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@peytonhayes
{ minka kelly, cis female, she/her } Is that PEYTON HART? I heard the FORTY year old works as a OWNER OF THE SIP HAPPENS. Which makes sense, seeing how they are CHARMING, but can also be STUBBORN. Do they know what’s going on in the city? I heard they are a CLEAN CIVILIAN.
name: peyton hayes
age: 40
gender: cis female
sexuality: pansexual
occupation: owner of sip happens
length of time in LA: her entire month
faceclaim: minka kelly
"Always does." His words are cryptic, almost coming out as reserved and unnatural. The hardest part of Troy's job is the amount of information that he is privy to, usually, when it's quiet like it has been since the Network's party, that means something sinister may be taking place in the shadows. He can't help but brace himself for the worst after the year that they've had, even when her request to take care of himself always fell to deaf ears. He'd been on a self-destruction path for as long as he could remember now and Peyton knew that, so it was met with a small, apologetic smile before he spoke up, "When do you think it's okay to stop missing someone?"
Peyton knew that she couldn't will him to suddenly care for himself in any aspect. Whether it be physically, mentally, emotionally— or at all. She stilled at his question and then watched him while her mind ran a thousand different directions but ended with a final thought towards her father whom she thought of every single day. "I think that's a fucking loaded question, Troy." She laughed and poured herself a drink because something told her that the direction of this conversation would end with her craving something strong on her tongue to help make her forget the agony in her chest. "I don't think there's a right answer. Just because you stop missing them doesn't mean you forget about them but some also need to be forgotten and that isn't bad either." She shrugged her shoulder. "Then there's others where you wish you could stop, or know it would be easier if you could. I think all of those things are normal and acceptable."
"Just a small apology?" Isa's head moved to the side as she thought about it, already moving as she motioned for the other to follow her. "I believe we can put you a nice bouquet together for that. Sunflowers and lily of the valley sound alright to you? The flowers carry the meaning and sunflowers bring enough brightness."
She paused for a moment before pointing in the direction of the sunflowers and then at the smaller, delicate lily of the valley. "I suggest one big sunflower in the middle, or three smaller ones, surrounded by sprinkles of lily of the valley to compliment. Keeps it small and simply, short and sweet." ❧ @peytonhayes
"I don't feel sorry but I'm trying to avoid dealing with someone's tantrum." It was the wife of a regular and they'd never gotten along so she knew better than to do anything that would have her knocking on the bar door demanding a one on one chat that would likely end in a screaming match.
"That looks beautiful." She nodded her head. While she could appreciate a nice bouquet, she didn't know the ins and out of creating one and couldn't see much of a vision so she was more than happy to let her take control and do what she wanted. "Honestly, I trust your eye so go ahead and put it together and I'll pay."
The hallway smelled like lilies and floor wax, and Tyson had never wanted a cigarette more in his life, and regretted not smoking the one he took in the car. Not because he was craving the nicotine—though he was, always—but because it would’ve given him something to do. Something other than standing here in a goddamn starched shirt while the soft murmur of fake condolences and backhanded remarks filled the space like fog. The kind of noise that made your skin itch. The kind of noise you couldn't block out.
He hadn’t spoken much on the drive over, and even less once they arrived. He’d taken her keys without argument, sliding them into his pocket without looking down. Just a small nod. An unspoken thank you that probably weighed more than most of the bullshit 'I'm sorry for your loss' statements he’d been hearing all week.
The temple loomed above them like it always had—this grand monument to perfection, to performance. Everything felt too clean, too quiet, too controlled. And Peyton? Peyton didn’t belong here, not in the eyes of the congregation. She didn’t look polished, didn’t sound rehearsed, didn’t bow her head like she owed someone her grief. That’s what made her the only real thing in the building. When her hand slipped into his, he didn’t look at her. Didn’t need to. His fingers curled around hers with an unconscious ease, grounding. A small act of rebellion, maybe, but also something else. Something older. A tether he didn’t realize he needed until he had it.
And then she was there—his mother. Hair so tight it looked like it hurt, lips pressed into a line that could cut glass. She didn’t even blink at the sight of Peyton beside him. Just stared like she'd seen a smudge on a window that wouldn’t come off. That same polished judgment Tyson had grown up under like a microscope lens. Peyton offered her condolences, all stiff grace and sharp edges, and for a moment, Tyson felt like he was watching two snakes circle each other in the grass. His mother didn’t respond. Not directly. Just looked her up and down like she was cataloging every imperfection.
“I’m sure Taylor would be grateful for your presence,” his mother said finally, voice honeyed with poison. “Such… loyalty.” Her gaze flicked back to Tyson like she was trying to remind him of something. Of the type of woman he was supposed to bring to an event like this. Of the way she’d raised him to chase appearances instead of people.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go of Peyton’s hand. “Taylor didn’t give a shit about appearances,” he said flatly. “And she hated this suit. Said it made me look like a Mormon FBI agent.” There was a flicker—just a second—of something cracking in his mother’s expression. Not grief. Not even guilt. Just the kind of annoyance that came when her perfectly orchestrated image took a hit.
He let it hang. He let it burn. Then he guided Peyton past her and into the chapel, his hand still in hers, his shoulders still rigid, but his spine straight. The room felt like a tomb and a stage all at once, but with her next to him, he could almost pretend it didn’t feel like walking into a noose. "That went better than I expected." he tried his hand at a joke, "But I still wouldn't blame you if you wanted to cut and run. Now's your last chance before the service begins."
"I know she would be." Peyton spoke to his mother with slight defiance, unable to hide her own distaste for the woman who was all poise and perfection. A facade to impress the masses but she knew enough from being around her children to know that there were certain aspects of her life that were far from perfection.
Her gaze flicked around to ensure that his mother knew she spoke of the fiasco she'd put on for the death of her daughter. A whole show that paired well with her put together outfit that barely looked lived in without any wrinkles or loose threads. If she were a betting woman, she'd bet that the outfit had been nearly purchased with the hope of impressing strangers rather than paying focus to the loss or providing any sort of affection to her other children. "This is... interesting." But what she wanted to express was that the funeral was far from something anyone, much less someone related to Tyson, would appreciate.
It was cold, too picturesque, much like a museum of someone's life rather than a memorial.
Luckily, the matron of the hour was pulled in conversation when an individual who wanted to pay their respects. Peyton released the breath she'd been holding, shaking her shoulder as if to rid herself of the remnants of whatever dark cloud lived around that woman.
"I hate that b— ... her, " Peyton said, uncaring that it was the woman that birthed him. She wasn't one to shy from the truth around him and she couldn't pretend to find any personality traits of his mother that were endearing.
Her smile flicked upwards momentarily at the mention of leaving. "I wouldn't dare make your mother's day by leaving." But the slight squeeze of his hand, brief but secure, told more of the truth which laid in the fact that she wouldn't leave his side. He needed her, and just like he'd been there when she needed him, she was adamant to return the favor.
"I can sit in the back for the service so you can sit with your brother and the rest of your family."
While she hated to give his mother the satisfaction, she knew when to lay back out of respect. But she would leave the decision up to him and be, or do, whatever he needed from her.
" it can be, but it has its rewarding moments. i mean, how many people can really say they're recognized by their voice? " zehra gave a shrug of her shoulders, with the slight hint of a grin. " well, it depends. some months, more than the last. but it's always enough to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. " which had always been saying something. given how she loved to snack, and snack often. " you got it! " she beamed, before she scribbled down the name of her podcast on a piece of paper. she ripped it from her notebook, then handed it over to peyton. " i've done a few episodes on the city so far. but most are either closed cases for a long time ago. or some unsolved mysteries. " all, of course, relating to murder in some degree. " it hadn't been too popular prior to a few years ago, yeah. there's a few popular names that were accredited for making it big. but some aren't really my thing. could be yours, though. there's so many different types out there. "
"Hold on, do people actually come up to you and ask if you're the one person who does this podcast?" She could understand the radio or maybe some tv hosts who had a particular voice, but maybe she couldn't comprehend just how big someone could be from a podcast. "I guess if you can pay whatever bills you have and live comfortably without having to do nothing else, and you like it, then you're already winning." Peyton didn't always love being a bar owner but she felt like she owed it to her father to keep it alive. "Interesting. Are you one of those people who were always interested in death because of the killer or because you want to tell the victims story? There isn't a bad answer, I guess— as long as you're not obsessed with the killers that you want to be their penpal and pick them up from prison once they're released."
Hayes, her brain supplied in the hollow space following the other's name and her mouth almost formed the word on impulse, but instead Elena pressed her lips into a line and her knuckles went white as she gripped the handle of the plastic basket harder. She nodded, gaze on anything but the woman in front of her, unable to really accept this was a first meeting--it couldn't be--but unwilling to argue about it anymore. She already unspooled enough of herself in front of this woman and whomever else was in earshot and embarrassing herself further was certainly not on the agenda.
"Elena," she said flatly, then swiped at her eyes with the back of a hand and inhaled deeply in an attempt to center herself. "Great to meet you too," she added as an afterthought, then took a small half-step away. "This has been... something," she said stiffly, voice rough with unshed tears, "and I really just want to go home." This had been a mistake, and no doubt she'd pay for it with weird dreams and a small side of agoraphobia. She chanced a quick glance at Peyton, meeting her gaze for a fleeting moment before she looked away again. "Sorry again."
Peyton couldn't help but nod her head in understanding. It wasn't the best interaction and neither of them had made the best impression. It was why she allowed the bluntness from the other to roll down her back— mainly because Peyton didn't believe she'd done anything wrong or had any reason to receive such a reaction so she suspected it was given more out of embarrassment. "Well, I won't stand in the way of you going home." Peyton added, indicating that they didn't need to continue this conversation any longer.
"Don't worry about it," the brunette added with a genuine smile because she didn't hold any sort of resentment towards Elena for being forgotten despite their past connection. The brunette stepped back to indicate that they could both part ways. "I'll see you around," she added awkwardly before turning on her heel.
❧ open to all ❧ flor del sol
No matter how much had changed in her life over the past few months, the now eldest Castro always found her way back to her store. In fact, any minute not spend taking care of other business or at home was spent taking care of Flor del Sol; and she loved every minute of it.
It was the first time she'd walked into the front, having taken care of orders in the back for most of it. A figure, seemingly looking around. Smile on her face she made her way over. "Welcome! How can I help you?" Isabella didn't judge, even if the clientele of her floral boutique was usually of the higher echelon of Los Angeles.
Peyton peered towards the woman who spoke, holding a few bouquets in her hands. "What bouquet would you send to someone who you believe you may have insulted?" It had been a quick run in at the store but she'd left feeling bad that perhaps she'd been harsh or a bit dismissive. Perhaps sending flowers was opening a bag of worms she should be putting to rest instead but she knew it was going to chew away at her if she didn't try to at least do something. She was convincing herself, at this point, that this was more for her than it was for the other person. "Like just a simple sorry. I'm thinking a small bouquet, right?"
the question had brought a smile to zehra's lips. a small ounce of humor that perhaps had only been held by herself. for did she not battle the constant questions of whether what she spoke on her podcast was true or not. while most of the cases were older. solved and closed long ago. some of them were more recent. a few being very present in the moment. wide open, and ripe for the picking. " i don't make up anything. i find the information, confirm it as fact. and relay it to my listeners. " she stated with ease, no offense in her tone at all. because it didn't bother her. not like it might some others. those that wished she were spewing false facts. " there's more freedom in what i do. i set my own hours, i choose how and when to release the information. i don't have to play by any rules. " she gave a shrug of her shoulders. for really, it couldn't be much better than this.
"That sounds like a lot of work. How much money do you make to provide people with this free information?" She didn't understand the concept but figured that it had to make a decent amount of money for someone to put that much energy into it. "You should write down the name of your podcast and I'll give it a listen to see what it's all about." Her head nodded in understanding at the fact of having freedom. It was why she enjoyed having her own business rather than working for someone else. If Peyton didn't want to face the masses, she could always lock the doors of the bar and stay in bed for one night despite it never happening, mainly due to the guilt she'd feel. "The podcast thing has gotten large only these last few years, right? I've always wondered why I hadn't heard of it before."
"I never said that." It was just surprising because Troy's connections and line of work gave him the advantage to recognize so many of the players in that world whenever he showed up to have a drink at her bar. She was surrounded by them, whether she realized it or not and he hated to think it would eventually catch up to her. Regardless of how little care Troy showed for his own life these days, the people he cared for still mattered and even though they weren't as close as they once had been; their mutual loss doing nothing but driving them apart, she still was in that group. "Tension will continue to rise. I'm overseeing some of these cases, Peyton, it's going to get worse. So don't let your guard down, okay?" If you ever need anything, wasn't said out loud but he hoped she understood he would help if she ever needed him. "Can I ask you something?"
Peyton knew the type of person she entertained when they stepped foot in the bar but she made sure to keep the business professional and nothing more. She didn't go home with people she didn't know and only listened to those who spoke rather than ask questions or share any information of her own. Her head, for the most part, stayed down. It had worked thus far but she wasn't naive to believe that her luck would continue. It was a matter of time that violence knocked on her door. "It's going to get a lot worse?" She questioned, head tilted to look him over. He was one of the few that she trusted to tell her the truth. "As long as you promise to take care of yourself as well." She added and then stopped cleaning the cup she had in hand, placing it down with the rag. "Yeah, of course you can." Something told her she'd regret telling him he could ask her but she was too curious now.
Damiano floated lazily on his back, only half-listening for the telltale clink of bottles that meant she hadn’t bailed on him. One eye cracked open when he heard her footsteps instead, heading back in his direction. He let his legs drift him back to the edge of the pool, where she was standing with a bottle of Grey Goose like she’d just raided a minibar she didn’t belong to.
He didn’t rush to get out. Instead, he turned and braced his forearms on the pool’s edge, resting his chin on his wrist like she was the entertainment now. She was saying something about pressure and winning, and it was good, sharp. The kind of thing people usually reserved for barstool philosophy or late-night regrets. Damiano tilted his head, amused. “Winning’s a temporary high,” he said. “But losing? That shit lingers. That’s where the stakes are. No one replays a win in their head for ten years.”
He reached one hand up toward the bottle—slow, easy, like he had all the time in the world—and plucked it from beside her with a grin that was somehow both grateful and taunting. “But hey, I’ll still take the drink,” he added, taking a swig and making a face like he wasn’t sure if it was too cold or not cold enough.
“Hmm...That makes me think you might be a sore loser" He leaned back into the water with a slow drift and a lazy smirk. “No judgement, I am too. It's not often I don't get what I want. —Now are you ever going to get in or is this a spectator sport?"
Peyton tilted her head to side to side in consideration. "You'd have to win extra big in order to think of it that long." Something that would make the news or be legendary in some kind of sport. "I feel like there's less of a gamble these days. People don't put down a bet unless they know there's a good chance they're going to win and that takes the fun out of it."
The rush of potentially losing vs winning was where all the fun was to her. She liked the chase and the high that came with a fun game. It wasn't fun unless there was something to lose. She watched him intently and wondered if he ever placed a bet he ever lost. He had the confidence of a man who usually got what he wanted.
"I was enjoying the view." Unfortunately, the water did obscure half of him so she wasn't getting much of it now that he was in the pool outside of the brief glimpse she'd been graced with before he jumped in.
Instead of answering, she swung her legs into the pool and lowered herself. As expected, the water wasn't frigid like a motel pool would be, which was exactly where she suspected they would end up when he mentioned they should go for a dip.
"I may be a sore loser but I can take it on the chin. Are you a bad loser?" Someone who needed to be redeemed or someone who could walk away with the loss and easily shrug if off. "What's something about you that would surprise me?" At this point, she didn't think there could be something but she was intrigued by who he was beneath the confidence and good looks. A rarity for her given that people often gave her unsolicited information of themselves that she never had to ask anyone questions.
Troy tilted his head to the side a Peyton admitted she felt as if nothing reached her. The bar was still in L.A., a city that was almost taken over by not just one but several criminal organizations. It was rather impressive, or perhaps gullible, to think that she felt so safe in her own bar. One of the few locations in town that remained unclaimed by any of the gangs. "Interesting. Can't say I need to the news to keep up with what's happening." His admission was said casually. He saw too many angles from it. "So you don't get anything weird or suspicious in here?"
Peyton looked over at him and then smiled. "I'm not an idiot if that's what you're hinting at." She knew of the war that was outside her door and how it could easily engulf the little space she had in town and kept as a safe haven. A lot of it had to do with the work and connections her father had made. He'd made sure it remained unclaimed by doing favors and getting close to the right people, so she was lucky that people in charge remembered it. But she knew it could all change and she would have to deal with it eventually. "There's always suspicion, and whispered confessions, and tension rising. But most people remember what my father did for them. I'm not saying it'll last forever— it's lucky that influence still holds today but I guess I'll figure it out when luck runs out."
He didn’t reach for a cigarette right away. Just stared at the pack in her hand like it was a question he didn’t know how to answer. Then, finally, he took one—fingers brushing hers, brief and quiet—and brought it to his lips without lighting it. Just let it rest there. Something about the ritual was almost enough on its own. Like muscle memory for when his hands didn’t know what else to do.
When she said you know I wouldn’t be anywhere else, he didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not without something in him cracking. But his throat bobbed with the swallow he tried to hide, and he gave the smallest nod—one of those nods that said more than words could. That said I know. I’m glad. I don’t deserve it.
The temple came into view like a fucking monolith. His jaw tensed. It looked like something out of a magazine spread, polished and manicured, not a single damn hair out of place—and somehow that made it worse. Because Peyton was right. This wasn’t what Taylor would’ve wanted. This was his mother’s grief, curated for public display. A pageant. A press release. A statement that said we are grieving but we are still in control.
Tyson had never felt less in control in his life.
He could feel it building behind his ribs—rage, grief, whatever the hell sat between those two things. Tight and vicious, like a wire pulled taut. He adjusted the collar of his shirt with a twitchy hand and exhaled hard through his nose, willing himself to not come apart before they even walked inside.
When she spoke again—You gonna flash me a look or give me a code word…—he almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he muttered, “The sign will be me bolting” His hand hovered near the small of her back as they made the death march towards the temple doors, not quite touching, but close—just to anchor himself in space as they stepped toward the doors. He was already pulling on the mask he’d have to wear inside: the responsible son, the stable one, the brother who didn’t break. He lied with every step. But she was the one thing that felt real.
Peyton's gaze flicked towards him as their fingers brushed, allowing the moment to hang in the air before she let it pass and focused back on the road. They had an history and the years had done little to make her forget when brief moments like this surfaced. She tipped the cigarette out the window and allowed the exhale to wash away any tension that lingered in her body.
Easier said than done. The nerves crept up when they pulled in and she immediately itched for another smoke but decided to hold back. She didn't need to walk in smelling like an ashtray and risk bringing more unwanted attention her way.
"Bolting, huh? Then you should take these." She placed her keys in his hand so he could have them in his pocket. Peyton wouldn't bat an eye if he took her truck for a quick escape and got the hell out of dodge. It was a run down truck that once belonged to her dad, and she'd been looking for an excuse to get a new one.
The temple felt suffocating the moment she entered. Its overarching cathedral stood tall, peering down judgementally, though she soon realized that it wasn't so much the building as the pointed gazes. It was evident that she stood out like a thumb. While most looked put together with fresh ironed suits, perfectly pined back hair and freshly manicured nails— she was the complete opposite. Her hair was finger combed, the stench of nicotine clung to her, and the dress still had wrinkles from the last funeral she'd worn it at.
Her gaze met his mothers and Peyton stood taller but fell a step behind Tyson. He was strong enough to stand on his own, she knew that even if he didn't.
Her hand, however, slid into his like an act of rebellion. She knew when someone looked down at her from the moment they laid eyes on her, and it was clear that his mother would have wished anyone else be at his side.
The tightness of her fingers was a reminder that she was still here while his mother approached. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. A silent promise to stand at his side. She wasn't here to carry him through but to merely be an anchor to hold him steady and remind him of what was real within the orchestrated show his mother had set up. "Miss Hatch. My deepest condolences." she muttered softly, though her stance remained as stiff and cold— a stark contraction to the warm honey drenched tone which she used.
MINKA KELLY as SAMANTHA in EUPHORIA (2019–)
Damiano watched her move like she didn’t owe anyone an apology for the space she took up—didn’t shrink, didn’t flinch. He liked that. Even with the glint of gold and skyline at their backs, she stayed rooted in something real. Boots, denim, bluntness—herself. This rooftop saw a lot of polish and pretense. Peyton was a welcome fracture in all that marble.
Damiano slicked a hand back through his soaked hair, water dripping down the slope of his shoulders as he stood waist-deep in the pool. "You’re not wrong,” he said “I do get bored easily.” He glanced over, not bothering to hide how his gaze lingered—not lecherous, just observant. Appreciative. “But I wouldn’t be here with you if I thought you were boring.”
His grin tugged sharp when she questioned the place, his elbows now resting on the ledge of the pool behind him as he leaned casually into the tile. "My bosses own it." he answered easily with a shrug, "I work out of here often." In rumpled sheets, but that didn't need saying, at least not yet.
He nodded toward the cabana where shadows shifted behind sheer curtains, bar light casting warm gold through glass decanters. “Mini bar’s fully stocked. No key, just good taste. Which you seem to have.” he paused, brow raised, "But on one condition—Only if you tell me—when you do play, is it to win, or just to leave a mark?”
"That's a lot of pressure," she said as she eyed him, feeling a shiver run down her spine when she noted his eyes on her. She'd been around enough individuals to not flinch at them watching her every move, but there was an intensity to his gaze that was unlike many she'd met. Most likely because the gazes that found hers at the bar were often glazed over by alcohol.
Despite knowing she wasn't boring, she wasn't one to live a lavish life. Often times, she appreciated the simplicity of a cold beer and a warm sunset. As nice as this building was, it wasn't something that impressed her or made her appreciate him more. Frankly, if she'd met him here before the simple setting of a food truck, she wouldn't have paid him any mind.
Her mind raced with a few ideas of what he could do out of here. A place like this, with this sort of access — she figured it had to do with power, money, sex or drugs. Perhaps all of the above. She made note of it but only nodded.
The bar was the opposite of her own. The expensive liquor was at the forefront while her own was tucked in the back, kept hidden so she didn't have to buy as much. Plus, her patrons had simpler tastes than most. "Fuck me," she muttered as she pulled a few bottles up. In the end, she took a small battle of grey goose and brought it by the pool.
"I don't care much about winning. The joy is brief and forgettable. The ache is always more memorable in the morning regardless of the thrill of a win. But if there's a mark, that's just a bonus. Something tells me you agree, but maybe there's a bit of a desire to win?" Perhaps not, but she was just testing more than anything. "But don't get me wrong, I'll never let go of a win easily. It's funner that way." She'd make her opponent fight for it— hard and long.
" speaking from experience, most are very educational. and some are just for fun. " there had been a never ending list of podcasts, from those like her own. to ones that were just people chatting about their lives. or the latest gossip that amounted to bare minimum. some were on zehra's own listening list. while others she avoided like the plague. " most of it, yeah. i shift through the information that isn't relevant, or is just filler. then i speak of the details, the facts. what may or may not lead to the conclusion of it all. " the fire, the shooting. the information she garnered from the incident at the trailer park. " it does. in a way. " there had been a learning curve at first. but eventually, zehra understood how to make the most out of it .
peyton didn't know where to start with podcasts. she'd dabbled into the section of her spotify but often found herself overwhelmed and just went back to her country music playlist. with the bar, she made continuous decisions throughout the day so if she could avoid doing it, she would. even if it was a simple one like which show or podcast to consume. "is it all facts or are you making some of it up a bit?" maybe that was the whole point of listening because people did research that others didn't. "why didn't you become an investigator or something instead of just speaking into a mic?" not that she was judging, but she kind of was.
The spike in anxiety meant Elena's perception of events spiraled wildly out of control with a speed that left her grasping at smoke as it spun past her, each thought more disorienting than the last. The crux of it, however, was the pain of knowing someone while they insisted otherwise, a thought Elena herself tried to convince herself of in every minor interaction with this woman. No one. It may not have at all been what the woman meant, but the words hit like a gunshot. A brief, intense look of heartbreak twisted her features before she crushed it, schooling her expression to something perhaps indifferent-adjacent, a feat and a lie considering the way the beginnings of tears still tried to gather in her eyes.
"Yeah," she said, voice watery. "Okay." The urge to simply place it on the floor and leave as fast as she could nearly got the better of her, but instead she tightened her fingers around the plastic handle and nodded a few times. She wanted to argue, to demand some kind of explanation given the other apparently found it hard to believe Elena didn't know her, but she forced it down. "I'm sorry," she said after a beat. "It's uh-- been a rough couple of weeks. I didn't mean to--" She gestured vaguely and frowned, unable to meet her eyes. "--put words in your mouth or... whatever."
In this moment right now, where they both stood within their lives, this conversation wasn't impactful. Their story had started and closed many years ago and Peyton could put money on the fact that Elena hadn't thought of her in the last decade. It was better off that way because she hadn't put much thought into it either. At least until they crossed paths in town without a word shared. It was only in fear that there may be a lingering resentment or some kind of unspoken truth that she ever decided to open the door and try at a conversation. Had she known that Elena hadn't been ignoring her, but had instead forgotten her, she wouldn't have bothered.
"Don't apologize." Peyton was quick to add with a lift of her hand and a smile that she hoped came across as genuine. The quicker they could put this all to rest, the faster they could return to their lives and forget about it altogether. In an odd way, this felt as close to closure as she would get and she was content with that. "You didn't. I think it's all a misunderstanding and I take the blame for that. I got my wires twisted. It's been a long week for myself as well. But yeah, I'm Peyton and it's... nice to meet you."
the pen within her hand was tapped against the notepad. before she gave a simple nod of her head, " that's a fair consideration. especially since you'd expect it to be in the newspaper. " though the word made her wonder, whether anyone even read the newspaper anymore? didn't everyone simply get their news online now? the thoughts soon slipped by, of whether newspaper would even be a thing in a few years. until she was drawn from her thoughts. as peyton listed off the potential careers that could be tacked on to zehra's name. a soft grin settled on her lips, " oh, no. i'm not any of those things. " well, not truthfully. she supposed in some way, her career and those blended together. " in some circumstances, i do. but that's not why i do it. " she stated, with a nod of her head. as if that confirmed it. " i have a podcast, and i track true crime. " she supposed there was no harm in putting that information out there. not when it seemed that the woman across from her wasn't like the others she'd stumbled across. or rather, was investigating .
peyton couldn't help but find interest in the word that had been told to her many times before. a few patrons here and there had told her that she should listen to a podcast while she served drinks or when she was alone, cleaning up. all followed up by an insult to the country music she often played when the bar was slow or they'd just opened. "I've been told I should listen to some podcasts but I'm new to that whole thing." She got the gist of it, but was still surprised to find there were different genres. "So all of this, everything happening in town right now, you're going to speak of it on this podcast of yours?" She'd never felt more older than she felt at this very moment. "And that pays the bills?"
