A/N: I started writing this at the Ottawa airport. I have a love/hate relationships with airports because I hate waiting, but I find them fascinating (a microcosm of society, where people are most honest...but I digress).

As I sat there looking out at the snow falling, knowing I wouldn't see the white stuff again until I return next December, I was inspired to write this. It's basically a love letter to my hometown. It's totally self-indulgent, but I'm OK with that!

The title is a Jann Arden (Canadian!) song that seemed pretty fitting.

----

She walks quickly to the ticket counter, and the man on the other side gives her a look of complete skepticism that she's not sure she's ever seen. She knows she's been crying - is still crying - and that her makeup must be running and her sleeves wet from wiping tears, but she doesn't care, because no one else could understand.

No one else has ever loved Lucas Scott the way she has.

And even if he hadn't told her that once, she still would have known it was the truth.

The man just hands her a tissue, and she wonders briefly if this kind of thing happens often; heartbroken girls running away from the one whose caused the tears. She mutters what she intends as a thank you, though she's not entirely certain that's how it comes out, and the man, in his standard issue navy polyester suit, asks where to.

She has no real answer. She doesn't want to go anywhere that has memories of him, but she's not sure such a place exists, so she says she'll take a ticket on the next available flight, as long as it's not going to Vegas or L.A. The man makes a face, as if to ask if she's sure, and when she extends her credit card while managing to keep the stoic look on her face, the man just nods and processes it, printing a boarding pass and handing it to the girl he feels sorry for, for reasons he doesn't really know.

The ticket reads Ottawa, and she's not sure she's ever really heard anything about the place, other than it's the capital of Canada, and it's cold there in February. But that's where she's going, and she's determined to forget about him if it's the last thing she does.

But she'll never forget him, and on some level she knows that already.

Stepping through security, she's stopped for a 'random search', and she rolls her eyes. As if there's not enough attention on her already, since she's the only person in the airport crying uncontrollably, now she's being frisked by a woman whom she's certain doesn't understand the boundaries that come with her job.

But she has nothing to worry about because she has nothing to hide, and if she did, she'd hide those tears on her face and that broken heart that she's sure is displayed prominently on her sleeve.

It's a short enough flight, and she's thankful, because the man next to her has taken an interest in her story, and though she's made it clear, as politely as she could, that she doesn't really want to talk about it, he turns to face her at her every strangled sob or admittedly pathetic sniffle.

He asks if she's ever been to Ottawa, and when she says no, he tells her it's a great city and she'll love it and it's really beautiful this time of year. She's sure he's right, but she doesn't really care at this point in time. He asks if she has a budget, and she says no because she hadn't even thought of how long she'd stay or where she'd stay or why she was really even going in the first place. He writes down the name of a hotel, and those two French words - Chateau Laurier - are so beautiful that she knows that's where she'll go.

He gives her one last good luck as they walk off the plane, and later, at baggage claim, she watches as he gets a kiss from a woman she assumes is his wife, and hugs from two teenage boys who must be his sons.

And that's was the first time she's ever been jealous of a balding, middle-aged business man. He had flown towards love, and she had flown away from it. She'd apologize for her curt greetings and one word answers, but he doesn't need them and it doesn't matter anyway.

She pulls her small bag off the carousel, and in her weakened state, stumbles backward slightly, dropping her bags in the meantime. In an instant, there are two complete strangers at her side, collecting her things and asking if she's alright, and she wonders if maybe people really are nicer in this country. She says another thank you and receives warm smiles from the people she knows she'll never see again, and realizes that trend will continue for as long as she's here.

No one knows her. No one knows her story. She can be whoever she wants.

And yet, somewhere between baggage claim and the taxi stand, it dawns on her that all she wants to be is Lucas Scott's girlfriend again.

In her anger, she'd told him that she was done and she couldn't do it any more, and she suspected that he knew neither of those things were true, but she couldn't be sure.

She pulls out her phone and turns it on again, and she has eight messages. Two from Brooke, one each from Nathan and Haley, and four from him. She can't decide if she loves or hates that he's told everyone that she left. He told them because he cares. But he made her go in the first place. She wonders briefly if he's realized that yet, but her phone rings again, and before she checks to see who the caller is, she seriously thinks about dropping the thing into the trash can to her right.

But it's her best friend, and if anyone can even come close to getting it, it's her. Even then, it's only because Brooke has had to help her through this before. She answers in a tone that she hopes isn't as depressing as she actually feels, and then she's being asked where she is. She says Ottawa, and Brooke makes a joke about not even knowing if she's sure where that is on a map. She says she's fine, though they both know it isn't true, and Brooke tells her everyone's worried and that she needs to come home or at least call him. She won't do that, she insists, and she knows her friend won't agree with that. She says she needs to be away from him, just for a little while, so she can figure things out. She says don't tell him, and before Brooke can protest, she lets out a strangled please.

And Brooke doesn't understand that, but she understands her best friend, and if she says she needs something, then she needs it. So she makes Peyton promise to call her back soon and hangs up, and immediately calls her accountant to transfer money into her best friend's bank account. She knows Peyton wouldn't ask, and probably won't even use the money, but she'll feel better knowing it's there.

A cab driver lifts her things into the trunk as she clutches her purse and her phone in her hand, contemplating whether or not she wants to hear the messages that had been left. Curiosity gets the best of her when she realizes that the airport is in the middle of nowhere and there's nothing to see yet anyway.

It's me.

She smiles despite herself, because that's how he's always started every voicemail and every phone call, until one time she made fun of him about it. The next call she got, he used some other greeting, and she laughed and told him it didn't feel right, so he went back to It's me.

You just left, and I'm worried, because we don't walk out on each other like that. I guess until tonight. Just call me and let me know you're OK.

We don't walk out on each other? She lets out a sardonic laugh and the cab driver catches her eyes in the mirror and they share a smile. But she remembers the one walk out that changed everything, and he was the one who left that time. So that voicemail was one more strike against him for seemingly having forgotten that painful part of their story.

It's me. Baby, I'm really worried. It's been an hour and I know you're mad, but I'm....I'm worried. Call me. Or come home."

Home. That message gives him a check mark because he realizes that it's their home, not just his any more. And for a brief moment, part of her wishes she could just turn her car around on whatever back roads of their town she was driving on, and rush through the door so they could mutter apologies against each others' skin. That's what they always did. She'd hole up in the bedroom, and he'd take the living room, and it would be a stand off until one of them crept into the others' space and admitted to being wrong or selfish or stubborn or whatever other thing they realized they were guilty of.

Peyton, it's Brooke. I don't know what the hell's going on, but I guess you and Luke had a fight? Anyway, don't ignore me because you're pissed at him. Love you.

She erases that one immediately, since she's already talked to Brooke. The next one is Brooke again, and she hits the delete button as soon as she hears P. Sawyer. She's sure the rest of the messages are more of the same, but she can't be certain and she has nothing else to do, so she keeps listening.

Sawyer.

It's Nathan and she smiles that he still calls her that because he always has; before they were dating, and after, but not during. She gets caught up wondering why that was and has to replay his message because she didn't hear a word the first time.

Sawyer. My brother's an idiot, but we're wondering where you are. He just rolled his eyes at me for calling him an idiot. But seeing as you left, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you he's an idiot. OK, he's really pissed now. Call me. Or him. Or Brooke because now she's staring me down too. I gotta go before I make anyone else mad.

She wishes she had just gone to Nathan and Haley's, and had him lead her to the guest bedroom and talk to her in that way that only Nathan could. He'd make her laugh and put her at ease and give her one of those Nathan Scott hugs that always left you feeling warm and comforted.

Haley's voice comes on and her sing-songy lilt and maternal speech makes her miss her friends, though she only just saw them earlier that day.

Peyton, It's getting late, and I'm sure you won't want to talk to Luke, and that's fine. You know our door is always open, day or night, so please come to us if you want to talk. We have a spare room. And Nathan is telling me to tell you that we have alcohol, though I can't in good conscience condone that behaviour. Give me a call. Love you.

She laughs again and now she's crying because she's not sure why she even left in the first place. And when his voice comes on again, she's completely missing the beautiful old buildings they're driving past because she's gotten lost in his gravelly tone and the sweet things he's so frantically trying to express.

It's me. I love you. I'm running out of things to say on your voicemail. You sound really sexy in your message, by the way. Have I told you that before? I don't know if I have....Now I'm wondering what else I should have told you, but never did. Call me, and tell me what you want to hear because I'll say anything you want. I miss you already and I know that's stupid to say because it's my fault that you left and it's only been...5 hours. But when was the last time we went 5 hours without talking? I really can't remember. I love you, OK? OK."

His voice breaks on the last I love you, and she wonders if she's ever made him cry before, or if this is the first time and she's missing it because she's stubborn. She listens to it twice, and she realizes that they haven't gone 5 hours without talking since they got back together. But this is big, and she's not sure if they'll survive it, and she doesn't know what that means for either of them, only that it hurts a lot right now.

It's me. I'd say I'm sorry but I'm sure that won't matter. Or maybe it will. I don't know. I just need you and I need to hear you say you love me, because I'm worried that if you don't, that this is over, and I can't...It just can't be.

His tone is completely dejected, and she knows, just knows that he was laying on his bed - their bed - when he called. He'd be laying on his back, his left arm running over the duvet where she should have been laying next to him. He sounded so absolutely broken that she's sure that he feels the same way she does.

And she knows, somehow, way down to the bottom of her heart, that they aren't over. She wishes she could ignore it, because right now she'd love to be able to say that she hates him and she'll always hate him for this and she'll never speak to him again. But she couldn't hate him. Ever. She can hardly even think it.

So she works up the nerve to send him a text message, knowing that if she calls him, she'll be on the next flight home so she can see him and kiss him and tell him they'll work it all out. And she still just needs time.

I'm fine. Don't worry.

She knows he'll do it anyway, but that's all she can bring herself to say.

When they pull up to the hotel, she's not sure she's ever seen something as beautiful. It's old and stone and has a copper rooftop that's been turned a gorgeous shade of green by the elements. And there's snow all around, and the warm glow of the lights at night, and she feels like this is where she needs to be right now.

She feels out of place as the door is pulled open for her and a bellman comes to gather her feeble belongings, but the staff are more than welcoming and then she feels like a princess, though she looks far from it in her jeans and Lucas' old grey sweater. She gives the desk clerk her name and she's told there's already a reservation for her, and when she says that's not possible, he says that a Miss Brooke Davis had made the arrangements. She remembers that she'd mentioned the name of the hotel over the phone, and she smiles because her best friend just wants the best for her.

She's shown to her room and she's breathless when she enters it to take a look around. She says thank you and tips the bellman, and walks to the window to admire the view of the river and the seemingly ancient buildings she knows nothing about.

And all she can think is, I wish Lucas were here.

So she takes her phone out of her bag, and she types the words that he'd pleaded for her to say, so he'll know they aren't over.

I love you.

She knows that he won't call again, because he knows her and he knows she won't answer. He'll give her time and he'll breathe just that little bit easier knowing that when she comes back, they'll work it out. At least they'll try. At least they'll hope.

She washes the day's tears and hurt off her face and slips into her pajamas, and Ottawa is really freaking cold in February. Half asleep, she reaches out instinctively for a man she has forgotten isn't there, and so instead of using his body heat to warm her and muttering something cute about being lucky he's so hot, she pulls the plush covers up around her neck as tightly as she can.

She wakes up on the left side of the bed, though she distinctively remembers falling asleep in the middle, and she knows that she'll wake up that way every night she spends away from him, just because it's habit. Or maybe, she thinks, because that's the way it's supposed to be.

She wraps the complimentary robe around her for warmth and orders breakfast, which she fully intends to eat in bed. French toast, because it's his favourite. When it arrives with real Canadian maple syrup, fresh fruit and a cappuccino, that first bite is heaven, and she knows that if she ever tells him about this, his jaw will drop in jealousy.

She gets dressed in the warmest clothes she brought, then buys a scarf and mittens in a nearby shop, and heads towards what she learns are the Parliament Buildings. They are beautiful and she stops to warm her hands on the flame out front, reading the plaque telling her all about its significance and purpose. She takes a guided tour of the building and learns about Canadian government, and she knows that it's something she never would have seen herself doing or anything she ever needed to know, but she's here, so why not?

She walks outside and it's past lunch, so she stops at a small café for a cup of soup and a freshly baked bagel, and wonders why more people don't visit this city. It's rich in history and it is gorgeous, though she's only really seen about 5 square blocks of it. She sees a building that intrigues her, and she's told it's the National Art Gallery, and she knows that's where she's going next. Admission is cheap and she spends the next 4 hours inspecting brush strokes and techniques, and reading about paintings she didn't know existed. She finds the originals of some of her favourite works by Monet and Rembrandt and she stares at them as long as she can, and no one says anything because they're beautiful and meant to be appreciated.

At one point, she looks to her left - he's always on her left, for reasons he either doesn't know or just won't explain - as though to say something to him, and he's not there. She looks to the floor again and she wonders if she's ever missed him more. Of course, she's missed him before, but this is an ache, and she thinks it's caused by knowing that it was her choice to leave and that she could be next to him right now, with him on her left, if only she hadn't walked out.

She strolls through the Byward Market, and she's told by the vendor who sells her a coffee that it's more alive in the summer. She's still fascinated by everything she sees. She finds a used book store, and out of habit, she walks in. After nearly 20 minutes of browsing, she sees them. One copy each of both his novels. She pulls the crumpled Canadian dollars out of her purse and buys them because she just can't not. She notices the stamp on the outside of the pages with the name of the book store and the city it's located in, and she smiles, knowing these are her souvenirs. She's on her way out the store, she notices an impossibly old looking hard-cover Dickens, and she buys it, too, because he'll love it, and she wants him to know that she was thinking of him.

And she wonders if maybe that's why they're perfect for each other.

They'll scream and fight and make each other crazy, but at the end of the day, he'll still bring her a bowl of her favourite ice cream because he knows it'll make her smile, or she'll rub his shoulders without him asking because she knows he needs it. They know each other, and they love each other, and they put up with each other in a way that they are both aware that no one else could.

After dinner she finds a tiny dessert shop nestled on a quiet street, and has a piece of the most amazing cake she's ever tasted. She calls Brooke as she's stepping out onto the street, because she hasn't yet, and she's happy to hear the voice of someone familiar. When it starts to snow, she looks skyward for a reason she can't explain, and smiles as she rattles on about her day. Somewhere along the way, she drops a mitten, and a beautiful man with dark hair and dark eyes picks it up and calls out Mademoiselle! Brooke squeals into the phone when Peyton says thank you and he says my pleasure, in an accent that would make her swoon if she wasn't already in love with someone else.

She wants to ask how Lucas is, but she can't do it and she's not quite sure why, but her best friend knows her well enough to say that he's alright, he's just worried, and he loves her so much and everyone can see it. She knew all those things already, but it still made her heart swell to get that confirmation. She says goodbye and promises to be home soon, because even though she is beginning to adore this city, she knows that home is with him, and her best friends, and his simple smile first thing in the morning. She knows that.

Walking past a bar, she sees patrons dressed in red and cheering loudly, and she wonders what the hype is all about. She notices a hockey game on one of the televisions, and she steps inside, deciding that one beer won't hurt. She's adopted by a table full of friendly men and smiling girls, all about her age, and she finds herself cheering for the home team, though she really has no clue what is going on. But when that horn blows and the crowd, both at the arena and in the bar, erupts into a fit of cheers, she knows it's a familiar feeling. Same emotion, different sport. She explains that her boyfriend is a basketball coach and has won championships and eyes go wide and there are appreciative nods at his accomplishment. And she's painfully proud of him then, even though she knows he can't see it.

One beer turned into five, and then she was saying goodbye to her new 'friends'. She walks back to her hotel and suddenly it doesn't feel so cold out. She knows that's because of the alcohol, but she wonders if maybe it's also from the knowledge that she's not going to let him go. She wasn't sure when it was that she really decided that. Or if she didn't have to because it was what she'd known all along.

So she sits on the bed she so wished they were sharing, and she dials their home number because she knows he won't be there and she's not ready to talk to him just yet, and she leaves a message that she knows will have him smiling.

Hi. I know you're out, but I wanted to call. I was just reminded today on a couple different occasions that you're pretty amazing, Lucas Scott, and I'm proud of you. And I don't know if I ever told you that. I'd say I miss you, but you probably already know that. You know that, right? I'll talk to you soon. I'll see you soon.

She hangs up, and she feels more disconnected from him than ever, and so she dials again and says only the words she realized she'd forgotten to say.

I love you.

He doesn't call her back, but it's OK because he didn't need to and she didn't expect him to.

But when she pushes open the door to their bedroom a day and a half later, he's got her in his arms so quickly that it makes her laugh because she's missed this, and she's missed him. He says he's sorry over and over and she says she's sorry too. She tells him that it doesn't matter and she doesn't care and she doesn't really remember what they were fighting about anyway. It's a lie and they both know that, but that doesn't matter either because she's home, and she's his, and neither of those things are going to change any time soon.

They could have gone anywhere for their honeymoon; exotic or tropical locales or European countries rich in tradition. But when she asks where he wants to go, he just smiles and says the name of the city that helped to bring her back to him again.

-Fin-