A/N: A more serious than usual author's note at the end. Please do take a moment to read it.
XXI: Reality Hurts
FELICITY'S HOUR WAS ALMOST OVER. Her lunch hour, that is.
After lunch in which I painfully watched Felicity eat a salad with no dressing, the cheque was paid. "Hey I have to go to the ladies' room. We can leave after."
"Oh, I'll go with you." I said about to stand.
"Don't get up, I'll just be a second!" I gave her a funny look but didn't protest.
I sat there lounging, enjoying my view of Manhattan from my table. Looking of into the street, I saw a town car slow to the curb and a familiar figure step out.
I ducked and covered my face with a menu as Olivia Richmond-Prescott walked toward the entrance of the restaurant. Curiosity got the best of me and I stood to follow her inside.
As stealthily as I could manage, I shadowed her towards a secluded part of the restaurant. My eyes grew twice in size when I spotted Cole and a tall bombshell stand to greet Olivia.
I hid behind a potted plant, watching them sit and chat through narrowed eyes. Specifically at the woman currently sitting next to Cole, playfully swatting his arm. Would you look at her boobs? They were twice the size of mine, the president of the Itty Bitty Titty Gang! Her waist was enviously small, making me regret eating all that pasta earlier. She was flawless, airbrushed and groomed to a near inch of perfection. Meanwhile here I stood, oblivious to any of them, in jeans, bare of makeup, and my hair in my usual braid.
A heavy pit in the bottom of my stomach gave me a sickening feeling, and it wasn't that fettuccine.
Why was he with her?
The woman stood and excused herself. I yelped and jumped away from my hiding spot. She walked right past me pretending to talk on my phone facing the frames on the wall.
As soon as the coast was clear, I dropped my hand holding my phone and inched closer to their table.
"--I'm done, mother. What about that do you not understand?" Cole said leaning forward glaring at him mum.
Olivia looked like she was trying hard to keep up her composure. "Cole, you aren't thinking straight. Clearly you're just speaking out of anger. Yes, I made a mistake seeking out Doyle, but you can't just--"
"What are you doing?" Felicity said coming up beside me. I jumped a foot in the air and smacked her.
"Don't do that! You scared the bejesus out of me."
"Why are we whispering. And what are you looking at?"
"Shhh!" I said looking back at the table.
"Are you seriously spying on--"
"Shhhh!" Felicity rolled her eyes but crouched down beside me anyway.
Cole glared at his mother. "This isn't a discussion. I'm warning you, mom. Leave it alone."
We watched him stand and meet up with the bombshell from before. Together they walked out of the restaurant.
I turned to Felicity with wide eyes and my mouth covered, holding sobs back. "W-Who is she?"
Felicity frowned and pulled me out of the restaurant. She hailed a cab but I pushed her hands away. "Who is she? I know you know."
Felicity sighed, "Her name is Gemma Hamilton...Cole's ex."
"We've been together all of two days and already he's having lunch with his ex?" I said mostly to myself. I bit back a frown and took a deep breath before taking out my phone.
One message from him, sent twenty minutes ago. I'm assuming you're still with F. Do you want to just order out?
I locked my jaw and typed out the most civil message I could manage at a time like this: Can't, busy. Sorry
GOOGLE PROVIDED MUCH INFORMATION ABOUT GEMMA FREAKING HAMILTON. Beautiful New Jersey socialite, she was the cream of the cream, loaded and raised to be. She was a part time model, part time philanthropist, part time volunteer, part time everything! She was perfect, like one of those girls from back at school in a million activities but still got it done without a hair out of place.
A knock downstairs interrupted my Hamilton pity party haze. I jumped up and ran down to stop Ingrid from opening the door. She was just unlocking it when my feet stepped on the landing of the stairs. I made a face and brought my hand to my lips, signaling for her to lie if Cole was at the door.
She looked confused so I went out back to find Matthew and have him get the car. I refuse to see Cole tonight, I know I'll have to eventually but not while Gemma Hamilton's Sports Illustrated cover is in my browser history. Mat happily drove me to Brooklyn, because that's the only place I can think of to hide from Cole.
As soon as I stepped out of the car, I felt an immense sense of déjà-vu. I felt like I'd been transported back to when things were simple, when I worked for Mina and I was dirt poor. When I didn't know the difference between a good wine and a fifteen dollar bottle. When I didn't wear heels and dresses with hefty price tags, when I'd never tried caviar or owned real estate scattered around the world.
My old building looked exactly the same, worn and rusted. Going up the stairs was surreal, like I was looking through my old life through new eyes, all so familiar yet so foreign.
3B. That was my flat. Searching in my bag for my old key, I stuck it in the lock and opened the door.
Sitting down in my old sofa, I dropped my shoulders, utterly defeated. This place was so comforting, everything from the outdated television sitting on a second-hand table to the dusty sofa I was sitting on now.
Brooklyn always held a special spark to me. It always seemed so rustic and magical, like what life in New York City really should be like.
I decided then that I'd make this place my sanctuary. I'll remodel it and make it my office, my cave, my hideout.
Somewhere I can go where I know there isn't a ready cameraman outside waiting to snap a picture of me. Somewhere I can actually feel like is mine and not Mina's.
Somewhere where only I know.
I FOUND A PAIR OF YOGA PANTS AND SNEAKERS IN MY OLD CLOSET. After changing, I made it my goal to scrub the flat clean and make it look new. With music playing in the background, I got to work, employing the help of the teenage boys from across the hall to get all the old furniture out.
It was nearing eight when the flat was empty and spotless. Deciding to catch a late dinner from my favorite Thai place a block away, I changed back into my clothes and got my usual. I ate in comfortable silence, shutting off my phone when it kept ringing.
At a quarter to nine, I locked up the place for the night. Tomorrow I'll go to the hardware house and get some paint, something to give the place a little light.
I TOOK A CAB BACK TO MANHATTAN. I could have easily called Mattew but I missed riding in the back of a taxi.
The moment I stopped inside the townhouse I knew something was wrong.
Ingrid ran over to me with wide eyes, "Miss Poppy, there's someone here to see you."
I opened my mouth to ask who it was but the heavy footsteps answered my unspoken question. Standing before me was Patrick Doyle. My father.
THE AWKWARD SILENCE BETWEEN US WAS DEAFENING. Sitting across from me in the parlor, the coffee table between us set for a pleasant tea time, the only sound that could be heard was our breathing.
"I--" he stopped to clear his throat, "You look good."
I looked over at him and sighed, leaning my elbow on my knee. He tried again.
"Tea. How English. It reminds me so much of your momma."
"Stop." I said with a grimace. "You don't get to talk about her. Not after what you've done."
His eyes bore into mine. I'm sure he could see her in my eyes, the same shade of hazel. "I'm sorry, Poppy. I'm so very--"
"What exactly are you sorry for, Patrick?" I said angrily. "For knocking up my mother and leaving her to fetch for herself?"
He visibly flinched but I wasn't done. Nowhere near. "Or maybe for refusing to claim me as your daughter? Surely that's it, that deserves some form of remorse.
"Maybe it was for taking all the money she left me. And for telling me how much of a worthless piece of shit I am to you? That might be it!" I stood, pacing the floor.
"No wait. I think I know. Your shitty excuse of an apology is for selling me out. For leaking my birth certificate and burying up things I'd left in my past? Did I guess right, dad?!"
"I'm sorry, okay? For all of it!" He said rising to his feet too. "I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you. I'm sorry for all I've done. I wish I could do something to take it all back--"
"Well you can't." I said softly. "You can't undo what's been done."
"Poppy, please." His voice sounded sincere but I was too angry to be swayed. Years of bottled up rejection and betrayal have risen to the surface and all I could see and feel was anger. "I had a problem, baby. I was sick, a bloody alcoholic. But I'm clean now. There has to be something I can do to--"
"It's too late, Patrick." I said in a lifeless voice. I felt exhausted. "What you can do now is take the money Olivia gave you and leave me alone. I don't want anything to do with you."
"But I--I..."
"Do what you do best, Patrick," I said reaching into my purse and taking out my wallet. I threw all the bills I had in there and walked up to him slamming the money to his chest. "Take your money and run."
I took a deep breath and ignored the hurt look in his eyes. "I don't ever want to see you again."
"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered. I flinched away from him. "I've been dreaming of this day for so long, it was the only thing that kept me going in rehab. To see you and be reunited with my sweet little girl."
I locked my jaw and looked straight into his tear-filled eyes. "Life's not a dream. Reality hurts."
My father looked at me, uttering one more sorry before dropping the money on the table and walking out.
I sank to the couch then, crying and burying my face in my hands. Just this morning things had seemed perfect, in Cole's arms. Now I don't even know where we stand.
I've finally gotten the chance to confront my father, but it didn't feel as good as I thought it would. I feel vacant and hollow and so very hurt. So very vulnerable.
Never has there been a truer statement. Reality truly does hurt.
A/N: To whomever said that my story does not have a character development to suit your standards...well all I can say is this: feel free to stop reading any time.
I work so hard in my writing. I have a notebook full of my planning, every single chapter fully thought out. I never go to my computer and just type. No, I follow my meticulously organized guides. So for anyone to say I don't develop my characters, specifically my protagonists, (which as is always the case in the world of literature, are meant to be dynamic not static) I just can't even form a proper, civil response.
So I challenge you, I challenge every single one of you reading (all thousands of you) to keep reading. Keep reading until the very last word of the very last page of the very last chapter that had been planned months in advance, and dare to tell me I don't develop my characters. Go on. I dare you.
For everyone that has been amazingly supportive of all my stories, I thank you. I'm always a fan of constructive criticism, but I appreciate that you all appreciate my work and all the tedious, laborious planning that goes into one single chapter. Thank you, this is dedicated to all of you.