She knew this wouldnât be easy. Knew that sitting across from Danteâs wife, widow, would feel as awful as it did when she found that note. Worse, even. Heâs actually dead now. Before it was a concept, something she knew of but was never actively faced with. Now she is sitting in his old kitchen with Mar, greeting death like an old friend. Like she isnât scared to death of it.
She has to tread carefully, she knows. She has no idea how much Mar knows of the truth. Snippets, everything, or only what she has cobbled together on her own over the years. Willâs fingers are knotted together in her lap, pulling nervously at each other.Â
When Mar set the plates down, Will sighed in utter relief to have something else to occupy her nervous twitching. She picked up the pair of tongs that hung off of the side of the basket of scones, eyeing them passively for the two largest ones. She slipped one onto Marâs plate, and the other onto hers. She didnât know if she could eat; her stomach was rolling. She wondered, idly, if she was the only one who felt like theyâd just stepped off of a rollercoaster.Â
She took a small bite of her own scone, nodding at the right times, listening intently to Marâs words. She knew some of this already, of course, but she pretended like she was hearing it all for the first time.Â
She shouldnât have come here. She knew Mar would ask. Will cleared her throat, returning her hands to her lap and looking up at Mar sadly. The best lie came from truth, right? It was borne of it, sifted through, the best parts picked out. âHe never told me.â She answered honestly, then hesitated. She wanted to give Mar more than that. âHe didâŠ.â She sighed again, resigning to her half-truth. âHe was running, I think. But I donât know what he was running from. I was never able to find out.âÂ
Mar slowly picked the scone apart with her fingers, digging into the crumbs as Will spoke; passing a piece of it to her mouth and dimly registering that A) she was hungry, and B) it was good. It cut through the ash in her mouth, but made the tears press harder against the back of her eyes.
But she held on. Steeled herself against it. A lifetime of practice made it easier than it should have been, but a grim part of her was grateful that she could keep herself from crying.
But Will couldnât answer her why.
â⊠I see.â God, it felt so fucking hollow. She didnât know more now than she had a minute ago, and she should have known, should have seen the inevitable fact of it, but still it cut her down to the bone.
âI, uh.â Fuck. She wiped an errant tear with the back of her hand, the crumbling scone clutched between her fingers as she sniffed; lips tasting of salt. Mar cleared her throat. âââ âm sorry,â she said, willing her voice to not quiver, âthis must be a lot to take in.â Maybe Will had been waiting all this time for him to show up, even if heâd been running from something, all those years ago. Maybe sheâd seen the lights on, that first night, and hoped it was him. Before the gossip mill told her otherwise, and let her know sheâd be bringing scones for a widow, and not her old friend.
She put the scone back down on the plate; pressed her bruised knuckles down against the kitchen table. âCould you⊠this is an abrupt change of topics, but.â Mar pursed her lips. Studied Will. Tried for a smile, and half-succeeded. âTell me about yourself? I donât know much more than the snippets he told me.â