Oh, I Hate The Paperwork! I Like The Math Part, Actually, But The Paperwork Still Feels Like Mountains.

"They are," Leyla assured, "I've sampled them all myself before putting them on the menu, so you can't go wrong." She was leaving nothing to chance, putting her whole being into making this concept work. There were a couple of bars in the area, so she had competition but no one was doing exactly what she was doing. They might have non-alcoholic options, though. That's why she had to work extra hard to make her place stand out as something special. "Great choice!" She replied, beaming, "I leave that menu then." As she began to make the drink herself, she decided she should probably strike up a conversation like any other bartender would do. What would Sam Malone do? "So what do you do?"

"They all sound kinda good," Che said, eyeing up the menu. He'd often spend time like this at bars with alcoholic beverages, but it was early and it was a work night and he was trying not to be the worst. "Go with the strawberry basil one, then." He smiled over at Leyla. "And then maybe something more smoothie-like afterwards for my second drink."

Leyla smiled warmly, though it had been a little jarring to have a ball flying at her face, it had clearly not been intentional. Following his gaze for a second, she wondered if one of the kids over there was his. "Very," she answered his question first, "it's a book for female entrepreneurs, Girl Code. I read a lot of business books these days. Is one of those kids over there yours? I saw you do a Dad check."

"You got it," Wesley couldn't help but chuckle at Leyla's response. Well, at least she wasn't upset. He glanced over at Ary for a second then back over at Leyla. "Good read?" he asked, head tilting in an attempt to make out just what book she had been reading anyway.

Leyla had spent years, before and after him, trying to believe that, and it was one thing she still struggled to accept. She would hear her parents sigh when they had to pay for another treatment, even when her mother had always been the first to comment when she looked comfortable. She was a lot of work. But at the end of the day, it was love that wasn't enough. Love: the invisible concept that was supposed to make the world better. But it didn't. It was empty. Empty words, empty hopes, empty rooms. "Only you could say that after what you've done and I still believe you," she mused. When he said it, she felt a strange sense of comfort as if it were true. As if she weren't difficult or exhausting, as if she were worth loving...

It was good while it lasted, from go, he was magnetic. He was her hero, swooping in to save her at the right moment. Back then, when she had believed in love, she used to love with every part of her being. Like an electric current that kept her alive. Even through all their troubles, they felt possible to overcome. Because they were together. She may not have survived without him, and she was almost surprised she did when she lost him. Her anorexia fueled anew by spite, and it was almost a blaze that consumed her entirely. The memory made her weak, fragile heart start to pound in her chest. No one could save her that time, she had to learn to save herself. Maybe he deserved some thanks for that.

Suddenly, she was hyperaware of the busy world around them: laughing children, people splashing in the water, running around, happily chatting about how great the day was. It was hardly the place for this, especially by the exhausted looks of him, so she nodded, "okay. Maybe you can come to Mawk Tales after closing sometime--I don't live alone." She looked over at him, not sure what to say, "enjoy the rest of your day, Vitus." Then she paused and added, "I think I mean that."

"No. It was never exhausting," he said, his voice sturdier despite his lingering tears. This was one truth that hadn't changed in all the years that had passed between them: "Loving you was the easy part."

It was true—he'd tripped over his clumsy feet and fallen straight into her when they met. Some nights were more difficult than others, certainly, but Vitus attributed that to their circumstances more than any personal faults. His love for Leyla had known no limits in its intensity. It had burned through him like wildfire, scorching every inch and edge of his skin, dizzying him with head-smoke. That all-consuming heat had lit him up during a time in his life when everything else inside him felt wholly, horribly dark. Vitus had fled to California after he lost her, searching for anything else that burned like she did, and what he found in Los Angeles almost killed him. It would be a lie, to say he didn't utterly regret losing Leyla the way he did.

"I'm sorry, I'm just—" At a loss for an appropriate adjective, Vitus gestured at the all of himself. Sleep still dragged at his eyelids. He was battling a weed-and-liquor hangover, and his hands had begun to twitch in search of a cigarette, any kind of reprieve from discomfort. Vitus rubbed his face and sniffled again, grateful the tears had begun to slow, at least. "Can we—if it's not too much to ask. Can we meet somewhere else, please? Somewhere private. And I can answer every question you have then." No way would he be able to give her anything close to satisfaction, caught off guard on the middle of a beach like this.

She wanted more for him, same as she wanted from him. It was six months ten years ago, and she could still remember every bit of it. If she let it, her mind would trick her into believing he was safe again. That was the thing about Vitus, though. She would push him, say things that would piss off any other person, and he'd only acknowledge it in his own quiet, self-destructive way. Sometimes, she almost wished he wasn't sorry because it would make the truth so much easier to bear.

But he was. It just didn't take it away: the pain, the anger, the feeling that if she'd been somebody else it wouldn't have happened. She wasn't the first, though, and by the looks of his face, not the last. He left a wake behind him, and that's what she fought against. It's why she couldn't forgive him. "So you've already done your damage, haven't you?" She asked, venom draining momentarily from her words. She almost wanted the anger back, then she wouldn't feel so...sad.

Once upon a time, he'd have held her when she felt this way and all the broken pieces would have just slid right back into place. Like a puzzle. But that's all it was...a Once Upon a Time, a fairytale, a happily ever after that never gets finished. The book just closes on all the unanswered questions. "Yeah," she muttered, "it's a safe place. The kind of place I wanted growing up--the kind of place we would have benefitted from. Where people are kind, know you, accept you...it's warm." It wasn't a reflection of her, thank goodness, but it was the dream. It was the little girl she'd been once. It was for her.

How did he do that? Even when she hated him, she told him things. "Listen, I know I said some things last we talked that I--I shouldn't have said," in the closest thing to an apology he would get, "but you broke me. Do you know what it's like to go to bed one night the happiest you've ever been in your life and the next day, it's...gone? Trust doesn't grow back the same when it's ripped from you, the innocent, naive belief that the person who loves you can't possibly hurt you--would be absolutely incapable of it--it doesn't come back. And whether I get hit by a bus tomorrow or live past 100, I think I'll hate you forever for that. For saying you loved me and all the ways that wasn't enough--for making me believe that meant I wasn't enough."

He'd lost entire days with Leyla, but he hadn't lost her. He remembered small details, and they came into sharper focus the more she talked, reaching with her voice to tug them loose. Details like her father's name, Rahim; her birthday, late May; the roses he had woken her with the morning she turned twenty-four. Vitus rubbed his sternum while she spoke, like he could still feel her after all these years.

And she could still feel him too, it seemed, because she turned the last sentence into a projectile and struck him right across the face with it. A wince tangled his expression.

"I'm..." Sorry. But he'd already said that, so many times, and she'd never wanted to hear it. He couldn't ease Leyla's pain like he used to, but he could give her the truth, at least: "I moved last August. Been here a full year now. I—" Cheated on my girlfriend and lost her and needed a change of scenery. Another blink, at that, as he realized what he was about to say. Ten years, during which time she'd opened that business she always wanted for herself, and what had he done meanwhile? The very same thing that had destroyed their relationship. Even after arriving here for his fresh start, he'd broken multiple people's trust. Her reminder of that lodged itself in his throat, clawing down into his ribcage, until all he could do was laugh incredulously at himself. Or try to, at least. The sound grabbed his guilt on its way out and morphed into something painful. "God. Fuck."

He forced his eyes to stay on her, lest he run again. She really did look the same—that same strong nose he'd once admired, the same hands he'd once held between his own. A few bits of tenderness, aching and bruised, pushed through to the surface. "That's... really good. That you opened your own place."

Squeezing some into her hand, Leyla tried to warm it just a little in his hands before massaging it into the other woman's back. She was sort of getting this small town hospitality, but she was a little worried about how it would affect her plans to let no one under the surface again ever. "Yes, I feel like I always make a mess of one hand and not the other," she agreed. Smiling, she replied, "that's the best kind of weekend. Mine has been largely relaxing as well. Leyla, pleasure's all mine. Are you going to participate in all the activities or are you going to see how long people will let you sit here?"

A sense of relief rushed through Libby as the other agreed to help her. "Thank you!" she spoke, handing her the bottle before turning around so the other could access the area she needed to cover. Kindness from others, especially strangers, was one of the reasons why Libby preferred living in a small town. In Libby's experience, people were generally more generous when it came to small town life. She could remember countless times that she would be flipped off or cursed out back in Boston for so much as looking at someone the wrong way. "Right?! It's kind of like when you're trying to paint your nails. It's better to have some help or an extra pair of hands." Libby replied, before nodding her head. "I am! It's been fairly relaxing. How about you? I'm Libby, by the way. It's nice to meet you."

Leyla kind of wondered if Darrius was bothered at all by a house full of women, whether he hoped a guy would take the free room and make it even. He'd never given off that impression though, so she hoped that meant he didn't mind it. "Coming right up," she replied, a hint of a grin back. It was easier to keep people at a distance in New York, but she was going to have a harder time here. Still, there was something warm about Darrius that made it easy to feel comfortable. "Always," she half-joked, "entrepreneurs can't really keep regular hours. You teach, right? So I guess you know a little about that too, huh?"

Darrius's living situation had been a bit of a whirlwind throughout the course of his life. Growing up with siblings, sharing bedrooms, and then living on his own when he moved to Michigan… only to come home to that childhood bedroom all over again. Then his own apartment in Merrock, and now a home. With three women, granted, but he had come to love that. Especially when they offered to make him tea. "I'll take some, yeah," he smiled, having chosen a small bowl of fruit that he had cut up a couple of days ago. Turning towards the island in the middle of the kitchen, he popped a grape in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "Were you working?"

Maybe it was the escapism from the harshness that was often her own reality, but Leyla had found solace, education, and a sense of belonging in books for as long as she could remember. A bookstore or library had an otherworldly sense to it at times, like the world could be shut out, an invisible sign on the door that read 'bad things, keep out.' "I've read a few of her others, My Sister's Keeper and Nineteen Minutes, but I'm sort of rediscovering at the moment. All I've read as of recently is business- or entrepreneur-related, so before my roommates stage a workaholic intervention, I thought I'd add in some pleasure reading. Have you read the Scarpetta series? It's American Crime from Patricia Cornwell. Or someone at the Beach Bash recommended the Bridgerton books to me, if you enjoy a bit of spice."

Summer had always been picky when it came to her reading choices, usually wanting something more gripping to start off with but every once in a while she would pick up something outside of her scope and actually enjoy it; "I think I've read this, or maybe it was a movie that I saw" perhaps it was both; "Are you new to her work?" questioning the other before answering her question; "I have read her work before maybe only once with My Sisters Keeper but I am not quite sure exactly what is on my mind when it comes to a new book, what suggestions do you have?" / @leyla-tehrani

WHO: Leyla & @docolives WHERE: Harmony Ranch

At one of the treatment centers, Leyla had gone through some equine therapy, and she found so much progress and help in it. When she learned that Merrock had a similar sort of program largely geared toward kids, it was all she could do not to run all the way from the coast to the countryside to see if there were any opportunities for her to do something.

"Excuse me," she asked the blonde she spotted, knowing she'd seen her around before, "do you have any spots for a volunteer? Like an application or something I could fill out?"

"Completely understand," Leyla said with a hint of a laugh, "I've got a couple of those myself." She kept telling herself she'd read something that wasn't business or professional development related, and yet, her bag did not contain any such other genre. "I'll still give you exciting," she offered. "Would you recommend it?"

"Oh, I would put it on my tbr list and then swear I'm going to read it for months and months and then not read it, but thank you for the offer." Aleja was too old to not be self aware about her own habits. "They're fairly spicy, but nothing compared to what's popular these days."