Chapter Text
It has been forty-nine days since Frank’s family died, but he has work, so he shows up at The Pitt like it’s any other day.
He’s been back for a little over four weeks, and the stares have finally started to ease up. Months ago, when he pictured returning to The Pitt while in rehab (the first time and then the second), he always knew he’d be watched. He expected the gossip. The whispers about where he’s been and how the hell he’s back. Judgments wrapped around a suffocating blanket of concern. Some days, he pretends it is about how he left all those months ago. It makes him feel better than acknowledging the truth.
Getting ready for work makes him feel as if his life is how it was before, even though he’s frozen in the pursuit of survival, feet cemented in place. Stuck in the after.
He’s still a good doctor, though. He’s still equipped to save lives and help people. He can run codes, diagnose the cause and figure out a treatment plan. He has that at least. It is one of the few things he thinks he has a hold on. Considering what he’s lost, he’ll take it.
He also has an empty, painfully quiet house that he can’t bear to clear out. Clean isn’t the right word, even though it could certainly use that, too. Everyone tells him it’s normal, and he chooses to believe them. For the first time in his life, he wants to be average. There’s a lump in his throat he can’t push down, no matter how hard he swallows. Over and over. Sometimes, the room spins but it’s not real. He’s just letting his grief get the best of him.
Building a routine has helped. His therapist and sponsor tell him this as if he doesn’t already know. Frank cycles through the motions of a life.
Penny’s favorite ride was the carousel. He takes the ride until he collapses in his and Abby’s cold bed, and then gets up and does it all again. Round and round and round he goes.
He is a good doctor. Of that one thing, he is certain.
So, he drives to work, pulls into the parking lot and clocks in. Because that’s what he needs to do. It’s what PTMC needs him to do. His patients need him, too. Even if he isn’t as good at memorizing their faces as before. They swim together until he isn’t sure he can tell himself apart from them. People assure him that’s to be expected. He’s normal. As if any of what he’s been through can quantify as that. He doesn’t argue, and no one expects him to.
“It will pass,” someone tells him once in the minutes, hours, days, or weeks following the funeral.
Funerals? He isn’t sure if it counts as more than one since he buried them all at once. One big coffin. Two smaller ones. The smaller coffins keep him up at night. He closes his eyes and sees them. He can still feel the pinprick of a thorn from a white rose hitting his thumb as he clutched it in his hand. The blood that rushed to it as it bled onto his white shirt.
Abby’s parents helped arrange for a few different speakers. None of whom was him. Not that anyone thought he would. The people there didn’t want to see him above all of them, talking about tragedy. Waxing poetica about how a man can become a basket case in one, awful day. They didn’t want to see a hollowed-out version of a person they thought they knew. They didn’t want to realize the kind of shell they could easily turn into if fate had chosen them instead. They needed hope. So, Robby spoke.
Frank doesn’t remember a word he said.
“It will pass.”
What did they mean by “it” anyway? Is it the feeling in his gut every time he looks at Penny’s rain boots, purple with sparkles, by the front door as if she kicked them off moments ago without a care in the world? Is it Tanner’s bike in the garage, black with blue flames, waiting in vain for the day when Frank would take off the training wheels? Or the way the doors to the fridge are now a shrine to the dead? A memorial of school pictures with missing teeth and Abby holding Chewie as a puppy and a calendar with reminders about dance class and soccer practice. Is it the one when he wants to punch through glass windows, through walls, through his own skull, but is too goddamn tired to even make a fist?
He supposes it doesn’t matter.
They might be right, whoever they were. Maybe it will pass. Probably not, but…Well. That’s normal, too, he tells himself. Nothing wrong with that.
At least, as long as it’s outside the walls of this hospital.
Because here, he has to be invincible. He does everything he can to be a hero. A savior. He has the privilege of working his ass off to save other people’s kids and wives. To tell death to fuck off—that it will not win today. Maybe it will come for them some other time but not on his watch. He works and works and works until he’s sore so that he can promise they won’t have to go through the worst thing they could ever imagine.
He couldn’t save his own family. He vows to do everything he can to save everyone else’s.
That’s smart. It’s healthy. If it weren’t, then it wouldn’t feel as good as it does. He’s made enough mistakes in the past. This is his time to make up for it. This is his life now. And it’s enough. He swears it is.
It’s his penance.
He’s downing a Red Bull in the break room and doing his best not to crawl the walls until the shift kicks off in earnest. It’s only been an hour or two. He doesn’t like the quiet. He gets bored and restless. He’s useless when it’s calm. Dana’s words, not his own. She meant it as a joke, but he thinks she hit it right on the money. He comes alive in the chaos.
“Frank?” Mel asks in a quiet voice that’s just firm enough to tell him it isn’t entirely out of pity.
It took him two shifts before he told her to call him Frank, not Dr. Langdon. It took her seven to finally kick the habit.
He watches her and pretends he isn’t grateful for her presence alone. As if her mere existence doesn’t give him the closest thing he gets to solace these days. He doesn’t want to think about how long she’s been standing here. If she was watching him, and in what ways. Most importantly, why?
Mel watches him, and he does the same. His heart thumps, as loud as it can after the funeral, in his chest when he hears her voice. She blushes a vivid pink when he cracks a bad joke. Their hands brush, and neither one tries to pull away too fast. As if that makes any of it better. They orbit each other, even when he doesn’t mean to and knows she certainly doesn’t. Circling, but never touching long enough to collide.
They don’t discuss it. Instead, they work.
“What do we got?” he asks.
She relaxes, and he grins. She fills him in on the patient who could be years or minutes from death or maybe just needs an antacid. That’s on them to figure out. Mel likes puzzles. He likes watching her decipher them.
He also feels his best—his most capable—when working with kids. It wasn’t always like that for him. It used to be…He can’t remember exactly. Isn’t that a load of shit? Abby would’ve mocked him about getting old.
“The memory is the first to go, babe.” Her voice would crack in that way that it always did when she teased him and meant it as a joke. He’ll never hear that sound again. Not that he heard it that often in the months or weeks leading up to the end.
Working with kids was different. He felt different. Heavier. Like the world was caving in and there was nothing he could to stop it. Like he was drowning. Or sinking. Maybe both.
He’s featherlight now. He’s weightless.
It feels good in a way that it probably shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter. He won’t tell anyone. There’s no one left to judge him for it, anyway. His lies are for him alone. What is Abby gonna do? Rise from the grave and tell him he’s being a shit dad to his dead kids?
He wouldn’t put it past her to try.
He and Mel save the first patient’s life, and then another. They lose the third, but they’re treating five different people by then. The woman isn’t even technically their patient. She’s McKay’s. He’s the one who tells the husband anyway.
“Thanks.” McKay studies him. “You’re better at it than me now.”
He snorts. “Probably only because I had quite the riveting experience of being on the receiving end of it three times in one day.”
Mel makes a horrified noise in the back of her throat. McKay hesitates before nodding. They move on to the next sick or dying person.
“It was a joke,” he says to Mel when they’re getting some air. More for her benefit than his, but he doesn’t want her to know that. He’s smoking a cigarette, and she pretends not to judge him for it. “Before, I mean.”
She doesn’t look at him. “I am aware of that, thank you.”
“I didn’t…” He doesn’t like disappointing her. Hates it, even. “I’m allowed to say that kind of thing.”
Is he really? He honestly doesn’t know. But he doesn’t want her to tell him that he can’t. The chances of that decrease if he convinces her it’s something he needs. Mel likes to give him that. She even said it once. Not that she’s ever given him what he really wants from her.
Those desires are best ignored, though. It hardly makes a difference, but he lies to himself that it does.
She softens. “I know. I didn’t…” She winces. “You can say whatever you want. Whenever you need to.” She looks at him, and her eyes hold too much for a woman he’s only known for exactly thirty-three days. “You can be whatever you need to be with me.”
He looks at her like she’s his salvation, and maybe she is, because she turns away.
When it comes to Mel, he knows he’s dangerous, and not in the way that’s become good for him since he buried his wife and two children. His thoughts threaten to undo him. In every way. They could kill him if he’s not careful. He isn’t careful about almost anything anymore because what would be the point? But he will be when it comes to Mel. She deserves that kindness. And he knows what else she deserves. Everything.
Maybe things could’ve been different if it were roughly twelve hundred hours ago. He could’ve made different choices or been someone she could place her trust in. It’s a horrible thought, but he wonders if they could’ve had the chance to be something besides friends and coworkers. But now…He’s empty.
Mel warrants much more than that.
If only he can convince her of it, too.
Mel doesn’t know how Frank’s standing upright, let alone running around The Pitt, excited and energized. Like the bunny in the Duracell commercial with the headphones and a drum. He goes and goes and goes. Seemingly without needing much to recharge or a replacement battery.
It stuns her at first, but she gets used to it eventually.
It’s replaced by a new feeling, one that takes a while to settle in, but once it does, there’s no going back.
She wants to hold Frank Langdon again very badly, but she doesn’t think he’d like it. Or, perhaps even worse, he wants her to touch him, just not like that. Not in the foolish, all-encompassing way she feels for him. She remembers the last time they were that close vividly, but she doubts he does. She’s too afraid to ask him and confirm it.
As much as she knows how much she wants him, she still doesn’t understand everything she feels for him. She’s tried writing down lists with different categories and subcategories, but they never seem complete or like they’re getting at the root of what’s happening to her. It always ends the same: with her tearing up the list and tossing it in the trash, only to start a new one a few days later.
It would be exhausting if she didn’t want to figure it out more than anything else in her life.
She doesn’t expect for it to be the same for him. How could it be? He lost his wife and children. How could he possibly be thinking about her, given everything he’s been through and is still going through?
And yet. Part of her knows better. Deep down, she knows that he, perhaps inexplicably, is thinking about her. She can see it in his eyes when she turns around and finds him already looking at her after talking to a patient. It’s in the way his breath catches when he’s watching her do charts and analyze lab results. Or when his shoulders ease just the slightest bit after he cracks a joke to her and she laughs. He carries so much. She just wishes she could lighten it.
Every time she thinks she’s found a way to come up with a plan on how to do that, something stops her.
As his days back at The Pitt turn into weeks, she knows she can’t do nothing for much longer. She’s losing control. She might even be losing her mind. So, she does what she does best: she organizes a comprehensive plan of attack. Or, more so, a plan for support. It’s to help him, to be there as a friend, and let him know he doesn’t have to be alone. That’s it, she promises.
She compiles the following data about him when it comes to her:
- Most of the time, he’s already looking at her when she glances over at him. Which is quite frequently, sometimes more than ten times a day. It only increases in volume on the most stressful days, the ones she thinks should be the hardest for him. He tries not to show it, but she sees it.
- She might like the occasions when he isn’t already staring at her more because he always seems to figure out that she’s watching him without her needing to move or say a word. When he sees her, he swallows, and she watches that, too. The motion of it rolling down his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing with effort. Sometimes, he has to do it twice (those are her favorites).
- He doesn’t smile much anymore, which is to be expected. He’s facing the unimaginable. Only when he does, it’s usually always because of something Mel says or does. Some of those things are small, so much so that she doesn’t think they’re noteworthy until he’s grinning at her. As if nothing horrible and life-changing happened to him in the past eleven or so months.
- He checks in with her, consistently enough that she wonders how he knows. He figures out when she needs a drink of water, some air, or to listen to a song too loud through headphones in the break room before she does. It would be easy for her to do the same, but she doesn’t. Partly because everyone else already is, and he seems to genuinely hate it. He recoils almost every time someone asks if he’s okay. Mel saves that question for when it matters most, and she thinks he can admit defeat. It’s rare. She believes he does appreciate it, though.
- He lingers. By that, she means he stays close to her. More than is definitely necessary at this point as an R3. He might still be an R4, but if anything, that’s a larger argument why he shouldn’t need to work with her so often. He finds ways, though, and it’s not gone unnoticed by their coworkers. About three weeks after Frank returned to work, Heather sat her down. “Look, he’s a lot like the little brother I never wanted, but you need to be careful. He’s not…” She winced and then softened. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, okay?” Mel did, but she can’t say she’s done her best at keeping it.
There’s more, a lot more, but she doesn’t know how to make those things feel concrete enough to name. So, she leaves it at that for now. There’s always time to add to it. Besides, the current list gives her plenty to think about.
She decides that the best way to help him is to let him be himself. She won’t judge him for his dark jokes that make everyone else uncomfortable. She won’t pressure him to come out with the rest of them for social events, even if they would be more fun with him there. She’ll be there for him. She’ll be whatever he might need on that day. It’s kind of interesting. It’s a lot like a game in some ways. One that she doesn’t know the rules of yet, but she can figure them out as she goes along. She learns well on her feet. That will have to be enough.
She isn’t stupid. She’s aware that all of her data amounts to the conclusion that Frank Langdon wants her. In what ways, she isn’t entirely sure. She doesn’t even know if he knows. She could ask him, but she worries he’d break her heart with the answer. Not on purpose, but just by the cruel fate of honesty. It would be smart of her to drop it.
She’s always been a smart person.
Until Frank.
He doesn’t make her a fool, exactly, but…Risky. Perhaps even in ways she doesn’t comprehend. He brings something confusing out of her. He gives her something in return. None of it has a name to help her process what it means. She stews and paces in her apartment. She hovers her fingers over his contact information in her phone. She takes a deep breath whenever she enters the break room and knows they’ll be alone in there. Even if it’s for a mere thirty seconds. It doesn’t make sense. She doesn’t make sense.
It doesn’t matter. She wants him still. She’ll just have to get used to it.
Or, he would joke, she might have to die trying.
Frank fucks up his life forever after a truly awful shift.
Well, fucks it up even more than it already is. Which, until today, he didn’t think was possible. But leave it to him to find a way to dig himself into an even deeper hole. He always manages to pick up a shovel long after he’s already six feet under.
Abby wouldn’t find that funny, but he said it to Mel once, and she snorted out a laugh and called him a drama queen.
It’s all because of a meth lab explosion at an apartment building. The first injuries brought to them are nothing short of grisly and painful ones. Deadly. He and Mel get to work on an old guy with third-degree burns who seems to have been operating the lab out of his living room.
Garcia rushes down, this time with the comment, “Looks like someone didn’t pay attention in chemistry class.” When Mel narrows her eyes, she adds, “Or maybe too much.”
It turns out the apartment building has over seventy tenants living there, which means there are plenty of victims to treat. They all work overtime. Robby’s been pretty relaxed with Frank’s reintegration to The Pitt the last couple of weeks, but he really lets him off the leash today. He knows it’s not because he trusts him. It’s just a necessity. Maybe some of it is pity, too. It leaves a bitter taste in Frank’s mouth. More than anything, he hates the pity treatment, and he gets an endless supply of it from almost everyone.
Except Mel. Of course, she treats him delicately and with kindness. He doesn’t think she knows any other way. But she doesn’t doubt him. She trusts his skills as a doctor and doesn’t go out of her way to make sure he knows that she’s here for him. He doesn’t even know what that means anymore. He can’t remember the last time he let someone in like that. Not that he needs it.
He’s fine.
Maybe if he thinks or says it enough times, people will start to believe him.
It is the truth is the thing. As much as it shouldn’t be, he is doing okay, all things considered. Yes, there’s the nightmares that haunt him long after he wakes up or occasional sleepless night, but that’s fine. He can cope. Besides, most of those happen when he isn’t working, so it’s not impacting any of his shifts. He’s coping, and that’s good. He wishes everyone else would catch up.
He’s a machine all day. Assessing burns and smoke inhalation. He makes sure all of his patients who need immediate attention receive it. His patient satisfaction scores will definitely get an uptick. He could really need it. He barely stops for water or the bathroom. He doesn’t need it. At least, not right now. When the shift ends, it’ll be a different story.
That’s alright, though.
He’ll stop and recover when he needs to.
(He hasn’t needed that in over fifty days, but who’s counting?)
His coworkers and distant friends or family might think Frank needs a rest, but they don’t understand it’s just the opposite. And he doubts that it’s going away anytime soon. That doesn’t scare him. Instead, he feels…Comforted. Because at least now there is one constant he can count on.
He’s on fire, and everyone seems to notice. He feels…Normal. He feels great, honestly, but that sounds horrible to admit out loud, so he doesn’t. Still, it’s a relief. He hopes the feeling lasts forever.
He should know better, of course.
Because then a mom is rushed in with two little kids who are about six and four. The mom has to be intubated right away. The kids are a boy and a girl. She’s older, though. And blonde. The boy has long, light brown hair. It keeps getting in his eyes as Frank examines him. The girl won’t stop crying for her mommy to wake up.
He doesn’t realize Mel’s there until her hand steadies his shaking one.
He looks up and meets her eyes, but then he desperately wishes he hadn’t. She looks so…Sad. Like she might cry. He wonders for how long it’s been obvious that today is hitting him differently. He doesn’t want to think about it, but it doesn’t matter. He does. He knows he will for the coming days, weeks, months. He’s faltered in front of Mel, and somehow, that’s his biggest offense to date.
He promised himself after he got sober that he wouldn’t fail her again.
And yet, here he is.
He doesn’t make him need her any less.
“I can take over,” she says, so softly that he nearly misses it.
The girl is still crying. Kiara is trying to soothe her. It’s not working.
“I’m fine,” he replies.
Mel considers this, trying to figure out if he’s lying. He can’t say if he knows he is—one way or the other. What he does know is that he needs her to believe in him. He doesn’t know why that is. Just that it’s the truth.
To his surprise, she nods. “Together, then. I could use someone to supervise this level of care anyway.”
They both know that’s a huge lie, but they let it stay in place. It’s better than the alternative, which she was probably banking on. As embarrassing as it might be, he won’t fight her on it. Besides, she does tend to make work easier. Especially when he doesn’t expect it.
The mom doesn’t make it, but both of her kids are cleared. No major injuries. The girl stops crying after Mel gives her a small stuffed cow. The boy falls asleep, and it seems like he’ll stay that way for years. They’re immediately handed over to a DFS agent who informs them that there’s an aunt upstate they’ll try to place them with. If not, then…Well. They all know.
It happens right at the end of the shift, and Mel immediately runs out of the building. She doesn’t even get her stuff from her locker. Frank battles with himself over what to do, but in the end, he goes and gets her stuff first and then follows her out. She told him her locker combination at some point. He gave her his, too. He has to jog to catch up to her. She’s standing by his car, with her own a few parking spaces down.
“Mel,” he calls out, trying not to startle her.
She jumps a little but relaxes when she sees it’s him.
It makes his stomach do a somersault.
Then he sees she’s been crying, and his heart sinks.
He holds out her shoulder bag. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude or anything. I just thought you might need this.”
She wipes at her cheeks and takes it from him. “Thank you.” She gestures to her face. “I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?” he asks.
She swallows. “For making that case today about me. I shouldn’t have. It’s not fair. I know how much working with kids has always impacted you.”
He takes a few steps closer. “You have nothing to be sorry for, I promise.” Her stare is intense, and he knows his is the same, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m fine. Besides, I remember you told me you hate seeing families separated. This was a hard one. You’re allowed to feel whatever you feel. I don’t get ownership over trauma.”
“Your logic sounds correct, but I don’t…” she trails off. “Given everything, I want to say the right thing right now, but I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.”
He smiles, just a small one. “You just said it.”
She doesn’t believe him, not entirely, but she doesn’t push again, and he’s too tired to do anything but leave it at that.
Instead, they just stand there by her car. The light’s fading through the opening in the sides of the garage, and soon, they’ll turn into shadows until the darkness eats them up completely.
He can’t stop watching her.
For many reasons that are stupid and selfish. He’s the worst person alive sometimes. And Mel is probably the best. It’s not a fair comparison.
Most of all, it’s because she doesn’t look at him as if he is a splintered, ugly, and broken thing. In her eyes, he doesn’t appear useless. Perhaps reckless, yes, but wasn’t he always? Isn’t that part of the reason they work so well together? They balance each other out. They help the other feel more confident and take risks when needed. Honestly, she makes him want to be better. And not just when it comes to the medicine part of his life.
It might make him awful. Hell, it certainly does with his current track record in mind. But he doesn’t feel ashamed of that. If anything, it’s a lifeline.
So, he just can’t help himself when it comes to what happens next.
Her braid is hanging off one of her shoulders, and he tells himself he doesn’t know why he takes it in his hand. He twirls a lock of her hair around his finger. She stares at him while he does it but says nothing. He isn’t sure whether either one of them is breathing.
He swallows and takes in a shaky breath. The sound seems to echo in the parking garage.
He reaches out and cups her cheek with the hand that isn’t touching her hair. She takes a step closer to him. It’s the only sign so far that she doesn’t hate him for what he wants. He wishes he could ask her. It would be better to simply say the words and make sure that this is okay. But if he speaks, whatever magic spell is over both of them will break. He wouldn’t survive that. So, he lets her move closer. Inch by inch. Until they’re almost pressed up against one another.
He thinks he can feel her heart beating erratically against the thrum of his own. Hear it, too. He wants to memorize the distinct pattern it has. As if knowing that, and being able to replay it in his head, will make any of this okay.
She leans up and he goes down, and their foreheads press together. She closes her eyes, but he keeps his open. He wants to see her like this. No matter if it damns him. At this moment, he only cares about one thing.
They breathe each other in. He doesn’t know how long they will stay like that. Vaguely, he knows they’re in a public place and anyone could see. Including any one of their coworkers. It still doesn’t deter him. Not even the thought of Garcia possibly spotting them could stop him. He doubts that even the end of the world would be enough.
She pulls in a breath, and he can’t wait any longer.
The first touch of Frank’s lips on Mel’s feels like a gentle, barely-there thing. More of a question than anything else. He waits for her to push him away and tell him he’s ruining everything. It doesn’t come. And then he really can’t stop himself after that.
He presses his mouth firmly on hers. She opens for him immediately, and he’s more than happy to claim her and give everything he has. At first, it’s messy. A mix of tongue and teeth, all seeped in desperation. Then, it steadies. It’s no less intense, though. If anything, it’s more. A lot more than he’s felt in a long time. Years. The thought terrifies him but not enough to stop.
He wonders if there will ever be enough.
She’s the one who pulls him even more flush against her. She wraps her hands around his neck, trying to bring him even closer. There’s a roaring in his ears, and he feels his desire coursing through him. A feeling he thought was dead. She sighs into his mouth and bites down on his lower lip. He moans, too loudly for his own good. It should be a tad bit shameful, but then she scratches where his hair meets his neck, and all of that is forgotten.
He wants to inhale her. He wants her to have every piece of him, even the ones that are fractured beyond repair, unrecognizable. It doesn’t scare him the way it should. Then again, there is very little that scares him anymore. A perk, he supposes, of the three most important people to him dying over the course of thirty-two hours. He doesn’t want to focus on that, though. He wants to lose himself in Mel.
His hand works her hairband out of her hair. He shakes out her braid and buries his hand in her hair. She gasps, and it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. His other hand moves to her waist and squeezes her there. She’s so soft and yet unyielding as they kiss. It’s driving him nuts. Her glasses are digging into his face, but he doesn’t care. How could he when he finally has her the way he secretly knows he’s wanted for a deplorable amount of time? He can’t think about that. He refuses to let himself ruin this. He needs to just…Be with her.
So, he does, without further hesitation or worry. He allows himself to feel how much he needs her. How it’s been hard to keep his head on straight around her since the day they met. He isn’t sure what any of it means, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t need to get it to feel it. Maybe it’s different for her, but he’ll listen and help her when he can. He’ll do whatever she wants to. All he needs to keep feeling this.
Except nothing in his life can be that simple.
She breaks off the kiss first. No shit. She takes a step back, and his hands ache to be touching her again. He wonders if they always will now that he’s had the chance to hold her. Even if it was only briefly.
“I…” She shakes her head as she covers her mouth with her hand. She’s crying again. “I’m so sorry, Frank.”
“But—”
She barely lets him get the single word out before she spins around and flees to her car without looking back.
Left alone, he finally understands the severity of what he’s done.
The building spins, the asphalt underneath him tilting. It’s not from his obvious dehydration. He can’t believe he just did that. The look on Mel’s face…It will haunt him. He isn’t sure for how long, but he guesses for the rest of his life. Not only because of her obvious rejection, which he should’ve seen coming, but he knows, deep down, that she wanted him, too. Even if it only lasted a few, too-brief moments before she came to her senses and remembered who he is.
If there is a God, which he used to believe in for his mother and Abby’s sake, then him or her or they sure do have a shitty sense of humor. Or, maybe this is his punishment for being a crap dad and an even worse husband. Maybe he died with his family, and this world is Hell. At the very least, it’s Purgatory. That’s the only explanation for him being given the chance to touch Mel—to kiss her like he’s wanted to for longer than he will ever admit—and realize she wants him, too. There is no future with him. For a few moments, she didn’t seem to care about that. It’s horrifying.
He’s right back on the carousel.
Round and round and round he and Mel both go now. Together. Doomed. Perhaps until the end of time.