Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	fic-south of nowhere

FIC: Tangled Up In Blue [South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley]
"Tangled Up In Blue" by Jengrrrl
[South of Nowhere, Spencer/Ashley]
"It starts with an ad in the newspaper."
April 26, 2008
10,246 words





It starts with an ad in the newspaper.

Room for rent—not too far from downtown, for just the right amount of money. She calls the number listed because she’s tired of living in a motel. Los Angeles seems smaller than small-town Ohio from the inside of a drab little room, and Spencer’s ready to see more.

The man on the other end of the line tells her, yes, the room’s still available. And, sure, she can drop by whenever she wants that weekend. “We’ll be here,” he says. “Me and my wife.” He gives her his name—Aiden Dennison—and the exact street address, and she tells him she’ll swing by on Saturday. “Around noon, if that’s okay?”

“We’ll be here,” he repeats.

--

She has to ring the doorbell three times before anyone answers. A woman appears on the other side of a screen door. “Spencer?” she asks.

“Yes.”

The door opens with a creak and Spencer sees the woman clearly for the first time. She’ll remember this initial meeting later, when she’s living in her drab little room in Nogales. She’ll replay it in her mind, like a movie, and think of it as the moment that changed her life.

The woman—who seems no older than Spencer herself--sticks out her hand. “Ashley. You talked to my husband.”

Spencer takes the hand offered and shakes it firmly. Ashley’s hand is cool, damp. There’s a dish rag hanging from her shoulder. “Nice to meet you.”

“Come on in,” Ashley replies, stepping back, allowing Spencer inside the house. It’s a small house. Stepping past the threshold, she’s in the living room and on her left is the dining area. A wooden table lives there, and there’s laundry, neatly folded, sitting atop it. Beyond the dining room, Spencer spies a narrow, dimly lit kitchen. “Aiden should be back soon. He went out for some cigarettes. Wanna see the room?”

Spencer nods and follows Ashley through a hallway to the right of the living room. Four doors lead off it. Ashley briefly points them out. “That’s the bathroom. That’s our bedroom. That’s the spare, and this one,” she opens a door, which leads into a small, furnished room, “would be yours, if you want it.”

It’s smaller than the motel room, of course, but there’s something charming about it. Old-fashioned morning glory wallpaper decorates the walls, compliments the staid furniture—a small, oak bed with matching bureau and nightstand. A couple of paintings hang on the walls, too—landscapes—but when Ashley notices Spencer looking, she quickly says, “You can take anything down, put up your own stuff, you know. Make it your own.”

Spencer just shrugs and smiles. “No, it’s fine. It kind of reminds me of home.”

“Where’s home?”

“Ohio.”

“Well, then, welcome home, Ohio.”

--

It’s stupid, in hindsight, but Spencer agrees to rent the room even before she meets Aiden Dennison, who never shows up for their first meeting. She doesn’t lay eyes on him until the day she moves in, driving up in her baby blue ’66 Mustang—two suitcases in the trunk and a box of records in the backseat. She pulls up into the driveway just as he’s getting out of his pickup truck, a battered late ‘50s Chevy that looks like it might run on a wing and a prayer.

He waves and smiles just as she’s shifting into park and turning the key in the ignition. The engine in her car whirs to a halt. “Hi there!”

“Hi!”

He’s a tall man. As he walks towards her car, she notices he’s got a pronounced limp. He favors his right leg. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt streaked with grease, he looks like he’s coming home from a long day at the mechanic’s shop Spencer remembers Ashley mentioning. When he leans down and props his forearm onto the frame of her open window, Spencer smells weed and beer and engine grease and strong aftershave. His pale blue eyes are bloodshot, but he’s smiling. “So, today’s the day?”

“Aiden?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’d shake, but my hands are dirty.”

“No problem. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Same here.” His gaze lingers for a moment longer than is comfortable. “Ashley said you were pretty.”

Spencer smiles diffidently and drops her eyes to the steering wheel. “Thanks.”

“I think you’ll like it here, Spencer.”

“I hope so.”

“Let me help you with your things.”

--

For the first few days, the first few weeks, life is quiet. Spencer finds a job in a clothing store and starts the process of applying to UCLA. She wants to start in the fall, but the store doesn’t pay much, and tuition isn’t free. Even with her parents’ help, she’ll be scraping by.

She works afternoons. Most days she leaves early and explores the city, riding with the Mustang’s top down. The car is six years old, but for two years it remained untouched in her parents’ driveway. It belonged to Glen, her brother, and he took care of it in a way he took care of little else. When he was killed in the war, the car suddenly became Spencer’s property. She didn’t drive it until she decided to leave Ohio, and the trip to California made her feel both guilty and grateful that in this small way, at least, she could still be connected to someone she had loved dearly and would never see again.

--

Her feet are sore. Her shift was long and she spent it all standing, at the register or folding shirts and pants. When she drives up to the house, Aiden’s truck is gone, but the porch light is on.

Ashley’s in the living room, smoking and sitting cross-legged on the carpet. She’s got the record player going and she’s listening to the Stones, “Wild Horses” drifting in the ether. When she catches sight of Spencer, she nods and places her cigarette in the ashtray by her bare feet. “Hiya,” she says, a slow smile spreading across her face.

“Hey.”

“Wanna hang out? Aiden’s out.” She stands, and snaps her fingers like she just remembered something. “You must be hungry. You want dinner?”

“I don’t want to put you out,” Spencer replies. But she is hungry and tired, and it’d be nice to get to sleep with something in her belly.

Besides, Ashley’s not listening. She’s already in the kitchen, moving pans around. Spencer hears the clinking of dishes and silverware and sits on the couch with a weary sigh. “Thanks!” she calls out.

When dinner's ready, Spencer eats and Ashley watches, smoking the whole time. She listens to all of Sticky Fingers and moves on to Let It Bleed before Spencer finishes her meal. “Long day?” Ashley asks.

“Longer than most,” Spencer replies, relaxing into the couch. She feels like she could sleep for days, and she gazes at Ashley through half-closed eyes, smoke making her nose twitch.

“Sometimes I wish I had a regular job,” Ashley says, stubbing out her cigarette. “It might be easier than pretending I’m something I’m not.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a singer. I write my own songs and I get gigs sometimes.”

“I’ve never heard you.”

“I play. Usually when you’re gone. I don’t wanna be a pain.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t be.”

“Aiden says—Anyway, I don’t want to annoy the tenant.”

Spencer shakes her head slowly. “Play now.”

“Nah.”

“Why not?”

“Really?”

“If you don’t mind me possibly conking out on you.”

Ashley grins and leaves the room. Spencer hears the closet door opening and closing, and Ashley reappears with her guitar case. “Any requests?”

“Something good,” Spencer answers, teasing.

Whatever Ashley's playing, it is good. Her fingers move across frets and strings with ease and her voice pushes words out softly, words Spencer barely hears. She’s concentrating on the sounds as she lets her eyes close completely.

A hand on her shoulder wakes her. “Well, you were right. Have a good nap?”

Spencer blinks. “Sorry,” she says, stretching her arms over her head and smiling. “I liked it, though. Feel free to practice whenever you want. It won’t bother me.”

“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”

“I’m being selfish, actually. I haven’t slept like that in a while.”

They both laugh, and Ashley picks up her guitar. She plucks at strings, humming until Spencer drifts away again, serene.

--

She’s in bed when she hears Aiden come home. His truck rattles in the driveway and then he comes into the house, bumping loudly into the doorway, a string of curse words falling out of his mouth in a growled whisper. He makes it down the hallway; she hears his footsteps, heavy and awkward, as he passes by her room. Then he’s inside his own bedroom and Ashley must’ve been waiting up because her muffled voice seeps through the walls. Spencer turns onto her side and closes her eyes; she doesn’t want to listen to the sounds of their domesticity, especially not the sounds they make when they argue. Aiden can control the volume of his voice. She can sense his anger-- low and deep and penetrating--but Ashley doesn’t hold back and she yells at him and soon they’re talking over each other, a low rumbling counteracted by the shrieking of frustration. After a few minutes, though, Aiden finally rages. He screams at Ashley—bitch, he calls her, and worse—and there’s a loud thump against the wall that makes Spencer sit up in bed, her heart pounding as she tilts her head to listen. But there’s nothing for a few moments until there is. There’s crying, Ashley’s crying, and Aiden’s voice again cutting through, now the kind of tone meant to soothe, relax.

Spencer sits and listens until there is nothing left to hear, and the house is once again quiet and still.

--

When Spencer walks into the kitchen the following morning, Ashley’s there, cooking and nursing a black eye. The sight of it makes Spencer stop short. She doesn’t ask what happened. She knows.

“He did that to you,” she says.

Ashley’s look is confused. She cracks open an egg and deposits its gooey insides into a waiting bowl. She repeats the process three more times before she answers. “Did what?” She’s feigning ignorance, clearly, because suddenly she laughs and points at her eye. “What, this? No, I fell last night. I--”

“I heard you arguing,” Spencer interrupts. “Fighting.”

“Yeah, we fought. So?”

“So, he hit you.”

“No.”

“Ashley.”

“Drop it, Spencer, and come help me make breakfast.”

--

They all have dinner together that night—Aiden grills hamburgers—like nothing happened.

Everything calms, and the next week Spencer forgets about exploring the city. She stays home mornings with Ashley. They eat breakfast together, and lunch, and sometimes Ashley plays her music. Others, they sit together in the living room and listen to records. Spencer brings out her own, and instead of the Stones, they listen to Bob Dylan and Joan Baez and Peter, Paul and Mary.

Sometimes two o’clock rolls around and Spencer’s sorry she has to leave for work. Every day, Ashley stands in the doorway as Spencer heads out and waves like she’s never going to see her again.

--

The rhythmic thumping of a headboard against a wall wakes Spencer. She listens even though she’s sure she shouldn’t. She hears the sounds they make when they make love, so different and somehow reminiscent of when they fight. The rumbling moans and the keening and the creaking of the bed.

Spencer wishes the walls weren’t so thin, but she listens anyway.

--

“So, how’d you two meet?” Spencer works up the nerve to ask the question one lazy Sunday morning. Aiden’s gone again, and the two of them are idling their time away in the living room. Ashley’s playing with a few notes and lyrics while Spencer, curled up in an armchair, reads.

Ashley takes a drag from her cigarette. “In high school. He was the star basketball player, and I was the rebel he fell in love with.” She smiles. “Funny how things work out.”

“You got married out of high school?”

Ashley shakes her head, picks tobacco off the tip of her tongue. “No. We got married just before we graduated. I was…pregnant.”

Spencer frowns. “Oh.”

“Yeah, I had a miscarriage, so...” Ashley shrugs and takes another deep drag before flicking the ash into a mug on the coffee table. “Shit happens, right? Anyway, by then we were married and Dad helped us with the down payment on this place. And then, it couldn’t have been more than a year before Aiden was drafted.”

“Couldn’t get a deferral?”

“No, and I don’t think he tried.”

“How long did he serve?”

“Two tours. That second time was when the shrapnel fucked up his leg.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah.” Ashley nods stubs out her cigarette and lights another. “Anyway, he came back different, you know? He’s… angrier. Maybe not angrier. Maybe the anger’s the same but he could hold it in before. I was the one that never held back. I was always the loud bitch, but now when we fight we both go at it like animals. Which is what you heard that other night. I’m sorry about that.”

“I just…” Spencer isn’t sure what she should say. Partly this is none of her business, and partly she feels like Ashley’s become a friend. Like it matters if she’s hurt. “I just wish he wouldn’t put his hands on you.”

“I lay hands on him too, believe me, Spencer. I give back as good as I get.”

“That’s not the point.”

“No, I guess it isn’t.”

--

Spencer’s leaving one morning, is on her way out the door, when she spies Ashley at the dining table, smoking. “Hey, I’m going for a walk. You interested?”

“Where to?”

“Not sure. The park, probably.”

Ashley smiles. “Okay, let me put on some shoes.”

Two minutes later they’re outside. It’s not a particularly nice day. It’s overcast, threatening rain, but it’s not very cold, and the walk helps Spencer forget about the troubles that sit at the periphery of her life.

“Before I moved out here,” Spencer says, hands in her pockets, “I fantasized about what it would be like. I thought it would change my life completely.”

“Has it?”

“I don’t know.” They reach the park and turn towards the playground. A few mothers with toddlers mill around the sandbox, or sit on benches eating their midmorning snacks. “I don’t know yet,” she repeats, pointing at the swings. Ashley smiles and nods and they sit on too small seats, idly kicking at the sand beneath their feet.

--

A week later, Spencer rolls out of bed to the unfamiliar sight of an empty house. Not empty, not really. Ashley and Aiden’s bedroom door is closed. Aiden’s long ago left for work, but Ashley’s little VW Bug is still parked along the front curb. Spencer leaves it alone until around noon, when she thinks she hears the sounds of crying.

She knocks on the door. “Ashley? Did you, um, did you need anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Spencer, please.”

“Maybe you want to borrow a book?” Spencer asks. “That book I was reading the other day?”

Petrarch, she was reading Petrarch, and Ashley had in no way seemed interested. But, she lets out a choked laugh now, which was all Spencer wanted. “I don’t really read, Spence.”

“He’s good, though. You might like him. And, poetry’s not far from song lyrics, right?”

“Okay, hold on.”

Spencer goes back to her room and picks the book off her nightstand. It takes no time at all to get back to Ashley’s room, but by then the door is open and Ashley’s sitting on her bed, blotchy-faced. She’s wearing a tank and a pair of shorts and her lean, tanned legs are curled up beneath her. She waves Spencer in.

Their room is different than Spencer had expected. Sparse and clean and nothing at all like the room Spencer inhabits. The bed is bigger and there’s a small black and white television on the edge of the bureau. Ashley’s cosmetics litter the vanity, though, and there are bright red lip marks at the corner of the mirror. A kiss.

Spencer sits beside her on the bed, holding the Petrarch in her lap. She lifts it up and absently taps Ashley’s thigh with it. “It’s really not bad,” she says. “It was a gift from a teacher my senior year of high school.”

“Must’ve been some teacher. No one ever got me to read anything.”

“Well, it helped that I had a crush,” Spencer replies, smiling.

Ashley chortles. “Of course. Why else but for some guy, right? I know that’s what it was like for me all through high school. I’m surprised I even made it out of there.”

Spencer nods. She doesn’t say that her English teacher was Miss Andrews, a fresh-out of college do-gooder with long legs and a warm, inviting smile. Miss Andrews always smelled of L’Air du Temps, and whenever Spencer sees the fragrance at a department store, she’s transported back to senior year and Miss Andrews and Petrarch.

“So. You’re okay, then?” Spencer openly gazes at Ashley, but Ashley ducks her head, nodding. There aren’t any visible bruises, no reason to think Aiden’s hit her again, but something happened and it’s clear Ashley doesn’t want to share. Spencer isn’t really sure she should press the issue. Instead, she reaches out and puts her hand over Ashley’s. “Seriously, if you ever need anything, to talk…”

“Thank you,” Ashley replies. She sounds weepy again, but she keeps it together.

“Whenever I feel blue, my Dad gives me a hug. He doesn’t even ask me what’s wrong. He opens up his arms and just squeezes hard. Maybe you need a hug?”

Ashley doesn’t answer. She crawls into Spencer’s lap and lets Spencer hold her as she finally lets go, tears wetting the denim fabric of Spencer’s jeans.

She stays there a long while and Spencer doesn’t even mind when she’s late for work.

--

Two nights later, another fight breaks out. Spencer hears it from the edge of her bed. It becomes so violent at one point that she thinks of leaving the room and calling the police. But just when she’s about to, Aiden stomps out of the house, slamming the door behind him. His truck rattles to life and he drives away, tires screeching in his wake.

Spencer goes to Ashley. She’s sitting on the floor in her room, her hand to her mouth. She’s crying so hard it sounds like she can’t even breathe. “Are you okay?” Spencer asks, falling to the floor beside her. They’re knee to knee and Spencer’s feeling just as breathless as Ashley seems. She wraps her fingers around Ashley’s wrist and pulls her hand back gently. She hisses at the sight of Ashley’s split lip and gets up to get the first aid kit from the hall closet.

She dips a cotton ball in alcohol and presses it against Ashley’s mouth, wincing at the resulting yelp. “I’m sorry.”

“No, God. Spencer,” Ashley grits her teeth and takes the cotton ball from Spencer. “I can’t believe we put you in this situation. I’m so sorry.”

“Ashley, it’s not your fault.”

“But it is, Spence. I start it just as often as he does.”

“He beats you!”

Ashley works her jaw, shaking her head. “A bloody lip isn’t a beating.”

“You should listen to yourself, Ashley. You should see…”

“I know. I do. Look,” Ashley pauses and rubs the side of her face. Spencer wants to do it for her, wants to caress away the pain. “I’m leaving him. Soon. He was… He’s a good man, but the war did things to him. He’s not the same guy I married. I look at him sometimes and his eyes are…dead. And, other times, he’s just…Aiden. He’s the guy I fell in love with. But, you’re right, Spencer. I can’t stay here anymore.”

“I’ll help you leave,” Spencer says, the words coming out of her in a rush. “We’ll go together, okay?”

Ashley looks up, regards Spencer carefully. “You mean it?”

“Yes, we’ll go together,” Spencer answers, nodding, and her heart’s beating so hard and so fast it's all she she can hear. “We’ll just go.”

--

In five days, they decide, they will leave. Spencer will ask her father for a loan and they’ll live in a hotel room for a couple of days while they sort out an apartment.

Spencer feels giddy with excitement, and she isn’t sure why.

--

“Pass me the sports page, will you, babe?” Aiden’s lounging on the couch, his legs dangling off the armrest as he reads the morning paper. It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and all Spencer wants is for it to be over. Come Monday, they will leave.

“Sure.” Ashley leans forward but Aiden doesn’t take the paper. He grabs her arm, grinning as he pulls her into his lap. Spencer sees the tight smile that forms on Ashley’s face and grips the edges of her book a little more tightly. “Aiden…”

“What? Spencer doesn’t mind. Right, Spencer?”

“Right,” Spencer murmurs, keeping her gaze locked on the same page she’s been reading the last ten minutes.

“See? She understands.” Spencer glances at them, but Aiden’s mouth is on Ashley’s throat, his hand on her bare thigh. About to look away, she catches Ashley’s eye. They look at each other for a moment before Spencer drops her gaze and swallows down a lump of resentment she didn’t know had been building.

“Let go, Aiden,” Ashley replies, her tone mild. She disengages herself from his grasp and heads back to where she was sitting before—on the floor by the record player.

“Ouch, touchy,” Aiden says. But his voice belies some hurt. He turns his attention to Spencer. “You got a boyfriend, Spence? I haven’t seen anyone around.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Right. I guess you’re busy with work and getting ready for school.”

“Yeah.”

“So, no guys, then?”

“No guys.”

Aiden nods slowly, eyeing her curiously. “That’s cool. To each his own.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Ashley asks, taking the LP off the turntable and slipping it back in its sleeve.

“I’m trying to have a conversation with Spencer. You mind?”

“I do if you’re going to bother her.”

“Am I bothering you, Spencer?”

Spencer shakes her head and throws Ashley a pleading smile. “Of course not.”

“There. You see?”

“She’s just being polite.”

“Polite? God, Ashley, you always need to be right, don’t you?”

Spencer sits up and sets her shaking hands on her thighs. “Maybe I should go to my room,” she says.

“No,” Aiden says, emphatically, “stay. We’re having a nice conversation and Ashley needs to learn to butt out.”

“Aiden.”

“Didn’t you tell me you thought Spencer might not like guys at all, Ashley? I mean, sometimes I think I catch her looking at you. What do you think, Spencer? Do you look at my wife that way?”

“I should go,” Spencer whispers, getting to her feet, her entire body trembling now with fear and revulsion.

“You’re a pig, Aiden.” Ashley stands and, suddenly Aiden does too, and they’re all forming the points of an uneven triangle

“Why, because I’m asking a reasonable question to this girl who’s staying at my house, who spends time with you while I’m at work, trying to earn money for--”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you’re being an asshole,” Ashley says, considerably more calmly than Spencer feels. “Come on, Spencer. I need some fresh air.”

Ashley turns to leave, but Aiden blocks her path. Spencer steps towards them, but she isn’t sure she knows what she’s doing. She isn’t even sure how any of it started, but she knows it has to end before it gets out of control. “Look,” she stammers. “I can go, okay? I’ll go. Tonight.” Ashley shoots her a look, but Spencer shakes her head, willing her to understand. Trying to communicate that this isn’t the end of their plan.

“Why should you leave unless what I’m saying is true?” Aiden insists, crossing his arms, standing to full height. “Did Ashley tell you about what she was like in high school? Did she tell you about how she was a little rich girl, about how her daddy spoiled her and let her do whatever the fuck she wanted?”

“Oh, good God, Aiden. What are you talking about, ancient history? Just calm the fuck down and let us through.”

But Aiden keeps talking like he hasn’t heard a word Ashley’s said. “She got everything she wanted. Everyone. Before we started dating, she was friends with this one girl. What was her name, Ash? Maggie? Yeah, and you and Maggie were best friends, right? You did everything together. And the whole school started talking about how you guys seemed a little too close. Like, all that hand holding wasn’t really that innocent.”

“Shut up.”

“What ever happened to Maggie, Ashley? Didn’t she move away? And that was when you were suddenly interested in me. You actually started paying attention. Was that only because your girlfriend was out of the picture? Did I end up being the rebound you were stuck with?”

Spencer stares. Now Aiden’s shaking. From head to toe, he’s trembling with anger. His hands are balled into fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles are white. “Please,” she says. “Calm down.”

“Don’t,” he retorts, his anger not quite in check, not quite under control. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Aiden,” Ashley says, her voice low. Her eyes are wide now, like she’s finally realized he’s been pushed too far, too fast. “Baby…” She steps closer to him, puts her hand out warily, trying to reassure. “Spencer’s my friend. She’s just my friend. She’s been living here with us. You know her.”

“I don’t know her,” he replies, his voice ragged. “I don’t even know you.” He steps menacingly towards Ashley. “Did you think you could just do what you wanted, in my house? I don’t even…” He pauses and lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t know when I figured out that you don’t love me. That you never loved me.”

“I love you,” Ashley whispers. “I do.”

“I don’t believe you. All that time I was gone, and you were probably praying I wouldn’t make it back. I was watching people around me die, thinking I was going to die, and you were here living it up, and I’m not supposed to be angry about that?”

Spencer feels like she’s in a movie about someone else. Like she’s watching from outside herself and nothing she does or says is going to change anything because the script has already been written, the scene already set. She watches Aiden step closer to Ashley, she watches her plead with him. Watches as he sinks to the floor and starts crying uncontrollably, bitterly. She looks away because it hurts to watch someone in so much pain, but she hears Ashley, knows she’s right by his side, knows she’s trying to speak words of comfort.

She doesn’t see it happen. She hears it, the roar that tears out of him. By the time she looks up, not a second later, Ashley is already on her back and he’s got his hands around her throat. Stunned, Spencer doesn’t move, not immediately. She sees Ashley’s legs kicking trying to catch a toehold, but Aiden is big, he’s strong, and nothing she does makes him budge even an inch. His fingers squeeze and she gags, makes sounds Spencer’s never heard in her life.

“Aiden! Don’t!” Finally, something snaps her into action. She moves to grab hold of Aiden’s shoulders and pulls, throwing all her weight into it, but she might as well be trying to move a mountain, he’s so intractable. Next she tries just one arm—tugging, she feels the muscles tense beneath her hands, but that only works to distract him for a moment. And in that moment he sends her careening, flying back as his elbow collides with her midsection. Breathless, she sees stars when her head hits the edge of the coffee table and she just sinks to the floor, watching the movie play out. Watching as Ashley’s kicks become weaker and weaker and the rasps that come from her throat start to fade into gurgles.

“I loved you. You were all I ever wanted, and this is how you repay me?” Aiden’s saying, his face inches from Ashley’s. Spencer wonders, in her daze, if Ashley can even hear him. Her eyes are rolling back into her head and her face is slowly turning a terrifying blue.

Spencer rolls onto her knees, clutching her stomach before she wobbles to her feet. There’s a wet spot on the back of her head, she can feel it as she puts her hand up, feels it matting her hair. She looks at her hand for a moment, almost with disinterest, and notes the telltale crimson of blood. She’s having trouble thinking clearly, and her vision is blurred around the edges, but she knows—to a complete certainty—that if she doesn’t do something soon, Ashley will die.

She hurries to the closet, opens it to find it crammed with junk, so much of it her head spins with possibility. But there, pressed against a far corner, she sees it. And she doesn’t even consider the consequences. She makes a grab, turns around, and swings.

The Louisville Slugger lands right between Aiden’s shoulder blades with a dull thud. He slumps instantly, letting out a low groan that’s a mixture of pain and surprise. “What?” he whimpers, reaching back. His body is still pressed into Ashley’s but he’s stopped choking her and, given the opportunity to breathe, Ashley turns her head and coughs in painful-sounding bursts. For the briefest of moments, Spencer catches sight of the purple-red finger marks Aiden left on her throat.

That’s when he turns, staggering to his feet, his blue eyes narrowed and focused completely on Spencer. A jet-black curl falls across his forehead and Spencer thinks him the most beautifully frightening thing she’s ever seen.

She raises the bat and steps back. When he lurches forward, she takes another swing and the crack of that wooden bat against Aiden’s skull becomes the one sound Spencer is sure she will remember the rest of her life.

--

“I’ll go to the police,” Spencer mumbles numbly. She’s sitting on the coffee table, staring down at the body, at the blood, all the blood, that’s pooled around his head. His eyes are open and blank but she’s not entirely sure--in her shock--that he won’t be getting up any second now. Any second.

But, no. Ashley shook him. Ashley took his pulse. She put her ear to his heart. No, Aiden won’t be getting up again, not ever.

“You can’t,” Ashley says, shaking her head. Her voice is unrecognizable and she can barely raise it above a whisper. “They’ll put you away forever, Spencer.”

“It was self-defense,” Spencer replies, dazed. “Wasn’t it?” Wasn’t it? The thought echoes in her mind, over and over. She lets her head drop, her eyes close. This has to be a nightmare. She has to wake up.

Ashley replies, “I think so,” but the way she says it implies even she isn’t sure. Moments earlier she’d been crying over her husband’s body--crying so hard, Spencer felt down to her core the very weight of what she’d done, even though she still couldn’t quite process, still couldn’t believe it was real. “But, won’t they find out we were going to leave? Won’t they think that means--?”

“What?” Spencer chokes on the word.

“That we planned it? Your stuff is packed up in your room, we have hotel reservations… How does that look?”

“But we didn’t. I didn’t… He was going to kill you!”

“I know,” Ashley replies quietly. “He probably would have… That’s why I can’t let you…” She stops and takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t let you go to jail for this. For me.” She looks Spencer straight in the eye, and whispers, “You should go. Tonight. No one even knows you live here.”

Spencer stares back at her in disbelief. “Ashley, of course people know. My job, the school... I get my mail here!”

“Then, then,” Ashley stammers, “we’ll go. We’ll go down to Echo Park and get new papers, new names. We’ll leave, dump your car…”

Spencer’s chest tightens and she lets out a sob. “I can’t leave that car,” she says, knowing how stupid she sounds, how irrational.

“Then we’ll get new plates!” Ashley is frantic, but she’s on the move. She’s going to her room and Spencer follows, watches her as she grabs a suitcase from the closet and begins stuffing clothes, toiletries, everything and anything she can fit inside of it as Spencer stares.

“I can’t do this.”

Ashley stops, and leans into the over-packed suitcase like it’s the only thing holding her up. “Yes, you can. You have to.” She looks up, and says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened. I’m sorry I ruined your life.”

Spencer can’t breathe. She can’t deal with the apology--she can’t parse it for meaning, can’t refute or accept its necessity--but she knows Ashley is right. She has to do this. She has to get away because the alternative is too horrifying. “I’ll start loading my things into the car,” she murmurs, and leaves Ashley to her work.

--

Once they have everything, they leave. Spencer heads east on Interstate 10.

--

In Blythe, they stop at a motel.

“They’ll be issuing some sort of bulletin or something,” Ashley says, once they drop off their things. “You know, with our pictures.”

Spencer hadn’t thought of it. They go down to a nearby drugstore and pick up hair dye, scissors.

When they get back to their room, they set about the grim task of transforming. Spencer sits in a wooden chair, ammonia and peroxide making her eyes water. Her blonde hair will become dark brown, nearly black, and she watches through the vanity mirror as Ashley carefully applies the tint.

They’ve barely spoken since they left Los Angeles, the open highway providing the perfect excuse to sit in silence as they kept their eyes firmly on the horizon. “I think you’ll look good with dark hair,” Ashley says, like it matters to Spencer. Like it's important. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t care.”

Ashley purses her lips and nods. "Right."

Spencer clears her throat. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you tell Aiden that?”

“Tell him what?”

“About me. About me not liking men. Where did you get that?”

Ashley’s hand pauses in mid-air. “Oh, that.” She glances at Spencer through the mirror but then shrugs and resumes her task. “Let me know if this hurts the cut on your scalp.”

“Are you going to answer me?”

“I don’t really know what to say. I mean, it was just one of those things. We were talking about you one night, and it just came up. Like, should he set you up with someone and I said I didn’t think you’d want that, because I thought you might be… You know. And, I’m sorry if it offends you, I don’t mean it in a bad way. I just thought you were.”

"But why did you think that?" Spencer insists. Half her head is covered with dye, and she's already feeling like a different person.

Ashley sighs. Her plastic-covered hands stop weaving through Spencer's hair and she puts down the bottle of hair dye. "I thought," she says, almost guiltily, it seems, as her gaze flits around the room, "I thought I caught you looking at me a couple of times."

"Oh." Ashley's gaze stops wandering and they stare at each other through the mirror for a few seconds; Spencer blinks first.

"Let me finish this so you can start cutting my hair," Ashley murmurs, picking up the bottle again.

"Okay."

--

By the time Spencer's done with her, Ashley's hair is Twiggy-short. Ashley stares at her own reflection and mutters, "Fuck."

Running her fingers through Ashley's hair, Spencer tussles it, setting free little strands that float down to the floor, and smooths her hand across the back of Ashley's neck. She lingers there for a moment, feeling warmth beneath her fingertips, before shaking her head and saying, "I'm going to go wash this off." The hair dye, she means. It's making her scalp burn. It's appropriate, at least, that this change involves pain. She wants it to hurt.

As she turns towards the bathroom, Ashley reaches out and grabs her by the elbow. "Spencer."

"What?"

"Thank you."

"For the haircut?"

Ashley's smile is wry. "For saving my life."

"I didn't really have a choice." Spencer shrugs and pulls out of Ashley's grasp. "I'd do it again."

--

"Oh my God, Oh my God." The phrase repeats itself again and again--a whispered entreaty, an apology. A prayer.

Spencer is still holding the bat. She is dizzy-sick and nauseous, but she hasn't released her hold on it. The first exhaled sob takes her by surprise. It steals all the air in her lungs, comes on so suddenly her knees nearly buckle. The blood, Aiden's blood, has pooled black on the brown rug and stained Ashley's hands as she cradles him. She shakes him at first--willing him to speak, to be angry, to hit her--but there's nothing left of him. He's gone. His body is empty. His eyes are blank. So she rocks him, humming to herself a song Spencer remembers from their mornings together.

A song about damaged love.

--

Spencer wakes up flinching.

Next to her on the bed, Ashley is awake. Without looking over, Spencer knows she is awake. "I can't sleep," she whispers.

"I know," Ashley whispers back.

"Can you?"

"No."

--

They leave well before sunrise. They stop at an all-night diner and gulp down coffee, but neither can stomach food. They head back on the interstate, exchanging not more than a few words.

--

They know they will split up. Spencer has known it from the beginning, but it still comes as a surprise when, upon passing the Arizona border, Ashley says, "Stop at the next town. Whatever it is."

It turns out to be Ehrenberg.

Spencer pulls into a gas station and switches off the ignition. She doesn't know what to do or what to say. The woman sitting next to her looks like a stranger now, but they know more about each other than any one person can know about another.

"Do you need money, Spence?"

Spencer shakes her head, clears her throat.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"This is my stop."

"I know."

Ashley opens her mouth to speak again, but no words come out. She lowers her head, runs her fingers through her short hair. "I don't even know what to say to you."

"Don't say anything," Spencer replies, her chest tightening.

"I should just go. No good-byes. What do you think?"

"Okay."

"Maybe we'll meet again. Someday."

Spencer nods, but deep down she hopes they never will. Because if they do, it means the law of God or man has finally caught up to them. "Yeah."

"Open the trunk for me?"

Spencer does. Ashley takes her suitcase, holds it tightly between her hands. Spencer can see the strain in it. They gaze at each other but do not move. Spencer doesn't want a hug or a warm smile. She doesn't want a cozy farewell. So she nods, once, and turns back to the driver's side door. Behind her, Ashley is already walking away.

--

Nogales, Arizona

La Sirenita straddles the Mexican/American border as far as clientele goes, but it sits firmly on U.S. soil, and the girls get paid in dollars. It's a topless joint--seedy and run down, even though the owner, Max Hijuelos, rakes in money hand over fist. He pays his girls well enough, though, even the waitresses, which is what Spencer--now called Sally Hage--does for a living. She's worked there three years, and rents a room over Max's garage. His wife is the sweetest woman she's ever met, and she trusts them implicitly.

Her hair is still dark. She dyes it fastidiously, month after month, year after year. She inhabits Sally Hage so completely, that she never stutters when people ask her her name. She never gives the wrong age, or the wrong place of birth.

She works nights. She serves drinks and dodges mens' hands. During the day, she attends classes at a community college, after finally getting up the courage to enroll. She still wakes up sometimes, thinking administrators will figure it all out, will see right through her ruse, through her fake documents, and call the police. But they haven't yet, and maybe it's finally time to let out a breath. To slump her shoulders and relax.

One sweltering mid-July evening, her plans change just as they had all those years ago in Los Angeles. Spencer could blame one woman for all her troubles, but she just blames Fate.

Fate drags the woman into the bar. She's wearing a cast around her left arm, and the looseness of her jeans suggests she hasn't been eating enough. Her hair is long and curly--messy. When Spencer first met her, it was ironed straight, but this suits better.

The first time Spencer sees Ashley Dennison walk into the bar, she drops her tray and three shot glasses shatter at her feet. Ashley turns to look at the commotion and that's when their eyes meet. Spencer wonders if she's got that same look on her face-- that look of surprised panic. Irma, one of the girls behind the bar, grabs a broom and moves in, asking, "Hey, you all right?" She's already sweeping up the glass.

"Uh, yeah."

"You look like you just saw a ghost." Irma crosses herself and says, "You need a drink?"

"No. Can you give me five minutes? I'll be right back."

"Sure, honey, go on. I'll cover for ya."

--

Ashley's already sitting at a corner booth by the time Spencer reaches her. They stare at each other warily before Spencer finally slides in beside her and says, "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for a drink."

"In Nogales, I meant."

"It's just a coincidence," Ashley replies tiredly. "Just a coincidence, Spencer."

Spencer flinches. "My name is Sally," she says. "Do you need a place to stay?"

"Actually, I do."

--

When Spencer finally finishes her shift at three in the morning, Ashley's curled up on the booth, asleep. Spencer shakes her lightly, and the sight of her, of Ashley, is still so disconcerting and strange she doesn't know what to say, or even how to address her. "Wake up," she murmurs. "It's time to go."

Ashley sits up, rubbing the corner of her eye with her thumb. Her shoelaces are untied, and Spencer bends down before Ashley stands up. "How'd you bust up your arm?" she asks, methodically tying the laces, like she would for a child.

"The factory I was working at. It was stupid, one of the machines..." Ashley shrugs, like the story doesn't matter, like the last five years have washed into nothingness. "I got fired because I couldn't stay on the line. So I left."

"Where are you headed?"

"I don't know."

"East? West?"

Ashley shakes her head. "I don't know," she repeats. "Maybe south?"

"South?" Spencer shouldn't be so surprised. After all, she's been living a stone's throw from the border, just in case. "Mexico?"

"Maybe. Mexico sounds nice."

--

They drive back to Spencer's room--Spencer in her Mustang (now a little more battered, a little worse for wear) and Ashley in her own car, a tiny little Japanese import Spencer's surprised can make it over forty)--and climb wearily up a flight of stairs to head inside. Spencer drops her purse by the door and Ashley just follows, taking in her surroundings. "Sit down," Spencer says, nodding at the bed which, in her small room, has to double for a couch. "You want anything to eat or drink?"

"No. Is it all right if I just crash?"

"As long as you don't mind me crashing next to you." Ashley shakes her head and kicks off her shoes. Spencer heads to the kitchenette and drinks a tall glass of water, hoping to cleanse her mind, clear her thoughts. When she turns back, Ashley's already under the comforter, lying on her side. But her eyes are open.

Spencer doesn't say anything. She follows her usual routine. Undresses, pulls on a t-shirt, washes her face, brushes her teeth, and slips into the bed beside Ashley. She can't help the déjà vu that hits her, or the sense that maybe she won't get much sleep after all. But, she closes her eyes, and when she opens them, she's surprised to see it's past ten in the morning.

Ashley's still lying next to her, close, her arm draped across Spencer's stomach. She's still sound asleep. Spencer studies her, relearning the lines of her face, her body. She doesn't look so different. Her hair's grown out, of course, and it falls across the side of her face in waves. The intimacy of their position, however, startles. Spencer isn't sure if she should move or if she should wait. She hasn't been this close to a person in a while, and it makes her ache in ways she hadn't remembered she could.

When Ashley shifts a little, her hand tightens around Spencer's waist.

Spencer moves.

She gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom. She takes a shower, steaming hot, and stays under the stream until she can't stand it.

--

They have sandwiches for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly, because it's all Spencer has in her cupboard. Ashley wolfs down two in quick succession, like they're choice steaks. "Sorry," she mumbles around her food. "I haven't eaten in a day."

"Are you okay?" Spencer asks. When Ashley gives her a quizzical look, she amends, "Money-wise."

"Yeah, yeah. No, I've got money saved, Spence. Almost every red cent I've earned." Spencer nods slowly. "I wanted to be ready."

"Did something happen?" She has to ask.

"No." Ashley shrugs and takes another bite of her sandwich. "I mean, not really."

"What's not really?"

Ashley keeps chewing slowly, until finally she has enough room to swallow. She takes a long drink from her glass of milk, wipes her mouth and sighs. "There was one thing."

Spencer sits up. She always knew that if something ever happened to one of them, it would happen to both. "What?"

"At the factory I was at, there was this guy. He'd been working down in L.A. and, I guess, a few months--or, God, maybe a year--ago, there was a series in one of the local papers. On unsolved crimes and fugitives. Well, they mentioned us. Ran pictures, too."

Spencer drops her head. "Damn it," she mutters.

"I know. After five years..." She trails off, rolls her shoulders. "I thought I was screwed, you know, when he told me about it. I thought, I don't know, I thought he'd already called the police, that he was rubbing it in."

"Had he?"

"No. He wanted..." Ashlely looks down at her plate, toys idly with a carrot stick. "Me." Spencer looks up quickly, but Ashley's gaze is averted. "I gave him what he wanted and he said he'd leave me alone. He said he didn't care if I was a black widow. Some bullshit like that."

"But you left anyway," Spencer surmises, her tone grim.

"Of course I did. I wasn't going to wait around for him to change his mind." Ashley shakes her head, pushing her plate away. She looks guilty, like she's ashamed of what she's had to do to survive. "I can't believe my fucking luck, running into you like this."

Spencer would laugh if she weren't so tense, if the knot in her belly didn't have her trembling. "Bad?"

"Yours. But I'm glad to see you." Ashley sits back in her chair, and finally looks Spencer in the eye again. "I've thought about you a lot." Then, suddenly, she snaps her fingers, like she's just remembered something. The gesture is so familiar, Spencer can't help the pained smile that stretches her mouth. "I'll be right back," Ashley says.

She rushes out the door and Spencer leans to look out the window, watching as Ashley opens the trunk of her Mazda and rummages around. She finds what she wants--it looks like a book--and tucks it under her arm. A few moments later, footsteps on the stairs signal her return.

"This," she says, holding up the book. Spencer recognizes it, but not instantly, not the way she thought she would. But, then, she does, and her eyes start to water. The Petrarch. She absently swipes her forearm across her face and blinks, because she's not about to cry over a book. Ashley watches for her reaction and smiles. "I thought that maybe you missed it." Spencer nods. "And, I actually read it. The whole thing, more than once," Ashley adds, smiling as she sits beside Spencer. She gently places the book on Spencer's lap. "I read it a lot, honestly. So, thank you."

"You're welcome," Spencer whispers, voice thick with emotion. She clears her throat and asks, "How long are you staying?"

Ashley shakes her head. "That's up to you. A few days, a week, maybe. If that's okay?"

"Yeah." Spencer gets out of her chair, starts clearing the table. She keeps her hands busy, her gaze on her task. "Sure. Stay."

--

The first couple of days are awkward. Spencer hasn't lived with anyone in years. She's used to her space, her solitude. She's grown to like it, and Ashley's presence is a disruption. A distraction. After her initial crash, she seems to have regained her energy, and she pads around the apartment, straightening. Snooping. Spencer catches her looking through the few books she keeps on her dresser. Inside one of them is a picture, and Ashley turns it over and over in her hand, looking at it from ever angle until Spencer clears her throat and Ashley finally notices her standing there. "Oh."

"That's my brother."

Ashley lets out a breath. "Oh," she repeats. Spencer mentioned Glen once, on one of their walks, and Ashley had very quietly told her how sorry she was, how much she hated the war and wished it could all go away--the fighting and the pain, the guilt and regret. "I'm... I was looking for something to read."

"If you want, there's a little bookstore not too far from here. Just down the highway. They don't have a lot, but--"

Ashley slips Glen's picture back in the book and interrupts by saying, sheepishly, "I don't... I don't really. I was just looking around. I just wanted to see...how you live."

"Okay," Spencer replies, allowing herself a smile. She isn't angered by Ashley's reply. She understands it. Many times, she's wondered just how Ashley was living, too. "Listen, I'm not working tonight. If you want, we can go out to dinner. Nothing fancy, but, you know. Better than being stuck in here."

Ashley beams. "Really? God, I haven't been out to dinner in... I don't even know. It sounds good." She grins. "Great."

Spencer echoes Ashley's sentiment. "Great."

--

They get in the Mustang and Spencer drives them to a dive called "Don Pepe's."

It's dimly lit and the waitresses are wearing colorful dresses, their hair pulled back in tight braids. Spencer asks for a booth, and they're given one in a distant corner, near the kitchen, which suits them both just fine. "I've only been here a couple of times," Spencer admits, once they're alone. A basket full of freshly-made tortilla chips sits in the middle of the table and they both reach for one at the same time. Ashley demurs, smiling and shaking her head. "The food's good, though." Spencer dips a chip in salsa, brings it to her mouth and the aroma gives off heat even before it hits her tongue.

They order margaritas. Ashley drinks two, apparently reveling in her chance to be decadent for once.

When they finally stagger out of the restaurant, Spencer's feeling full and content and a little bit buzzed. She can't remember the last time she had such a good time. Can't remember when all her senses felt so keenly tuned to her surroundings. She reaches for the radio and switches on just in time to catch the middle of Pink Floyd's "Us and Them." When she finally drives up to her place, she switches off the ignition but neither of them gets out. They sit quietly and listen to the rest of the song. Spencer feels like she's in a dream, and she drops her head onto the headrest, closing her eyes. As the song draws to a close she feels Ashley's fingers graze her own, and she opens her eyes to catch Ashley looking back. There's no segue between the next song, "Gimme Shelter," and Spencer feels her stomach clench. She keeps her eyes trained on Ashley, whose hand is suspended between them, hesitant as it moves toward Spencer. But then, fingertips find her, gliding slowly along her jaw and Spencer's afraid to move, afraid to breathe. She keeps her hands on her lap as Ashley's fingers stroke idly, and she hears herself make a sound. For a moment, she wonders if Ashley heard, but when Ashley's eyes darken and she shifts closer, Spencer isn't wondering anymore. She's staring, lips parted, and waiting. Waiting to see what Ashley will do. Waiting to see what she'll let happen.

"Did you ever wonder about this?" Ashley whispers, letting her thumb edge close to Spencer's mouth. Spencer starts to shake her head, but she stops herself, because that isn't true. She had thought about it.

Spencer's eyes drift shut again, and she swallows down the lump in her throat. She nods, slowly, feeling Ashley's thumb slide, whisper-soft, over her lower lip. Still, the guilt is there, warring very strongly with her desire. "But I never would have--"

Two of Ashley's fingers cover her mouth, stopping the words mid-sentence, and Spencer's eyes fly open. Ashley is very serious when she says, "I know that, Spencer. But, I need to be honest with you." Spencer frowns, nodding. Ashley's fingers slip away from Spencer's mouth, slide to the back of her head and twine through her hair. "I think I fell in love with you in those first few months. You..." She pauses, strokes Spencer's hair, but Spencer is waiting, breathless, for more. "You are so...beautiful, you know? And you showed me," Ashley chokes on the next word and Spencer feels her own chest hitch in response, "compassion. And friendship. And I remember thinking, even before I decided to leave Aiden, that if I could have someone like you, I might actually be happy." She leans closer still and hesitates before pressing her forehead against Spencer's shoulder. She's leaning awkwardly on her left arm, but she doesn't seem to care. "Forgive me, Spencer," she whispers. "I'm sorry I fell in love with you. I'm sorry I set all this in motion, even if I didn't mean to." There's another, longer pause, during which Ashley rubs her head against Spencer's shoulder, and tightens the hold she has on a lock of Spencer's hair. Spencer's hands are still on her lap, her fingers curled into her palms. "When you said we should go, together, I thought maybe you loved me too." Ashley raises her head, and Spencer keeps waiting, biting the inside of her mouth. "Mostly I thought I was wrong, that I was flattering myself..." There's nowhere left for Ashley to go. She's as close to Spencer as she's going to get from her side of the car, so she turns her head a little, and now her mouth is so close, Spencer can feel the inhalation and exhalation of her breath, that vital thing that keeps Ashley alive and warm and there. "Was I wrong?" she asks.

Spencer tips herself forward, just enough. Their mouths meet in a kiss that is not soft nor hard nor tentative nor rushed. It is exactly what Spencer expected it would be. Ashley tilts just the right way, and her mouth opens at just the right moment, and they sigh against each other. It's almost a relief, a denouement. Spencer's hands finally move, and her arms wrap around Ashley's body with a possessiveness she never expected from herself. Never expected to think this person is mine, but she does, and she wants to feel guilty but she doesn't. She feels no guilt as she touches the small of Ashley's back, as she slides her hands flat against the ridges of her spine. There's no regret when they part and she hears herself say, "Let's go upstairs," knowing what she means when she says those words. She lets the truth wash over her. That they have been connected since the day they met, and that since that fateful Saturday morning, they will be connected forever.

They head upstairs, Ashley ahead and Spencer close behind. Spencer opens the door with fumbling fingers and, when they're finally inside, in the darkness of Spencer's small room, they fall back against one another, stumbling onto the bed, fully-clothed. Their legs tangle and their mouths meet and they kiss deeply. "Is your arm okay?" Spencer asks, mumbling against Ashley's mouth. Her hands roam up the front of Ashley's cotton shirt, bunching the fabric as she ventures to palm one of Ashley's breasts. It almost feels too good, the way Ashley responds, arching into the touch, mumbling something too, but something unintelligible, whimpered into Spencer's shoulder as she drops her head. She's breathing hard, and Spencer can feel that hot, condensed air moisten her shirt as Ashley's hands tighten on her hips.

"Yeah," she whispers, her voice rough with need. She presses her mouth against Spencer's throat, and Spencer forces herself to keep her eyes open. So she can see, in the dim light of a waning moon, that Ashley is in her arms, and that maybe, maybe, there's such a thing as love made real. And maybe, maybe, they can lose themselves in each other, and forget the sins of the past.

--

She wakes up with an armful of naked girl and smiles groggily, tightening her hold. She's gratified with a little grunt as Ashley turns and presses a kiss to her jaw. And her chin, her nose, her cheek. Finally, Ashley kisses her forehead and Spencer finds she can't stop smiling. "I'm glad you're here," she whispers.

"I'm glad I'm here, too."

"When are we leaving?"

Ashley stops, and she looks up from where she was kissing a path down Spencer's chest. "Leaving?" she asks, half-frowning.

"For Mexico."

Eyes widening, Ashley leans back and asks, "Are you serious? You'll come with me?"

"We'll just pack my clothes. And the book," Spencer replies. She kisses Ashley square on the mouth. One kiss turns into two, turns into more, which blend into each other. They stop to take a breath and Spencer adds, "And we're taking the Mustang."

"Of course." Ashley still looks like she can't quite believe it, but Spencer reassures her with another kiss. "You're serious," Ashley repeats, and this time it doesn't sound like a question.

"I am."

Ashley sits up. She cups Spencer's face and says, "I'm going to make you happy, Spencer. I'll make up for everything, you'll see."

"We'll make each other happy," Spencer replies, and she means it.

--

Spencer has left a note to Mr. Hijuelos explaining she's had to leave because of a family emergency--and, "Here's the rent money"--in an envelope she slipped under his door before day broke that morning. The trunk of Glen's car is packed full, but she's left a lot of odds and ends in that little room she called home for three years. She doesn't care. She'll buy new odds and ends. She'll have a new home.

As she drives toward the border crossing, she reaches out and her hand immediately bumps into Ashley's. Their fingers intertwine and Spencer asks, "Are you ready?"

Ashley leans in and whispers in Spencer's ear, "Let's go."