Time To Move On, a bridget jones' diary fanfic

Time To Move On

Words: 1009
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: As much as we'd like to linger, we all have to keep moving forward.
Disclaimer: Universe? Not mine. Wish it was.
Notes: Another foray into second-person. Written for my friend (and avid plot-bunny breeder) Carly (aka justdreamsome on LJ) on the occasion of her natal anniversary (3/1). \o/ The subject matter is not commentary—this was one of her plot-bunnies. : )

Something causes you to take a turn into the park. It's not something you normally do, and it's eerie, almost as if an external force is drawing you in. Despite your foul mood from the grueling morning you've had, the sun is glorious and it feels good to be outside, to have the sun beating on your cheeks, and a short while into your walk, your mood has already turned around. In fact, you almost feel like smiling.

Movement off to one side a short distance away catches your eye. Your gaze lights on a thatch of coffee-brown hair. Your heart is suddenly in your throat; you freeze like a deer in the headlights. It's him. He hasn't seen you, and you know this because he looks amazingly happy, like a totally different man than the one you knew; certainly you were never the cause for so much joy. You can't remember the last time you saw those handsome divots in his cheeks, the last time you saw his dress shirt loosened to the second button and no tie in sight. He emerges from the shade of the tree and the sun sets his hair to glowing. You are immediately reminded of when you were close enough to those sun-tipped waves to comb your own fingers through them. You wish now you'd done so more often.

You think about doing an about-face or the very least ducking behind a tree but you're still far enough away and he's focused on something—someone?—very intently. In any case, you doubt he'll recognise you now, so you don't bother. You've let your hair grow out since you quit your high-octane job (you realised you had to, before it completely devoured the remains of your very soul), and have exchanged your angular power suits in cold, hard, pinstriped charcoal-grey for cream-coloured linens and coral silks. You're softer now, literally and figuratively, and you can't imagine anymore what it was like to be the person that hurt him.

You then see the object of his affection: a light-skinned blonde woman of average height. She's a little heavier than you, hippier, certainly bustier. Though she is fairly nice-looking, there isn't anything particularly extraordinary about her except for the way his adoring look reflects on her entire being and is returned back to him in full; her beaming smile, the bloom on her cheek, the sparkle in her eyes, makes her stunning in a way that goes far beyond the sum of her features and figure.

You watch them embrace, his hands curling around and briefly tightening on her hips before he wraps his arms around her. You suddenly remember the way he gently suggested you ease your self-imposed dietary restrictions, your punishing workout schedule, and let yourself fill out, and you cringe to remember your acidic laugh in reply—he had been right all along. He kisses her in a way he never would have dared kiss you in public, and you turn your eyes away for a moment (out of respect? or your own shame?). They part and, still smiling, head for the blanket he's laid out under the tree. You dare to walk a little bit closer. She sits against the tree, invites him with a grin to join her. He sits in the vee of her legs with his back to her and reclines against her chest, his temple brushing against her cheek. Clearly they've come for a picnic lunch (if the basket on the edge of the blanket is any indication) but have no obvious interest yet in eating, and you feel a little uncomfortable looking on as she wraps her arms about his shoulders and plants a kiss in his (slightly coarse yet soft—you remember this well) hair.

Are you reliving the past? Not really. You never went to the park with him, never had a picnic under a shady tree, never traced a tender line along his brow while he closed his eyes and relaxed against you. You were too busy with your own career, too busy for him, even as you greedily loved the idea of being his wife.

You blew it, though. You blew it on an epic scale, all because a smooth-talker with an agenda and an insatiable sexual appetite—his supposed best friend—had found the chink in your armour and had seduced you into an emotionally devoid though incredibly physically satisfying affair. You knew from the start it was a bad idea, but you continued it anyway. You relished in the forbidden, maybe even thought you deserved it because he was so deep in his own difficult work that he never noticed you had strayed.

Until he did.

You know you've spent too much time looking because her pale eyes flash to you, filled with questions. She's probably taking in your long black hair glinting almost blue in the sun, your dark, almond-shaped eyes looking a little too intensely and a little too long at the pair of them. She furrows her brow, tilts her head slightly, scrutinising you in return. Politely you offer a smile, demurely lower your lashes and continue walking briskly along, because the last thing you want is for him to open his eyes and see you; the subsequent introduction and discussion would assuredly ruin their idyllic afternoon.

After a few steps you pause and dare to glance back; you see she's bent her head down and he's turned, lifted his chin. You see their smiles touch as they begin to kiss again. He raises a hand, reaching back behind himself and cupping gently at the nape of her neck.

You turn away once more, continue to walk steadfastly forward, and you are determined not to look at them again. Somewhere deep inside, are you wishing you were in her place? Maybe. There's a part of you that still loves him and, you think, always will. You know you'll never be forgiven, and perhaps you never should be. But you have to move on, because you can see that he already has.

The end.