One's Own Worth
She found a job slinging coffee at a little bookstore.
The pay was low, considering that the owners had just come in from out of state and had no experience with starting a business, but the patrons were sweet to her (and generous tippers) and her smiles began to come more and more easily in their conversations.
The kitchen faucet was fixed, and she made cookies. The kind he was fond of, with the little toffee bits in them. Her eyes crinkled in amusement as he savored every bite and tried to downplay his burning desire for the very last one.
She let him have the sweet, gently turning down his monthly offer.
The next month, she moved out. Found a reasonable little flat on the other side of town – where the locks held firm, whenever anyone bothered to use them. Her neighbors brought her a casserole in welcome.
They shared it over coffee. Still she said no.
She finally had saved enough money to buy a used bicycle. A bright yellow thing with a retro banana seat and a tattered basket on the front. Not the most fashionable methods of transportation, but it got her where she needed to be and it got her there on time. As a result, she found a second job as a clerk at the local grocery.
The refrigerator was replaced, and he was given a key – not that he ever needed it. She still would not accept.
Soon the apartment was filled with secondhand furniture, an overstuffed sofa here – an old wicker chair there and a colorful rug that she found discounted at the Megamart. His gifts began to be prominently displayed in her home, glittering crystal bowl filled with shiny marbles and artificial flowers – occasionally the sweet-smelling posies he would bring into her home.
Once he asked why she was suddenly so much more receptive to the trinkets he offered. She replied with some flimsy answer about how before she didn't deserve them and directed her gaze away sheepishly as he gave her a look that shot right through her.
A trip to the library resulted in a neatly printed resume and an appointment for a job interview at a respectable office. She emptied her savings for the pantsuit with matching shoes and took the bus.
Upon arriving home, she kicked off her heels and kissed him, drunk on the adrenaline of absolute achievement. That evening, he toasted her success with a bottle of wine taken from his collection. They sat on the rooftop with his arm around her shoulders while he told her the stories of each and every constellation. When she fell asleep, he gently carried her to her bed, leaving a crystal on the dresser.
It was back on his nightstand the next day.
There was a man at work she began to get close to. Soon she wasn't coming back to the flat when her shift was over, and when she finally did, it was late at night and she smelled of cologne. She would apologize for her tardiness as she brewed tea, spilling store bought cookies across a plate. He would watch her solemnly, debating to himself.
His visits began to dwindle in frequency from once a month to every other then every six as she became more involved with her work and this new interest. He kept tabs on her through his crystals, witnessing her promotion, the clunker of a used car she bought from a corner lot, the passing of her childhood pet. He watched her fights with her stepmother, with her father, with her boyfriend.
She thought of him often, when she blew out a tire on the highway during a trip to her family home, when she heard a song on the radio she knew he would like, when she picked out what to wear for an anniversary dinner. She began to repay his past gifts with presents of her own – a cleverly carved puzzle box from a craft fair, a pair of lumpy mittens she taught herself to knit, a kitten she rescued from behind the building. To keep him company, she said. Her lease wouldn't allow for it and Michael was allergic. She made him promise not to let the goblins eat it.
The visits stopped when she got engaged.
She had argued at first, but the logistics of having an ethereal, imaginary friend who showed up for tea once a year was beyond explanation. He smiled at her softly and slipped a crystal into her hand.
"I can't."
"I know," he said, chucking her under the chin, "Just in case. If you need me."
It feels strangely final this time as she accompanies him to the door, open once again to the gritty landscape of the Labyrinth. He brushes hair from her cheek and kisses her forehead.
"I can wait," he whispers before backing away with a bow and turning away to face his world. She closes the door with a near silent click, then stows the crystal in a shoebox at the back of her closet.
Time passes quickly.
She decides on a long engagement, Michael doesn't protest. Together they start planning the future, where will they live, which bank to join, who will do dishes that night. Yet she can't shake the feeling of something missing during their cake tasting appointments, florist decisions, dress shopping excursions.
Michael's parents fly in from out of state and her future mother-in-law inquires after the beautiful crystal bowl she keeps on the mantle. She tells her it was a gift from a very dear friend and no. she doesn't know where to get one like it. Everyone is quaint and cozy and they depart on good terms.
She slowly, deliberately packs her apartment – carefully wrapping her life in newspaper and trusting in cardboard to keep it safe. She moves in with Michael and they split the electricity bill.
Time passes quickly.
Work is slow and corporate makes the decision to downsize. She is saddled with the unfortunate task of letting staff go. One of them is Michael.
They fight that night, Michael refusing to listen to her apologies as she continually reminds him that it wasn't her decision, it's not her fault but he blames her anyway. She finds the shoebox she stowed in the bathroom and runs her fingers over its corroding surface that night while Michael sleeps in the guest bedroom. She does not remove the lid and hides it under the plumbing when the sun rises.
Michael apologizes with pancakes and coffee. She goes to work.
Time passes quickly.
She comes home to a dripping sink and a humming refrigerator. She pushes classifieds aside and asks Michael how his day was. The rest of the night is spent listening to his stories about the assholes he interviewed with, the bastards who abandoned him and the bitches who don't give him the time of day. She pours herself a glass of water and pays the electricity bill.
Time passes quickly.
Michael still hasn't found a job. She does her best to lift his spirits, dropping employment pamphlets in his path and writing letters of recommendation. Michael snips and snaps at her. They fight. He apologizes and she forgives. She stops when she finds a bra that isn't hers in the laundry.
Time passes quickly.
She buys a house in the suburbs with a lawn and a tree swing. She takes her time filling it with comfortable second-hand furniture, a squashy couch here, an overstuffed armchair there. She spends a fortune on a colorful rug she found in a downtown boutique. She keeps her crystal bowl on the coffee table, filled with bits of blown glass and fresh flowers from the garden.
The shoebox is retrieved from the pantry and she orders a stand online, a beautiful piece of wrought iron full of twists and turns that are difficult to unravel by the eye. She displays the crystal on her nightstand, keeping it close.
Time passes quickly.
She tries dating again, but gives up after a long string of failed blind dates. Her girlfriends keep trying to set her up but she turns them down with a smile. Her girlfriends begin to think she has a secret lover on the side. She does nothing to discourage them.
She goes to her brother's orchestra concerts and local theater performances. She travels. She lives.
Time passes.
On her 35th birthday, she makes a wish. He is all too happy to answer.
Ten years is nothing for forever.
Epilogue:
Someday he will ask her, as they sit amid the remains of a picnic in the grass of the orchard, what made her change her mind. She would be quiet for a moment and watch the kitten she gave him all those years ago chase an insect while she chose her words.
"Because I didn't have to."
He frowns at that and she laughs, lacing her fingers with his and leaning into his side. She'll let him puzzle it out on his own.
Standard disclaimer here.
SEVEN YEARS. I'm like Link sealed away in the Sacred Realm. Sorry, wrong fandom.
No beta, just trying to see if the muscle still works after seven years. Whoops.