Ill Conceived Plans

Guess Who's coming to dinner

Petra had tried to smooth things over – "you know Fox, she wouldn't want to tell you something like that over the phone, I'm sure you'll hear from her as soon as she's back". 

Some part of him took that in, understood, but another region of his brain was angry, no, more hurt than angry; hurt, betrayed, lonely and lost. Sarah Charlotte Huntington was such a huge part of his life and he'd hoped, expected, that she felt the same way. He expected this type of decision would be one she would have told him about, even if she didn't discuss it with him beforehand. 

Throughout their lives, they'd always talked out decisions like this. What had changed? At least he knew why she hadn't rung him. Not that it was entirely her fault, he was perfectly able to pick up a phone, he knew that. He also knew Sarah had a real problem with feeling abandoned, abandoned by her mother and father – even though they couldn't help it – abandoned by lovers, friends. And he'd played into that even it had been with the best intentions. 

He knew now he should have talked to her the next day as he'd promised. But he'd had an attack of the guilts and then he'd realised things, things that didn't matter now. He couldn't believe she'd lied though. Something hard and dark settled in his stomach, weighed him down and exhausted him. Despite that Dane knew he needed to see her.

He'd take a quick detour past her place on the way home just in case, maybe Petra was mistaken and she was home or maybe she'd come home early? If she wasn't there he'd ring her, he just knew, despite the bone-sapping tiredness that threatened to embrace him, that he had to see her. They needed to talk this out before it did irreparable damage to their friendship, face-to-face or on the phone, he didn't care anymore.

All these things, and nothing went through his head as he rode in the back of the cab on the way to his own house. He lived less than a block away it wasn't really even a detour, he had to go past her house anyway (well if you took the back way and a side street). If the lights were off they'd keep driving, if they were on he'd stop, talk to her and then walk home.

The lights were on.

Somebody was home.

The lights were blazing.

Dane knocked on the door.

He'd never been so nervous in his life, not to see Sarah. Well, maybe the night they'd slept together that first time. Maybe the day after their last impromptu coitus. He'd sat there that morning typing in her number, staring at his phone willing himself to call.

He knocked, he rang the doorbell, he even considered ringing her phone.

And then he heard her.

"Coming!" she yelled.

Sarah opened the door, her wild hair tamed back off her face but still threatening to stage a breakout at any moment, her glasses perched upon her head, a black low-cut top, her signature long flowing skirt – patchwork silk in patterned black and white with touches of emerald, a strand of emerald green crystals around her neck – knotted and dipping in her rather voluptuous breasts, the emerald earring drops he bought her for her 21st with his first acting pay-cheque dangling from her ears. Backlit by the hall light, she looked like she was glowing. Pregnant women did that, didn't they? Isn't that what people said? She's glowing? In Sarah's case it was true, she was beautiful and he knew then just how much he'd missed her.

He was supposed to be angry but instead he was gobsmacked, a deer in the emerald green headlights of her eyes, his own eyes traveled down Sarah's torso to the gentle swell of her stomach.

She was taking him in too – mouth open.

"Dane," she said quietly like she'd seen a ghost obviously trying to regain her composure and recover from what was obviously a 6'2 dark-blond-haired shock.