improvises | the farther you run, the more you'll feel undefined

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eden mccain

the farther you run, the more you'll feel undefined

Sam is fairly certain that he's a terrible father.

A good one would be home with his daughter right now, trying to talk her through what's happened, keeping her close. He definitely wouldn't have called for a babysitter and left the apartment as soon as he possibly could, pretending for the moment like there wasn't anything wrong. Sam hadn't known what else to do, though, only that he'd needed fresh air and a chance to clear his head, to stop feeling like the walls were closing in on him.

The road gives him that, the same way it used to when he was younger, before he had a kid to look after and stopped engaging in as much risky behavior as he possibly could. It's the only place he can think to be, too, on the back of his dad's Ducati, riding as fast as the old bike will possibly take him. There isn't even anywhere he's going, not really, not at first, just weaving down side streets and past cars actually obeying the speed limit, anything to keep moving and not have to stop and let the weight of what's happened settle on him, inevitable as that might be.

He wonders if this is how his dad felt after the accident. Sam doesn't remember much of that now, not the details, only that it happened, and while this isn't exactly the same — it isn't like he and Andrea were married, after all; they hadn't been together in two and a half years — it's close enough. He was all of two years old when his dad had to tell him that his mom wasn't ever coming home. Now he has to do the same with his own two-year-old child.

It's the last fucking thing he ever wanted, for her life to wind up like his. That is, perhaps, the only thing that hurts more than the fact that he's now lost not just someone else, but Andrea for a second time.

By the time he pulls to a stop, parking his motorcycle alongside a curb, he isn't sure how long he's been on the road or what time it is, nor does he care. It can't be all that late, or Jordan's babysitter would have been calling him by now. He's also, for that matter, not entirely sure how he got here, but it's the only place it makes sense for him to be. Where he should be is at home, but he just doesn't have it in him to go back there yet and deal with this head-on. With that being the case, there's really only person he could go to with this. There aren't many he has left as it is.

Inside, he takes the stairs up to the second floor of High Gate Terrace, knocking on the door of Eden's apartment. He should have called first, he realizes, but it isn't exactly like he'd been thinking ahead about any of this. "Hey, are you in?" he calls. "It's Sam."

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"Just a minute," Eden calls out. She walks briskly out of the kitchen, shooing Origami from her path, and opens the door. "Hey, honey. I wasn't expecting you. Come on in."

She doesn't mind that he's shown up out of the blue. He's one of the few friends she has left anyway, and besides, it's not as if she has much else going on in her life. The only things that get her out and talking to people these days are rehearsal and work.

It's a relief when he hears her voice from inside, in no small part because it makes him feel a little more justified in having come out here instead of being at home. There still really isn't any excuse for it, Sam knows that, but at least it's not for nothing that he's wound up at Eden's door. He summons up a thin smile when she opens it, almost apologetic, his helmet under his arm as he steps into her apartment.

"Sorry, I... should have called, or texted, or something," he says. He hadn't been thinking that far ahead when he'd gotten on his motorcycle, though, only that he had to do something, that he couldn't deal with this yet. Now, he can barely hold it back. "Andrea's gone. I just found out."

"Oh, no," Eden says, immediately reaching out to take his hands in hers. She's here, it says. At least one person is. She never really knew Andrea well, but she knows how important she is to Sam and to Jordan. She regrets that now, suddenly, not at least making an effort to get to know someone who mattered so much to the people who matter to her.

"No, you never have to call, don't worry about it. I'm so sorry."

Sam nods, mouth pulled into a frown, all he really can do, though there's something the slightest bit comforting about having Eden close, her hands in his. Of course he'd have wound up here, even if he hadn't been planning on it when he first left the apartment. She's been one of the closest friends he's got for a long time, and someone who's lost more than her share of people, too. Maybe he's been in this position in his life too many times, but at least he knows she gets it.

"Yeah," he says, voice just a little hoarse. "I — I had to get out for a while. Took the bike out. And then I wound up here."

Eden nods, touched in spite of it all that he came to her. It's awful, and she wouldn't wish this on anyone, not ever, but it's nice to know she's who he comes to at a time like this, nice to matter to someone that way.

"Of course," she says. She assumes there's a babysitter with Jordan. He's upset, but he's not irresponsible enough for anything else; he loves Jordan too much. With that taken care of, all there is left is to take care of Sam. "Come on, come sit down. You want a tea? Or dinner, I was just making dinner."

"Yeah, I could go for a tea," Sam says, still looking somewhat lost as he heads over to take a seat on the couch. What he could really use is something stronger, but that's all the more reason to have come to Eden's; there won't be anything like that here, and he does have to drive home at some point. Some reckless impulses aren't to be acted on, least of all at a time like this. For Jordan's sake, he has to pull it together as best he can. She's going to need him when he tells her about this, though he hasn't the faintest goddamn idea how he's going to do that. "I don't... know if I could eat anything just yet, but thanks."

Eden follows him over to the couch, leaning over the back of it to press a kiss to the top of his head. "Of course," she murmurs. "I'll make you a cup." She won't trouble him with the question of what kind, deciding on a simple cup of English breakfast. He doesn't need anything unusual and he doesn't need to be faced with decisions, no matter how trifling. He has enough on his plate as it is. She heads a few steps away into the kitchen. She's got to make sure everything's off the stove anyway.

With the water on to boil, she heads back over to the couch and sits beside him.

His mind is still racing as he sits on the couch, breathing heavily, head lowered. Even being here, he's not sure what to do or say, but it beats fumbling through this at home, trying to explain what's happened to Jordan before he's had any time to process it himself. At least with Eden, he has space to try to do that. She's lost people, too, more than her fair share. If there's anyone he knows who could understand this, it's her.

Sam reaches for her hand once she's joined him, an uncommon show of affection on his part, but the only way he's got to convey how grateful he is for this. "I don't know how to tell her," he says quietly, not looking up. "How am I supposed to tell my kid that her mom's not coming back?"

"I don't know," Eden murmurs, shaking her head, her hand gently squeezing his. "Honestly. Gently. I never... They never told me. I just never had a mom, and I turned out okay. It took a few tries, but I did." In the end, she'd like to believe she became a good person. Maybe not worthy of the sheer number of chances she's had, but she doesn't know what it would take to be that.

It doesn't really help, though. She used to think if her mother had been alive, she might have been okay. Maybe her mom was sweet and good and would have protected her. At least she wouldn't have had to deal with her stepmother. She doesn't want Jordan to have similar questions and doubts when she's older, but there's no stopping it now.

"I guess you just tell her the truth."

"I know someone told me at some point," Sam says, one shoulder lifting in a halfhearted shrug. "I was her age, maybe a little younger. I don’t really remember being told, though, only that it happened." It hadn’t been easy growing up without her around, but he’d never really gotten to know her. His dad’s loss is the one that most shaped him. Jordan is just old enough, though, that he suspects there’ll be no getting around the impact this has on her, both short- and long-term.

God, it’s the last thing he ever fucking wanted. It’s hard to get past that, to stop thinking about how much he wanted to give her the life he never got to have.

"What if she doesn’t even remember her later? You know, I can’t figure out which would be worse."

"Then I guess you remind her," Eden says. "Tell her stories. I wish I'd had that." There's virtually nothing she knows about her mother. As much as all this will hurt, Jordan will at least have the opportunity for more and a dad who actually loves her. That changes everything. In time, she'll be alright, even if it's hard now to handle or understand.

She rests a hand on Sam's arm, head lolling back against the couch. Nothing about this is going to be easy. It makes her wish she knew better, had more experience, something, anything, so that she could help him more. "You can help her remember."

"I hope so," Sam says, angled slightly towards Eden, grateful in a way he'd never know how to put into words for her physical proximity. For someone who's spent a lot of his life alone, and largely by choice, pushing people away at every turn, there's something bizarrely comforting in being close to someone now. Maybe it's just because it's her, the one person he knows he can count on to understand this, but either way, at least he feels a little more grounded, a little less lost, with Eden here.

He barely remembers his own mother, most of what he knows based on what other people told him, and while maybe that's not ideal, he knows she's right. It's better than nothing. "I've told her a little about the island already. When she was born, when Andrea and I were together, when my dad was around. I guess it'll be more of the same. God, I don't know what pictures I might have."

"You'll find some," Eden says. "But we never take enough." She used to take pictures of Luke all the time, sneaking them on her phone, laughing when he laughed at her. If that made her seem overly sentimental, she didn't care. She's lost too many people and taken too few pictures, and some of the memories stick, but others fade and vanish, no matter how hard she might try. She tells herself stories. She wants to get on with her life, to keep living, but that doesn't keep her from looking back through old pictures and missing him like it's all her heart knows how to do.

"Still, she'll be glad you have any. Keep telling her the stories. Little things. Anything."

"You don't want to think about the fact that you might need them until it's too late to take more," Sam says wryly. It's just the way it goes. Even for someone like him, who's spent most of his life waiting for the people he cares about to disappear or leave in some way, hadn't really expected this, for all that it seems almost inevitable after the fact. If he'd known, though, he might have done things differently, made sure Jordan got to spend a little more time with Andrea, told her one last time that he loved her. No matter how much things between them changed, a fact he's long since come to terms with, that's one thing that never could. "I'm sure there's some somewhere. I... Shit, I guess I should talk to Spike, too. See how he's doing. Maybe if there's anything of Andrea's that Jordan could have."

Eden nods. "Good," she says, "yeah. I think that's a good idea. There's got to be something." And when she's older, Jordan will be grateful for it, she's sure. She just hopes Spike will be understanding rather than possessive. She can imagine easily how such a loss would make someone want to cling to everything around them, instead of sharing with others who lost Andrea. Even so, though, she doubts he could take it out on Jordan when his own child will is going through the same thing.

At least Jordan might stand a chance of knowing her mother somehow. Sam still isn't sure which would be worse for her, remembering or not, but mostly, he just doesn't want her to wind up the same way he did. It's on him, now, to make sure she knows that her mother loved her, that she didn't choose to leave, that she wouldn't have. She won't have the doubts he had for most of his life, not if there's anything he can do about it. "Tomorrow, maybe, I'll... give him a call, I guess," he says. Just stopping by unannounced seems like it would be too insensitive, especially when they've never been all that close. "Once I've broken the news to Jordan."

Eden nods and reaches for his hand, giving it a squeeze as she leans over to kiss his cheek. "Of course," she says. She can't imagine how he's going to do that, how difficult that conversation will be, least of all because Jordan is so young. She's not sure Jordan can even fully understand yet what's happened, only that it's bad. It hurts her heart to think of the little girl she adores hurting in any way. "If there's anything I can do... you know I'm here. I'm always here."

"Yeah, I know," Sam says, nodding slightly. He's here, after all, which wouldn't be the case if he had any doubts about that. It wouldn't have been worth the risk at a time like this, when he's been reminded all over again of how easy it is to lose people, of how no one is likely to stick around. Maybe one day, that will include Eden, too. Right now, though, she's one of the few constants he has in his life, and as such, one of the few Jordan's had in hers, too. "I appreciate it. I... More than I can say."

"I know," Eden says quietly. She doesn't need him to say it. He has more than enough to deal with right now without that, and she doesn't need it noted for her to stay right here beside him. It's nice to hear, though, even if it would be nicer for him not to need to say it, not to be in this position right now. Leaning her head on his shoulder, she stifles a sigh. "It's better now. Jordan's so young. She'll adapt faster. Kids are amazing, what they can get used to." It's Sam it'll be harder on, once the initial hurt and confusion fades.

"They really are," Sam says, expression solemn as he nods again. He couldn’t get used to it, but for him, it was one thing after another. When his mom died, he was sad, of course, but he was fine afterwards, too young to really make sense of it anyway. It was losing his father, too, and not knowing why, that was more than he could handle, that sent him on the path he followed for twenty long years. "Already, it’s — I mean, she was too young to really remember the island, but she’s had such a weird life. That, Andrea getting married, William being born… I guess she doesn’t know it’s not normal until someone tells her."

Eden nods, mulling that over. Kids are resilient, but they're observant, too. Eventually Jordan will figure out that her life isn't like that of the other kids she knows. The real trouble comes if the other kids figure it out, too. "I'm more worried about you," she admits, gentle, hoping it doesn't sound judgmental. She adores Jordan. She'd do anything for that little girl. But Sam is the one who'll bear the brunt of this, who's twice lost the woman he loved, even if he didn't have her the same way anymore.

Quiet for a moment, Sam shrugs, though the motion is a halfhearted one. Part of him — the part not too worn away by cynicism, that actually thought things might be different here — thinks that he can't blame her, that he'd be worried about him, too. Right now, any feelings of his own are mostly buried under concern for Jordan, the knowledge, persistent and heavy, that she'll grow up without her mother the same way he grew up without his. The other part, though, knows that this is just how life is. He's used to it. He never wanted Jordan to have to be. "I lost her a long time ago, you know?" he says softly, though it's not really as simple as that. There isn't anything that could make him stop loving Andrea if he tried, even if that stopped meaning what it used to. "Her and... just about everyone. It's nothing new."

Be that as it may, Eden's not sure she accepts that answer, not entirely. "Doesn't mean it gets easier," she says. "Doesn't mean it stops hurting." She's used to it, too, as much as anyone can be, but she remembers all the ones she's lost, her heart aching with it. For some of them, she knows, it was the end of the line. For others, at least she can hope they're happier someone else. Her, she still sleeps in an old shirt of Luke's, washed too many times to carry any trace of his scent or anything but memories. Maybe she'd be happier if she gave that up, but she doesn't think it's as easy as putting aside every piece of him. He'd still be in her heart, like Andrea is for Sam.

"No," Sam says, his voice still low. "It doesn't." God knows he tried for years to pretend it did, shutting people out at every turn, acting like he didn't care about the people he'd lost and his father's disappearance like he could convince himself that it was true if he said it enough times. It never really worked, though. In a way, it's been the same with Andrea. He got used to their relationship being something else, and knew it would never be anything other than that, but at the same time, he's been well aware since he got here that there would never be anyone else for him, not like her. "You know, I guess because I did lose her once, I never really figured I would again."

He should have. He's lost his father three times over now, and he knows better than to think he'll ever see the old man again. That's far more chances than he should have gotten. At least Jordan was young enough when they showed up here from the island that she won't remember him. She doesn't need to have one more person to miss.

"You shouldn't have to," Eden says, though that has nothing to do with it. Should is a dangerous word. "Once is enough." He got through it, though, and she wants to remind him of that, but right now, that doesn't have much to do with it either. He's survived plenty and he can survive this, but that changes nothing in the moment. It doesn't matter who Andrea was with when she vanished. Sam still loved her. That's all that really counts right now.

It had been so strange, Sam remembers, to realize that he was falling for Andrea, or that he had some time before. They'd done things so unbelievably backwards, the two of them, and yet somehow it had worked, like pieces fitting into place. For a time, he'd thought that everything had turned out the way it was supposed to. He's still not convinced that wasn't the case, a part of him hoping even now that there's some world in which he never left the island either, the three of them and his father back there together. He'll never get to see it for himself, but it's nice to imagine, if a lot to ask for.

"Yeah, well, someone tell that to who or whatever makes people disappear all the damn time," he says wryly, about as close as he can get to a joke under the current circumstances. The truth of the matter is, he doubts it really makes all that much difference. Everyone left him even before that was the case.

"I wish I could," Eden says, letting out a helpless little laugh. "I'd make them stop." It's not really a joke, she knows. She'd feel guilty but proud, too fiercely determined for anything else. She'd make it so people could only leave when they wanted to, when they were ready, so everyone who wanted to go could and everyone else could stay, so people could keep their loved ones or get back to them. Luke would have stayed. Neither of them have much of a choice, either this or death. He would have stayed. She can't imagine Andrea would have left her children behind either.

Sighing, she reaches over to squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."

"That makes two of us," Sam says on a heavy exhale, then leans over on a whim to press a kiss to her cheek. Eden's been the closest friend he's got here for a long time now, and he's always appreciated it, but never so much as right now, knowing that she gets it, having somewhere to go at all. The responsible thing would probably be to be home right now, but he'd be losing his damn mind and he knows it. That's probably true anyway, but at least he's not doing so alone, or doing anything more reckless than just driving over here. "Thanks."

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the farther you run, the more you'll feel undefined

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