So. Hi there. I know this is super late with the series finale literally happening tomorrow and I also know that most if not all of you (me too, by the way) are beyond sick of this show but my creativity works in mysterious way and sort of demanded I write this, uh, monster. For this little story to work, though, I need y'all to think back to the hiatus after 6B…and then forget everything that happened ever since, including but not limited to Spencer being a Drake and Yvonne's death. We good? Good. So, that's where we're at in this ficlet, a post-6B (and post-A) world. I apologize for the length and promise that the next chapters (probably) won't be as long but Marlene has left me with a big mess that I had to sort through.

The first chapter focuses on Spoby, of course, but it also has a lot of Toby/Yvonne (sorry), talks about some other PLL ships, mentions Spaleb here and there in passing (sorry), and is… well… angsty. As one would expect. But there's another thing I can definitely promise y'all and that's the fact that there will be a happy ending if you're willing to stick with me until the end. We still good? Good. Oh, and before I forget: this chapter's title/little snippet at the beginning/lyrics/whatever was borrowed from Beyoncé's song "Haunted".

Major thanks to Elena and Laura for everything. I love you.

I.
I know if I'm haunting you
You must be haunting me

She moves into a grossly overpriced apartment in Chicago with walls so thin she can practically hear every single movement next door, cuts her hair in front of her bathroom mirror, goes from chestnut to caramel to chocolate, and swipes right and right and right and makes so many bad decisions she officially loses count in June.

She bursts into anxious tears over her laptop while writing job applications, drowns her sorrows in red wine, her fears in vodka and her fury in cheap whiskey that tastes like total shit. She collects parking tickets in an album as if they're precious and limited stamps from the last century, eats cold leftover pizza with anchovies for breakfast, finds an earring she thought she had lost and a spider colony she hadn't expected underneath her bed in July and sighs and then decides to ignore both.

She drinks coffee as though it's her oxygen and aggressively throws tubes and tubes of whitening toothpaste into her shopping cart every Saturday, picks up smoking just because all of her coworkers do it, joins them on the balcony to make small talk and very important business connections that will surely help her get out of here someday but they never do. In September, she is already coughing her lungs out and holds her mandatory cigarette between her numb fingers during lunch break, hoping that no one notices that it's basically only a fancy accessory at this point and she laughs at stupid jokes Marty from accounting tells and talks in a voice she doesn't recognize with Beatrice from across the hall and her phone beeps with yet another Tinder notification from some guy with a beard that looks like he is hiding something in it and she thinks, this is my life now.

This is my life now and it fucking sucks.

Charlotte's killer is behind bars, still awaiting trial, and -A has mysteriously vanished, gone without a trace, and Mary Drake is actually Jessica DiLaurentis or Jessica DiLaurentis is actually Mary Drake, who the hell knows, and she is here in a city that is slowly but surely sucking her soul out, and she is stuck in a job that feels like a cage and her life is one big mess.

So much for happy endings.

But she is coping well. She deals. That's what she does. She deals in the mornings, bare feet gliding across the floor, mindful not to step on the black skirt she had thrown there the night before but not bothering to pick it up and put it away either. She deals perfectly fine, thank you very much, during the day, tapping her fingers on her desk, at times along to a melody she cannot hear, reading and writing e-mails that have all started to sound the same. Her own personal Groundhog Day. Welcome to hell. She deals with it in the afternoon, working overtime and never getting paid enough, and on Instagram, Mona is constantly posting photos of her numerous trips to Shanghai, Zurich, Abu Dhabi, Singapore, and Spencer merely stares out of her teeny tiny office window where she can almost make out a patch of beautiful baby blue turning into a soft orange behind the gray of the bank building that is blocking her view, and she nods, satisfied, and thinks to herself, yeah, it's not fucking Osaka or Paris but it's not that bad either. It's not.

She deals at night, too, eating takeout for dinner and watching Netflix shows about corrupt rich people working in corrupt rich people jobs and maybe her apartment does feel a little too big sometimes and her bed is cold and empty when she finally lets sleep win the war going on inside her caffeinated body, and maybe she is still waiting – hoping? – for the girls to actually remember their don't be a stranger promises although it's been months but she deals. She is dealing. She is fine. Her life is a little messy and not as flawless and smooth as she had foolishly assumed it would be but she is fine. She copes. That's what Hastings do best. Even when they suck at everything else.

That is until, in a cruel twist of events if she may add, November rolls around and she finds herself perching on the sofa in a pile of this week's mail, wearing an old Georgetown sweatshirt that is silently begging her to have mercy and finally cremate it.

Now November is a beautiful month; she'd always thought so. It's cold but not too cold yet, just slowly preparing for the harsh and vicious winter December and January will bring. Brown leaves gently swaying in the wind and abruptly ending their little dance by falling to the ground. Hot steaming coffee that somehow tastes even better when consumed inside while the rain is pitter-pattering in the background. November is indeed beautiful...and, what do you know, it is also the month of her and Toby's anniversary. Strike that. It was the month of her and Toby's anniversary – that ship has sailed a long time ago, of course, hit an iceberg or five along the way, and then drowned faster than the Titanic without even giving them both enough time to adjust.

If she believed in fate – and she is Spencer Hastings so no, she does not – that particular day combined with that particular letter would have been absolutely nerve-racking.

Unsurprisingly and not at all fate-related, there is a logical explanation behind all of it that she finds out straight away because she is Spencer and that's what Spencer does. Toby had (she likes to picture him doing it very hesitantly and nervously but that part she doesn't know for sure) given the invitation to Emily in May. Then Emily, not being able to reach Spencer (correction: not wanting to get in touch with Spencer) and get her new address, met Aria for a brief brunch date when they were both in Philly. Emily then presumably said something along the lines of, "I'll be in Argentina for the next few months, could you make sure that Spencer gets this?"

And then Aria being Aria had completely forgotten about it until she ran into Spencer's mom in Harrisburg. And what happened next, her mom says on the phone after Spencer frantically calls her and demands answers in a slightly hysterical voice, is that there was just so much going on with Melissa that I didn't think of sending it to you until now.

So, in a cruel twist of events, the fucking wedding invitation she was supposed to get in May, which most likely would have had a completely different effect on her mental state, because in May her life wasn't like this, eventually reaches her on the sunny and bright morning of November 6th.

And if she believed in fate, she would have taken that as a big fat sign from the universe to fix the big fat mess that is her life. If she believed in fate, you see, she would have bought herself a new fancy dress in red to put Yvonne's white to shame and then she would have actually shown up at the reception, making sure that everyone and their mother knows that she is an ex, no, no no, that she is the ex, that's right, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. I almost had his baby, what about you? If she believed in fate, she would have stopped for a second and tried to figure out whether the foul-tasting feeling currently boiling inside of her is envy or jealousy (or envy or jealousy or envy or jealousy); she would have stopped and attempted to untangle the knots in her stomach.

But she doesn't believe in fate. She believes in coincidences. That's it. And she firmly believes that November 6th is just a day. A regular day. A day like any other. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't have to mean anything. He is happy with his soon-to-be wife and the house he had built for her with his own hands and the army of children they will have running around in the backyard in a matter of years, playing tag and soccer and whatever it is that kids do, the memories of his ex-girlfriend just another boring topic that will accidentally come up during Cavanaugh clan breakfasts.

Oh, honey, I forgot to tell you. I found this old scrabble board in the attic.

Weird. I meant to throw that out years ago. Just put it in the trash where it belongs.

Oh, Officer Toby, you are so smart and so handsome. Let me give you a kiss to show you how much I love you and prove to you that you made the right choice and that this ex of yours was never meant to be the one anyway.

You're so right, sweetheart. I forgot her name, too. And her face. It was Samantha, I think.

Sighing, she massages the bridge of her nose, shakes her head, rolls her eyes. Fate doesn't exist and the wedding invitation is just that. A cheesy wedding invitation. He is happy and so is she. Most of the time, at least. And although envy (jealousy, envy, jealousy, envy) apparently isn't an emotion she can easily shake and drown in red wine, vodka or cheap whiskey, she does find out that letting go of it is a gradual process that involves standing on the fire escape, eyes kind of red (from coughing), and blowing out smoke heavenwards. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Rest in peace, she thinks, toying with her lighter between her fingers and scrunching up her nose at the taste of nicotine. Rest in peace, she repeats and imagines a small grave in a location that vaguely looks like the lookout point back in Rosewood. Here lie the remains of our relationship and our love and everything that we used to be. And my hopes and dreams that maybe one day-

She shakes her head again, cuts herself off, starts chewing her lower lip. Rest in peace, she muses silently, I didn't know a cheesy wedding invite could be a lethal weapon but here we are. Thank you, everyone, for showing up. We are gathered here today to mourn a part of me that I will never get back. It's only fair, I suppose, since every guy I do fall in love with ends up with dead eyes and a heart so hollow that I can hear my own cries echoing back at me when I beg them to stay.

She sighs, throws the cigarette butt out of the window, sighs again. Rest in pieces, she thinks angrily as she walks to the kitchen, grabbing the half-empty wine bottle from the coffee table on her way, I hope Yvonne knows I taught you how to do that thing with your mouth and I hope it makes her sick.

And, no, it's definitely not jealousy. She figures that part out later while she holds her phone in her hand, trying to make out future Mrs. Cavanaugh's profile picture on her private Instagram feed. It's not envy either. She doesn't look that good in white anyway. No, she is bitter. This is bitterness. She is extremely bitter. But she is fine. A letter is a letter is a letter; she knew they were engaged and a wedding is what typically follows an engagement. This isn't news. She's fine. She copes. She deals.

She deals well in the mornings, getting out of bed and staring at her reflection in the mirror, resisting the urge to cut her bangs and shave her hair and rearrange her face and shed her skin and grow new one so that her body can become something he has never touched, not with his eyes, not with his hands, not with his tongue.

She deals during the day, getting a raise a few weeks later and pats on the back because she is such a team player and so passionate and so incredibly hardworking, her coworkers could learn a lot from her, and she asks herself why she still isn't happy.

She deals fine in the afternoon, first getting rid of Mona who is in Moscow now, more successful in every part of her life than Spencer will ever be. Then blocking Hanna who hasn't spoken a single word to her in over six months and she doesn't know why but a quick glance at her feed makes her suspect that the reason for that starts with a "C". Aria has to go, too – Mr. and Mrs. Fitz are so in love in all of their photos that it makes Spencer want to throw up all over her keyboard. She hesitates on Emily's profile until she sees Yvonne's comment under one of her recent pictures and it's most likely a very petty move on her side but the little heart emojis make the decision that follows much easier than she thought it would be. She forgets about Ali for a tiny second and then the blonde uploads a selfie Spencer doesn't even look at before she is gone too.

And then, finally, sweet silence and even sweeter relief as she leans back against her swivel chair and exhales loudly. All traces of Rosewood are officially out of her life. Toby and Yvonne and the girls and every single last video and photograph she took there erased from her phone. Gone. She lets her gaze wander, looks at the building outside her office window and the gray building looks back at her and she wonders, so why the hell am I still feeling like this?

She deals at night, too, when she is in Tinder Jasper's apartment – Jas, 28, I ain't a hipster but I can make your hips stir – as one quick hand sneaks beneath her dress and he touches and gropes her over her bra, his tongue spelling the alphabet against her neck and collarbone. She deals and she copes and she stares at the wall opposite from them where Tinder Jasper has various old guitars on display although he had casually admitted earlier that he doesn't know how to read let alone make music. She deals and she copes and she thinks, holding back her laughter, my ex-boyfriend is getting married in February and I can't even manage to make a decent guy be genuinely interested in what I have to say for more than thirty minutes.

Back home, she feels miserable. The window is open in a halfhearted attempt to get the constant cigarette smell out of her living room and she is shivering, shaking, and part of it is probably the hot tears of frustration she is trying to swallow but she stubbornly tells herself that it's merely the cold and nothing more. The milk is spoiled. Her half-eaten muffin on the countertop from that morning doesn't look too great either. She has six unread mails from work she was supposed to answer hours ago. Tinder Jasper, as it turns out, has already blocked her, effectively letting her know what this date actually meant and it's not surprising but it hurts. Multiple texts from Aria are accusingly glaring up at her as her finger slides across the screen and she can't even decipher one word because her vision is getting increasingly blurrier by the second.

And if she believed in fate, not that she does but if she did, she would have wiped her eyes, and wiped them again and again because the tears, they won't stop; if she believed in fate, you know, she would have foolishly gone into her contacts and searched for his number and then texted him something immensely stupid like, I know that I shouldn't be doing this and that it's unfair to you and it's unfair to Yvonne and I don't know what all of this means and whether it's just loneliness and bitterness and my shitty life speaking here but can you please wait? For me? Wait until I've found out? Wait until I'm one-hundred percent sure that I'm not only doing this because I feel like everything is going downhill? Wait until I'm ready to let you go and let you move on and be incredibly happy with someone that isn't me even though I expected you to be fine with me moving on years ago? And, look, I know I'm a terrible person and it's six in the morning and I sure as hell know that I'm not easy to love but god, you're the only one who always made it look that way.

But she stops herself before she can type it out and instead writes, Hey. Congratulations! I finally got the invitation the other day. I don't think I'll be able to make it though. Do you guys have an Amazon wishlist or something?

Ten minutes later, he replies: Thank you. No, we don't. I'm sorry I have to ask…but who is this?

Fate is bullshit.

She doesn't answer.

And then she stops dealing and starts crying instead.

It goes like this: he finally proposes to her on a cloudless night near the construction site of the still unfinished house, unceremoniously falling down on his knee after a semi-romantic dinner date in Rosewood and then showing her the sparkling jewelry like in a silent religious offering. At once, she gasps and covers her mouth in a mixture of innocent shock and wonder, gazing down at the very same black velvet box that had been burning holes of uncertainty in his pockets for weeks but that's a detail she of course does not know and he will not tell her. The moon shines her gorgeous light upon them, wrapping them in a thick blanket of dark blue and white, as his lips start moving and delivering the very same poetic speech that had been burning holes of guilt in his mind for days and he thinks that she deserves better than this, much better than him in fact, but when she whispers her timid response and then clears her throat and repeats it over and over, her steady voice gradually growing louder and louder – yes, god yes, Toby – his brain goes numb and shuts down and his arms snake around her petite frame seemingly of their own accord, pulling her into his embrace, an unexpected surge of warmth, love, gratitude and relief (and maybe some quiet doubt) immediately spreading in his guts.

When the rain suddenly starts pouring down anyway, all impressive lightning and thunder, expertly ignoring the weather forecast and everything the app on Toby's phone had so wrongly predicted about this evening, they quickly find sanctuary in his trailer and celebrate their past, their present and the surely future yet to come. In-between rounds of overzealous love-making, she lies next to him on her stomach, admiring the shiny ring on her left hand, and the thin, white bedsheets are uncomfortably sticking to the sweaty skin of his back as he lies with her…lies to her.

"What's the deal with Spencer and her friends?"

Yvonne's hoarse voice is what eventually breaks the serene silence they had managed to slip into some five or six minutes prior and if she notices that his abrupt response to her curious question is awkwardly shifting against the mattress, and he is certain that she does, she makes sure not to call him out on it. It's not the kind of post-engagement conversation Toby would have personally gone for and he thinks that it's definitely not the sort of pillow talk one does typically participate in, period, recently engaged or not. Whispering about their pasts, thoroughly exploring, naming and then exorcising the ghosts and demons of failed relationships, broken hearts, ugly mistakes that happened because of them and then people that unfortunately happened to them, had never been a source of conflict between him and Yvonne. His girlfriend – now fiancée, he adds silently and ignores the tiny pang of guilt dancing through the halls of his heart – isn't the jealous type. He still remembers the time when they had just begun dating and all he could talk about was everything he did wrong with Spencer, everything he could have done better, everything he should have avoided doing, everything he should have done instead, and he also remembers Yvonne faithfully listening to every single word coming out of his mouth and cupping his cheeks and looking at him, looking right into his soul, and telling him that it's okay, that the same thing wouldn't happen to them, not ever; that he could go on and on and on if he wanted to because she didn't mind, because all she really wanted to do was figure him out, understand him, understand how the little boy from the picture she had found in his loft had gone from that to the man standing in front of her.

Still, like everything in life, that too had passed; he eventually did stop going on and on about Spencer and their past relationship because one day, he woke up and there simply wasn't anything left to say anymore, nothing left to rewind and relive and rewrite, and Yvonne eventually stopped talking about the ex-boyfriend that had shattered her big, beautiful heart into millions and millions of pieces too, although both of their names – Johnathan and Spencer, Spencer and Johnathan – would often remain an unspoken part of the countless conversations about their future, lurking right around the corner of the wall of their conscious, safely hidden in the shadows of their pain. A small ache at times, a faint itch at others, a numb echo almost always. Like a phantom limb they had gotten used to but never quite managed to fully forget, no matter how much they tried and no matter how much they did not.

That is the tricky thing about wounds you won't stop picking at, about wounds you can't and won't stop touching and scratching. About all those tiny, tiny cuts you refuse to give time to properly heal because late at night, when the past catches up with you and you're lying wide awake in bed, you can't help but run your fingers along them, constantly wondering what if, what if, what if and constantly trying to convince yourself that it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.

That is the tricky part about scars that run too deep to just shake them off: they never truly fade away.

"What?"

Yvonne cocks her dark eyebrows at him. "Don't what me," she says, sounding patient yet firm. "A week ago, you ditched me to go be with Spencer. If you think I'm just gonna play stupid and forget what happened because you proposed to me, you really shouldn't have proposed at all."

Shaking his head like a wet dog, he sits up against the headboard, pulling the sticky sheets with him so as to cover himself. "No, that's not why I proposed and it's not what it looked-"

"Then tell me what the issue is," Yvonne interrupts him as she sits up as well, clinging to the sheets around her chest. She puts some distance between them, a few inches or more, almost as if she is making sure that their arms and legs aren't touching, and he can't tell if she is doing it on purpose but he notices and it stings.

"I can't."

"You can't or you won't?"

"I can't. I'm sorry," he repeats pleadingly, trying to reach for her hand and hold it in his but she angrily snatches it away as though she thinks he might burn her if he comes too close. He flinches. "We've been through this. Please. I told you the truth. It's not my—it's not something that concerns me directly. It's something that involves Spencer, yeah, I'll admit that, but it's also something that involves her friends. And I just can't-"

"Yeah. I get it. You just can't tell me." She snorts. "If it's not something that concerns you, that concerns us, then why are you willingly getting involved? You're not the only cop in Rosewood."

"They're my friends."

With a prolonged eyeroll, she proceeds to climb out of the bed, grabs the peach-colored silk robe hanging over the back off the footboard and ties it in the front after putting it on. "They're your friends," she echoes thoughtfully, thunder and lightning still going strong outside and now awakening in her eyes too. "Remember the leak? The leak about my…that came from your friend's house. And yet here you are, still friends with the same people and still putting your friends over me. Still putting your friends and your friends' problems over our relationship."

His heart clenches.

"No. No, please, Yvonne. You have to-" He struggles to get out of bed as well, holding the sheets around his middle after scanning the floor for his pants and failing to find them. "It's not like that. It wasn't them. Believe me, if it were, I would never-"

"I believed you when you first told me. Without question," she merely cuts him off once more and shakes her head. "And I believed you last week when you said that you had to go because something important came up but right now I'm wondering whether I'm too stupid or if I just love you too much to see what's right in front of me."

He takes a step towards her, slow and cautious, and his heart is beating in his throat and in his ears and his mind is racing and he just wants them to stop fighting. That's all he wants. He just wants them to stop fighting and go back to bed, wrap his arms around her and hold her until she is fast asleep, the look of betrayal in her brown eyes fading away, the weight of her sadness gliding off her shoulders.

"What are you talking about?" he asks her softly. "I swear I'm telling the truth."

She plops down on the chair by the kitchen cabinets, her hands neatly tucked between her knees. She looks tired, utterly exhausted even. He feels the same. "You've been acting weird lately," she says with a frown that is mostly directed at the beige carpet covering the entire floor. "You said your…your last relationship fell apart because of communication issues and you said you wanted to do better this time. And we have. We were doing great. And now she's back and…I just feel like you changed."

"I haven't changed," he says.

"No but you have," she responds and gives a heavy sigh. "Suddenly, there are all these parts of you that I don't recognize anymore. And they're different than the Toby I know. You're avoiding certain topics completely. You're avoiding me. You just…keep taking off. And you're only ever giving me half-answers to questions I deserve real answers to. So what's going on here? What is this about?"

"I don't know where you're going with this. Or what you're implying," he replies, helpless. "I swear it's nothing. I swear I haven't changed. There was some…stuff going on. When we were all teenagers. And now the same stuff is happening again and the girls can't go to the cops and since I was around the first time, they asked me for help but I—I promise, I'll stop. I never wanted to make you feel this way and I swear I'll stop. I'll call them tomorrow morning and tell them that I'm out."

"What stuff?" she questions sharply.

When he doesn't answer and merely stares at his feet, she heaves another sigh and says, "I told you about Johnathan. I told you how I let him walk all over me for months. Years. And I told you that I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not the kinda girl who's gonna make you choose and beg you to pick me."

"Choose between what? Between who? I love you."

Unexpectedly, her eyes shift and she is staring right into his blues all of the sudden. "I'm only gonna ask you this once. Did you propose to me because you wanted to convince me that your behavior doesn't have anything to do with Spencer?"

He sinks down on the floor in front of her, feeling the heaviness of her words somewhere in his stomach like a relentless punch. "No. That's not why. I bought this," he says, thumb running over her ring gently, prepared to take his hand away if she wants him to, "I bought it ages ago. I've been meaning to do it for a while. I just couldn't…I don't know. I was scared you'd say no. I was scared you'd say it was too soon or something. I proposed to you because I wanted to. That's the only reason."

"Okay," she says quietly, accepts, nods, agrees. But her eyes are still holding his determinedly when she asks something he hadn't been prepared to hear at all. "Did you propose because you wanted to convince yourself that your behavior doesn't have anything to do with Spencer?"

Her words before had felt like a punch. Swift and effective.

Her words now feel like she, very intentionally, aimed and shot twenty hand-picked arrows at the barely healing scar he had been persistently scratching, and then twisted them round and round…

He blinks. "No."

…and round and round…

"Oh my god."

…and round and round…

"Oh my god," she says, again, covering her mouth like she had earlier but now her face is crumbling and it's not a smile she is trying to hide, not tears of excitement and joy. "Oh my god. You hesitated."

"I didn't hesitate—no, Yvonne, please listen to me-"

"You hesitated." She struggles to push him off. "You hesitated. And I was-I was thinking…I thought I was overreacting but-"

"Listen to me."

And with that, she suddenly falls silent, looking at him, a tiny speckle of hope warm and alive in her beautiful eyes still, like she is waiting for him to fix it, like she is waiting for him to offer an explanation that will successfully wash everything away, that will wash away all of his sins and his mistakes, that will get rid of demons in their closet and the ghosts in their bones. As Mother Nature continues raging on outside the trailer, he looks back at her with his hands in his lap, and he thinks that he ought to let her go, that he ought to let her move on because she deserves more than this. She deserves to see his entire soul, his entire being; she deserves to hold his entire heart in his hands, not just little fragments he is ready to give her. But that's the funny part, the selfish part, the incredibly unjust part of it all: he can't. He doesn't know how. He loves her; all those tiny, tiny fragments of his heart she is keeping safe inside her palms are covered in her name and her name only.

Deep down, he knows it's not enough for her. Deep down, he knows it's not enough for him either. Knows that it's not perfect. But he wants it to be.

"Look. Having Spencer back in Rosewood has been…it's been confusing," he begins and lowers his eyes when he hears her draw in a shaky breath in preparation for what is to come. "We never really talked it out when we broke up. You know that. And seeing her back here, in this place I share with you, it's been…I can't describe it. It made me think of everything that happened and it's really just…it's been on my mind a lot. She's the only person I've ever been with besides you."

His eyes land on the engagement ring she is twirling around her finger.

"I learned a lot from her. I learned what it feels like to be loved and what it feels like to have your heart crushed because of it. I learned what it feels like to be forgiven even when I don't deserve it and I learned what it feels like to forgive and grow from it. I learned how to love unconditionally—I learned how to love you," he says earnestly. "I wasn't lying about that stuff from high school and I promise, I will tell you. I can't right now but I will. And maybe you were right. Maybe part of my recent behavior is connected to that and part of it is connected to Spencer's return but you have to believe me when I say that there isn't a choice. You're the only one I wanna spend my life with."

He knows it's not perfect by any means but he desperately needs it to be, desperately wants it to strike roots and grow into something that looks close to heaven in the right lighting so he tells her the truth or maybe something he mistakes for the truth and they both believe it. They both believe it's enough.

And for a while, it is.

Later that night, long after Mother Nature has finished her ongoing dance of wrath and Yvonne has finally succumbed to sleep and she is quietly lying beside him, her feet safely sandwiched between his legs for some much-needed warmth and her body perfectly still and peaceful, he tosses and turns against the mattress for what seems like hours – fidgety, agitated, mind full and heart empty or heart empty and mind inexplicably full, it's all the same anyway. In the dark, he risks a short glance at Yvonne's wooden nightstand where he knows she had put her engagement ring to rest earlier because she needed some time to figure out what to make of all this, Toby, and in the dark, he risks a careful glance into deep within himself, tentatively unraveling the knots of anxiety that are sitting somewhere in his throat, going all the way down to his stomach. He doesn't know when he eventually manages to follow suit and fall asleep as well but when he does, his dreams are an irritating and confusing blur.

He is a child at first, not much older than five or six, and his mother's soft hand is firmly grasping his as they walk through a sunlit forest. It's eerily quiet, dead silent in fact, and he wonders for a brief moment who might have stolen the birds from the trees, why their footsteps sound so hollow on the ground, where the bugs have disappeared to, but he has to ignore the nagging questions burning inside his head because his mouth is going much faster than he can keep up with. He is talking a mile a minute, as if part of him knows that they don't have much time together, and he is telling her all about school and proudly proclaiming that he knows how to spell his own name now – it's T-O-B-Y, his tiny voice echoes through the lonely, empty forest and his mother's lips don't move at all and yet he still hears her voice say, that's right, my love, you're such a smart boy – and then he begins telling her all about the police academy and how his father had reacted to him suddenly changing his career plans and she looks down at him and smiles, like he is the best thing she has ever seen, like he is the most precious thing she has ever laid eyes on – that's all she does, she smiles and smiles and smiles, and her free hand strokes his long hair out of his face, behind his ear, and she says, it's time to go, and he stops his storytelling, frowns and lifts his head, realizes that they have reached the end of their path.

Aren't you coming with me? he asks her, confused, and his voice sounds much older now, and he gazes at their intertwined fingers, and while his mother's hand seems to have stayed the same, his are calloused from age and work and life experience she never got to witness.

I'm sorry, baby, but you know I can't, she answers as she shakes her head, her hand slowly slipping from his grip. I have some things I need to do.

He wants to stay right there, he wants to stay more than anything in the entire world, but his legs are already moving, taking him away from her, and he doesn't know how to make them stop, how to make them turn around and go back into the arms of the woman he didn't have the chance to properly say goodbye to. Don't go, he says or sobs or whispers or yells without a single sound escaping his dry lips and he can't even see her anymore, he doesn't even remember her face anymore, when her voice speaks, loud and clear inside his head, leave the past where it belongs. That's why it's called the past.

And then, all of the sudden, he stops short as night falls around him and he finds himself in a clearing surrounded by pretty trees and even prettier flowers and the woman who had seemingly been awaiting him is Yvonne until she steps out of the light and into the comforting shadows, and she is not.

I think I'm kinda lost, he tells her with a nervous chuckle, standing still as she steps closer.

I know, Spencer simply says and for a split second, she is Yvonne again, and then Yvonne disappears once more. His head is spinning. He squeezes his eyes shut, silently counts to three, four, then five and six, and only feels brave enough to open them again when he can feel her hot, steady breath tickling the skin of his jaw. Her brown eyes are mesmerizing. He feels utterly helpless. In trance.

Remember when we talked about getting married one day? she asks him in a light tone as if they are making conversation about nothing in particular, as if she doesn't fully know that he hasn't been able to forget even though he never stopped trying, and her hand is on his chest, her black nails clawing at his heart over and over, as if she is trying to rip it out, as if she is trying to tear him apart and smash it into pieces for not fulfilling the countless promises he had given her. What happened to that?

I don't know, Spence. We fell apart. We broke up. Things change. He shrugs, flinching when she scratches him some more, her sharp nails leaving burning marks all over his chest. Aren't you being a little unfair right now? What are you punishing me for? You've moved on. Why can't I do the same?

Tilting her head and glancing up at him from under her lashes, she shoots him a smile that sends his stomach into a somersault. Who's stopping you, Toby?

Her smirk briefly changes into one of Yvonne's overjoyed grins and he has to blink again, blink some more when her lips press a soft kiss against his jaw, his cheek, his neck. I got lost. I'm trying to find Yvonne.

Really? I don't think so. I think you were trying to find me, she says, pulling back a little with her eyebrows raised comically. You brought me here. I was fine without you. I am fine without you.

I just really need you to go, he responds, pleading, and it's completely useless because his arms are now curling around her waist, holding her like he is afraid she might listen, and her arms are curling around his neck so tightly, he feels like she is delicately suffocating him in her wondrous embrace and he doesn't even know who is really hugging because one moment, he is gasping for breath, for Yvonne, and the next second, he is burying his nose in Spencer's shoulder, in her curly hair. I just want you to leave. I love her. I love her so much.

He feels rather than hears the vibrations of her breathy, long-drawn-out moan and suddenly, they are in his trailer, two hearts beating in one single body, gracefully spread across his bed, her long legs around his middle as he rams into her without mercy and her hand is ghosting over his cheeks, her lips pink and swollen as she whimpers, twitches, buckles her hips wildly under his ministrations.

I love you, she whispers, touching her forehead to his. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.

His heart is soaring and he is high on her; high on her voice, her sweet smell, the glorious feeling of her contracting around him with each thrust. Hungry for her kiss, starving for her affection, he leans down to catch her half-open mouth but just before their lips can connect, she turns her head to the side, distracted by something to their left. Next to them, Yvonne is propped up on one elbow, the engagement ring on her finger accusingly sparkling in the light, her eyebrows curved at the pair. A strong wave of rotten shame is what hits Toby in the face first, in his stomach, in his guts, then overwhelming disgust; he wants to climb off Spencer, stagger away from the bed but his traitorous body is too far gone to stop now and he just keeps thrusting, undisturbed, and the brunette underneath him merely continues as well, professing her undying love for him over and over, whispering about all the secrets they would share under the covers when the world was different and new.

You know, I'm glad you're having so much fun over there, Yvonne begins matter-of-factly, like she isn't the slightest bothered by what's right in front of her, but I was trying to sleep and this is annoying.

Sorry, Spencer manages to croak out, throwing her head back in pleasure as a quiet, girlish giggle follows Toby's tongue and teeth vigorously attacking her neck. Next time, we'll be more quiet.

A seemingly never-ending moment or two passes before Toby finally jerks aware, soaked in cold sweat of guilt, and immediately makes a run for the bathroom where he spits what is left of the sumptuous meal from last night's dinner into toilet. His alarm goes off a bit later and then falls silent, probably because Yvonne has turned it off in a dizzy state of half-slumber as she usually does, and he is still rinsing out his mouth for the sixth time, still not quite succeeding in getting rid of the taste of his dream clinging to his tongue, when he hears her call out for him. He stares at his reflection in the small mirror over the sink, unsure whether he is ready to face her yet, whether he is ready to look into her soft eyes after what transpired in his disastrous dream – after what had transpired between them last night. But there isn't anywhere left to run. He sighs, nervously combing his fingers through his hair, and blindly grabs a towel to wipe his face one last time before finally exiting the tiny bathroom.

"Hey," Yvonne greets him with the laziest but happiest of smiles that he can't fully appreciate because she is also propped up on one elbow like she had been in his nightmare merely half an hour ago. He inhales deeply, trying to shake the images out of his head, and returns her smile as authentically as possible, hoping that it doesn't look like a grimace. "Are you okay?"

He frowns in mock-confusion. "Yeah…why wouldn't I be?"

She shrugs. "You kept tossing and turning all night. I don't even know if you actually slept."

Walking over to the coffee machine on the countertop and turning it on in order to conceal the fearful expression he knows is currently blooming on his face, he shakes his head a little and quickly decides to reply with a half-lie, half-truth. "No, it's…I had a dream about my mom, that's all."

He hears the mattress shift under her weight as she moves to stand up. A few beats later, she closes the distance between them, her slender arms encircling his waist protectively, her lips pressing against the bare skin of his back in a kiss that is so tender, so light that he nearly doesn't feel it. When his eyes fall on their now intertwined fingers on his stomach, he is surprised to find the engagement ring on her hand and he is even more surprised when he finds that it actually manages to slowly, steadily, surely wash away the nasty nightmare still ghosting about his veins.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice incredibly tiny and incredibly sincere too.

"No, I'm sorry," he responds, unintentionally slipping into the same quiet whisper, his thumb drawing patterns on the back of her hand. "I'm really sorry for what happened last night. I'm sorry for making you feel that way. I never meant to make you cry or-"

She stops him with another kiss to his shoulder blade, shaking her head into his back. "Shh. That was last night. It's a new day now. Don't do that," she says and yeah, his heart isn't flying or soaring or singing countless upbeat songs about love and the tragedy of it but it feels secure, calm; it feels like it has finally found its way back, found its way home after getting lost on a long and wary journey. "I shoulda…I don't know…been more understanding. It's like, like something inside me shut down and then I started freaking out and I got really scared that…and I couldn't stop thinking about it, you know? I know you're not him and I know I shouldn't even be comparing you two because it's unfair and because you'd never do that to me but…like I said, I don't know. These last weeks were really…"

"Confusing," he offers when she trails off, not finishing her sentence. He feels her nod slightly, her grip on his middle tightening, and strokes whatever he can reach of her arm. "I know. I feel the same."

"I want to be with you. More than anything. But I'm still scared."

Turning in her embrace slowly and then cupping her cheek, her tilts her head towards him to catch her innocent gaze in his and asks, quietly, because he is just as afraid of the answer, "Scared of what?"

Yvonne pulls up one shoulder in a weak half-shrug and remains silent for a beat and then another as if she is struggling to put it into the right words. "That our lives are gonna be like this forever?" she eventually speaks up, a hesitant question mark tainting her voice. "That we'll never become the people we're supposed to be?"

It goes like this: a week passes by, then two, then two and a half, and with her fears and doubts still burning holes into his stomach, he makes a decision that is utterly impulsive at best and completely stupid if he chooses to pause and examine it rationally but he of course refuses to do just that. He wants to leave, he tells her one evening as she is perched in front of her laptop and answering emails from work. He wants to leave together; run away or move away or whatever the right term is now and when she opens her mouth to protest, her head turning in the direction of the house that is almost looking like a real house now, he tells her that he can build her a thousand homes, if she wants him to, in a thousand different places. It doesn't have to be Rosewood. She hums, tilts her head, lets it sit for a second. Then she says that it's kind of sudden but that she will think about it and think about it she does. It takes her a while, takes her so long that he has nearly given up, so long that he is already trying to get used to the thought of Rosewood once more. But then, a few weeks that feel like half an eternity and a day later, she comes up to him at work and she simply says yes, like she had when he fell on his knee before her, like she had when he asked her to be his. Yes, she says and adds that it would be a good fresh start for both of them, considering that they are going to be a family now. Yes, she is more than excited to start this new chapter with him and thrilled to bits at the thought of watching him grow, watching herself grow and hopefully, one lucky day, watching their kids grow too. Yes, she nods, this town had an expiration date, anyway, didn't it? It was never meant to be their permanent home. Not really. Yes, leaving might be a good idea, the best idea they have ever had. And her eyes, her gorgeous fucking eyes, are whispering what are lips are not: It might be a good idea to leave all those memories. Leave all our ghosts that won't stop haunting us. Leave everything that we aren't anymore but used to be two heartbreaks and one too many tears ago.

They find an affordable, two-bedroom home on an island in Knox County, Maine, the impressive windows in the master bedroom offering a breath-taking view of the local harbor. Yvonne's maternal aunt lives about forty minutes away and her favorite cousin and his little family, as it turns out, are residing in the very same neighborhood, just a short walk down the street, and even though he is still hesitating, making eyes at a different condo in Camden, he knows his fiancée has already made up her mind and there is no way he is going to convince her of giving up the small cottage she has, head over heels, fallen in love with and is determined to make hers. That's what she is like, what he had always admired greatly about her: when she puts her mind on something, she doesn't stop until she finally reaches her desired goal. And, really, he doesn't think he has the right to question her. So what if the new town they will be living in is even smaller than Rosewood and small towns always make for a lot of nasty gossip and judgment. So what if he doesn't particularly feel like living by the harbor and waking up to the smell of salt water and the sounds of fishermen hauling their latest catch onto their boats every morning. So what if he still hasn't heard back from the seemingly close-knit, local police department or the sheriff's office that is serving the entire county. She said yes to him. To his proposal, his ring, his pleas, his heart. To his suggestions to move and leave Rosewood behind and while that includes leaving Spencer and Johnathan, and Johnathan and Spencer, it includes her parents and his mother's lonely grave too. She said yes to him even though he had hurt her, made her doubt herself and his feelings. She said yes to him even though he hadn't deserved it. The least he can do now is follow her lead faithfully, isn't it? The least he can do is learn to compromise.

It goes like this: Emily is the one that gets the unexpected news straight from his mouth. She comes over a couple of days after everything has been set in motion and the realtor they had hired is trying to find someone that will gladly take the now finished house – a lovely shade of undying love, shiny happy endings and baby blue, like a modern fairytale come to life – off their hands. The request he suspects she had initially come to him for immediately dies in her throat the second he tells her. In her gaze, he can identify a strange mixture of longing (as though she too desperately wishes she could simply pack her things, cut herself out of the web of lies and danger that is engulfing her, and set the whole town on fire) and despair (as though his intentions are inherently malicious, as though he is forcefully taking away the safety net that she was sure would keep herself and the girls out of trouble and, more importantly, prison should it come to it). But as quickly as her eyes had clouded over, they just as quickly light up with a fake smile as she congratulates him on the engagement and the new house and then half-jokingly announces that she will be more than mad at him if he doesn't personally come knocking at her door to hand her the wedding invitation when the day has come. Her cheerful enthusiasm and demeanor don't convince him in the slightest. He feels as if he is abandoning her like a puppy on the side of the road, just leaving her like it's no big deal, right when she seemingly needs him and his help the most but she merely shakes her head when he frowns and asks her what's wrong, what he can do to help, and says, pulling him into a hug, "Live. That's what you should be doing."

He hands in his badge, ID card and weapon the following evening and bumps into Hanna and Caleb upon exiting the police station. They are sitting on the sidewalk across the street, apparently deep in conversation at first, and immediately let go of each other's hand when Hanna briefly lifts her head and spots Toby walking to his truck. He feels something that he can only describe as secondhand fury at the younger man or maybe jealousy and bitter disappointment so he opts for pretending that he didn't even see them in the dark and is about to get into his car when Caleb's happy wave stops him in his tracks. He sighs, realizing that he has no choice but to walk over to them now, and fakes the same grin Emily had given him the morning prior. They talk about this and that, the awkwardness of their encounter lying thick in the air around them, and while that is seemingly lost on Caleb, Toby is sure that Hanna can tell. She pulls her knees away just slightly on Toby's look, as though she is quickly trying to create some physical space between herself and Caleb, as though she is silently trying to deny what Toby saw is exactly what he thought it was. There are numerous, numerous things Toby wants to say to both of them (and mostly Caleb) but he thinks that it's none of this business, not anymore. That it never really was. He decides to swallow a large part of his anger.

"Well, I better get going," Toby eventually says, pointing at his truck over his shoulder.

"You should," Caleb agrees in a casual tone while Hanna remains silent, and he is shooting Toby a genuine and toothy grin, like they are normal friends teasing each other, like he doesn't have anything to feel even mildly bad about. "Don't leave your girlfriend waiting for too long. I bet she is worried."

Swallowing part of his anger apparently hadn't stopped what's left from ruthlessly contaminating his thoughts, feelings, words, because Toby retorts right away, in the same casual tone, only he is far from it. "Yeah, you shouldn't leave yours waiting either. She's probably wondering where you are."

He doesn't stick around for their response. He doesn't have to. Hanna's face says more than enough.

Truth be told, he had never considered him and Aria to be especially close. Sure, she had always been Spencer's friend and when it came to Spencer, as he had found out pretty quickly after the fateful day he kissed her for the very first time, you were never just dating her and her alone. You inevitably had to date all of her friends and her family too. He didn't mind. He liked her friends. Over the years, he and Aria had talked some and they had laughed some, and shared many, many baffled looks every time Spencer and Hanna got into yet another quarrel over something ridiculously unimportant but he never thought that they were friends. That's why it takes him by complete surprise when she shows up at his trailer, carrying a wrapped present in one hand and a colorful bouquet in the other. She explains that it's a belated engagement gift from her and Emily, and I hope Yvonne likes it. She doesn't stay long; ten minutes, maybe fifteen, where they talk about Ezra Fitz of all people and then wedding dresses and the weather in Maine. The real reason for her visit, the reason she had been careful to hide, dawns on him much later when she hugs him goodbye and asks, almost as an afterthought, in passing, and he wonders how the hell Aria kept her relationship with her teacher a secret for so long because she is a horrible liar, "Sorry, I'm just, I'm just curious – when did you say you guys are leaving tomorrow?"

He doesn't realize that he is stuck in an awful state of waiting and waiting and waiting after Aria's visit until morning comes around and with that, their last day in Rosewood too. As the moving company is loading all of their belonging into their van and Yvonne's loud, echoing voice is instructing them to please be careful with the brown cardboard box that is overflowing with their silverware, Toby tries to busy himself with rearranging the moving boxes in the bed of his truck. His gaze falls on what he knows is the scrabble board, sitting quietly between his mother's memories and the wooden jewelry box that is keeping the photos of Yvonne's late grandmother safe. He braces himself for overwhelming pain that doesn't come. Instead, all he feels is numb and his stomach churning with restlessness and anxiety of the worst kind. And then—and then burn scars on the back of his head, a pair of aching eyes glued to his every movement. He knows that she is there and it's relief that floods him next, replaces the hollowness inside him. Relief because he had been waiting even though he shouldn't have and relief because he had wanted to see her, just one more time, just to stare at her face and etch it deeply into the corner of his mind so that he wouldn't forget. And then—fear. He doesn't know what he is supposed to do if she decides to step out of her hiding place. He doesn't have the courage to look into her eyes and say goodbye to her. He never had.

It goes like this: she stays hidden until they are driving off and he catches a brief glimpse of her figure in the rear-view mirror, standing tall, head high, hands in the pockets of her coat, an amazon.

It goes like this: his eyes keep flickering to her reflection for a while longer as she keeps getting smaller and smaller and he thinks of Maine, Maine, Maine, because it's less panic-inducing than thinking about everything he feels like he should have said to her if only he hadn't been such a massive coward; everything he is now scared he will tell another bizarre dream version of her instead.

It goes like this: Yvonne emits a giggle and she is excited, happy, and he softly looks down at her as she leans her cheek against his arm and she says that she can't wait to see their new home and he finds that he shares her excitement because he does. And so, he forgets. He shoves away all those unwanted, pestering thoughts and feelings, locks them in a windowless room inside his mind and proceeds to ignore it. For a while, he forgets. For a while, he is the happiest he has ever been.

It goes like this: they leave Rosewood. And they don't come back.

On the day of Toby and Yvonne's wedding, Spencer has one too many cocktails and makes one too many bad decisions, gets into her car and proceeds to crash it into a light pole.

Approximately an hour later, Aria is narrowing her eyes down at her as she inspects the damage. They are back on speaking terms and it doesn't feel the same and in a drunken haze that is pounding against her temples, Spencer briefly gazes up at her friend and wonders if it ever will.

"Explain to me," Aria begins and Spencer is glad that it's not Emily who is with her right now because Emily would have already cut her into a thousand pieces, chewed her out, carelessly spit her remains on the warm asphalt and then walked all over them for good measure. She is glad that it's not Hanna either although she has no idea what Hanna would have done; she doesn't really know Hanna anymore.

"Explain to me," Aria says as she climbs into the driver's seat and closes the door behind her, "why the hell you thought that getting into your car drunk was a good idea."

Spencer can't find an answer to that question so her reply consists of a weak shrug. As a response to that, her brunette friend merely purses her lips even more.

"You could have seriously hurt someone," she continues, shaking her head in disappointment and boring her hazels into Spencer's browns as if she is a frustrated mother lecturing her pubescent daughter. "You could have seriously hurt yourself."

"I know."

There must have been something in her voice when those two words glide from her lips or something revealing in her eyes, maybe, because Aria keeps staring, frowns and asks – and no, it's not at all gentle or warm and somehow, Spencer regrets having called her for help because Aria is Aria but on some occasions, she is also this, insensitive and judgmental – "Did you want to hurt yourself?"

And here's the funny thing: she has no fucking idea.

She isn't tipsy, she is drunk, she knows as much, and she knows it was terribly stupid of her to take the car back home instead of sticking around and waiting for a cab after three, four, five Black Russians and two-something tequila shots. She knows it was the most irresponsible thing she has done in months. Maybe years if she decides to take the fling with OkCupid Ben out of the equation. Point is, she knows it was stupid and reckless and extraordinarily dangerous but she has no idea what was going through her head. She doesn't remember. Maybe it was an accident, she contemplates, staring at the light post and rubbing little circles into her forehead. And maybe, just maybe, it was not. Maybe it had seemed like a good and temporary fix to her seemingly permanent problems; to everything wrong in her life. And maybe she had listened to that joyful-sounding murmur sitting behind her ears, edging her on. Maybe she had listened and heard and agreed with its suggestions because maybe she hadn't anticipated, truly understood what it means, what it could mean and where it would lead her.

She doesn't know.

And really, if she is completely honest with herself, and being honest with herself seems to come easier now that she has decided to stop being in denial, now that she is drunk out of her mind and Aria is glaring at her and she feels seventeen again; vulnerable, scared to death and lost in every single way. If she is completely honest with herself, she realizes that she doesn't want to know. Not really.

"Of course not," she eventually says to her friend, rolling her eyes. Aria exhales a sigh that is half-relief, half-something she can't quite put a finger on. "I just lost control over the steering wheel."

Aria adjusts the driver's seat. "Makes sense. Maybe it's because you decided to drink and drive."

"I don't know if you were aware but you're allowed to let this go now," Spencer responds. Half a second later, her eyes drop in the direction of her feet and she notices, annoyed, that she has not only lost her damn mind and dignity in one night but apparently, the high heels she had bought merely a couple of days prior as well. She blows a strand of frizzy hair out of her face, too drunk to dwell on it for too long, and adds, "Look, I'm not hurt. The car is…not exactly fine but it's not totally wrecked either. I made a mistake and I'm sorry. Is that what I'm supposed to say?"

Aria proceeds to wipe some imaginary dust off the steering wheel and Spencer proceeds to avoid looking at her stupid wedding band. "You don't have to say anything. I was just asking. And worried."

"Your worrying feels an awful lot like you're judging me right now and I really wish you'd stop."

Suddenly, a wave of acidic dread expands in Spencer's stomach because looking at the expression on the tiny brunette's face, she can already taste where this is heading, what is coming next before Aria finds the courage to put it into words.

"You know what?" She quickly pockets Spencer's black smart keys before her friend can reach for them as though the other woman hadn't been anticipating it. "I think we need to talk."

Spencer laughs in mock disbelief. "Seriously? Right now? Right here?"

A nod. It's slow and almost hesitant but the conviction in her big eyes is not. She is not going to let this go, let Spencer off the hook so easily. Maybe she really should have called Hanna, Spencer thinks and squeezes the bridge of her nose in annoyance. Painful radio silence would still be more bearable than going through months, an entire year, of unspoken animosities and hostility and trauma that had crept between them and strangled what was left of their friendship without blinking an eyelid.

"Can't we get our kumbayas out in my living room instead?" Spencer asks the ceiling or maybe the light post, the console, her exposed feet; anything but Aria. She is refusing to make eye contact because she knows that the waterworks will start the second she dares look at her friend and she isn't ready to give Aria the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Making her cry. Same thing. "I need to drink some water."

Wordlessly, Aria reaches into her faux leather bag and pulls out a bottle of water, handing it to the other brunette. How convenient.

"Yes. Right now. Because I don't know when else we're supposed to talk this out since you've stopped responding to my texts and picking up my calls or, god, even making some time for me when I'm in Chicago unless it's for something like…this."

Spencer scoffs. "I truly am sorry that I hurt you so much that you felt the need to sit me down in my car in the middle of fucking nowhere and bitch at me. But it's not exactly my fault that I have to work my ass off to be able to afford my apartment. I thought you of all people would understand."

She struggles with the glove compartment for a few embarrassing seconds until she finally manages to wrench it open, grabs her Lucky Strikes and lights one greedily, ignoring Aria's look of complete disgust. Then the car windows start sliding open one by one and Spencer rolls her eyes at her reaction.

This is new and unfamiliar but unexpected? Not even in the slightest. She knows how she is, how she can get when the situation calls for it – or doesn't call for it and she does it anyway; she knows the darkest corners, edges and thorns of Aria's brain but they had never been the ones to fight like this. Not with each other, anyway. Now, her and Em, that had always been something. Emily's tongue is sharper than knives when she wants it to be – when she wants to hit and scratch and cut Spencer where it hurts the most – and she remembers Aria's eyes turning an ugly shade of red and disaster when Hanna once again crossed a line the brunette had deemed uncrossable and forbidden. But her and Aria, they didn't fight like this, never fought like this…and yet she isn't surprised. Long time coming, right? Way too much bottled-up bullshit that couldn't be accurately expressed and discussed through a few lousy emojis under Instagram or Facebook posts.

"I didn't know your job required to delete all of your friends off social media," Aria remarks bitingly and her eyes are twinkling and Spencer can nearly feel Hanna's unspoken presence prickling in the back of her neck and suddenly, Emily is there too, judging and watching and judging, and they are all disappointed in her or maybe they are rightfully laughing at what's left of poor little Spencer.

The digital numbers on the car radio screen announce that it's nearing four a.m. and she idly wonders whether Mr. and Mrs. Cavanaugh are still busy celebrating their wedding night or if they are out cold already, trying to catch some rest before they have to hurry to the airport. And when her heart gives a small jump, aches, she exhales a sigh with a self-pitying smirk and thinks about them more, about Yvonne's white dress and the happy wrinkles in the corner of Toby's eyes while he grins at her and of course it hurts, but part of her wants it to hurt even more. Because she doesn't do moderates.

"I thought we talked about that and we were over it."

Aria shakes her head no. "We never talked about it. I just pressured you into letting me back in. We never had a real conversation. You never told me why or what I did wrong or what I…"

Spencer's snort interrupts her.

"You want a conversation? Here's your conversation," she spits. "Do you know how frustrating it is to see you guys talk regularly and have cute coffee dates and brunch together while I'm…I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm not stupid. I knew it would eventually get to this. I knew that you and Em would eventually feel like you have to choose between Hanna and I, but I guess I was just naïve enough to assume that we could be adults about it and that you wouldn't cut me off completely."

"It's not like that," Aria replies softly, shaking her head again. "And I didn't cut you off."

"It is like that. And now you're here and acting like you were trying to reach me daily before I took you off my stupid friends list. Putting a three-word comment under a picture of my Starbucks order every other week isn't exactly reaching out. But, hey, that's just me, right? I'm totally overreacting."

Aria seemingly doesn't have anything to say and once more, Spencer isn't surprised. Biting her thumbnail, she adds, after a beat or so, "I never did anything wrong."

"I know."

"I asked her before we…before we did anything. I asked her. She said she didn't care."

"I know."

Blowing – coughing – out the smoke of her cigarette, Spencer asks, "So, enlighten me, Aria, what the hell is this? Why am I being treated like an outcast? Why am I getting the sole blame for everything that went wrong?"

Their eyes finally meet – a tiny glimmer of guilt and sadness awakening in Aria's, a whole lot of fury most likely dancing in hers – and just as predicted, the tears enter the stage as well but she doesn't care anymore. She has to get it all out. Her anger at the world, at herself, at the girls. At her life.

(At Toby.)

"Why did you guys get your happily ever after and live the lives you always wanted while I'm here like a…like a…I don't know." She gives a noise that is half-growl and points at the light post. "I mean, look at—look at this. Look at me. Why is this happening to me and not to you?"

She has gone from holding back her salty tears to silently crying; from silently crying to pathetically sobbing her little heart out and the part of her that recognizes how awful her choice of words was is too busy taunting her with images of Toby's wedding to force her to an apology. She wipes her nose on the back of her hand, once, then twice, grateful for the existence of waterproof makeup although she has the sinking feeling that she is still looking utterly miserable on her own.

Aria is resting her head against the back of her seat now, gazing out of the window, her defensive posture implicating that she is close to tears as well and Spencer thinks that she must be the stupidest person in the world because while the brunette is sitting there, blissfully and intentionally blind and deaf to her friend's agony, all that is consuming her now is the urge to reach out and console her.

Screw them all.

Next time, she'll just walk home.

"I still take Ativan for my panic attacks," Aria speaks up, her voice low and quivering. "I was on Klonopin for a while. Until recently, actually. It made the insomnia worse. The nightmares too. When I could fall asleep, I mean. Nothing really seems to be helping with the flashbacks though. Not even therapy. And I did a lot of it – art therapy, music therapy, CBT, the coherence approach. But…nothing."

Maybe that was supposed to make her feel better, less alone, but it doesn't. Because all it does is reaffirm what she had been suspecting all along. Hanna had played a part in this, she is sure, perhaps intentionally, perhaps unintentionally, but somehow, she had influenced it. But she avoids them because their happiness, no matter how fleeting at times, eats her up from the inside, makes her crave things she'll never have. And they avoid her because she inevitably forces them to come face to face with memories they are trying their best to forget and leave behind. Because, really, what is she without Rosewood? Who is she without Rosewood?

What's that saying again, she thinks. You can take the girl out of Rosewood but if you take Rosewood out of the girl, all you'll be left with is an empty shell that is sucking the life out of everyone around her.

She doesn't have trauma. Not like the girls. She is the sum of all of her trauma combined.

Nothing more.

"Well, have you ever driven your car against a light post on the day of your ex-boyfriend's wedding?"

Aria turns her head in her direction and Spencer can almost hear the click inside her head when a surge of sudden understanding clouds over her face.

"Yeah, didn't think so," Spencer says with a slight laugh as Aria remains silent, contemplative. She giggles as though she just told the funniest joke she has ever heard, and she thinks that she must be a fucking hilarious sight right now, her laughter and her tears, her missing shoes and all that smudged lipstick. She adds, still crackling with amusement, "That means I win, right? I win the trauma roulette."

Aria reaches for her shoulder, runs her fingers through her messy, curly hair over and over. "I don't think any of us really won here, Spencer," she whispers but all Spencer sees is her wedding ring and the unmistakable sonogram picture on her lockscreen when Aria's phone lights up with a new text.

"I'm really sorry," Aria continues and Spencer laughs and laughs and laughs.

The first time Spencer awakes from her numb and dreamless slumber the following morning, it's only what feels like a good ten or fifteen minutes later. She has a mess of her own dark, wavy hair all over her face, she then discovers, somewhat confused, and in her mouth as well, gently tickling around her nose and chin. The dull ache in her temples turns into a pulsing, painful throb when she finally feels brave enough to slowly, cautiously open her eyelids, immediately greeted by the silent and highly comforting pitch-black darkness protectively covering the entire room. The clock radio on her bedside table reads 11:54 a.m., however, so she figures that Aria must have closed the blinds and drawn the curtains shut when they came home last night although she doesn't really recall for sure.

The next time she wakes up, groggily prying her tired eyes open and watching the dark bedroom spin in excited and tiny circles, her head feeling much heavier and bigger than before (things just went from worse to worser, Hanna's voice speaks inside her ears and Spencer pulls a grimace), it really is about fifteen minutes later. An irritated, exhausted huff slips from her chapped lips and then turns into a relieved, grateful sigh when she finally manages to locate her phone on the nightstand and finds exactly zero unanswered emails from work. At least they have stopped bothering her on her days off and the weekends now, she thinks, half-pleased and yet half-aware that this is maybe not a good sign but also not having enough energy to bring herself to give a shit. She knows she has to get up eventually and face the world again – which: scary – and face Aria too – which: even scarier – who is, judging by the sounds penetrating her little bubble from outside the closed door, busy doing god knows what in Spencer's kitchen that she hasn't cleaned in…far too long and that she suspects is embarrassingly dirty. Definitely not the kind of kitchen a semi-successful author who made it into the goddamn New York Times, a happy, loving wife and a soon-to-be mother like Aria is used to.

"God, stop being so bitter all the time," she whispers into the room, fighting with her long strip lashes for a beat or so, unable to gently remove them as the instructions had said, until her impatient fingers grow frustrated and she simply opts for ripping them off as fast as she can, taking more than couple of her own eyelashes with them in the process. "Ow. You sound like a fucking bitch. It's annoying."

Naturally, the room remains silent and her head remains spinning. There is no one there to answer or guide her through her very brief moment of actual self-awareness and introspection so she concludes that there is no one there to judge her should she happily continue to stay just as bitter and bitchy as before either. She decides that the trashcan is too far away to bother and puts what is left of the fake eyelashes on the mattress next to her. She will have to change the bedsheets later, a task she isn't looking forward to. She hadn't taken off her makeup last night and even though it's too dark to check and tell for sure, she is pretty certain that there are numerous, ugly stains on her cream-colored pillow case. Not that it matters much. Her pillows constantly smell like cigarette smoke, anyway, and expensive perfume she really needs to stop buying because she can't afford it, and now, last night's fiasco has so kindly gifted with an odor of cheap booze as well. Pursing her lips, she wonders if there are still some parts of her life that haven't turned into a complete, irreparable mess yet and when she fails to come up with a good enough example, she rolls her eyes at the ceiling, at herself, and then at Aria singing cheerfully just outside the door, not a single care in the world. Lucky her.

It's her need for a cigarette or two or seven and food, preferably something really unhealthy and super greasy, that finally urges her to leave her hiding place around 1 p.m. or so. She had been right after all, by the way; when she exists her bedroom in the next best and half-clean clothes she found in the pile of laundry that is more or less living on her chair, and closes the door behind her, Aria is still busy wiping the kitchen counters with a wet rag Spencer doesn't remember owning. Which is, come to think about it, most likely the reason why her friend is cleaning in the first place. She has apparently emptied the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill by the fire escape too, cleared the takeout boxes off the coffee table, put the empty wine bottles scattered all over Spencer's apartment into a cardboard box, tried saving Spencer's dead plants by actually watering them, vacuumed her carpet and either killed or thrown out the big fat spider in her dining area that Spencer had begrudgingly made peace with a couple of days ago. Knowing Aria, though, it was probably the latter.

"Morning," Aria greets her joyfully and pauses her task as Spencer goes to inspect the brown paper bag on the counter. "I got youuuu…a quinoa salad with black beans, tofu and a really tasty basil-lemon dressing. A blueberry, oat and hazelnut smoothie. Oh, and the cookie is for afterwards."

Humming in acknowledgement, Spencer fishes the little package out of the paper bag, opens it and bites into the chocolate chip cookie without much preamble. Aria gives her a very pointed look.

"Or you can eat the cookie first, I guess. I don't care," she mumbles and wrings out the blue rag in the sink before she takes off her gloves. "How are you feeling?"

"Great," Spencer replies, mouth full, and holds her free hand up to her neck. "Just, you know, kinda thinking about decapitating myself to get rid of the headache. Other than that, never been better."

Aria shoots her a tiny half-smile. "Yeah…but you should probably do that in the bathtub. Blood stains are kinda hard to get out of carpet," she deadpans, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter to watch her friend finish her cookie. "I mean it though. How are you? You know, emotionally?"

The other woman heaves an internal sigh – what a great fucking question – wiping her hands on the nearest dishwashing towel. "I'm fine," she responds anyway, not having the slightest idea whether that is the whole truth or not. She shrugs a little. "Thanks for everything you did around here and last night and I'm sorry for being such a major bitch but, really, I'm fine. Never been better, like I said."

"Don't be. I feel like I deserved that." Hazel eyes stare at the back of her head as Spencer crosses the room wordlessly to where her ashtray and cigarettes are waiting. "You should talk to Hanna though."

"Mmhm," Spencer makes, accompanied by a small, humorless laugh. She opens the window slowly and adds, over her shoulder, before she skillfully climbs out and onto the fire escape, "and say what? Hey, remember when I asked you if you were okay with me dating your ex and you said yeah, sure, go for it? And then he cheated on me with you and you had the nerve to act like I should've seen it coming and like I don't have the right to be upset about it? Anyway, long time no see, are we best friends again? Not exactly a great conversation starter in my opinion but maybe that's just me."

But just as she had expected, her poor attempts to escape their tedious conversation are foiled half a beat or so later when her friend decides to appear by the window too and rests her slender arms on the dirty windowsill, looking both unamused and thoughtful. "I wouldn't phrase it like that either but it's worth a try. If it's bothering you so much, reaching out and talking to her is definitely worth a try."

"Well, that's where you're wrong. It's not bothering me and I don't wanna reach out to her. Or talk to her. Or even see her." Spencer blows the smoke from her cigarette away from Aria's face who rolls her eyes at her friend and maybe rightfully so. "You should go back inside. Eat that salad or whatever."

"And let you run away from this conversation we should've had ages ago? Yeah, sure, let me do that."

"Uh, nobody's running away. I'm literally just smoking," Spencer tells her in a patient tone, briefly lifting the hand that is currently holding her cigarette as if to remind the other woman. "Secondhand smoke isn't good for the baby. Wouldn't wanna endanger my niece or nephew."

That came out especially wrong and obnoxious and a lot more sarcastic than she had both wanted and intended to and she knows it full well but it's too late to rewind and go back on it now. She blames it on her physical and emotional hangover instead. Aria's hazels momentarily widen in an interesting mixture of shock and surprise, like Spencer discovered a secret she was never supposed to be let in on, so she feigns a big smile and explains, "I saw the sonogram on your phone. Congratulations."

The shorter brunette returns her smile at once although it seems much prettier, happier and way more genuine on her features that are, now that Spencer is looking at her – really looking at her – indeed a little rounder and softer than a couple of months ago. "Thank you. I swear I wanted to tell you but it's still kinda early and everyone always says that you should wait until the second trimester. And, well…"

"And see above, re: me being a major bitch last night," Spencer suggests when she trails off. "I know."

"It's not that," Aria insists firmly. "I just didn't wanna make it worse. You were already…"

"An embarrassingly drunk, pathetic mess that managed to drive her car into a light post and then called you sobbing hysterically," Spencer concludes, groaning and trying to pull her head out of reach when Aria begins fumbling with her bangs in a fruitless attempt to fix them. "Stop doing that."

Aria grabs her chin to hold her still. "You look like a panda that got into a fight with an angry raccoon."

"Raccoons and pandas don't even live together," Spencer states and scrunches up her nose at Aria's thumb on her eyebrows. "And your pep talks are the worst."

"This isn't a pep talk. I'm just-"

"I swear to god," Spencer cuts in loudly, not letting her finish her sentence because she is equal parts horrified and disgusted when Aria brings her thumb to her own mouth like she is planning on getting it wet before diving right back in. "If you touch my face with your spit, I'm climbing down this fire escape to get away from you."

Apparently giving up for now, Aria drops her arms with a low thud and squints at her. "How do you even live in this apartment?"

"How do I—what? Just like anyone else? What kind of question is that?"

Aria's lips turn into a thin line. "I found a used condom under your sofa. It looked, like, really old."

At her words, Spencer feels an awkward flush color her face a deep, dark shade of scarlet. Now that's embarrassing. Still, she feigns nonchalance and merely retorts, "At least you know I'm responsible."

Aria emits a sigh, maneuvering herself out of the window elegantly. "No. You're stupid."

"And you're pregnant," Spencer points out and watches her friend as she wipes her hands on her long skirt and plops down on the fire escape beside her. "Why aren't we talking about that instead?"

"I'm gonna be pregnant for about thirty-five more weeks. We'll have plenty of time to talk about the baby." She shrugs off her cardigan unceremoniously and puts it over Spencer's shoulders. Spencer knows, logically, that it is cold; Chicago winters are especially harsh and nothing like Rosewood or D.C. but she can't feel a damn thing. Not the razor burn on her legs, not the goosebumps on her arms underneath her sweater, nothing but the ache in her temples, really, and the pressing need to somehow get out of this conversation. "We're talking about you now. You need therapy, Spence. And meds."

"Because I forgot a used condom under my sofa?"

"Because your apartment looked like a war zone when we came home last night."

"Hanna has never cleaned anything in her life." She immediately gives an internal wince at the gross taste of her name in her mouth, uttered all casual and whatnot, like they are doing just fine and the blonde never hurt her in ways Spencer wasn't aware a person could hurt someone else, and covers up her reaction quickly by putting out her cigarette in the black ashtray between her thighs. "But you're not forcing her into therapy."

"Yeah, see, thing is, Hanna is a slob. You, on the other hand, are a mess," Aria counters, raising her eyebrows playfully when Spencer merely responds with an irritated glare. "And, no, she's doing therapy, actually. So is Emily, by the way. And I already told you that I'm doing the same."

"And you also told me that it's not working," Spencer reminds her, crossing her arms in defense. "I'll admit that I got a little lazy with my chores because of work but come on. It didn't look that bad."

"In Spencer standards, it did."

"There's a Spencer standard now? Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Aria looks at her with genuine concern. "I'm serious, Spence. You need help."

"I don't need help, okay?" Spencer shakes her head stubbornly and a small voice inside her wonders if her life is just a blurry cycle of permanent addiction now. Get rid of the pills, get addicted to being the best at everything. Get stuck in a job that holds nothing but soul-sucking emptiness and practically no room for improvement whatsoever, get addicted to cigarettes. Get tired of the brief release nicotine has to offer, get addicted to being miserable all the time and then cling to that feeling like a child to its mother. Rinse and repeat. She shakes her head some more, shakes the thought out of her brain, and adds, trying to sound earnest, "My life's a bit messy right now but I can fix it on my own."

"Fine," Aria shoots back at once like she was expecting that answer. "Let's call Hanna then."

"How many times do I have to repeat it before you actually listen to me?" Spencer half-groans. "I don't wanna talk to Hanna."

Aria grins at her and it looks almost smug. She knows what she is doing and she probably thinks that Spencer hasn't caught on yet but the brunette is aware. "Em would be happy about a text from you."

"I don't have anything to say to Emily."

"Okay. Let's talk to Toby."

"Point is," Spencer speaks up loudly before her friend can proceed with her not-so-subtle little game of manipulating Spencer both into submission and acknowledging that she may need stupid therapy sessions after all. Which she doesn't. "I don't wanna talk to any of these people."

"You said you wanted to fix your life."

"My life isn't gonna magically fix itself by talking to them and saying things that'll just end up hurting all of us," Spencer replies and isn't that the fucking truth anyway. "Believe me, there's a lot of things I wish I could get out but it just doesn't matter anymore. They're not the only source of my issues."

"Yeah," Aria agrees with her for once and leans her head against Spencer's shoulder to which Spencer heaves a sigh and leans her head against Aria's. "Rosewood is. That's why you need therapy."

"No, that's why I need time. I need time to heal and move on. And I need time to figure out who I am," Spencer says, letting Aria pry her first open and poke the inside of her palm. "God, too bad nobody ever tells you that your 20s aren't gonna be as glamorous as they show you on TV."

"Tell me about it."

"What are you talking about?" Spencer eyes her warily in a half-squint. "You wrote a bestseller. You're married and having a baby. Everyone's waiting for your next book. Sounds glamorous to me."

"What's the worst thing you've done lately?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Because mine is really terrible and hearing about yours is gonna make me feel better," Aria explains and ignores Spencer's eye-roll that follows. "So what's the worst thing you've done lately?"

Spencer furrows her eyebrows. "Uh, the light post? You were there."

Aria seemingly contemplates that for a second or two and then shakes her head. "Doesn't count."

"It does count. I showed you mine, you show me yours. That was the deal," Spencer responds in a firm tone. "What's your deep dark secret that reminded you how awful your 20s actually are?"

Aria lifts her head to see her friend better and her expression shifts and she suddenly looks like she is chewing and choking on a really, really disgusting memory. "I had a bad mental health day a while ago—you know, Ezra and I had this fight and my editor was breathing down my neck and I couldn't exactly tell her that whenever I went to Chicago for research, I literally did everything but research and…you know. I went out but that was a majorly stupid idea because I was high on Ativan…" She trails off, tilting her head a little, looking kind of pained. "Do I really have to say it?"

It's, admittedly, a lot. Aria's ramblings are oftentimes a lot, especially when she falls into fast-paced, panicky type of monologue where every single line blurs into the other and she is stumbling over her words as if her tongue can't quite keep up with her thoughts. But now, with Spencer's hangover and a million other thoughts and memories and feelings occupying her damn head, it's next to impossible for her to follow and get what her friend is currently hinting at.

"Yeah, you kinda have to but because I'm not really-" And suddenly, it clicks. "Oh my god."

Aria gives a meek shrug, her face ridden with guilt. "I know."

"So…uh…this…?"

The other brunette's eyes widen, her petite hands flying to her stomach instantly. "No. No. The baby happened way after that. Way, way after that. This is one-hundred-percent Ezra's."

For once, Spencer is at a loss for words. "Wow."

Aria gives her a look. "You don't get to judge me after everything I've done for you last night."

"I'm not judging you," Spencer clarifies. "I just said wow."

Aria makes a whiny sound somewhere in the back of throat and proceeds to rest her head against her friend's arm heavily, eyes dropping in the direction of her lap. "I'm a horrible person."

"Welcome to the club. It was getting lonely," Spencer remarks in a dry tone, pursing her lips and twisting them to the side thoughtfully. "Seriously, though, are you planning on telling Ezra?"

"And risk ruining our marriage for a stupid drunk one-night-stand? No thanks." Hugging Spencer's arm to her chest more for both warmth and a piece of comfort, Aria blows an exasperated raspberry and wonders, in a low murmur against the soft fabric of Spencer's sweater, "How many bad decisions are we gonna keep making in the name of dealing with Charlotte and our Rosewood experience?"

"Who knows." Spencer heaves a sigh, staring at the building across from them.

It's calm for a while, silent, like they have now moved on to the center of the storm; that kind of gentle quiet she knows is an obvious indicator of both their existential crises blissfully raging on beneath their skin and she sort of feels like she should push Aria some more, effectively talk her into telling Ezra the entire truth because she has been on both sides of that especially ugly coin and being cheated on, it's not pretty. At all. But she doesn't have the energy or emotional capacity to deal with that and she certainly doesn't have neither to react or think about what Aria says next.

"You should've gone to that wedding though," she speaks up a few minutes later, her fingers playing with the hem of her sweater. "Toby and Yvonne's. And you should've worn white or something."

Spencer snorts, gives her a smirk. "I actually wanted to turn up in something red and really slutty."

"Mhm." Aria tilts her chin back to look up at her. "Why didn't you?"

Spencer merely shrugs.

"You know, if you want and if it helps, I can totally hate them for you," Aria offers, her hazels holding a mischievous twinkle. "You're the ex-girlfriend. If you hate on Yvonne, it's gonna look like you're jealous. But I'm basically nobody to them. I can hate Yvonne for you. I can hate Toby too."

"I don't wanna hate them," Spencer says. It's not a lie; there are a lot of confusing emotions she is still feeling about them, about Toby, about Yvonne, their marriage, what could have been, what should have not, but hatred isn't among them. "I just…I guess I want them to be happy."

And with her cold hand reaching deep within her to grasp her heart and mend its pieces, she adds, the tiny frown between her brows fading away, "I just finally wanna be happy too."

In Maine, a brief tour through the local police station and the slightly unsettling conversation with one of the officers on duty that follows is more than enough for him to give up his uniform for good, a decision he knows his fiancée doesn't entirely approve of and neither does his father when Toby finally has the guts to clue him in some weeks later but, really, he already had to find out ages ago that his dad is rarely happy with any of his countless life choices even when he does exactly as the older man says. So he simply holds back his groan of annoyance, rolls his eyes and turns deaf when the other Cavanaugh wheezes in half-anger, half-exhaustion, and starts ranting into the phone, going on and on about his son's clear lack of impulse control and inability to stick to your words like a man and you should be glad that your poor mother isn't around, she would've hated this as much as I do and life isn't a game, boy, you can't just rewind and start fresh whenever you feel like it and I told you right from the beginning that becoming a cop was a stupid idea but you wouldn't listen and now you wanna act like you've grown up and came to this conclusion on your own?

The only carpentry business nearby turns him down over and over although he knows for a fact that they are looking to hire. "Look, I don't know you," one of the men eventually tells him when Toby grows both frustrated and desperate and pointedly brings up the big, fat sign sitting in the window after his questions are once more met with rejection and ice-cold silence. "I know almost everyone in this town but I don't know you or your girlfriend. Why the fuck should I give you a job and trust you with my business and my money when none of us know who you are or where you come from?"

It's certainly not a pleasant feeling he was very keen to relive when they had packed their things and moved here, being judged by a bunch of small town strangers who refuse to learn his name, his face or his story. Seeing the unspoken outsider title looming over his head again after all this time is weird to say the least, especially for completely arbitrary reasons he can't quite comprehend and doesn't want to. These people aren't judging him for blinding his poor, innocent step-sister, they don't hate him for being the prime suspect in a fascinating murder case that never was and they don't avoid him for associating with a group of frightened teenage girls who cried "A" one too many times. They simply dislike him because they don't know him, don't want to know him, because they don't recognize him – and Yvonne, for that matter – as one of their precious own. It's nuts. He had expected some level of gossip following them on each and every step around town, maybe a couple of prying glances at the grocery store or a few cheerful neighbors unexpectedly dropping by with chocolate cake and leftover casserole to check out their house, judge their characters based on the color of their carpet and deduce whether or not they are good people. He definitely hadn't expected this. The only positive outcome is the far too belated realization that he had to be fucked up in the head when he told himself that he liked small towns. He doesn't. His momentary dedication and love for Rosewood had to be driven by bittersweet nostalgia or the very few untainted memories of his mother Jenna hadn't taken from him and twisted into something else or perhaps both and too much alcohol. Because small towns are fucking hell, he thinks gloomily as he stands by the open French windows in the master bedroom, gazing out at the harbor with his coffee in his hand and one of the fishermen looks up at the house, waving at Toby in a way that is unmistakably meant to say, we are watching you.

Bruce Warren, the ginger man from the carpentry business on Main Street, calls him back one rainy morning and tells him to come in for an impromptu job interview right away and Toby suspects that it has something to do with Yvonne's cousin Cameron, who is, as he had learned upon his arrival, a member of the town's budget committee and a generally well-liked and well-known person, putting in a good word for him although she heavily denies it but doesn't have an explanation for Mr. Warren's begrudging and reluctant tone either. It's a part-time job and it doesn't pay much. They could use the money – the wedding is less than a year away – and he is itching for something to do. With Yvonne working on the mainland during the week and spending what little free-time she has focused on grabbing the empty seats on both the Planning and the School Board, he has way too much time on his hands he doesn't really know what to do with. Being unemployed after years of constantly doing something is hard enough as it is but being unemployed in a town that isn't particularly fond of him, and on an island on top of that, is even worse.

He helps out in Mr. Warren's business and goes back to school – "You, back in school? What a waste of time and money," his dad sneers on the other end of the line and Toby can almost hear him raise his thick eyebrows mockingly – and spends the ferryboat ride to the mainland hunched over various architecture books he bought for cheap off eBay, carefully organized ring binders that are filled with his notes in perfect black cursive and a bunch of manila folders carrying pages over pages of library books he had copied during his trip to Maine's capital Augusta. Yvonne takes a picture of him standing in front of the school building when the semester starts and uploads it to her Instagram account, proudly captioning it, "My baby's first day of class," and he has to react quick, fight and kill the unwanted emotions that arise deep within him in order not to look like kicked puppy dog when she leans in to kiss him goodbye.

She thinks his main reason for returning is the small police station that she too had agreed was immensely creepy beyond measure and the officer who had given him a really bad feeling somewhere in his stomach. She thinks Mr. Warren's dislike for him and the position he had finally given Toby in an attempt to please his good friend Cameron was what drove Toby to the mainland, what drove him to exploring new worlds and career options. And, painfully aware that it's starting to become an ugly pattern he can't seem to break free from, Toby lets her continue assume just that because he doesn't have the heart to tell her the entire truth. He can't tell her that he feels trapped on this island when they are lying side by side in bed and she is fast asleep and all he can think of is leaving again tomorrow morning; can't tell her that he only loved Rosewood in his memory and that the part of his identity he had carefully built from scratch after he and Spencer broke up – small town guy, that's all I really am – the part of his identity she had fallen for, is slowly fading away, and he has no fucking idea who he is anymore without Rosewood there to give him meaning. He can't tell her that he changed his mind, that moving was a bad idea, because it was his idea that she had gone along with without even pausing to properly think about it; he doesn't have the right to complain now, does he?

And he most definitely can't tell her that there are times – not many, not a lot, but they are scarily real and they exist when they shouldn't be on his mind at all – where he is looking at the bay during his daily ferry rides and he wonders, as briefly as it is, whether it was Rosewood after all that successfully tricked and manipulated him and Yvonne into believing that this was enough for them both. Whether there will eventually come one lucky day where he finally adapts and accepts that this is his life now and that there is nothing he can do about it, not when Yvonne is so incredibly happy with how everything has turned out and telling her his real feelings, his honest thoughts, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, would crash her and yank it out of her grasp.

Life goes on.

And so does he.

It's a Friday evening sometime in late April and Toby is balancing his laptop on top of the dryer in the laundry closet, half-distractedly trying to finish editing his Art History I essay before the deadline can catch up with him and knock him out. He is still busy staring at his laptop screen with a blank and almost desperate expression, struggling to find another concise synonym for radiance that he hasn't used more than twice yet, and shaking his head at his poorly done paragraph on illusionistic realism, when the washer beeps and interrupts his working process. Exhaling a sigh, he crouches down to grab the laundry from the washer and immediately curses at the sight that greets him there.

Just then, Yvonne walks over from the kitchen. "Can you do me a fav—ew, what happened here?"

Without lifting his head, he holds up a wrinkled, linty something that is barely holding on and remarks dryly, "Seems like someone forgot a Kleenex in here before they turned on the washing machine."

She takes the destroyed tissue from him and gives a hearty laugh. "Sorry. I was talking to my mom while I sorted the laundry and probably forgot to check."

"It's fine," he responds, shaking out the shirt in his hand and throwing it in the dryer. "What favor?"

There is the innocent smile he knows too well. She is softly preparing him for something she already knows he won't like too much and he knows what she is doing but that doesn't exactly prevent him from falling for it headfirst anyway. She puts a pile of white envelopes on top of the washer in front of him and asks, her voice warm like milk and honey on a cold winter's day, "Can you take these to the post office on the mainland tomorrow? I would do it but the Planning Board is holding an open meeting and I really wanted to go-"

Eyeing the envelopes carefully, he extends his arm to run his thumb along the edges and silently count them all one by one. "Yeah, I can do that, but I think we're almost at…what? 130 people now? When you initially said that you wanted to invite about sixty…or sixty-five…something like that."

"Thank you, babe. I love you," Yvonne purrs in appreciation, purposely and quite skillfully, if he may add, ignoring the second part of his answer as her fingers start combing through his hair.

"Yeah," he agrees, kind of amused against his will but kind of confused too. "I mean, don't take this the wrong the way but it looks like the wedding's gonna be more expensive than we thought."

"My dad said they'd help us out."

"Yeah and my dad said he and Tammy aren't planning on showing up at all," he responds, wiping the residual lint off the damp sweatpants in his hold. "Maybe…ten of my family members are actually gonna attend the wedding. If I'm lucky. Don't you think that's gonna look a little weird?"

She leans down as well to help him empty the washer faster and squints her eyes at her fiancé just barely, like she has trouble following his thoughts. "What do you mean? Weird how?"

"I don't know. I just think it's gonna look weird, seeing my tiny side of the family next to yours."

"What's all this talk about my side of the family, your side of the family? We're getting married. Your family is my family. And my family is yours."

He exhales a tiny sigh between his lips. "I know. I'm just saying that we wanted a small ceremony and now it's turning into this whole event with people you said you don't even really know."

"So what do you want me to?" Yvonne shakes out the tank top in her hand roughly, nearly hitting him in the face with it. "Send out letters and uninvite all of our guests?"

"No."

"Then what am I supposed to do here?"

"I don't know," Toby says truthfully. She purses her lips in annoyance and he can't exactly blame her for that. He feels annoyed too. "Take my thoughts into consideration sometime?"

She lowers her hands into her lap at once, the linty shirt momentarily forgotten as she simply blinks at him and furrows her dark brows. "Why are you being so passive aggressive?"

"I'm not."

"You are," she corrects him matter-of-factly. "Is something else bothering you and you just waited for the right second to pick a fight with me?"

He averts his eyes, playing with the knobs on the dryer, looks away from her and the light coming in from their backyard and that terrible harbor that makes her look like an avenging angel, swiftly grabs that feeling by the hair and hides it somewhere dark and empty, somewhere neither of them can see.

"I'm not picking a fight," he states, his voice sounding foreign to his ears but luckily, she doesn't seem to notice. "All I said is that we agreed on a small ceremony months ago and now it looks like that's not what's gonna happen."

"It's a wedding," she says and closes the dryer door sharply, most likely to get both his attention and gaze back on her. "You're only supposed to do that once in a lifetime, okay, and I want it to be special."

Watching her stand up from the floor and then cross her arms defensively, he sighs another breath of exhaustion, instantly regretting having muttered anything about his worries in the first place, and rises to his feet. He picks up the green laundry basket next to him that is still carrying yesterday's finished load and merely says, "Okay," before he walks past her and into the open sitting room to their left.

She, of course, follows him. "Okay what?"

Toby empties the full basket on the beige leather sofa she had picked when they move onto the island and he doesn't particularly like too much. "Nothing. I just said okay."

"See, that's what I meant. You're doing it again."

"I'm folding laundry."

"No, you're being passive aggressive."

He turns his head a little to look at her and whatever she manages to find in his eyes, he doesn't really know and he doesn't ask, but it makes her face soften visibly. "I swear I'm not. You can invite 130 peo—god, you can invite 500 people if that's what you want. You're right. It's our wedding and it's supposed to be something special. And I want you to feel special."

"You don't have to constantly go along with everything I say, you know."

"Well, that's not what I'm doing. I mean it. It's fine."

And that's that. They proceed to fold the laundry in silence with Yvonne bumping her hips into his every now and then in order to elicit a small laugh out of him and succeeding almost every time, and Toby cooks them a delicious dinner afterwards while she goes through his Art History essay, her brows knitted together in concentration, and before bedtime, she puts on jazz music and forces him to dance with her on the open deck in their backyard until they both end up giggling so hard that they have to stop and he thinks, despite his stomach continuously aching with concern and his uncertainties gnawing at his heart and his fear getting louder and louder by the second, he thinks, it's nice, what they have here. It's all nice and shiny and bright if he shuts up when he has to, if he just learns to finally keep his thoughts and worries to himself and stifle the seeds of hesitancy before they can grow.

"I gotta tell you something," Yvonne begins later when they are both in the master bathroom, he is walking up and down while brushing his teeth and she is carefully applying her night moisturizer in front of the mirror. "I actually didn't wanna tell you at all because I wanted it to be a surprise and then we had that fight earlier and uh…well…I kind of invited Spencer. To the wedding."

He stops dead in his tracks, the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth comically. "You did what."

"Not yet!" she quickly adds, apparently having caught his horrified expression in the mirror. "It's still in the pile downstairs. I didn't have her address – I think she's in Chicago now? At least that's what I got from her Instagram. But I was gonna send it to Emily and, you know, ask her to pass it—could you stop looking at me like that? I invited your other friends as well. It's not just Spencer. I sent an invitation to Caleb and his girlfriend too. The blonde one? Hanna, right?"

He is still struggling to digest what she has so casually served him on a silver platter like it's no big fucking deal at all when she continues, "I know what your dad and stepmom said but I talked to Jenna yesterday—yes, I know, don't say anything, you two have had your issues but I asked her if she would like to come and she said-"

Mind racing, he spits the remaining toothpaste in his mouth into the sink, grabs a towel to wipe his mouth and jaw, hands trembling, and repeats, slower than the first time but firmly too, "You did what."

"I thought it would make you happy," she explains, tone stuck someplace between plead and whine and then there are the puppy dog eyes, too, right on cue, as she reaches for his arm to stroke over it in comfort and he bites his tongue, hard, hoping that the harsh pain will manage to distract his body long enough to keep it from withdrawing from her touch. "You said it yourself, Toby. Most of your family's probably not even gonna bother attending and I, I couldn't stand the thought of you all alone on our wedding day and I just wanted at least someone from your immediate family to be there for you. And—and your friends. Part of you will always love these people in ways I don't understand because I wasn't there but if I'm gonna marry you, it's important for me to try and love them too."

She rambles on and on and on, throwing explanations at him, then excuses and justifications that he has trouble catching and actually keeping in his grasp because he isn't listening anymore. Love. Funny word, that is. Definitely not the word he would have used to describe his feelings for Jenna and maybe he is being unfair right now, he thinks, blinking at Yvonne whose mouth is moving for sure but nothing she says reaches his ears, let alone his brain, no matter how much he tries. Maybe he is being unfair because he had never told her the extent of it, had he, only some bits here and other pieces there, and maybe she had wrongly assumed that he and Jenna had their normal share of relatively tame sibling disputes in their youth that Yvonne regularly got into with her siblings. Maybe she had wanted them to get over what she perceived as stubbornness and reconcile at their wedding, like family is supposed to do. And maybe he doesn't have the right to be mad, to be hurt, to be disappointed, to half-listen to what the monster inside him is hissing and actually run and never look back. Because he had never given her the entire story. Because she doesn't know. Because she thought she was doing him a favor.

Amid all of this, the conflicting feelings, the disgusting memory of Jenna's baby-like, sugar-sweet coo by his ear, amid the voices of Spencer and Caleb and his father wrapping him into a big, itchy comforter, there follows a tiny pause. A tiny, tiny pause of silence before the idle observation that had very briefly nagged at his stomach weeks ago and then some more weeks ago before that, suddenly comes rushing back and all put punches him in the face with the brute force of the realization that follows: this, he and Yvonne, their love, it's not enough. They had hoped against all hope in foolish naivety but it's just…it's not enough. She doesn't know him. He doesn't know himself. It's not enough.

"I can still take the invitations out of the pile," Yvonne interrupts his inner monologue and she is right in front of him now, a piece of sunlight to banish his demons. "We haven't send them out yet. I just-"

It's not enough.

But it has to be.

It's not enough.

But it has to be. It has to. It has to. It has to.

"It's fine. You're right. We should be inviting them," he cuts in, his voice strangely robotic. He smiles at her in the way he knows she subconsciously wants him to, in the way that will maybe help calm her down and smooth the crease between her brows. He smiles at her like the man he was a year ago would have smiled at her. "Really, it's fine. I'll take them to the post office tomorrow morning."

Life goes on.

And he does not.

All that she is, her hauntingly beautiful eyes, her tiny ghost, her sweet memory he hadn't allowed himself to think about, to dream about, eventually returns to him in slow waves, disappearing in the tug of tides each night and leaving him aching, longing, lying, hiding, and then wondering, wondering, wondering over and over again – what if, what if, what if – throughout the entire day, week, and month.

In early May, Spencer rises from the foam of his mind for the very first time, like the ocean giving birth to Aphrodite, and they lay in the sand, outstretched and already starting to fade like dying mermaids stranded on the coastline, as he picks seashells out of her wavy hair and her lips are rimmed with salt and they mistake the prints their bodies have left for the entire world. She asks him if he would like to kiss her again, taste from her mouth and get intoxicated on what they used to be before the tide comes back and forces her to leave, and he wakes up dizzy, confused, and half-mumbles his agreement when Yvonne hugs his arm and asks if he feels like making them pancakes for breakfast.

In late June, Yvonne visits him at work and brings him a stack of bridal magazines she says she wants him to please have a brief look through while she attends the School Board meeting in town, and Spencer, in turn, visits him in his dream when he falls asleep on the sofa, and she is hiding from him on the docks, running around barefoot, always one step ahead, her laughter a dull echo he can nearly feel in his guts. He doesn't get to see her face this time but it's her perfume that stays with him even the next morning when he is on campus and he can suddenly smell it everywhere, on every classmate and professor and staff member, and tries his hardest to forget what he has left behind and fails.

And in July, it's two long, long nights in a row that he goes to church between her soft, milky thighs and asks god for redemption and absolution that refuse to save his tortured soul, that simply refuse to come, but she does, her toes curling up in the dirt beneath them, her perfect back a perfect arch, her breathy moan like a million angels singing, beckoning him even closer still, and it's seven long, long days in a row that he can't meet Yvonne's eyes for longer than it is necessary. And this time, he isn't hiding his awful dreams from her. This time, he is hiding the fact that his traitorous body had liked it.

The moon turns in August, completely swallowing her in the waves of his subconscious, and he stops dreaming about her for a while. It gives him time to breathe but without Spencer constantly occupying every inch of his damn mind – or, to put it slightly differently, without the thought of keeping Spencer from constantly occupying every inch of his mind, well, occupying his mind – the realization he had pushed aside months prior catches up with him. Three things he had already figured out: he lost parts of himself when they left Rosewood and Pennsylvania, and maybe Yvonne only fell in love with him because of how he looked in the sun, and he is still trying to turn and shape himself into the man she deserves to be with, the person she sees in him, the person she wants him to be so badly. Another thing he suddenly notices, and yes, it happens quite randomly too while he and Yvonne are out having brunch with a few of the other Planning Board members and he talks in a way he doesn't recognize anymore, like he is merely parroting everyone else around him, one thing he suddenly becomes aware of: the ridiculous costume he had squeezed himself into in a desperate, sad attempt to at least vaguely resemble the man she had fallen for, it's starting to become a little too tight for his liking. The mask he is wearing is slipping off his face, dangerously close to falling and shattering into pieces he knows he won't be able to repair. I need to let go, he thinks, and then goes home and sews his costume larger.

It's nearing October when she decides to come back to him. Standing by the French windows in the master bedroom and her face turned away from him, she doesn't seem to notice that he is completely mesmerized by her dark silhouette. It takes his eyes a moment, then two, to adjust to the darkness around them and it's only then that he realizes that she is wearing one of the elegant dresses he had seen in Yvonne's countless bridal magazines. She is before him as the beautiful bride he had never gotten the chance to ask her to become. A bride, sure, but not his bride and he now knows she will never be. They don't talk, they don't touch, and it's like his brain is punishing him for something he has no control over whatsoever because once more, her face remains hidden from his eyes. Maybe it's for the best – even in the overwhelming darkness and silence, a fraction of him can tell that this is a goodbye of some sorts, that this is the closest he will ever get to receiving an epilogue to their unfinished story. He wakes up the next morning in Yvonne's loving embrace and he is drenched in sweat and tears he couldn't cry, and he tells himself that he has moved on now, from Spencer and Rosewood and the person he thinks he is but can't be because Yvonne needs someone else. He tells himself that he can be happy if he tries even harder than before, tells himself that it doesn't matter how he feels, this is his life and he has to stop running. After that, he doesn't dream about her anymore.

One especially windy and rainy morning in mid-November, Yvonne is downstairs making various calls to various people who might be willing to take her to the mainland after all despite the strict warnings from the weather station, and Toby is getting ready to meet Mr. Warren on Main Street. Last night's storm has wreaked quite a havoc on the little island and the ginger man had gruffly told him over the phone to come in as soon as possible because there's a shit ton of work to do and we better get started quick. He suspects that it is going to be yet another dreary and exhausting day, what with the constant rainfall and thunderstorms that don't seem as if they are about to quit anytime soon, like almost every week since the beginning of fall. He doesn't complain though; he has long since stopped complaining. This is his life, the island is his home and the man in the mirror resembles someone he used to know ages ago but who cares. Yvonne knows who she wants and that's what he'll be for her.

And then, out of the blue, like she had risen out of the water in his dreams, Spencer sends him a text message. Just like that. She is not in his contacts anymore. He'd foolishly assumed it'd make him finally stop thinking about her when his dreams were at their worst and completely erased any trace of her from his phone. But he recognizes the number instinctively, as if an unknown and unreachable place deep within him is still vehemently clinging to every single memento of her. The razor slips from his grasp for a mere, tiny second as his eyes land on his phone and he cuts his cheek by accident.

Hey. Congratulations! she has written, complete with the exclamation point that is very unlike her or maybe the person he once knew better than himself, he has no idea. If he closed his eyes, he knows he would be able to hear her raspy voice clearly, loudly inside his head. Like holding up a shell and listening for the ocean. But he keeps his eyes open instead. I finally got the invitation the other day. I don't think I'll be able to make it though. Do you guys have an Amazon wishlist or something?

He wants to ask her: How are you always around when I'm miserable?

He wants to ask her: Why do you show up every time I try to convince myself that I've moved on now?

He wants to ask her: What did you take from me when we broke up because I'm starting to think that's the reason why I have completely lost myself and I have no fucking idea who I am anymore?

He wants to ask her: Are you happy? Because I want you to be. More than anything. Still.

Holding a tissue to his bleeding cut, he looks over at Yvonne's makeup bag on the counter and his poor heart gives a painful clench. His fears are ugly and they taste like vomit but they are scarily real now, they have crossed over to reality and tainted everything they are and could have become because no, he doesn't love her anymore. Not the way he used to just a couple of days and nights and months ago. And it's a total tragedy, it is, and it hurts, but it's the truth. The ugly, ugly truth he had been trying to run from – the grotesque, horrible truth that had followed him from Rosewood to Maine, to the island and even to the mainland whenever he tried to escape. But he squeezes his eyes shut – he hears Spencer's voice and the way she used to laugh at his awful jokes – and he says to himself, it doesn't matter. It'll get better even though it hasn't gotten better in months. It has to. One day. One day it will.

Thank you. No, we don't. I'm sorry I have to ask…but who is this? he texts back about ten minutes later and the man in the mirror stares back at Toby with a sigh.

She quits her job.

It's a total spur-of-the-moment decision that briefly grants her a feeling of freedom, tremendous joy and pride at finally having realized her internal self-worth, at standing up for herself in front of her awful boss, at being brave enough to quit and leave something behind that just wasn't as fulfilling as she had initially thought – and hoped against hope – it would be. But, of course, like so many other things in her life, the relief that is making her lightheaded and almost giggly, is only fleeting and as she stands in front of the boring building that she used to call her own personal prison and stares up at the small window that she knows belongs to her even smaller office, it's panic-stricken confusion and numbing anxiety that come to rest on her mind like a flock of birds perching on a power line.

"Shit," she mumbles, teeth biting down hard on her thumb, as she resists the pressing urge to strut back inside and somehow convince her boss that she didn't actually mean anything she said, that it was all an elaborate prank and that she will for sure be back in her office come Monday. "Fuck."

What am I gonna do now? she thinks.

That particular question, however, remains unanswered. Her countless job applications she keeps sending out aren't exactly met with an overwhelmingly warm and enthusiastic amount of responses either. Turns out that Chicago is huge and home to hundreds, if not thousands, of possible candidates that are all way more qualified than some random Spencer Hastings from Pennsylvania. She has gone from graduating from Georgetown to a glorified internship in politics to unemployment to working for a rundown sales company in Chicago and now, she has once more gracefully arrived at bitter, lonely unemployment. Her resume is pathetic and not even her rightfully earned grades can make up for her lack of credentials and work experience she knows she needs in order to survive on the market.

To put it differently: she is screwed.

"Seriously, if you ask me, you're underselling yourself," Aria sighs a couple of weeks later. It's mid-April and Spencer has just finished celebrating one of the crappiest birthdays in the history of birthdays the night before; stuffing her face with Indian food, downing the bottle of sparkling wine her ex-colleagues had gotten her as some sort of goodbye gift and re-watching her favorite Breaking Bad episodes all by herself. Twenty-five has never felt so shitty and disappointing although she does have to admit that it is at least a little better than twenty-four. She isn't stuck inside her office anymore, continuously glaring at Mona's Instagram feed in envy and desperately wishing someone would finally get rid of the ugly gray bank building across the street.

"What am I supposed to do?" Spencer answers her, phone cradled between ear and shoulder as she slips into her cardigan and shoes. "I have to pay rent somehow."

"Yeah but…waitressing? Come on," Aria responds and Spencer can very vividly picture her brunette friend spinning round and round in her swivel chair, the still unfinished chapter on the laptop sitting on her desk effectively ignored and forgotten. "You can't tell me you didn't find anything else."

"Oh, no, I did." Spencer closes the apartment door behind her. "But every job I was interested in didn't want me. So, again, I'm asking you: what am I supposed to do instead?"

"Go back to sales?"

"I'd rather shoot myself," Spencer replies dryly, nodding at her neighbor in greeting who, judging by the look on his face, didn't find her joke very amusing. "It's not permanent. I just need the money."

Aria gives another sigh, the swivel chair creaking under her weight. "That's why you probably should have stayed at the office until you found something new instead of, you know, impulsively quitting."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Too late now." Spencer shrugs nonchalantly as she fastens her seat belt and puts Aria on speaker. "Hey, how's your book going? Have you made any progress?"

"It's not going at all," Aria informs her gloomily. "I really have no idea what I'm doing."

"Well, that makes two of us."

It's not that bad though, she eventually manages to figure out and this time, the taste of freedom and relief that follows her realization remains strong on her tongue even afterwards, firmly clinging to every fiber of her being. Waitressing definitely is a hard job that is taking a toll on her body and there are some slow, rainy days where she feels as if she is wasting away her potential and all those years of college education but, really, in the end, it's not that bad and twenty-five is still better than twenty-four. Now that she isn't stuck in a vicious circle of living and reliving the same tedious week over and over and now that she isn't stuck going to bed every night, already dreading going back to work the next morning, she has more time on her hands. She has plenty of time, in fact, to sit down with herself and figure out who she is without Rosewood breathing down her neck, without her trauma, without everything that gave her words to hold onto, and discover what it is that she is craving for in her life and even though she still hasn't quite found the right answers that can help her navigate the mess she is in, there is one thing the past year, her old job and all those faceless men in her bed have taught her and that is the fact that she now knows very well what it is that she doesn't want. And that's progress, right, something to be rightfully proud of?

But while the world finally starts spinning again and pushing and pulling her into roads she had been too scared to take, Hanna's and Emily's presence, unfortunately, won't fade away. Aria doesn't bring them up anymore unless Spencer does it first – always casual, always as an afterthought, like she isn't silently licking her wounds and scars and aching for a bone, a breadcrumb – and it seems like she has given up on trying to reconcile them but that doesn't really do anything. Their ghosts linger on and more often than not, Spencer finds herself falling into the deep, dark hole that they have left inside her heart when they decided to leave her. Like on a cue and exactly like the previous year, Emily had texted her on the sunny morning of her 25th birthday and like on cue and exactly like the previous year, Spencer had merely blinked at the black letters and then broken into salty tears over a fucking impersonal "Happy Birthday, Spence! I hope its's a good one!" message. She hadn't answered and she doesn't. Hanna's gift to her, as expected, is radio silence but it doesn't matter, right? Life goes on.

Life goes on.

And so does she.

Her feet are blistered from working at the restaurant and her fingers exhausted from sending out one hopeless job application after the other but she is tough and she holds on regardless, keeps her head high, wants to be a person she can be proud of, wants to be a person she can – maybe one day – love and feel content with. She gets blonde highlights that look terrible and Aria insists that she can totally make it work and she knows it's a goddamn lie but chooses to believe her friend anyway. She stops buying alcohol unless it's a special occasion – and, no, getting drunk to lift her bad mood and erase the memories of her latest Rosewood-related nightmare doesn't count as a special occasion – and glances down at the cigarettes in her handbag and shrugs it off, deciding that she is not quite ready yet to get rid of all of her innumerable vices. She hastily deletes her OkCupid profile and the Tinder app off her phone when the good-looking guy she had been chatting with reveals that he is a cop and Toby's face immediately flashes up in front of her inner eye and he smiles at her, his blue eyes twinkling like they used to, and all she can think of is Yvonne and her stupid white wedding dress.

"That's it. No more men," she tells Aria in a firm voice. It's 90 degrees in Chicago and Spencer is sitting on her fire escape half-naked, balancing both her iPad and ashtray on her outstretched legs.

The other brunette pffts in obvious disbelief and begins fanning herself as her cat climbs on the back of the sofa behind her. Aria shoos him away and rubs her baby bump. "You always say that."

"No, really. I'm done. This time I mean it."

Enter stage: Elias.

In late June, he starts working at the same restaurant she is still waitressing at. He is their new part-time bartender and a full-time student at Illinois Tech when he isn't mixing drinks. His major is architecture, she finds out one especially lazy and warm night where she keeps him company, and she doesn't fully comprehend why or maybe she does and simply decides to ignore it for now, but that recent piece of knowledge about him manages to turn the strictly platonic feelings she had prior into a low tug somewhere below her navel. It's some innocent quips here, some flirty remarks there, and eventually, approximately one week of banter later, he asks he out and she agrees and they end up making out in his car after their date until her lips are swollen and his eyes turn dark with desire.

It's one of those relationships that are doomed right from the beginning and she already knows by the second time he pulls her aside during their shift to kiss her breathless behind the bar but she is too selfish to stop. She is too selfish to refuse the silver apartment keys he offers her, too selfish to tell him to stop looking at her like she is the best thing that has happened to him this year alone, too selfish to say no when he introduces her to his older brother. So it goes on and on but the excitement wears off quickly and they sizzle out like a small candle that shouldn't have been able to keep its pathetic flame alive as long as it did in the first place. And once the glasses are off and cold, hard reality sets in, she notices what she hadn't paid attention to in a burst of lust and pleasure: his hands are the wrong size and his eyes the wrong shade of blue, his voice in reality not as smooth as it had sounded to her ears and she is still trying to search, find and replicate something she lost years ago.

Later, he is sprawled across her sofa like he owns it and she pulls a grimace at the thought of having compared him to Toby because, honestly, they couldn't be any more different. She sits with him and stares at his face, her heart going a mile an hour, until she finally feels brave enough to end it. To release them and, more importantly, release herself. She talks and talks and doesn't actually say anything valuable at all and it's a bunch of crappy excuses and apologies and, yeah, she realizes that giving him the it's-not-you-it's-me line probably wasn't a good idea because he storms off with a nasty sneer after they fight for ages but it's the truth. It's her. It's all on her. They say people try to find partners that remind them of their parents, right? That people try to find partners that remind them of the first time they had experienced utterly pure, unconditional and selfless love. Same thing goes for her, she supposes, although her parents' house had never been an especially safe place, their love safely locked away with a fine print. No, see, she had deliciously drowned and lost herself in that kind of love much later in life and maybe that's exactly why she is still trying to find Toby in sweaty bedsheets, rough hands and blue eyes of strange men and constantly coming up empty-handed.

So, in the end and it's a scary decision, really, really scary, but in the end, she chooses herself. In the end, she finally comes to the realization that she deserves better than this never-ending cycle, half-assed romances with men who always talk to her like they are explaining something, and short-lived affairs that only look decent in the right lightning, that only vaguely resemble the feeling she once held firmly in her grasp and then lost along the way. She deserves better than chasing after something that is long gone and over, better than begging for closure that she won't receive anymore, no matter how much she tries, because it's done and dead, and he has moved on, probably not even wasted a single passing thought on his ex-girlfriend in years, and she has to learn to do the same.

She used to think how unfair it was that they hadn't ended with a long and all-consuming bang, like a love story as great as theirs deserved to, but with a meek little whimper in the shadows of her dorm room. She used to dream and pout about everything they could have been if the cruel, cruel world hadn't happened to them but maybe, she thinks now as she gives a sigh and steps into the shower to wash the remainders of her latest relationship fuck-up off of her. Maybe what she and Toby ultimately were, was all they were supposed to be anyway. Maybe they were just two kids building castles in the air and running after pipe dreams, failing to admit to themselves and to each other that they didn't stand a chance in the face of ice-cold reality that eventually caught up with them. She doesn't know and it's too late to go back, try and figure it all out. She chooses herself and moves on and that's that.

In August, she usually works the evening shifts and while that thankfully means that she will be spared from the pesky sunlight seeping in through the windows, the humidity manages to turn the air outside all lazy. The pleasant breeze coming from the air conditioning inside the restaurant doesn't really offer much relief either. Her hair is still saturated with salty sweat every single night, the tiny curls peeking out from under her neat bun stubbornly sticking to the back of her neck. She is annoyed beyond measure and her former boyfriend – for the lack of a better word – and current coworker is convinced to make her life a living hell. Elias has seemingly never heard anything about dealing with breakups in a healthy and mature way, especially breakups that involve a relationship that barely lasted for three and something weeks. It's painfully awkward and if the situation were any different, she would probably find it hysterical but this whole thing is just childish. He refuses to talk to her at all which, in turn, means that she has to ask one of the other waiters to fetch the drinks for the tables that Spencer is responsible for. Understandably, though, none of them are entirely pleased with doing her a favor almost every single night and it's just…it's a lot and it's childish and she just wants it to be over already and for that guy to get over it and himself.

Her saving grace arrives in the form of an email about a week later. It's from a place that had invited her for a job interview a long time ago and then never bothered to call her back. She had shrugged it off and assumed they either completely forgot about her or picked someone who actually knew what they were doing when they went in. She has written so many job applications in the past three months alone, most of the time she doesn't even remember what position she had applied for when they give her a pity call back to inform her that it unfortunately didn't work out. It's a job in the health care industry, Siri tells her when she looks up the name of her possibly future employer which sounds interesting and promising enough but, "Why the hell did I apply for this again?" she asks herself with a frown. Siri gently informs her that she didn't understand her question and Spencer rolls her eyes and puts her phone down. But, first of all, it's much better than sales, right, and it's better than waitressing and running around on blistered feet, suffering from constant back pain and an ex-boyfriend that doesn't understand the word no or the concept of acting like the adult he supposedly is. It's better than dragging her baggage, murder mystery past and family secrets into politics as well.

Most, if not all, things in her life haven't exactly worked out the way she wanted them to – and the whole mess with Toby and the other mess with Hanna and Emily aren't even in the Top Five of that very long and exhausting list – so, maybe, doing something different than what she had on her mind when she went to college is another fact she has to make peace and become friends with and then take out for a romantic candlelit dinner under the stars. The job involves a little bit of Lobbying and a little bit of Public Relations and Communication and, besides, health care is a worthy cause. The most convincing argument, though, and she should probably feel bad for making it her priority when she could very well be dealing with people's lives on a daily basis, the most convincing argument is the money and the knowledge that, if she actually manages to get her hands on this position, she will be able to treat herself once in a while without worrying about paying her bills or calling her mom.

Even though she still has issues accurately remembering the first one, Aria faithfully helps her prepare for her second interview and pick an outfit that Spencer merely comments with a fake-smile and even faker gratitude. Hanna, of course, uses the opportunity to haunt her thoughts when Aria hangs up later and Spencer gazes at the clothes her friend has picked out for her to wear the next morning and she winces at both. But it goes smoothly. She is a good liar, a trait she knows she perhaps shouldn't be proud of, and she has spent more than enough time doing online dating to know how to sell herself.

"Thank you for your time, Ms. Hastings," the representative says and Spencer feels her heart sink. Is that a good thing? Is that a bad thing? She has no idea and the other woman's face remains unreadable.

Spencer forces herself to a slight laugh that is both a nervous half-giggle and a tense half-groan.

"Unfortunately," the woman begins after she has finished looking through her various notes and files and Spencer's heart jumps back up at once, right into her throat, "the position you applied for in this facility has already been filled. We called you back, though, because we liked your resume and the first interview we did together. That's why I have one last question: would you be willing to relocate?"

Ah.

Relocate to Pennsylvania, you mean, she thinks. She had looked them up, read every single news article, review and interview she could online find but, foolish as she is, she had never considered that they might have done the same and found out about her connection to State Senator Veronica Hastings. No wonder they had wanted her when everyone else didn't.

"Uh, yeah," Spencer replies, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Sure. Relocate where?"

But turns out, to her great surprise, that it wasn't her mother's name after all that had convinced them to invite her back for a second interview. It really was just her and her alone. It's strange feeling.

"Worcester?" Aria exclaims, later, and they are on the phone this time but Spencer can almost hear her joyful smile. "That's, like, an hour from Boston. We could actually see each other again. In person."

"Yeah. I guess we could."

Aria huffs, unamused. "Are you telling me you said no?"

"I didn't say no. I said that I'd have to think about it first and they were like, sure, just let us know when you have an answer for us, and that's it," Spencer responds, exhaling the smoke from her cigarette. "And I really do need to think about it because I don't know if I really wanna move across the country for a job that I didn't even remember applying for. Who does that?"

"You should," Aria counters. "You and Chicago are one of those relationships where neither wants to admit that it has run its course and both are too stubborn to finally break up. You need a fresh start."

Maybe, kind of, sort of seeing her friend's point there, Spencer sighs, kicks a rock on the ground like an especially bratty kid and eventually says, in a slightly whiny tone, "But I like Chicago."

"Yeah, and if you really like Chicago, you need to let it go." She makes weird, tiny kissing sounds as if she is trying to get her cat to come join her and adds, "I'm serious, Spence, you need a fresh start and Worcester is, like, so close to me, you could actually be there for my baby when they're born."

"Stop guilt-tripping me."

"I'm not guilt-tripping you. All I'm saying is that plane tickets are expensive for a waitress."

Spencer purses her lips. "That is guilt-tripping. And besides, Worcester is in New England. Toby lives in New England. And I'm doing this new thing now where I'm actually trying to move on and let go of my past and I would rather not run into him and Yvonne and have all my progress go to shit."

"You're acting like he lives anywhere close to me. He is on an island," Aria reminds her. "And who even knows if Mr. Self-Proclaimed Small-Town Guy ever leaves his island, let alone the state."

"You don't know that."

"Well, I just looked it up on Google and, who would've thought, there's well over 200 miles between Cavanaugh Island in Maine and Worcester, Massachusetts," Aria retorts with an audible shrug in her voice. "Come on, just call them back and say yes. Ezra and I will help you with everything you need help with. The apartment. The move. What are the odds of randomly bumping into your ex again?"

Yeah, what are the odds?

New England has a population of approximately 14.73 million. Disregarding crucial factors such as personal habits, visitors and tourists dropping by for a vacation and then leaving again, people working out of state and only occasionally returning, population density and the unlikelihood of everyone always being evenly distributed among towns and cities, that is practically 14 million 730-something-thousand people she could run into on any given day instead of her ex-boyfriend and his wife. In other words, and she is now borrowing Aria's expression from August, the odds of randomly bumping into Toby again are basically zero. She doesn't believe in fate. She believes in coincidences, science and cold, hard facts and factually, there is just no way in hell that their paths would somehow intertwine once more. So, eventually, she stops looking over her shoulder every time she drives over to Boston, stops glancing up in a weird mixture of confusion and nostalgia when she hears a voice she thinks she has mistaken for his. She stops dwelling on memories that have all but faded and slipped through the cracks between her fingers like sand when she thinks she caught a quick glimpse of an all-too-familiar leather jacket in the corner of the street or it feels like his distinctive scent is following her from one Dunkin' Donuts to the other. The paranoia, she supposes, is something that comes with the fresh territory. He didn't want her in Rosewood, a town he had declared his and Yvonne's, when she came back for Charlotte's trial and lied for Ali's sake and now she is venturing into unchartered, dangerous terrain that he probably considers his kingdom too. Well, at least she does.

But the odds of meeting each other again are slim; next to zero, actually. Someone should have taken some time to let the world know about that, though, because just like the universe had unexpectedly shifted nine years ago and brought together two kids whose only connection was a certain blonde and a gruesome murder that never happened, just like the universe had shifted and pushed her onto his porch, packed with some pretty French verbs and some ugly secrets and just like the universe had one day shifted and turned his eyes the most gorgeous blue she had ever seen before he leaned in to brush his mouth against hers. The universe shifts once more, not giving a single damn about facts and logic and odds against odds. The universe shifts and with it, time seemingly does too, shifts back into place.

"Toby?"

She hadn't meant to say it aloud, draw his attention to her, probably ruin his entire day. Really, she hadn't. What she initially wanted to do upon every cell in her damn body standing up in frivolous recognition was grab her coffee in a hysterical frenzy, exit the coffee shop and hurry off as fast as she could. Tell her heart to calm down in-between cigarettes, too, because there it is, thumping against her ribcage wildly, like it is frantically but quite stubbornly insisting on making up for every moment they never got to share. He is standing by his armchair and putting his belonging into his leather bag and he looks…he looks the same, for the most part, and he is painfully oblivious to the expression on her face that she figures must be somewhere between terrified and pleasantly surprised.

Toby raises his head at the sound of his name and his eyes widen. She can't tell whether it's in shock, astonishment or maybe in an oh-god-why-me kind of way. They just…they just widen and that's it.

She steps a little bit closer, her legs acting almost on their own, and his eyes, his beautiful eyes, they are indeed a holding a genuine glimmer of delight in them but there is some dread too and she half-snorts at the irony of it all, their hearts finally beating in-sync again after years and years of dancing to two different off-beat songs. Two panicky birds flitting through their bodies, nestling, crackling and chirping in terror. She hadn't thought about it, allowed to let herself think about it, much but this is certainly not how she had envisioned them meeting again, all semi-awkwardness, polite smiles and the numbing fear of what was left unsaid circling them like a predator. Spencer hooks her thumb through the shoulder strap of her bag and holds her brown coffee cup more firmly in order to keep her traitorous, lying hands busy and still because she has no idea whether she should hug him or not.

"What are you doing here?" she exclaims instead.

"I could ask you the same thing," he says, shooting her a soft smile that she returns immediately and in a flash, his arms are around her in a short half-embrace and in a flash, before she can hug him back and fully realize that he is real, they are gone again. "No, I, uh, I live here. You? Business trip?"

"Me too!" She winces at her voice nearly breaking in childish excitement she really isn't supposed to be feeling at this encounter. She vaguely remembers telling Aria about moving on, letting go and giving herself time to heal. She remembers determinedly telling herself that she needs to learn how to be an adult and admit that he is one hundred percent happy now, without her or despite her or in spite of her. But all of that seems so far away now, like she is watching her past self through a thick shower curtain. It's funny, how easy it is to suddenly lose balance and stand still again. She clears her throat and takes a sip from her coffee. "I mean, I live in Worcester. That's, like, about forty miles-"

"Yeah, I've been there," he interrupts her but it's really gentle. Everything about him is always so gentle. He points over his shoulder with his thumb. "Did you wanna buy something 'cuz I was gon-"

"No, uh, I already got my fix. Heh." She holds up her coffee cup to show him. "I was actually leaving too and then I saw—we could, I don't know, um, walk together? I mean, I don't know where you-"

"Yeah-"

It's momentary silence that accompanies them when they exit the small coffee shop together and he holds the door open for her in a well-meaning gesture and it's the same silence that makes her almost achingly aware of her heart still beating like it's trying to break out of its cage deep inside her chest.

"So, a Mainah in Bahstin, huh?" It's lame and she knows if there is one thing she is absolutely and embarrassingly bad at, it's accents, but she figures that someone has to try and get rid of the awkward air between them. Her joke, nevertheless, entices a chuckle out of him. She smiles. "No, really, how'd you end up here? Are you working for the Bahstin PD now?"

Toby shakes his head no at her question, still with a slight smile on his lips. "No. I'm not with the Bahstin PD. I'm currently at Bahstin University." On her look, he adds, "Architectural Studies."

"No, really?" She thinks about Elias and Tinder Cop Guy and her gut reaction to both, at her attempts to escape Toby's memory and his stubborn ghost chasing her round and round in Chicago and then her pressing urge to end up with some overgrown man-child that had briefly looked like a poor man's painting of her ex-boyfriend and she has no idea what any of that means. Then she thinks about the countless fights they had over his job and how he had never seriously considered quitting it just for her but of course, of fucking course, he would actually do that for Yvonne. She struggles with her lighter for a few moments and, to his credit, he doesn't seem very surprised at her smoking habit, like he thinks that it makes perfect sense for her in a way, and instead cups his hand around hers without forewarning. This time, she does manage to light her cigarette, takes a deep drag and babbles to distract herself from his unexpected touch, "That's so great, Toby. I'm really happy for you. I mean, wow, a future architect…"

"Yeah, thank you," he replies quietly, withdrawing his hand and shoving it into the pocket of his jacket. She can't really read his tone or the foreign expression on his features, can't decide whether his thanks are genuine or whether he is thinking about her dorm room and you said wanted to quit the force and go back to school and that was your idea, not mine. And that was only because being with a cop isn't good enough for you. She takes another drag off her cigarette. He says, "You know, it was, it was not…it was not something I wanted to do but then life kinda happened and…now I'm here."

She furrows her brows a little. "But you're happy?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm happy. I really like it. I mean, I've always been interested in…" he trails off with a little shrug and she only realizes about half a beat later that it's because he knows there is no need to explain his dreams and hobbies to her, the person he had once, a lifetime and a day ago, shared all his deepest secrets and most precious thoughts with. She scratches at her nose. "What about you? Are you back in politics now? Em said you were in sales in Chicago a while ago…? I was actually kinda confused when I heard that."

Of course Emily would gladly talk about her while not having enough face to show up and talk to her.

"Seriously, don't ask. It's kind of a long, boring story," she answers and scrunches up her nose. "But no, not in politics. Not really. I kinda work with politicians sometimes but, you know, it's not like before. My official, uh, job title is communication manager."

"What is that?"

"Honestly? I'm still not entirely sure," she says and laughs slightly, pleased with herself when he gives a hearty snicker. "But it's really fun and it pays well and it gives me the opportunity to be bossy."

He gives her another smile, then lowers his gaze to watch where he's going. "You're not bossy."

"Toby, come on, we're not dating anymore. You don't have to be nice to me," she counters in a playful tone he comments on with a barely visible wince that she most likely would have missed if she didn't know him as well as she does. She twists her pursed lips to the side, sort of regretting her words, and she really isn't doing this to annoy him or hurt herself more than before but her mouth moves before her brain can fully catch up and she says, "By the way, uh, I know it's October and I'm almost eight months late but I'm really sorry I couldn't make it to the wedding."

There is a slight shift in his demeanor and she wonders if she has hallucinated it after all because it disappears as quickly as it came. He merely sinks his hands further into the depth of his pockets and glances up to meet her look for a second. "Yeah, no. It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"I mean it. I feel bad." No, actually, she really doesn't. She doesn't know what the hell she is saying or why in the world she is saying what she is saying. Maybe it's an effort to remind herself that he is a married man now, his wife waiting for him at home with open arms and an open heart, and that she was in the process of – more or less – successfully letting go, moving on, before stupid life happened and Aria was wrong and she ended up randomly bumping into her ex anyway. "Is there anything I can do? Anything you guys still need? A blender? Microwave?" She bites her lower lip. "Baby stuff?"

"No, it's fine. Really. Like I said." He clears his throat, eyes not meeting hers, as he takes his phone out of his jacket. "Sorry but, uh, I actually just realized that I had to go the other way when we left-"

"Oh. Yeah. Of course. Sorry we just-"

"Don't apologize. We started talking and I didn't pay enough attention to where-"

She feigns a smile. "You should—you should go. I don't wanna hold you up."

And they say goodbye and he draws her into another quick, awkward half-hug and she feels eighteen again as she watches him go, watches him turn his head to gaze at her over his shoulder, and she wants to call after him, make him stop walking away from her and ask him something like, can I text you? Later? And this time you'll actually recognize my number?

She wants to say: You know I can still tell when you're lying, right? I know you're walking away from me for a reason.

She wants to say: Do you finally wanna have that dinner you promised me two years ago so we can talk and you can tell me why you stopped running for Yvonne but you still can't do the same for me?

But she doesn't do any of these things because her brain stills, clicks, and their conversation, his lies and abrupt escape from her suddenly start making sense and there is only one pressing thought inside her head. She doesn't say any of these things aloud because she knows if she so much as opened her mouth, one question and one utterly perplexed question only would come out of it.

Where is your ring?