something Elain would have chosen, then walked back on due to cost.

This was probably Helene’s doing, then. 

Letting her tacky carry-on drop unceremoniously to the floor, she collapsed onto the plush queen bed, closed her eyes, and lay there in lavender-scented, blessed silence. Here, there was no Feyre sneaking up on her or tiptoeing around the apartment; no knocks from random delivery people; none of the incessant buzzing from one of Rhys’ many cell phones lying about the place. (Seriously, though, why did he have so many? Who needed more than one cell phone?)

This was heavenly. Bliss, even. Briefly, she thought about filling the claw-foot tub up with bubbles and melting into the bath, but that required far too much effort. Instead, she sank deeper into the plush mattress and let sleep gradually overtake her. She never napped in the middle of the afternoon, but this was a vacation—she’d make an exception.

Two messages greeted Nesta when she awoke sometime in the middle of the night, feeling groggy and cotton-mouthed.  

Nesta left them both on read, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

After a long day of sightseeing, the next evening saw Nesta, Rhys, and Feyre staring down the carved wooden doors of the hotel’s conservatory. The little wrought-iron sign outside of the doors read, in looping white-against-black calligraphy, Archeron-Vanserra Engagement Party.

She snorted. Their party was in an honest-to-god conservatory. There was no way she or Lucien could have paid for this party.

“Ready?” Feyre whispered.

Nesta flicked her gaze down towards the large black bow that made up the bodice of Feyre’s extremely short and tight dress, then back up to her blue eyes. “I’m good, but you might want to pull that up a little bit.” 

“I think it looks nice,” Rhys remarked, eyeing his girlfriend up and down. Nesta ignored him.

“Really, Nes?” Feyre glanced down, then back up at her. “I think it’s okay. It’s supposed to hang a little low, and besides, Rhys gave it his seal of approval.” 

Of course he had. Nesta was pretty sure the dress wasn’t supposed to sag that way, but then again, what could she do?  They weren’t her boobs on display. Suppressing a grimace at her sister’s imminent wardrobe malfunction, she shrugged, then pushed open the doors herself, ushering Feyre and her boyfriend in ahead of her, then breathed in at the sight on the other side. 

“Oh, this is cute!” Rhys murmured into Feyre’s ear, making her giggle. 

Nesta rolled her eyes. It was beyond cute: whoever had chosen the venue and been put in charge of decorating had done a stunning job. Lush greenery hung down from the ceiling above, strung with fairy lights; potted palms and all manner of flowering bushes had been scattered throughout the room, scenting the room with their blooms.

In the center of the room was an unusually large gathering of redheads. Well… not large, per se, but there were four of them, which was more than Nesta had ever seen in one place at the same time. That, she supposed, was Lucien’s family. 

In the center of the knot of gingers stood an older woman in a lavender shift dress, holding court. Nesta watched her laugh merrily, her fingertips delicately covering her mouth. And this, she guessed, was Helene. Her flaming hair, artfully streaked with silver, was styled in a sleek chignon, and she demurely clutched the handle of an expensive-looking evening bag with both hands. 

Next to her, and greeting each guest like they were close, personal family, was an equally elegant older gentleman. But whereas Helene was the epitome of old-world elegance, his style was flashier. His gold brocade jacket and purple shirt gave his darker skin a warm glow, and his greying dreadlocks had been twisted artfully into a neat bun at the back of his head. Nesta canted her head, and regarded him curiously, with one eyebrow faintly raised. That, she assumed, was Beron but he didn’t look like an asshole.

She must have stared too long, though—catching Nesta’s eye, the man offered her a brilliant white smile and crooked a finger to beckon her over. She looked to both sides, hoping for a moment that he’d meant either Feyre or Rhysand, but both of them had already departed towards the bar. 

So, it was all her then. She sighed.

Steeling herself before stepping forward, Nesta put on her game face and inwardly repeated the mantra she said every morning at yoga: I am the rock against which the surf crashes. This too would pass.

“You must be one of Elain’s sisters!” the gold-jacketed gentleman boomed out happily to the room at large. Several faces turned their way, including those of the redheads. “Where y’at, sweetheart? Come here, let’s get a good look at you.”

Caught in the spotlight, Nesta was tempted to bolt, but plastered on an uncertain smile as several other people immediately swiveled around to eye her. “Uh,” she began, stepping over to them. “Hi. Yes. I’m Nesta, the older one. Feyre, the younger one, is at the bar.”

The gentleman laughed heartily. “You and Elain look so much alike!” He nudged his companion. “Helene—look, it’s Elain’s sister, the maid of honor!”

“I know, sweetheart,” the older woman said patiently, as she offered Nesta a warm smile and reached for her hand. Nesta let her take it, not knowing what else to do. “Nesta, dear, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Elain’s had nothing but wonderful things to say about you and your baby sister.”

They both spoke with strong, New Orleans accents. She blinked; Lucien generally didn’t. For some reason, she hadn’t expected that.

“This is Helion, and these are a few of my boys,” Helene added brightly, gesturing at the small gaggle of people that had gathered near her like overgrown ducklings. Nesta spied Lucien among them; they exchanged knowing looks that communicated something along the lines of save me on her end, and godspeed on his.

Helene seemed to take no notice, though. “My youngest and one of the guests of honor, Lucien, but I reckon you’ve already met him…” 

“Oh yes, we’ve definitely met,” Nesta laughed softly. “Hi, Lucien.”

“Hey, Nesta.” Lucien, looking ever rakish, gave her a cheery little wave, one she returned. “I’m going to go find out where Elain got off to.” He backed away from his family, but not before catching her eye and mouthing a single, silent word: run. 

Before she could respond, Helene dragged her a couple feet over to three other figures. The first—a gangly, bespectacled man with closely cropped auburn hair—wore a crimson sweatervest with a small green tree over the vest pocket, and a matching tie. 

Nesta narrowed her eyes, studying him. A Stanford man, it appeared. Interesting.

“This,” Helene continued, unaware of Nesta’s scrutiny, “is my fifth boy, Caspien, who flew all the way out here from California…”  

Caspien looked up, raised his dark eyebrows appraisingly at her, then offered a brief nod of acknowledgement before politely waiting until introductions were made so he could go back to his conversation. She almost snorted—but at least Nesta could work with polite silence.

“My third son, Damien, and his wife Philomena...”

A more solidly built man with shorn chestnut hair, matching stubble, and a navy windowpane suit had been the other half of Caspien’s conversation. In stark contrast to his younger brother, his classically handsome face gave the distinct impression of a newscaster or politician. Damien smiled at her warmly before standing and offering his hand to shake. 

“I see Elain’s not the only beauty in the family. Welcome!” 

The blonde woman in green next to him reminded her of Charlotte La Bouff from The Princess and the Frog, with her puff-sleeved cocktail dress and bouffant—but somewhat more queasy looking. But she still managed to offer a reserved smile and a soft, “Howdy,” which Nesta returned.

“How are you doing, Mina honey?” Helene asked, patting her on the shoulder sympathetically as she looked around the room. “Still feeling sick? And where’s Bran?”

“The restroom,” Caspien offered, while Damien said, “Getting Mina a ginger ale,” at the same time.

Helene narrowed her eyes, sensing something was afoot. “...right. Well, we’ll find him later. In the meantime, if any of you see him, tell him to be polite and come meet his new extended family.”

Without another word to them, she dragged Nesta to the next table over, where a sour-faced, elderly man sat straight-backed next to an attractive younger man who was absorbed with something on his phone. His smooth red hair was a dead giveaway, though: this was yet another Vanserra boy.

God, how many were there? Nesta flicked her glance towards her host, who had accepted a glass of champagne from a nearby waiter and was holding it out to Nesta. She took the offered drink. For a woman in what appeared to be her late fifties and having borne at least five children, Helene was in fantastic shape. 

“Finally, dearest, this is my husband, Beron, and my eldest boy—Eris. Beron, Eris, this is Nesta, Elain’s older sister and the Maid of Honor.” She smiled; Nesta noticed that Helene didn’t once look at the man that she was introducing who was supposedly her spouse, nor he at her. For that matter, Beron didn’t acknowledge Nesta’s presence either, and kept his focus on the glass of whiskey he was nursing. 

Very interesting.

“Well.” Helene huffed slightly. “I’m sure, Eris, that the two of you will be spending plenty of time together from now until the wedding, seeing as you’re Best Man and she’s the Maid of Honor.”

“Ah, yes, mother… all that time we’ll be spending together on the family Discord server. I note you’ve saved the best for last though,” Eris drawled smoothly, still scrolling on his phone. 

“Please, Eris,” Helene chided. “And put your phone away. Whoever you’re talking to can wait a few more hours before you respond.”

Nesta had just opened her mouth to make a remark of her own when Helion called, “Helene, we found him!” from across the room, effectively diverting her host’s attention. Helene glanced back, then between them, harrumphed softly, then politely excused herself, citing something about errant son emergencies under her breath.

Once she left, Eris finally glanced up, assessing Nesta over the rim of his tortoiseshell glasses with sharp eyes the color of maple syrup. She stared back, curious but a little wary. If nothing else, he was well-dressed; her eyes drifted down to his light gray suit and the purple, silk tie looped around his neck before she cleared her throat. “I knew Lucien had a large family but I didn’t expect five of you.”

Eris huffed a soft laugh, set his phone aside, then picked up his own glass and took a sip. “There used to be seven, but that’s not really a story for an engagement party.” Unlike his mother, his accent wasn’t strong, though it was definitely more present than Lucien’s.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Yikes—she wasn’t about to touch that one with a ten foot pole. Fishing around for another topic, she tacked on: “So… named after goddess of discord, huh?”

“What can I say? I like to shake things up.” He offered her a sharp-edged smirk.

“That was Helene’s doing,” Beron said derisively, startling both Nesta and Eris, both of whom glanced over to him. And then, as if he’d never spoken, he settled back into his chair and went back to his whiskey.

Nesta didn’t know what to do with that. Remembering Elain’s earlier warning, she turned back to Eris, opting not to rise to Beron’s bait. “Well, Eris… what do you do?”

“I like to tell people I’m a lifelong learner. Yourself?” 

She snorted. “What on earth does that even mean?”

He took a second sip of his drink before setting the tumbler down. “Means I’m a student, but working on an obscure enough PhD that it’s not worth going into. Like Elain, but down at Tulane. Yourself?” He huffed a slight laugh. “How far afield are you from the great state of New York?”

“Not nearly as far as you,” she remarked with a faint smirk of her own. 

Something was nagging at her. Cocking her head to the side, Nesta studied Eris. Something about him seemed exceptionally familiar, beyond even the mention of Tulane—after all, Lucien’s whole family was wealthy and from Louisiana, and plenty of people went to Tulane. “My sister, her boyfriend, and I just flew up from—”

“Nessie!” Elain had snuck up behind her. Nesta, startled, nearly dropped her drink. Glancing over to the table’s occupants, Elain nodded once to Beron, who ignored her, then added, “Sorry, Eris, I need to borrow my sister for a few minutes!”

He snorted. “I wouldn’t dare stand between you two, Elain. Nice meeting you, Nesta. Let’s play later.”

“Uh—likewise?” she asked, taken aback by the flirtatious phrasing.

It was as Elain was leading her away by her elbow Nesta figured it out. A wealthy male getting a PhD at Tulane, with a younger brother who was getting married… and she’d seen that amethyst jacquard tie before, in a photo with a floral green one and some hideous autumn-colored abomination. 

Oh, shit. 

Eris Vanserra was Bad Lay.

Dinner, while long, was excellent, though Nesta supposed it shouldn’t be much of a surprise, given who had organized the event. Bran, the final brother, was an excellent conversationalist; and thankfully, Rhys had spotted Beron and left to chat business for a good while, meaning Feyre acted more like herself for the latter half of the meal.

But as the final crumbs of dessert had been cleared away and smartly-dressed caterers brought out polished silver coffee pots and little china cups, it was with a sinking feeling that she realized what the evening was shifting into. Her fears were confirmed when someone else dragged a mic and stand into the center of the solarium. It was time for speeches, and her stomach twisted.

Nesta hated public speaking. 

Thankfully, however, Helene was the one who first approached the mic.

“Thank you all for coming all this way to attend Lucien and Elain’s engagement party!” she began sunnily, pausing while the party applauded. “I just wanted to give a little toast to the bride and groom—I promise we won’t take more than a minute of your time…”

And thus began the extremely lengthy list of people toasting to Lucien and Elain, who both sat still and smiling, as if by remaining motionless they could avoid being perceived. Helene and Helion gushed effusively about the light they brought to one another; two of Elain’s bridesmaids, a set of identical twins, reminisced about teaching  Elain to bake their first year as grad students, and how their then-neighbor Lucien would always come around to test their culinary experiments. Jurian, a groomsman, and his girlfriend, Vassa, waxed reminiscent about furniture shopping when they all became housemates, and about the hideous pink couch they’d all fallen in love with.

Even Beron stood creakily and in a surprisingly strong voice espoused the virtues of trust and fidelity while staring daggers at his wife and her companion. And finally, Eris gave a very off-the-cuff sounding speech about instant connections with strangers and taking leaps of faith, which made her grin slyly to herself. He really had no idea who he’d been talking with this whole time.

Finally, the spotlight landed on Nesta herself.

She froze like a deer in headlights for several long seconds before Feyre elbowed her in the ribs. One table away, Elain gave her two thumbs up and a bright, if teary smile. There was absolutely no escaping this.

So, Nesta cleared her throat, stood up, and accepted the microphone with the same gravitas one might have if offered a live grenade. The mic squealed loudly once before she spoke: “Hi. I’m, ah, Nesta—Elain’s older sister and Maid of Honor. And if you’ve ever heard any stories about me from Elain or Lucien, then you probably already know that I’m not much of a public speaker, which is why making this speech tonight is such a big deal: because aside from my sisters, there are very few people I’d do this for.”

A small ripple of laughter spread through the room, loosening her shoulders a bit. So far, so good.

“Now, I could stand here and gush about how much I love my sister and how wonderful she is and why, but if you’ve spent more than five minutes with her, you already know. Elain is warm and patient—basically, everything I’m not.” Another light laugh echoed across the room; she hazarded a glance at Elain, who was now blushing furiously, with her head against Lucien’s shoulder. “And she’s also brilliant, caring, and so much braver than people give her credit for. And I swear, she’s also psychic: she seems to guess everything right before it happens, and is always the first to congratulate people with good news or check up on people when bad news comes around.”

Nesta hesitated, then, brushing her thumb against the cool metal handle of the microphone to ground herself. “When she told me about Lucien three years ago, I swore she was exaggerating—I mean, I’d never heard her speak like that about anyone. No one could possibly be that charming, right?” She shot Lucien a dry look; he shot back a pair of finger guns. “Turns out, he’s even better than she described.”

Laughter again—especially from Lucien’s mother and brothers. Relief uncoiled the knot in her chest.

“He matches her,” she went on, tone softening now. “He cares just as much, and somehow manages to keep up with her, even when she’s running circles around everyone else. They’re both the life of every party they go to, and both just brilliant. I mean, botany and ornithology? You nerds.” She let the laughs ripple around her one last time, before moving into her closing lines: “Anyway, I just think that’s the rarest and best thing anyone can ask for in life: to meet someone who doesn’t just adore you, but meets you where you are. So, cheers to that and to you both—for finding something real, holding on tightly, and never letting go.”

Nesta raised her glass, her cheeks blushing a faint pink. “To Elain and Lucien.”

The room echoed her toast; glasses clinked, applause rose, and Nesta sat quickly back down, heart hammering but relieved.

The party had gone on a little longer than Nesta had anticipated after the speeches, and by the time most of the crowd had left, she was more than ready to bolt back to her room. For she had an errand to take care of—Eris had texted her again after the speeches were concluded, and she had the perfect response lined up and ready to send. But she waited until she was back in the safety and solitude of her room to text him back, where no nosy sisters or random other people could see.

There was nothing particularly special about the photo she’d snapped of him during dinner: it was a hurried, quick shot of just Eris, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and checking his phone, ignoring the antics of his brothers around him. The purple tie dangled in front of him, catching the light from his phone and highlighting the intricate jacquard weave; a few strands of bright red hair had come loose from his ponytail and framed his face.

Pulling up his number with a snort (even knowing his name now, “Bad Lay” would never cease to be funny), she texted it to him, along with a single, short statement.

Almost instantly, three little dots appeared at the bottom of the screen; within thirty seconds she had a full response. By the time a full minute had passed, she had several more:

Amused, she set her phone down and padded over to the minibar, choosing an expensive-looking bottle of gin before settling back down on her bed cross-legged and popping it open. The messages continued to pour in:

She moved to tap out her response when those three little dots appeared on the screen one final time:

His response was immediate.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

To say Eris had experienced a fitful night after Lucien’s engagement party was an understatement. 

Receiving those texts from Providence, his… penpal? Anonymous confessional? Actually, it was too dangerous to put a label to it and it didn't matter anyway—the point was, receiving those texts had knocked the wind right out of him. And he hadn't exactly planned on asking Providence out, but she’d left him stewing in his room immediately following the party and it was the first shocking thing he could think of in terms of payback. The fact that they'd agreed, though, was the second shock of his night and, well. That had destroyed any remaining chances he had at sleep.

He’d scanned those texts over and over, that night. And gods, he realized, in the pale light of the morning, he looked like a madman and a very sad one, to boot. He was nearly 37, and hadn't responded in such an undignified fashion since Cresseida del Mar had agreed to go to prom with him his senior year.

It was strange, watching the sun rise through the leaves shading his hotel room window. No, not strange, he amended: auspicious. Like the world had fundamentally shifted underneath him, and he wasn’t sure how to regain his footing. And of all the stupid things in the world, it had shifted because of a text message.

He snorted into his first cup of coffee of the day. The whole thing was like a terrible 90s romantic comedy come to life.

But yet, despite its ridiculousness, it was all he could think about: Providence, whoever she was, had been at Lucien’s party the night before, not told him she was going, and called him out over text about his tie. (Admittedly, he had done a last minute switch, and deserved to be called out. The green one was miles better, but his mother had insisted on the family wearing purple even though the wedding wasn’t for another 6 months.) But that still meant that he had met her in person somewhere in that overfull conservatory, and she hadn’t revealed herself. The not-knowing was driving him nuts.

And so once again, with a lawyer’s mind, he ran through the list of possible suspects:

First were his brothers, specifically Bran, the world's most stereotypical middle child. But for all Bran’s antics over the years, he’d never been one for sustained pranks. The longest he’d managed was a weeklong stretch wherein he’d convinced Lucien he was adopted… when Lucien was four. As for the rest of his brothers, they didn't care for pranks and not a single one of them could care less about Eris’ love life.

It probably also wasn’t one of the twins that was in Elain’s bridal party, though they were rather pretty. Those two had stuck pretty closely to Elain and her other bridesmaid, and were otherwise as quiet as churchmice. He could hardly picture either one of them in a seedy New Orleans bar, much less texting a number scrawled hastily onto a bathroom door. Also improbable was Elain’s great-aunt Ripley, though—to his chagrin and his brothers’ ceaseless amusement—she’d called him “a strapping young ginger” and wished out loud she was forty years younger. She had to be his father’s age, at least, and if Beron’s inability to use a cell phone was any indication, a months-long text dalliance was unlikely.

His leading suspect was Elain’s sister. The older one in the modest purple dress, that is, not the younger one in the tacky black and white bow… thing that spent the night glued to Rhysand McKnight’s side. Nesta, she'd introduced herself. He hadn’t learned much about her during dinner outside of some strongly held opinions about specific book series, but from their brief conversation prior to dinner, she appeared sharp-minded, and could pick out the origins of his name. All the other facts checked out too: two younger sisters, one getting married and the other with a creepy older boyfriend; the general air of ‘don’t fuck with me’; and she thought Lucien was a nerd. Eris considered all of this, glanced down at his phone—7:16 am—and shot a text to his youngest brother:

The reply came instantly.

A slow grin spread on his face. God, he was good. 

He minimized his texts without answering, though—as he contemplated his victory, his phone buzzed a second time. This time it was his mother:

He sighed. Stupid thin walls, of course she'd heard him pacing.

Eris sighed again, more deeply this time. 

He grimaced. Beron’s idea of ‘special’ usually involved a country club, hunting trophies, and the lingering miasma of expensive cigar smoke soaked into every surface.

He glanced at the clock again: 7:53 am, might as well get ready. Goodness knew he was tired and probably looked like ten miles of bad road, but unlike certain folks (his siblings, chiefly) he would never, ever show up somewhere looking like he'd rolled out of bed, no matter how exhausted he was.

The café around the corner—University Crossing, because everything here apparently needed to have ‘Cornell’ or ‘University’ or some other reference to Higher Education in the name —was one of those trendy, minimalist joints full of blonde wood, chalkboard paint, and plants growing out of pyrex glassware. He hated it on principle from the moment he stepped foot inside. But unfortunately, the espresso was excellent: the skinny emo with bleached hair and a facial tattoo manning the bar had made him one hell of a flat white, which he sipped upon while nervously jiggling his leg under the table and cursing himself for the habit at the same time. 

He should have cancelled, he thought, not for the first time that morning. He didn't like the way Providence and the very thought of Providence had gotten under his skin, and loathe as he was to admit it, Eris was nervous. Finding companionship had never been difficult for him when he was in the mood for it (the sole exception to this rule being Mor, but she was another ball of wax entirely), but for some reason, this felt… different. Higher stakes. Whoever he was waiting for, he wanted them to like him, which was disconcerting. 

Generally, and up until recently, he couldn’t have given two shits about what anyone thought of him. His life had been just fine when it revolved around publication schedules and academic conferences and finding ways to dodge both Beron and his mother’s situationship. Of course, he had friends, and he wasn’t a monk; but everything was so much easier to parse when it was tidy and emotionally disconnected. Romance had never been in the plans.

And it wouldn’t be in the plans anytime soon, either, if he didn’t get his leg under control, the voice inside his head chided.

Willing himself to calm the fuck down, he looked at the clock, then at the door. Nine-fifty; he’d gotten there ten minutes early, a deliberate choice. Not early enough to be seen as overeager, but instead punctual, and considerate. As he waited, he people-watched: an elderly couple speedwalked by the large front window in matching Cornell sweatshirts and visors. They were followed a few minutes later by a woman around his age who stopped in to grab coffee, wearing expensive athleisure and holding a pomeranian. Despite its glittery collar and matching bow, the dog was—regrettably—adorable. 

Ten o’clock came and went. He found himself on high alert, but the door remained stubbornly closed. On impulse, he checked his phone: nothing from Providence, but the family discord was now full of photos of their hike, which he idly scrolled through, and heckling from his brothers and Helion for not attending. By ten after, his pulse was racing and a sour feeling had crept into his stomach. Had she actually stood him up? The thought stung, more deeply than he expected. But just as he was debating how long was socially acceptable before he called it and left, a tall figure with golden brown hair stepped in, blinked a few times in the relative dimness of the café, looked up from her phone— 

And finally, finally settled her gaze on him. You, it seemed to say almost accusingly. Her icy blue stare made him sit up a little straighter, like he was in parochial school again. Except instead of Sister Margaret Ruth staring at him imperiously from the front of the room, it was the maid of honor from the night before.

Just as Eris had suspected. Hot damn, he was good. 

He raised a hand in greeting; she returned the gesture with a brisk nod, fired off a quick text, then began to make her way over, past a handful of students nursing coffee over medical school textbooks and a few folks in business casual talking about AI. Out of habit, Eris stood and pulled out her chair; he caught a murmured something from her along the lines of, “Such manners!” before returning to his own seat.

And then, there was silence. She studied him thoughtfully; he did the same. 

Nesta was less buttoned down than the night before: that morning, she’d thrown her hair into a neat crown braid and wore a lightweight sweater and grey buttoned skirt that went below her knees. It was very librarian-core, or whatever the kids were saying these days. (It was also a style that rather suited his own, he was pleased to note, though he kept that thought to himself.) He did a quick scan for any other distinguishing features—she wasn’t wearing a wedding or engagement ring (a relief), didn’t appear to have a parole anklet on (an even bigger relief), looked stone-cold sober (less a relief than a requirement at 10am), and didn’t appear to be open carrying (not a dealbreaker, exactly, but definitely a nice to have).

Okay, he nodded to himself. He could work with this.

“So. Eris,” she greeted after a minute or so. She must have decided he was worth sticking around for too; he noticed she finally had looped the strap of her bag across the back of the chair rather than keeping it on her lap, as she had been. 

“So, Nesta. It was Nesta, right?”

A faint grin pulled the corners of her lips upwards. “Good memory.”

Eris tapped the side of his temple knowingly, then decided to take a gamble. “Part of an academic’s toolkit. Besides… I always make it a point to remember two things in life: good coffee and beautiful women.”

Watching the strangled expression that passed over her face was well worth the hit his pride took in making such a corny joke. Nesta looked stunned for a split second, opened her mouth to retort, promptly closed it, then asked: “Is that how you usually greet people?  If so… well, it’s been real, but I think we’re better as penpals.” 

“God, no. I’d never seriously attempt that line, let alone on you, give me some credit.” She raised one dark eyebrow skeptically, clearly disbelieving that statement, and he watched her fingers slowly twitch towards her purse straps. “Or don’t, but at least let me buy you brunch before you run off. You came all this way.”

Nesta, narrow-eyed, scrutinized both him and his explanation. For one brief, tense moment, he worried that he’d played his hand too early, but then she surprised him: “Fine. But no more of that, and also, you’re paying.” She bit her lower lip in thought, then added, “Also, I’m telling Emerie and Gwyn what you just said.”

Eris raised his auburn eyebrows. “Emerie of the sawed off shotgun?”

“The very same.” She eyed him as she tapped a quick message out on her phone, then set it face-down on the table. It buzzed within seconds, then again, but to Nesta’s credit, she kept her focus on him.

“So do I pass muster?" he joked.

He watched her shoulders relax ever so slightly. “I suppose you'll do, though you have an accent,” she said. “I didn’t expect that.”

“I hear that happens when you live most of your life in one place,” he teased. “Does it make you feel any better to know you do too?” 

Nesta snorted lightly with amusement. “Do I.”

“You do,” he nodded. “Upstate New York?”

She shook her head. “Northern Pennsylvania.”

“Ah well. It’s all relative.”  He offered her a grin, which seemed to put her a little more at ease. Somewhere in the background, the bell on the door jangled; Nesta’s phone vibrated again. “So why all the secrecy surrounding today?”  

“I just don’t like people knowing my business—” She was cut off by the arrival of a waiter, yet another hipster but this time with two full sleeves of ink. With an appraising glance across the table at him, Nesta studied the menu, then ordered a mimosa to drink. 

“Better make that the carafe,” Eris smirked, rising to the challenge. 

“Big spender,” she mouthed at him, clearly amused that he didn’t argue. He shrugged mildly.

Once the waiter had left, though, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “I remember what you did to Rhysand, and came prepared.” He winked. “But come on—who’s going to get into your business all the way up here?”

“You, for one.” Her phone rattled the table yet again; this time she picked it up, rolled her eyes at whatever message she’d gotten, then turned off vibrate.

Eris raised his hands in mock surrender. “All right, who aside from me.”

She snorted. “Don’t read too deeply into it, Eris. I really do just like having privacy. When you grow up with two sisters, it’s a luxury.”

He couldn’t help his answering smirk. When he was growing up, he'd have killed for only two younger siblings to wrangle. “I’m sorry, have I mentioned that I had six brothers? I understand a lack of privacy better than most.” 

Nesta laughed again as their drinks arrived. He found he rather liked the sound, dismissive as it was; her voice had a slight raspiness to it that was definitely doing something for him. “Really quick—I know I shouldn’t pry into your business, but I do need to ask a few standard getting to know you questions.” She lofted a curious brow at him, but remained silent, prompting him to continue. “Did Bran or one of the others put you up to this?”

“You brother from The Van(serra) life?” She gave him an incredulous look. “No. Has he done that before?”

“He’s tried. And six brothers, need I remind you. I’ve seen everything.”

She shook her head slowly.

“Great. And can you at least assure me that you’re not secretly married?”

Nesta held her bare left hand up in response. “What do you think?”

“And this isn’t a sting of some sort, officer? Because I assure you, I don’t have a criminal record beyond jaywalking.”

“My God. Are you always this infuriating?” she asked, rolling her eyes. He thought, however, that he could hear a hint of humor in her voice. “You sound like a lawyer.”

Eris sat back in his chair and gave her the most smug expression he could muster, the one he’d use on his siblings growing up whenever he was right and they weren’t. “Technically, I am a lawyer.”

Nesta sighed. “Lucky me.”

They were halfway through their meal—him, eggs Benedict and her, a bowl of syrup and whipped cream with a waffle in there somewhere—when Eris picked up his half-full mimosa and brandished it like he was about to give a speech.

“Well, Providence, I think we should toast good fortune—seeing as you haven’t run screaming yet—and to new beginnings.”

“We already did the second one last night, during your speech," Nesta observed wryly, picking her own glass up but taking a sip instead of clinking. “Which I notice you’re now referencing, very subtle.”

She had him there. “Fine, then I propose we play a game instead. An icebreaker we played in law school.”

“What, twenty questions with alcohol?” She raised both eyebrows at this. "Trying to get me to spill my secrets, Vanserra?”

He offered a serene smile in her direction. “In vino veritas, dear Providence.”  He could have sworn he saw her cheeks flush at that, and felt inordinately pleased with himself. Excellent. “It’s called Desert Island. What are the five things you would take with you if you knew you’d be stranded somewhere remote?”

At that, he hefted the carafe and offered to refill her glass. Nesta held out her champagne flute, looking faintly bemused. “I'm boring. You already know me. The important parts, anyway.”

“I know you as a texting penpal. This is a date, Providence, keep up.”

Her gaze shot up to him, momentarily alarmed, and Eris marvelled—had it actually not occurred to her that this was more than a friendly meet-up between internet pals?  But she only regarded him for a few moments before casting her eyes down to the table below in thought.

“I suppose it is. Okay…” she mused, ere long, settling back into her chair and taking a sip of her drink. Eris took the opportunity to top off his glass too. “Five things. Let’s see.” She began to tick off items one by one, using her fingers. “One, a flint and steel—I don’t trust waterproof matches, and you’d get a lot more mileage out of it. Two, a mylar safety blanket. Three, a knife…”

“Providence.”

“Hm?” She looked up.

“Usually people choose things they enjoy, or something that represents them.  Like a book or a game or a favorite album,” he explained patiently. 

“Oh.”  He felt something warm a little inside at the deepening of her blush. “Too many episodes of Man Vs Wild with Feyre growing up,” she muttered, looking away. “I need to think, then, you go first.”

Eris leaned back into his own chair and studied her for a long moment. “All right. One, a chess set.”

Nesta raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to play against yourself on a desert island?”

“Some of my best games have been against myself.”

The corners of her lips twitched. “Unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably good at chess, that’s right.” He raised his glass in a silent toast. “Two, a copy of The Brothers Karamazov—”

“Tracks.”

“And three, Dune.”

Nesta, it seemed, had finally lost her internal battle with composure and laughed out loud at that. Eris savored the sound. “All right, I didn’t take you for the science fiction type.”

His answering smile was warm and a touch self-deprecating. “I love science fiction. But we’ve only talked logistics about Russian ethnographies which, by the by, thank you for sending those. Four is a tossup between the Beatles’ White Album and Led Zeppelin 4, and Five is Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.”

Nesta set her glass down onto the table with a soft clink. “So what I’m getting out of this is that you’re a pretentious nerd.”

Eris sketched a bow while seated. “Guity as charged, though Stairway to Heaven is a classic for good reason, you know.”

“And you're an old man, to boot.” Her lips twitched.

He waved her off dismissively. “Your turn.”

"All right…” she trailed off for a moment and tapped the side of her cheek unconsciously. “For a game, I’d bring Clue.”

Eris snorted. “Is this a subtle way of telling me to watch my back?”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed lazily, like a Siamese cat’s. “There’s a candlestick in between us, Vanserra, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

He really shouldn’t have found his hypothetical murder as alluring as he did, and almost said so but caught himself, swerving instead into: “Duly noted. Continue.”

“For music, anything by Phoebe Bridgers…” At his confused expression, she added, “Right, your taste in music is about 40 years behind the rest of the world's.”  She smirked, and tilted her head to the side. “Do you know who Fleetwood Mac is? What about Spotify?”

Eris scoffed. “This isn’t about me, Providen–”

“You know you can call me Nesta, right? Seeing as we’ve met in person now and are apparently on a date.”

He considered that for a moment. “Yes.”

Nesta tilted her head to the side. “So why don’t you?” 

He shrugged. “Providence suits you. I don’t make the rules.”

Her smile turned wicked. “Does that mean I should call you Bad Lay then?” she asked in a velvet  tone far too deliberately sultry for 10:30 am on a weekday. Combined with that rasp, it was definitely doing it for him.

He kept that to himself, though, and regarded her evenly, picking up and draining the last dregs of his mimosa. “The two names are apples and oranges. Providence is a place. You could substitute it for anywhere: Milwaukee, for example, or Dallas, God forbid. Bad Lay, however, implies that you have the knowledge to make that kind of description up.”

She was clearly searching for a comeback, something sharp and potentially lethal but he cut her off at the pass with a lazy, practiced drawl: “The offer is open if you ever did want to find out for yourself, Nesta.” And then, as if to punctuate that thought, he winked at her over the rim of his glasses.

She sputtered at that, clearly caught off guard. “Someone’s forward on a first date.”

“Just putting it out there, though I have no expectations.” He smiled. “Numbers three through five, though, milady?”

“Milady. Jesus. All right…” she straightened and studied the faux marble table for a second. “For movies, Legally Blonde.” 

“Legally Blonde.” He covered his mouth to stop the incredulous laugh that threatened to escape. “That's unexpected."

“Is it?" She challenged. “It’s a story about female empowerment, and if you must know, I too wanted to be a lawyer for a long time before I learned about the skin books. And speaking of books, The Bell Jar and Twilight.”

Eris was about to respond with an anecdote about his own JD experience, but the last choice stopped him cold. “Sylvia Plath I can accept, but… Twilight?” he repeated slowly, unsure he’d heard her correctly. “The books about the love triangle with a sparkling vampire and a werewolf in Seattle?”

The smile she gave him lit up her face, as well as the whole café. For a moment, he found himself absolutely distracted—fuck. “One, Forks,” she retorted. 

“Forks is a stupid name for—”

“Two, Twilight is to make a fire with, since you didn’t let me have matches or tinder or anything else useful.” She took a final, decisive sip of her mimosa, then held out her empty glass for a refill. “You seriously didn’t think I wasn’t going to add one survival item in there?”

It was the first time in recent memory he’d laughed quite so hard.

They’d lingered in the café for another hour, well after the carafe had been emptied, their plates cleared, and a follow-up round of coffee nearly gone. Nesta had leaned forward and commented that the servers looked anxious for them to leave; Eris had tipped them a frankly ludicrous amount out of both guilt and gratitude. Without making any real plan to go somewhere specific, they’d begun wandering the Historic District aimlessly, talking about everything and nothing, neither of them seeming to want to call it a day yet. 

At one point, they’d wandered into an antique store, whose contents Nesta promptly declared were haunted. 

“That thing? Has committed crimes,” she commented under her breath, gesturing to a porcelain doll in full Victorian mourning that stared through them with vacant, glassy eyes. 

Eris thought back to some of the antiques from the house in which he grew up, flipped over the price tag, balked, and then turned to her. “Is that a veiled hint that you want it? Because it’s not cheap, Providence.”

Nesta looked alarmed. “No!” 

“Not even to curse Rhysand?” he prompted, gently picking the thing up and waggling it in Nesta’s direction.

“Careful, don’t bre—” Nesta hissed before pausing to consider what he’d offered. “Wait, you’d help me curse someone you don’t even know?”

“Given he’s friends with my father? Absolutely.” He replaced the doll on its shelf and, for good measure, shifted it so that it faced away from them. Just in case.

The crack in Nesta’s wall widened ever so slightly, though he couldn’t parse the expression she shot his way. In any case, she recovered quickly. “We can do better than a haunted doll for that.” 

A nearby bookstore down the street also proved entertaining. There, they both murmured comments about its aggressively cutesy farmhouse aesthetic and inspirational tchotchkes. It was nice, finally getting to say the things he usually kept to himself. Hell, Nesta’s opinions were even more sharp-edged than his own, which was a fantastic change of pace.

“What about this for Rhysand?” Nesta asked, holding up a sign made of reclaimed wood. On it, in loopy modern calligraphy, was stencilled “Not all those who wander are lost”, set between simply rendered graphics of distant mountains and pine trees.

Eris regarded it critically, then shook his head. “That’s from Lord of the Rings. Don’t do that to Tolkein, get the one that says Live, Laugh, Love.”

“Oh, that’s evil,” she cackled, setting it back down next to a shelf of Wisdom from a… mugs. “And you’re such a nerd.”

He filed the image of her laughing face away.  Why, he wasn’t sure, but for some reason it felt important to remember that moment.

A little further down the tree- and flowerbox-lined row of shops, she’d finally shown him the barrage of text messages she’d received from Gwyn and Emerie over the course of the day. Gwyn had asked a number of thoughtful, reasonable questions: “How are things going?”, “What’s his favorite color/kind of pasta/dog breed?”, or “Do you need us to call and fake an emergency?” Emerie, on the other hand, had taken a more straightforward approach: several long, unbroken strings of eggplant emojis.

“I think she’s trying to send you a message,” he quipped.

“Yes,” she agreed tartly. “That she’s a goddamn nuisance.”  

But despite her initial stoniness, it was clear she’d warmed up to him over brunch and their shopping expedition and began to speak a little more freely. Eris learned that she’d gone to Harvard for her master’s but didn’t usually tell people because they got weird about it; that Emerie and Gwyn were her former roommates from undergrad, and that they’d all moved to Boston together in solidarity into a house bought with Emerie’s ridiculous tech salary. He’d even learned that she didn’t like confined spaces or swimming, and that her favorite thing to eat was Devil’s Food Cake. And though he chiefly listened, she’d asked him a few things, and he ended up sharing parts of his own life as well: about his brothers and his rescue dogs; how he did a stint in model UN throughout high school and college; how much he loved a good fireplace and glass of whiskey; and how he’d actually gone to Vanderbilt and not Tulane for undergrad but moved back home afterwards because he missed home more than he thought.

“Would you ever leave New Orleans again?” she’d asked him, shielding her eyes from the early afternoon sun just outside the bookstore. Under one arm was a Sellyn Drake paperback with the receipt sticking out, flapping in the late spring breeze.

“Depends.”  His eyes scanned the horizon for their next destination. “For the right job or person, sure.”

She laughed. “So you do plan on emerging from the cocoon of academia!”

“I’ll run out of degrees sooner or later,” he quipped. “That or funding… God, can you even imagine…” 

He trailed off to look at their surroundings. They’d wandered rather far from the café and their hotel by that point, stopping at whatever looked interesting along the way, but the shops had more or less dwindled away into houses, small offices, and art galleries. To his surprise, it was approaching 2pm; pretty soon, he’d need to turn around and start heading back, which was a loathsome thought. 

But then something caught his eye at the end of the street and he did a double take at the sign.  Surely, it couldn’t have said what he thought it did—

He read it again. Gourdtopia. 

By God, it did.

“Can you even imagine…?” Nesta asked, prompting him after extended silence.

“New topic,” he said, changing course. “Providence, I have a very important question to ask you.” 

She was thumbing through her new book and looked up. “Yeah?”

“Do you trust me…?”

Her bright eyes grew only mildly alarmed. “That question doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“Well, I think I found our next stop,” he drawled, amused, already walking towards it. “And I promise to make it worth your while.”

“Gourdtopia,” Nesta said flatly a few minutes later, staring up at the sign hanging off of the wooden building before shifting her disbelieving gaze to him. “Eris Vanserra, you have got to be joking.”

“I am deadly serious,” Eris returned, nodding gravely as if to back up his point. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life.” 

She looked as though she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or flee; either reaction, in his opinion, would be entirely justified. He’d have a hard time with that decision too. “Did you plan this?”

“Not in the slightest. But nothing says ‘leaps of faith with a stranger’ like decorative squash.” He gestured to the display in the window: gourds of all shapes and sizes and colors were arranged, some painted, others delicately punched through like tin lanterns, and others still brimming with a variety of felted animals. A small specimen at eye level boasted a felted wool llama behind the glass, which he gestured to like a game show host. 

She let out an incredulous laugh. “You really just referenced your party speech again. You’re very humble, you know.”

“I did, and I am.” At that, he gestured gallantly forward, towards the building’s wooden steps and the oak door bearing ‘Come on in!’ (also painted on a gourd). “Look at that hospitality, Providence. How can you say no to this?”

“Easily,” she deadpanned.

The ghost of a grin turned the corners of his mouth upwards; she was being difficult. Unfortunately for her, he liked difficult. “Nesta Providence Archeron, I dare you to go inside.”

Goading her seemed to work; something sparked in her bright blue-grey eyes. “That’s not my name, and what do I get out of this?”

“An educational experience. The joy of watching me attempt to make art. Probably a gourd, if I had to hazard a guess.”

Tilting her head slightly, she took his measure for a long moment before saying, “All right, Vanserra, you’re on.”

He grinned at her, relieved. “I really do appreciate your calling me ‘Vanserra’ in public and not ‘Bad Lay’, you know.”

“See what I call you after Gourdtopia here,” she threatened.  He waggled his eyebrows in response.

Twenty minutes later, they’d been given a tour of the gourd-en (as the shop-owner affectionately called it), had been seated next to one another at a workstation, and given dried gourds to carve designs into. All around them were photos of smiling, satisfied customers holding up their finished projects, all of which seemed to be unfortunately intentional in design. 

Suddenly, he felt irrationally self-conscious. Art involved bearing a part of one’s soul, after all. There was a reason he’d always left anything outside the realm of dancing to his brothers. Dancing—like academia, but unlike art—had always had a particular sort of structure to it, and any slip-ups could be blamed on a too-slick floor or bad choreography. Here, it was just him and the gourd.

And the awl too, he supposed after a moment’s further thought. And knife, both of which could take the blame for any mistakes—oh, forget it, he silenced himself. It would never be a perfect metaphor.

A glance over at Nesta, yielded that she seemed comfortable if faintly bemused by the whole venture; she was turning her newfound squash in hand, assessing it carefully. 

“Stop staring, start poking.”

Eris blinked. There was a joke to be made there, but he (wisely) decided to hold back. “I’m not staring, I’m assessing, Providence.”

“I can practically hear you overthinking from across the table. It’s just a vegetable, Eris.”

“It’s a vegetable I’m going to look at, and remember this day with. I want to make sure I do it justice.” A sudden, sharp pang of… something twisted in his gut over the accidental sentimentality he’d displayed. Sure enough, Nesta was eyeing him carefully, probably unsure of what to do with that statement. He went for the age old trick of smoothing over discomfort with humor:

“Anyway, since you were willing to end me with a candlestick earlier, I feel compelled to ask: is it safe to let you near sharp objects?" 

Nesta grinned at him like the cat that got the cream and held the awl up. "Find out.”

He couldn’t help but smile back. “Lucky me,” he said, echoing her statement from earlier.

Nesta was the first to finish, announcing her triumph with a soft, “aaaand done”, followed by the thunk of her tools being dropped back onto their shared workbench. Eris glanced up from where he was struggling with keeping a straight line; she held out her handiwork for inspection. The design was surprisingly elegant, if a bit clumsy here and there: the punches and shaved rind weren’t fully even, but she’d managed—with little more than an awl, a craft knife, and the occasional swear word—to carve and chip away at the outer shell and make an eight-pointed star, like a compass rose, surrounded by punches which set it off.

“Artist sister,” she added almost bashfully when she noticed the impressed look that crossed Eris’ face. “I’m… not half bad at drawing, actually. Being good with art is a genetic thing, I heard.”

He shook his head. “No need to be humble. You did really well.” He huffed a low , self-effacing laugh. “But now I’m embarrassed, because yours blows mine out of the water. Behold.” With that, he held out his own, mostly-finished creation: one with roughly carved leaves along its perimeter that weren’t quite centered, accented by a series of tiny holes on above and below them.

“You’re embarrassed of that?”  Nesta shook her head in disbelief at his shrug, then dropped her voice. “You’re absurd. It’s better than two-thirds of the ones on that photo wall.”

He huffed slightly, more out of reflex than disagreement. “What if I just like your design better? That’s allowed, isn’t it?” he asked, taking it back and returning to his carving. There were just a couple more lines left, and he focused on them intently.

She fell silent, as if considering something in her head, leaving Eris wondering whether he’d put his foot in his mouth again. That worry had popped up a worrisome amount that day; it was something to think about once he was back in his own room and no longer tripping over himself. “Then trade me. I like the leaves better anyway.” Though he couldn’t see her face, he could picture her expression as she chuckled warmly next to him. “Now you have a souvenir of me.”

With a small flourish, he chipped away at the last line he needed, then set his knife down and pushed his own project back in her direction.

“Providence, honored as I am, you make it seem like this is the last time we’ll ever meet.  We’re almost family now, you know. You’ll never be rid of me again after October.” He hesitated a fraction of a second before adding, “That said, here you go. Have one from me in return.”

She laid a hand atop it, and he watched her fingers curl gently around its curved stem. “I’ll treasure it always,” she said and despite the easy joking they’d fallen into, he hoped she’d meant it as seriously as it sounded.

It felt like no time at all until they once more stood outside of the café they’d met at this morning, now closed for the afternoon. He checked his watch—just enough time to change, throw back a shot of whatever was in the minibar, and then mentally brace himself before joining the rest of his family and Beron for dinner. 

“So?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance and landing somewhere convincingly adjacent. “Did we have fun today?”

She pretended to muse on the question. “It was surprisingly not terrible, I’ll grant you.” 

“High praise indeed from the Maneater.”

She glanced over at him and smiled—not shy, exactly, but reserved, as though she were choosing her words with care. “No, but actually… I had a good time.” She shook her head lightly, as if faintly annoyed at herself for admitting it out loud. “You’re easier to be around in person than I expected.”

The compliment made him flush somewhat; he inwardly cringed at himself. “Perhaps that comes with the fact that we’ve been texting one another for five months now.”

“Perhaps.”

They both lapsed into silence for a bit, neither quite sure of what to say. He was fairly sure he was going to ask her out again, though. He needed to, because he was going to literally explode if he didn’t. “Nesta?”

“Hmm?” She was turning his gourd around in her hands and not looking at him, examining the detail he’d attempted to put into his leaves.

He swallowed, feeling more nervous than he had in ages. “This might be a little forward, but if you’re still in town tomorrow, are you free for dinner?” 

She paused, lips parted and for a split second, he regretted asking. Maybe this was rushing things—no, this was definitely rushing into things. She’d been the one who wanted to keep things simple and anonymous, but after almost six hours of wandering around town on foot, trading barbs and daring one another to do increasingly silly things, his resolve on that front was starting to slip and he’d completely lost track of every boundary knew he should set. It was all too easy to envision doing this again. And again.

But then, as always, she managed to surprise him. He’d braced for rejection, but instead received a nod and surprised, “I am, yes…?” 

His (traitorous, adolescent) heart gave a small leap. “Then… it’s a date?”

“So it is,” she smirked, looking up at him. 

What was the etiquette on a first date these days? He wondered. It had been awhile, he supposed, since he’d been out with anyone and given how guarded Nesta was, he assumed this was where they would politely part ways for the afternoon. So, he didn’t lean in. They lingered together for a moment longer in companionable, if slightly charged silence, a respectful distance apart, before he tapped the light post he’d been leaning against and offered a slight, abashed grin. “I’ll, ah, text you later to make plans—”

Nesta let out an amused huff. “Eris.”

“What?” he asked just a shade too quickly.

She took a few steps forward and braced her hands on his shoulders before pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow. 6pm.” 

Dazed, he stared at her, wide-eyed for a long moment. “Looking forward to it, Providence.” She smiled in response.

He watched her until she turned the corner, his gourd tucked underneath her arm. He glanced down to his own lantern and smiled at it like an idiot.

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Two days prior...

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