550Author note: Yes I know I'm supposed to be working on TGW and I am, but this story has been in the back of my brain since Christmas and wouldn't let me be. It was intended to be a one-shot song-inspired fic but it's morphed into a short multi-chapter story. I'm thinking maybe 5 chapters, but who knows what the muse will decide?
Storyline is based on the song 'tis the damn season by Taylor Swift. Some dialogue is inspired by lyrics in the song Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift. If you couldn't tell, Taylor Swift is my current hyper-fixation and half my brain is made up of TS lyrics. You don't have to be a Swiftie or listen to the songs to read it, but I want to give credit where credit is due.
'Tis the damn season I thought to myself as I pulled my rental car out of the Newark airport and pointed it towards Trenton, headed to my hometown, more specifically the neighborhood of Chambersburg, commonly known as the Burg. I was having mixed feelings about the holidays. For the last year, I've stayed away, able to make excuses to not come back. Usually, my hectic work schedule gave me an out. I would tell my mom I couldn't get away and even if there wasn't a heavy workload, I could claim there was and my family was none the wiser. There were lots of reasons I didn't want to return to my hometown. It wasn't the weather that bothered me, although I'd take the sunny California warmth over the smog and bitterly cold winter of New Jersey nine times out of ten. But there was something to be said for snow at Christmas, for the changing seasons. On the West Coast, it was like summer all year without much fluctuation. Fall had always been my favorite season, partly because of my birthday and my favorite holiday, Halloween. It was odd to me to wear short sleeves on Thanksgiving and do my Christmas shopping without a coat or boots. Never having the option to curl up with a cup of hot chocolate while listening to Christmas music and watching the snow fall out the window felt strange. I needed a White Christmas.
As much as I fought it there was nostalgia drawing me home. My family is big on traditions. The decorations, the food, the get-togethers haven't wavered for as long as I can remember. Something was comforting in that. It was like Christmas at the Plums was frozen in time, it was something I could count on. No matter how much my life had changed the last year, I could return to that little house and find comfort in the rituals. That didn't happen much in my daily life. I enjoyed the fact that my job wasn't the same every day. While I worked at a desk most days, there were new challenges constantly which kept me from getting bored. But the best part was that the parts that differed had nothing to do with rolling in garbage, my car catching fire, or getting kidnapped.
As much as I found comfort in the sameness of the holiday, that's not to say that my family didn't drive me absolutely batshit crazy. First and foremost was my mother's nagging: When was I moving home? Was there anyone special in my life? When was I going to get married? When was I going to give her more grandchildren? Of course, I knew the answer to all those questions but she wasn't interested in hearing them. The answer was never. I was never moving home to Trenton, to the Burg. There would never be anyone special and I had no interest in marriage or having children. That was not the life I wanted for myself. I didn't want to be a housewife. I had no burning desire to cook or clean, to keep up with the Joneses. I couldn't see myself living every day with nothing more to do than care for a husband and children. There was nothing wrong with that life. It just wasn't for me. Lots of women found it very fulfilling, like my friend Mary Lou, my sister Val, and ninety percent of my graduating class. Again, I love that they love it. There's a part of me that wonders why that's not what I want. What was wrong with me? I'd been taught that was to be my goal, my destiny. The indoctrination was so complete I even tried, not knowing I had other options. My marriage to the Dick was a disaster. I hated almost every minute. I felt trapped like I was suffocating. Plus I wasn't good at any of it. None of it came easily to me, I wasn't a natural, and no matter how hard I tried I never measured up which reinforced the deep-seated belief there was something wrong with me.
The only thing I was good at and enjoyed was socializing. Being Dickie's significant other at parties and social functions was the only place I excelled. I was good with people, able to put them at ease and influence their opinions in Dickie's favor. It's probably why I made such a public spectacle of our divorce. I wanted to punish him. I'd worked harder than he had laying the foundation for a political career. He didn't deserve to benefit from my efforts after his indiscretions. Other than that I was almost relieved when I found him fucking Joyce Barnhardt on the dining room table and learned he'd been a manwhore the entire time we'd been together. I'd finally found an out. Of course, I faced my share of criticism. Expectations were such that as a good wife in the Burg, I was to be understanding, even accepting of his affairs. Some busybodies went so far as to offer advice that I should try harder in the bedroom to keep him from straying. I told them exactly what I thought of their suggestions. I refused to be the long-suffering housewife, allowing myself to be openly degraded in my own home, worrying more about projecting a false image of a happy marriage. No one had the right to disrespect me. If only I'd held tight to that belief with future relationships.
It was the divorce though that finally allowed me the freedom to be myself. I'd already gone against the norm, so why not embrace what I wanted? I went back to work, moved to Newark, and got a job. It may not have been glamorous, but I did it all on my own. As a bonus, I was away from the judgment and the rumor mill I'd grown up with. Of course, my career at EE Martin imploded when the company's bankruptcy and money laundering came to light. It was impossible to get a job in the business field with the scandal following me. It didn't matter that I wasn't involved or had any clue it was happening. It was a black spot on my resume and I was a pariah. I could've found a job working retail or food service but it wouldn't have earned me enough money to keep my apartment in Newark. As it was, when I slunk back to the Burg as a failure, my car was still repossessed. I had no choice but to borrow my Great Uncle Sandor's 1953 Buick, known as Big Blue from my grandmother. Faced with the looming prospect of having to move in with my parents I finally blackmailed my pervert of a cousin into giving me a job as a bounty hunter. I was underqualified in nearly every facet of the job. The only thing that kept me going while searching for my first skip was spite and the possibility of getting back at Joe Morelli. Well, that and the fact that I was desperately in need of a paycheck.
That job led to a long line of near-death experiences, immeasurable poor decisions regarding my love life, and a starring role in my own personal drama that played out in front of the whole town. I rolled in garbage, blew up cars, and collected stalkers like my cousin Shirley the Whiner collected Precious Moments figures. Police officers bet on my next disaster. Burg gossip mongers called my mom every time I had a mishap causing her to bemoan the fact that she was saddled with a daughter like me and constantly push applications on me for jobs at the button factory and personal products plant. Everyone and their mother blew up my boyfriend's phone, informing him of what he saw as my latest screw-up, even though more often than not it wasn't my fault. After our questionable past, I'd somehow gotten into a long on-again/off-again relationship with Joe Morelli who subjected me to near-constant and very public verbal abuse. But the unhealthy quasi-relationship with Ranger Manoso, my mentor, and best friend was what finally broke me.
As I neared Trenton city limits my mind drifted to the circumstances that caused my self-imposed exile. A year and a half ago after a very public and extremely volatile breakup with Joe, I allowed myself to be pulled into a no-strings-attached sexual arrangement with Ranger. I told myself I could settle for what he was willing to give me, desperately hoping he would see how good we were as a couple. When we were together, in my apartment or his, it felt so easy, so natural. It wasn't just sex. I mean the sex was phenomenal, beyond anything I'd ever experienced, but the best part was that he let down his barriers for me, the walls he'd built up to keep himself separate, not get emotionally attached. He allowed me to see a side of him he didn't share with anyone else. It gave me hope that we could one day be more, that he would realize I was worth changing his stance on relationships for.
I knew he loved me. Mainly he showed me, using his actions rather than his words. He'd also told me as much on several occasions. But he'd always qualified it, subtly reminding me that he wasn't relationship material, that his love didn't come with a ring, but a condom would come in handy. I didn't care about the ring. All I wanted was a commitment, his love, and loyalty. I wanted him to stake a claim. He'd already made it known on the streets that I was his woman, under his protection. I didn't think it was too far a leap to make that statement true in every sense of the word. Even though he never acknowledged our involvement in public, didn't take me out on dates, or grant me access to him except for work outside of our private spaces, I held out hope. I convinced myself that with time he would allow himself to give that to me, telling myself that, what we had was enough for now.
But I was lying to myself, thinking that I could keep my emotions in check, and as time passed, I fell deeper in love with him. The arrangement weighed on me, I became desperate, searching for any clue we could be more. One fateful night it all came tumbling down after what I thought was a romantic dinner at his place. The sex had always been great, fun, and adventurous. But that night he made love to me, there was no other way to describe it. To this day I'm convinced that's what it was. He worshiped my body into the wee hours of the morning, caressing every bit of me, allowing himself to show his love through his actions, unwilling or unable to say the words. That was when I slipped. I fucked up and I ruined everything. The weight of his body was settled on top of mine, his cock still buried inside me, as my body contracted around him at random intervals, aftershocks of a spectacular orgasm as I slowly returned to myself, basking in the afterglow.
Caught up in the moment, I whispered, my voice thick with emotion, "I love you." The change in him was immediate. Instantly his whole body tensed, and he pulled out of me and rolled to lie by my side. The silence was deafening.
After what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes he rolled off the bed, not looking at me but throwing over his shoulder, "This isn't going to work anymore."
As he disappeared into the closet I sat up, stunned. While I hadn't intended to confess my love for him, his reaction was beyond what I'd expected. Tears pricked at the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I pushed my heartbreak to the back burner allowing my anger to take the forefront. Unwilling to face him naked I scrambled out of bed and grabbed my clothes from the floor. I skipped the bra and pulled on my underwear and t-shirt. I'd just grabbed my jeans when he strode out of the closet in gym shorts and a t-shirt, running shoes and socks in hand. He calmly sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring me while putting on his socks and shoes. He was both literally and figuratively running away from me.
My anger flared at his dismissal, "What do you mean this isn't going to work anymore? You just get to decide that?" I tried to keep my voice even. Joe and I yelled and used Italian hand gestures, that was not Ranger's way. He just shut down his emotions. I wasn't sure which I preferred.
His blank face was fully in place as he finished tying his shoes and stood, his flat, lifeless eyes locked on mine. His voice was measured and even, with no hint of emotion. "Yes, I do."
I'd seen that look before, leveled at skips, at my stalkers, but never at me. I knew then it was a lost cause and nothing I could say would change his mind, but I wasn't leaving without having my say. I was incredulous. "Because I told you I love you? You're breaking up with me because I said I love you? You spend all night making love to me and you can't handle me saying the words?" I was no longer able to keep my emotions in check, my voice grew in volume as I stared at him in disbelief.
Refusing to take the bait he calmly stated, "I'm not breaking up with you. We were never in a relationship, we had a mutually beneficial arrangement. It no longer benefits me. It's not good for you either." It didn't escape my notice that he didn't deny my assessment of what had just happened between us before I let those three little words escape and blow up everything. Dismissing me a second time he turned and walked out of the room. Well, he may be finished with our discussion, but I wasn't. Jeans in hand, I followed him out, finding him in the kitchen. He had the refrigerator door open and was grabbing a bottle of water. I placed myself between him and the front door, afraid he would walk out of the apartment before I could finish the argument.
"What makes you think you get to decide what's good for me? So what if I told you I loved you? You've told me you love me more than once. So you can say it and I can't?" He just stared at me, his jaw set, stupid blank face intact. Again, he didn't deny that he loved me. I knew deep down it didn't matter if he loved me or not anyway, it wasn't going to change anything. His mind was made up. I didn't know if I would get another chance so I plowed on, determined to have my say, whether he responded or not. "I've never said those words to a man and meant them before. I said them to my husband because I was supposed to, but I didn't mean them. I could never say them to Joe because I knew it wasn't true." I took a deep breath, my voice strong, "I said them to you, and for the first time, I meant them. I told you I loved you and it's the worst thing you ever heard."
I shoved my legs into my jeans and grabbed my purse and shoes. Wrenching the door open I turned back to him for my parting shot. My voice was level, but with a hard edge, "You've never lied to me before, I don't know why you decided to start now. It was a fucking relationship. Your refusing to admit it changes nothing. I never thought you were a coward Ranger. If you thought it was just sex you're kidding yourself. You know it and I know it. Since you're no longer interested in fucking me, you can go fuck yourself." Walking out I slammed the door behind me. Mercifully the elevator opened immediately. Willing myself not to cry, I stepped in and jabbed the button for the parking garage before hitting the button to close the door. I told myself I was in a hurry to make my exit before Ranger came after me, but my heart shattered knowing he never would.