Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New York could bleed a person dry. 

Yes, in a knife-to-your-throat-in-a-dark-alleyway kind of sentiment. But also in an ‘I need to take three odd jobs just to make rent in this noisy fucking city’ kind of way. But still, Lucy was, and also will be a persistent girl. So in her second year of university, she declared to her family that she would be moving out of the campus dorms and into the real world.

Of course, Lucy’s stubbornness had to come from somewhere. Head to head with her mother, the two women ensued in a month-long debate on the pros and cons of living in the city alone. Deborah van Pelt’s first argument was the safety risk; in a campus dorm, she was safe and protected and surrounded by fellow students who were too busy studying for the midterms to even care about a random girl on their floor. But out in the city that never sleeps, just about anyone can walk in and knock on little Lucy van Pelt’s door and take whatever they wanted. 

“ Serial killers, Lucille! ” she had yelled, still holding the platter of baked salmon hostage as Rerun tried desperately to grab on to a piece. “ Have you ever heard of those ?”

Her second argument was the rent. Lucy’s student accommodations at Columbia were covered by the massive scholarship that she had worked her ass for all throughout high school. She had never been a model student, but just to cover her tracks up, she had taken on about a million extracurriculars and volunteer work. Without that scholarship, she would still be stuck at home, having a different argument with her mother. 

And Lucy’s rebuttal to both of those had come in a golden haired, bright eyed, nimble pianist. 

“I mean, I can protect myself. You all know I’d slug anyone who even looked at me the wrong way. But if it’s any consolation, mother, Schroeder can add in a punch or two for good measure.”

At that, Schroeder gave a meek smile to both van Pelt women. 

A sophomore at Julliard, Schroeder was the only one in New York that reminded Lucy of home. The days where Lucy was head over heels for the boy were long gone, making their friendship into something new, something that flowed easily between the two of them. Their busy schedules only allowed for them to meet at odd intervals, but it was always worth it to feel like she was still the same little kid standing on the pitcher’s mound in their quaint little town. 

Admittedly, it didn’t take a lot of convincing for Schroeder to acquiesce to Lucy’s proposition. He had a boorish roommate that reeked of cigarette smoke and weed, who never restocked their pantry, who locked Schroeder out of their dorm with a message of a sock on the door knob,  and had always left his dirty clothes to rot on the floor. So by the time that Lucy had proposed her plan, Schroeder Felton was already all in. Free falling in between notes, and bars, and scales, he really had nothing to lose. 

Which is how the two had ended up sharing a rinky-dink two-bedroom six-floor walk-up eight blocks away from the nearest subway station. 

“ Well, I could tell my mom it comes with a free cardio workout? ” Lucy panted, catching her breath on that very first day that the pair had toured the unit. “ She seems to be of the impression that we’ll be stuck eating ramen and cigarettes everyday .”

Schroeder sniffed, sweat beading his brow. “ I have a more refined palette than that. ”

Lucy had sighed then. “ I see a lot of Mac and Cheese in my future. ”

And that had been that. They signed the lease on that very same day, congratulated themselves with a few rounds of the cheap gas station champagne that Charlie Brown had sent them off with, and slept on blankets on the floor of their living room, the noise of the city echoing on the bare walls of their new home. 

Since then, the van Pelt-Felton apartment of 603 had flourished under the supervision of the two new tenants. It had been three years since that fateful day they signed the lease, and their small home had been witness to numerous milestones in their lives. It had provided a place for celebration once the two had graduated university, it had kept their tears and frustrations to itself as they began their hunt for their jobs, and it was a place to just sit in comfort and silence after a long day at work. Sure, their neighbors hated them for all the racket that ensued from trying to get Schroeder’s upright piano up the narrow staircase. And sure, playing Beethoven at eight in the morning didn’t appeal to everyone in the world. And yeah, maybe Lucy had a habit of mouthing off her neighbors at the most inopportune moments. But their home was their home and they didn’t give a twit about what any of them said. 

Except …

“Yes, sir. We just got married last month. And this seems like the perfect place to settle down and start our new life,” Schroeder said, the lie slipping between his charmingly white teeth. All the while, Lucy clung to his arm like a life raft amidst a storm. 

While it took more than a bit of convincing for their parents to let the two live together, it took a blatant lie to get their landlord to even give them the keys to the unit by confirming that the two were newlyweds. A staunch traditionalist, Marion the Landlord did not tolerate hippies, pets, drugs, and those who lived together out of wedlock. Lucy had vehemently decided against living under the supervision of someone with such an old worldview, but faced with the low rent that the place afforded them, she had no choice. 

And thus, they lied. In their apartment building, the two were officially known as the Feltons, the young newlyweds who received a noise complaint daily from the husband’s clanging piano keys. And it wasn’t like it took much effort on their part either. The pair did everything together, they took the train home, they ate their dinner together, they shopped for furniture together, and even had matching rings. 

The one oddity was the line of handsome ‘cousins’ that always walks the wife home to apartment 603. 

“Yes, Mrs. Louis! This is my cousin Albert,” said Lucy, gritting her teeth. She did not even give a glance toward said ‘cousin’ as she said it, already anticipating the slew of questions that would ensue once her nosy neighbor’s door finally closes. 

“Hmm. For a girl that moved into the city, you sure have a lot of handsome cousins ‘round the corner,” said Mrs. Louis, her dentures curling around a scowl. She adjusted her glasses and sighed, wiping the flour off her hands and onto her frilly floral apron. “Then again, it’s none of my business.” With that, she unceremoniously shut the door, leaving the walls on the hall to reverberate as it usually did at the slightest movement.

“Uhhh,” said Albert, his tone a mixture of confusion and bewilderment. “No offense, Lucy. But what the actual fuck was that?”

Lucy had met Albert at her new job at the psychiatric clinic her old professor had recommended she work for. He was not what her grandma would call a looker with his regular brown hair and hazel eyes but he was nice and he was always on time at the office, and he always made sure to hold the door open for Lucy when he saw her coming, and … well that’s about all that she knew of him. But still, she had taken the risk. Fresh from a break up, Lucy was now officially on the market. And what better way to announce that than to take the leap and date a coworker? 

It might not have been her brightest and most thought out idea, but it was something.

“It’s complicated,” she answered with a sigh, digging through her tiny black purse for her apartment keys, her hand bumping blindly into loose ketchup packets, crumpled up receipts, pens, and a few pennies in the process. She actively resisited the urge to knock, knowing very well that Schroeder was home and could easily just swing the door open without any hassle on her part. 

Lucy couldn’t tell if it was the trick of the shitty flourescent lights above them but it seemed to her like Albert’s left eye started to twitch. “Well, not to freak out on you but I’m starting to get the feeling that you’re lying to me. I mean, first, you won’t let me pick you up at the apartment, then I see you’ve got a ring on your left hand that you haven’t even bothered to explain, and now your kooky neighbor’s saying shit about being your cousin. What the fuck?”

Lucy hissed as she caught sight of the ring on her hand. Shit . Way to freak out a guy on the first date. But all his freaking out was doing her no good in keeping her cover as the loving wife of a starving musician. If Mrs. Louis had her ear to the door or Ms. Matthews lowered the volume of her television, then they would catch a whiff of apartment 306 and its lies. Giving up on her hunt for her keys, she looked the man in the eyes and said, “First of all, lower your voice —”

Albert rolled his eyes, annoyance clear on his face. “Or what?”

Nearly scoffing with disbelief, Lucy’s face scrunched up in defiance. Not one for backing down, she stepped forward and challenged him with a low, “Excuse you?”

A flicker of uncertainty appeared in Albert’s hazel eyes, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. Still, he stood his ground. “You heard me, I said —” 

Just then, the door to her apartment opened, revealing Schroeder, clad in a plain white shirt, plaid pajama pants, an awkward smile that looked more like a grimace, and most incriminating of all, his matching wedding ring that seemed to tauntingly glint in the usually dull light. “Oh, uh. Hi?” he said at the sight of them at his doorway. 

Time stood still and so did the three of them, caught in an awkward bubble. Lucy stared wide-eyed at Schroeder, Schroeder blinked at Lucy, and now it seemed to Lucy that both of Albert’s eyes were twitching. 

“Man,” Albert scoffed, his hands running through his hair in a combination of exasperation and disbelief. “I should have fucking known,” he muttered.

Lucy sighed, already having had enough by that point. “It’s not what it looks like, Albert,” she said half-heartedly, not even having the energy to explain anymore. All she wanted was to get into her apartment and sleep this terrible date off.

It seemed like Albert had had enough as well, simply shrugging his leather jacket higher up his shoulders and raising both hands in a surrendering gesture. “You know what? I’m not doing this shit. I don’t do complicated or whatever else you’re about to say to me. Have a nice life, van Pelt.”

Good riddance . 

Shouldering past Schroeder, Lucy made her way into the comfort of their foyer and toed off her heels with a relieved sigh. She was hanging up her coat on the rack when Schroeder gently kicked the door closed, leaning against it with his arms crossed, just watching her. 

It was blissfully silent until, “That sounded rough.”

Lucy rolled her eyes, her hands on her hips as she whirled around to fully face her roommate. “Schroeder, what did I say about getting the door after I go on a date?” she asked, brow arched in expectance.

“Never to do it?”

“Yeah, never to do it!” Lucy glared. 

Before they had signed their lease, both the van Pelt and Felton families had come together for a send-off dinner. One that ended in both Lucy and Schroeder flushing bright red at the rules that their parents had set for them. 

“And you’re sure this apartment is two bedroom, Lucille?” Her dad, who had flown all the way from his new home in Florida, had asked sternly. “I would hate to see my little girl end up pregnant so soon —”

“Dad!” she had gasped, her cheeks burning hot. 

“Just be safe, you two,” Schroeder’s mom said gently. “And I hope that you’re not lying to us about those bedrooms.”

“Mom,” Schroeder groaned.

The dinner had been so mortifying that the two had snuck out to a nearby bar with Charlie Brown and drew up a contract on a napkin that still had a ring of condensation on it. Written on the dingy piece was their ground rules. Separate bedrooms at all times , was a given. But things like chores are to be distributed evenly and pitch in for rent two days before it’s due were afterthoughts. But the highlight of the event were rules that went along the lines of call ahead if you’re bringing someone home, no sudden sexiling, and never open the door for your roommate while they’re outside with a romantic interest . 

At that time, they had laughed as they drew up the rules, the beer they had drank making everything feel less serious than it is. But it had slowly become their own version of the ten commandments, keeping strictly to all the ridiculous rules that they had set for each other on that fateful night. It had become such a big part of their life in the apartment that Charlie Brown had found the napkin they had wrote their rules on and had it framed as a housewarming gift. It now sat in a place of pride in their foyer next to the picture of all of the gang together at their high school graduation. 

Schroeder for his part, remembered the rules. “Sorry! I forgot you had that date tonight so I thought you just had trouble with your keys or something. Sorry for being a great roommate,” he said, the sarcasm bleeding through as if he couldn’t help it.

Deciding to drop the exhausting act of being annoyed, Lucy acquiesced, choosing instead to head further into their apartment and make a beeline toward the refrigerator to crack open a beer. Past Schroeder’s shiny upright piano, past the poster of The Beetles Lucy had put up during her junior year of college, and past the bag of freshly cleaned clothes neither occupant of the apartment had bothered to put away yet, Lucy steadily walked. She didn’t have to look to know that Schroeder had followed her, so she brought out another beer and handed it to him, the glass feeling cool on her skin. “It’s fine. It was a shitty date anyway,” she said, taking a swig of the not-quite-ice-cold beer that they kept in their dilapidating fridge. 

Schroeder winced, hopping as to sit on the vinyl tiled counter, his long legs barely swinging. She followed his lead and sat next to him, her head leaning against the wooden cabinets above her. “How bad?” he asked, taking a swig of his own beer. 

Lucy thought about it. “Even worse than that one guy who brought his pet guinea pig to the date and insisted that I make conversation with it.”

Schroeder grimaced and said with mock sincerity, “What a tragic life.” Rolling his eyes, he took another sip of his beer. 

“What’s a girl to do in the pursuit of love?” she said drily. Deciding that she was over talking about the tragedy that was her dating life, Lucy asked, “How’s the piece coming along.”

It was Schroeder’s turn to shy away from the topic at hand, visibly recoiling at Lucy’s words. “Ah, speaking of tragic lives.”

Lucy winced. “That bad?”

He hummed, sipping his beer before answering with a downturned mouth, “Remember that one final during my junior year?”

Lucy definitely did. It was their first year living together and Lucy had had unlimited access to Schroeder and his messed up habits when it comes to music and the muse. She’d come home from class and he’d be playing away on the piano then by the time she’d leave for class again the next day, he’d still be at it. He was stuck to the piano bench like glue. It had taken Lucy filing an anonymous noise complaint at their apartment for him to finally take a break. “Yeah, you set a world record for the most nights not slept,” she said. Then seeing the look on his face, she shook her head in disappointment, sipping at her beer. “Seriously?”

Schroder sighed, his shoulders curving inwards. Too late, Lucy saw the signs of an exhausted Schroeder. She had been so busy with work that she hadn’t even noticed that her roommate was wasting away. In the bright fluorescent lights of their kitchen, she could now see the deep set of his cheek bones, the dark under eye circles, and the way that his eyes drooped just slightly with exhaustion. “I mean it’s not that bad yet but …”

“A good night’s sleep wouldn’t mean the end of the world, Schroeder,” Lucy scolded. “I mean, I’m sure Beethoven slept.”

Petulant as ever, he replied. “Yes, but that was Beethoven . He had enough talent to sleep of a whole month. I’m not there yet.”

“Musicians are far too temperamental.”

“Better than that dunce that was telling you to hush up in you own doorway.”

Lucy perked up, pointing at him accusingly. “So you were eavesdropping!”

“And I saved you from a nasty conversation, you’re welcome,” he said, drily. “I mean, how was that even going to go? ‘My roommate is my childhood best friend who I used to be in love with and we’re pretending to be married so our landlord doesn’t kick us out?’”

Lucy frowned, peeling off the label off her beer just so she had something to focus on. “I mean, it works sometimes.”

With a roll of his eyes, Schroeder said. “Key word being sometimes .”

Lucy fixed her stare on Schroeder, nearly glaring. “I mean, you would know how it goes if you just went on one date. The entire three years we’ve been living here, you never once brought a girl home.”

“I am observing Beethoven’s bachelor lifestyle,” he said, half his mouth upturned in an odd grin.

“Ugh, boring,” said Lucy, pretending not to see the look of offense in Schroeder’s face. She grabbed him by the shoulders, swinging her arm around his. “This is your twenties, Schroeder! Have fun, live a little, meet a cute girl and kiss her under some bright streetlights! Take her out for some Italian and impress her with your knowledge of dead people!”

“Genius composers,” he corrected.

“Whatever!” she said. “The point is, we’re young, we’re attractive — and yes, I do mean that. Don’t pretend to not know how much of a stud you are — and we have absolutely nothing to lose by going on a few dates.”

He looked at her skeptically, his expression not giving in. “Maybe my sanity.”

“Do you have any romantic bone in your body?” When he shook his head no, she exclaimed. “Once again, boring! ”

Having had enough, Schroeder set down his beer bottle to look at her fully. “Just because we don’t have the same interests and goals doesn’t mean I’m boring.”

Lucy conceded, softening. “Yeah, I know. And I love you for being the sarcastic weirdo Beethoven freak you are. But I also want to see you get out there and experience this city. Like, did you know that there’s a jazz bar in Midtown that’s also a library! There’s a flower shop in Soho that turns into a fortune teller’s booth by night! There’s a record shop three blocks away that has a sleepy cat that lies in between the Rock and Indie section. There’s a whole world out there, Schroeder! ”

He scoffed, leaning his head on the cabinets and closing his eyes. “And how’s that world been treating you lately? Didn’t you just say that you were done with this city after —”

“Don’t say his name,” she snapped, his eyes snapping open with her tone. She ignored his questioning look and barrelled on. “And yes, I said a lot of things during my break up. But I think I’m better now. That was just some terrible post-relationship psychosis that got me saying those things. And now I’m back to regular ol’ Lucy and I’m ready to get my best friend out there.”

He gave her a hesitant smile. “That’s great and all that you’re feeling better, Lucy. I mean that. You were like a ghost after the break-up. But just because you’re ready to get back into the dating scene does not mean that I am too.”

Lucy resisted a groan. “It doesn’t have to be dating, you blockhead! Just … one of these days you need to chill out with that composition of yours and come with me.” She gave him her best pleading look, the same one that she fixed him when she asked him to be her roommate all those years ago.

“I do come with you,” he argued.

“To the grocery store . That doesn’t count ,” she frowned.

She was debating moving on from the conversation when Schroeder said begrudgingly, “Fine.”

Lucy gasped. “Really?! You mean that?”

He frowned. “Yes, just don’t make me regret this.”

Suddenly, Lucy’s arms were around Schroeder shoulders, her cool beer bottle sticking to his shirt as she clutched him excitedly. “Oh, Schroeder! You won’t regret this at all. I’ll make sure this will be the most memorable time in your life!”

Disenangling himself from her, he rolled his eyes. “Yeah, just no surprise please.”

“No surprises,” she agreed, eager, before clapping her hands with excitement. “We’re gonna have so much fun!”

Looking at her, Schroeder didn’t quite know what to feel. Whether it was excitement or apprehension bubbling in his gut, it was better than the spiraling anxiety that sitting by his unfinished piece gave him. And besides, loath as he was to admit it out loud, but Lucy had a point. There was no way he’d ever say that to her, so instead he said “I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?”

She frowned and smacked his arm. Hard. “Learn to have trust in your wife!” she scolded.

Schroeder shook his head, picking his beer bottle back up. “See that’s the kind of thing that gets your dates all weirded out,” he said offhandedly.

Prideful as she was the day that he met her, she stuck her nose in the air and declared, “Well if they can’t handle you being in my life then fuck ‘em!”

He allowed himself a small smile at that, clinging their beer bottles together in a small toast and proclaimed, “Fuck ‘em.”

Chapter Text

Eight in the morning, in Schroeder’s expert opinion, was too early of an hour for the hills to be alive with the sound of music. As the soprano a few feet away from him warbled out the notes to the panel of executives looking for the next big Broadway star, Schroeder could feel his eyes drooping with the sheer boredom of having played around seven Hammerstein and Rodgers songs for the past twelve auditioners this morning.

He didn’t think he’d stay at this job for as long as he did. But he wasn’t getting any offers and the checks kept coming and they just continued calling him in. It was stable and reliable in the way that most performing jobs in New York tend not to be, but the problem is; he’s not even performing. He’s sat on a stage with a grand piano playing snippets of show tunes to ambitious actors who are probably starving at the chance to get cast. He can’t play too loud or it’ll drown out the singers, he can’t play with too much embellishment or it’ll confuse the auditioners, he can’t play the songs all the way through because they’re only allotted a few bars to sing, hell, Schroeder can’t even play any Beethoven.  

When he was a student at Julliard, Schroeder was disillusioned with the thought that fresh off the bat, he’d be hired to perform with an orchestra. He didn’t think he’d be in the Philharmonic quite easily, goodness no, but he at least thought that he’d be good enough to be performing straight out of graduating. That didn’t happen. Audition after audition, there was always someone hungrier, more talented, more determined, and more suited than Schroeder. He had small gigs here and there that his old professors recommended him for but those opportunities were sparse and far away from what he dreamed of all his life. 

He used to have it all planned out. Graduate, join a local orchestra, become a soloist at said orchestra, gain enough praise from critics to get an audition for the New York Philharmonic, and that’s where his life was supposed to begin. 

So far, a year after graduating, Schroeder was miles away from the initial plan. Here he was, the great Schroeder Felton, an audition accompanist.

“Good morning! I am Abigail Simmons, twenty-five years old, five foot three, auditioning for the role of Samantha. And today I will be singing Many a New Day from Oklahoma,” the blonde actress intoned, smiling wide as she handed sheet music Schroeder’s way. 

Looking at the piece in his hands, he knew he didn’t need it based on the amount of times he’s played it. Does anyone mind actually switching up what they sing for these things? But alas, this is what he’s getting paid for. With his hands steady on the keys, he nodded to Abigail and began the piece. 

Fuck Hammerstein and Rodgers. 

He kept repeating that same mantra well into his lunch break as he gripped a bagel in one hand and some loose change in the other, lined up for the payphone by the corner of the theatre. So far, there have been twenty-three auditions for the morning, and Schroeder guarantees that there’ll be even more Hammerstein and Rodgers pieces for the afternoon. 

He breathes in the crisp summer air, then wrinkles his nose at the following notes of rubber, smoke, and the faint smell of piss. Schroeder shifts from foot to foot, impatiently waiting for the man in front of him to wrap up his conversation. Too late, Schroeder realizes that he should have just moved to a different phone booth or not lined up too close to the stout businessman in front of him. Trying not to seem like he was listening, Schroder took a bite of his bagel, praying to god that the conversation stop soon. 

This was because the man in front of him was talking to his wife — presumably by the ring on his finger. It could still be a mistress, though — in a … conjugal and intimate manner. Schroeder wanted the ground to swallow him whole. He just wanted to have a conversation, and now he has to hear this man’s fantasies spoken aloud. Good for the man, he didn’t seem to be embarrassed even as he spotted Schroeder. Horrifyingly for Schroeder, the man began to spew the filthiest shit he’s heard in his entire life. 

Good grief . 

From the other end of the line, Schroeder could hear the wife’s enthusiasm , shall we say. Schroeder took another big bite of his bagel and pretended that this wasn’t really his life. Soon enough, the conversation ended and the man hung up, smiling at Schroeder in a way that was akin to a wink. The young man gave a tight smile and stepped up to the telephone booth. 

“Sorry about the hold up, man,” said the businessman. Apparently, he had no grasp on social cues as Schroeder looked steadily ahead and put his coins in the slot. “But I’m sure you get it,” he said to Schroeder, nodding at the shining wedding ring on his finger. He never took it off after an incident where he forgot to put it back on after work. Marion the Landlord had grilled him on where he was getting his ring cleaned. It was an experience he didn't want a repeat of.

Schroeder tried to splutter something out but the man already left, leaving Schroeder dumbfounded and more than a little disgusted. 

“Good morning! To whom may I forward this call to?” the bored voice of the telephone operator intoned from the other line. 

Schroeder, who was still shaken up by the recent encounter grumbled “Patricia Schwartz please.” He rattled off the number from memory, waiting as he was passed around to a few other operators before landing on who he was trying to reach. 

“Schroeder! Well, if it isn’t the maestro himself,” Patty said. If Schroeder concentrated hard enough, he could see her friendly smile and smell the flowery perfume she always used in high school. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much. I’m just on my lunch break. Weird guy on the phone before me was having phone sex with his wife, though.”

Patty laughed, dainty and twinkling yet bright all the same. Schroeder remembered when Patty used to babysit him as a kid. He always looked up to Patty as his own sister, and even now, the two stayed in touch quite regularly. Even with her busy schedule as an associate at a department store, the two remained in their steady bubble of friendship as if they were still next-door neighbors just one knock away from each other. 

“Oh, how I miss New York. I hope I get to visit again soon,” she said, laughter still in her voice. “But I don’t know how you do it, Schroeder.”

“You should have seen me. I almost died of mortification once I figured out what was going on.” Thus, their easy conversation began as they talked about the coworker Patty was sure was going to get fired by the next Monday, the off-pitch soprano who cried at one of the auditions that morning, Violet and Shermy, as well as Schroeder’s waning motivation to write a piece. 

“It’s not like I’m not motivated,” he tries explaining. “I feel like I’m buzzing to write something but when I sit down by the piano bench with an empty piece of sheet music, there’s just nothing to write about.”

Patty hums thoughtfully. He hears the click of a lighter from the other end then the telltale sound of a soft exhale. “I mean that sounds like maybe you just need a muse.”

Schroeder sighs. “I don’t even know where to start with that .”

“Look at the Beatles, they have a muse,” Patty says, he can hear the smile in her voice as she says dreamily, “ Pattie Boyd.”

Everything Schroeder knows about the Beatles, he’s learned from his friends and their incessant chatter about them. Hell, his and Lucy’s apartment even has a giant poster of the damned band right by his piano. And he knew enough to know who Patty Boyd was. Patty was ecstatic at the fact that a song from her favorite band was inspired by a woman with the same name as her. “That doesn’t mean George Harrison’s gonna marry you,” Charlie Brown muttered one bright Christmas evening when the gang had come home for the holidays. 

“Yeah,” Schroeder said, not knowing what to say. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe you just need a cig.”

Schroeder rolled his eyes. “I quit just last week.”

He could almost hear Patty’s eyebrows go into her hairline as she said, “ Again ? Schroder, the thing about quitting is that you actually have to stop smoking; not just say you’re quitting and pick the habit back up two weeks later.”

“Yeah,” Schroder said again. He knew that, obviously. But Schroeder can’t seem to permanently shake the damned itch off for a cigarette. If there’s anyone who knows this about him, it’s Lucy who has seen him quit and start smoking around thirty times since they started living together. She never had the same problem he had, only preferring to smoke menthols when she’s past a certain threshold of drunk that she rarely crossed. So she sat quietly — and maybe a bit judgingly. She was a psychology graduate after all — at the repeated cycle. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Please do,” said Patty. There was a bit of a clamor in the background as Patty bid him a quick goodbye, saying that her lunch break was nearly over. “I hope you find your muse, Schroeder. Call soon.” With that, she hung up. 

No one was lined up for the telephone as Schroeder stepped aside and ripped into his bagel, quickly striding back into the theater for another few hours of not fulfilling his potential. He sighed quietly to himself as he pushed open the backstage door of the theater, mumbling quietly to himself, “Maybe I do need a cigarette.”

Later, when his fingers were aching and Lucy had picked him up from the theater, bringing him into a neon-lit bowling alley a few minutes’ walk away from the theater, he asked her. “As a psychometrician,” Schroeder began, gearing himself up for a strike, the heavy set of the ball weighing his arm down as he swung back and released the ball onto the smooth panel of flooring. Smiling wide as the bowling ball hit a strike. Without fanfare, he stepped aside to let Lucy have her turn and picked the conversation back up, “Do you think I have a problem with smoking?”

Lucy picked up a ball, an ugly bright green, and glared at him. She changed from the outfit he saw her wear to the office this morning and changed into a pair of shorts and a flowy blue blouse riddled with polka dots. Her hair was styled in tight dark curls, falling down her shoulders with a bounce, secured by a headband and probably a liter of hairspray. “I’m sorry, but are we just going to breeze right past the fact that you’ve been hitting, like, three strikes in a row?”

Schroeder shrugged. Lucy sighed, turning away from him and focusing on the pins in front of her. She breathed deeply and loudly catapulted the ball forward until it rolled pathetically onto the gutters. She reddened at Schroeder’s snort, blowing at her fringe with frustration.

“So?” he prompted as he picked another ball back up, waiting for the pins to be reassembled on his lane. 

“So, what? You’re a blockhead who’s good at bowling that’s what,” she grumbled fussily. He opened his mouth to specify that that wasn’t what he was talking about when Lucy beat him to it by saying “And with the smoking thing, I don’t think you have a problem with it when you seem to enjoy it so much.”

It was Schroeder’s turn to shoot a glare. “I mean —”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “And honestly, I think you kinda do.”

He didn’t know what to do with that answer. Honestly? He didn’t even know what he wanted to hear from her. Maybe that he didn’t have a problem and he could just keep on keeping on? Or maybe that he is in need of dire help to clear the itch? He had no clue, so he settled on saying “Oh.”

Lucy looked at him, concerned, from the other lane. “It’s just that … you seem to use smoking as an outlet for your frustration. And with this recent creative block, you’ve been relying on it a lot.”

He kept silent, watching as the pins were silently rearranged. Quickly, he corrected his stance, lifted the ball up to shoulder height, lowered it, and let it roll smoothly down the lane. The pins fall down together in a magnificent symphony of a strike .

Lucy didn’t comment on his win this time, instead saying. “But, it’s a common thing, Schroeder. Lots of people smoke to escape their stress.”

“Your turn,” he said instead, pointing to her neatly arranged pins, laughing when she only managed to knock down one. “Man, how are you so bad at this? Aren’t you the one that brought me here?”

She turned her nose up at him. “It was mostly for the atmosphere.” Just then, Schroeder realized that he hadn’t even bothered to look around. 

There were eight wide lanes in total, each of them occupied by a variety of people who were seemingly having the time of their lives. Next to the lanes were sofa chairs filled with canoodling couples, smokers, and supervising parents with an old jukebox crooning about the disco and whatnot. 

Behind them, by the entrance, was the little purple counter where he and Lucy traded their shoes in for bowling shoes that Lucy scoffed at, handing in her trusty brown knee-high platforms to the teenager manning the booth. Schroeder remembers laughing for a solid three minutes at the drastic drop in Lucy’s height.

Separated only by cubbyholes of shoes was another counter filled with a myriad of alcoholic beverages. Behind the bar was the showstopper of the joint with a mosaic of bright neon signs for brands that Schroeder vaguely recognizes. 

“Vintage diner signs,” Lucy explained when she caught him looking. “Cool, right?”

“I can’t imagine how long it would take to collect all those,” said Schroeder. “There must be like thirty of them.” Lucy hummed, letting her bowling ball go just to see it sail miserably down her lane and hit two pins. She groaned loudly, Schroeder hid a grin as he strode to her lane and asked “You need help over here.”

She frowned at him. “Worry about your own game,” she said, pointing him back to the direction of his own lane. 

“Why did we even have to have separate lanes?” Schroder asked. 

“So we don’t get confused about the point system!” 

He raised a questioning brow, a little bit smug, “Well, it’s not like we’re having a hard time knowing who’s winning right now,” said Schroeder. 

Lucy shoved him with her shoulder, making Schroeder laugh. “Asshole.”

Still smiling, he said “Listen, why don’t we just share this lane and I’ll teach you to actually be a worthy opponent? I think I’ve tired myself out winning so much.”

Lucy’s answering glower could turn stone into water. Still, she relented, “Fine. It’s less of a fee that way, anyway.” Then with a jolt, Schroeder realized what he just offered. What teaching Lucy how to bowl entailed. “You gonna help me win this game or what?” asked Lucy over her shoulder. 

Schroeder gulped. “Erm, yeah.” He took a step forward, her back inches away from his chest. “Can I …?” he said, letting the question trail off. 

“ Can you ?” said Lucy, taunting. 

Schroeder rolled his eyes before responding through gritted teeth. “Can I touch you?”

“Oh, husband dear, what a scandalous request!” she said, alarmingly loud and with an unbothered grin. A few gazes wandered to them, and Schroeder reddened. Point to Lucy . He huffed. “But yes, sure. Whatever it takes for me to win this.”

He settled his hand on the wrist that was holding the ball, gently bringing it up a little bit above her shoulder. “You’re gonna want to get a bit of momentum by bringing the ball up to here,” he said. Then, he put his hand on her hip and twisted it gently so it was at an angle. “Bend your knees and keep this stance, yeah?” he asked. Without question, she did as he asked. “Okay good. Now, when you let go of the ball, this is your stance.”

“Okay.”

He took his hand off her hip and his other hand off her wrist then stepped back, suddenly realizing just how close the two of them were. He cleared his throat then surveyed the way she was standing. “Yeah, okay. That’s good. You’re just going to have to take a few steps back, make a little running start and let go of the ball. And remember, get the ball close to the ground and let it roll . Don’t throw it like it refused to buy you a drink.”

Lucy shot him a dirty look over her shoulder. He ignored it as he saw her follow his instructions down to the letter, knocking down seven pins in the process. “Holy shit!” she squealed, turning to Schroeder and engulfing him in an enthusiastic hug. “It actually worked!”

He frowned down at her. Without the heels that usually adorned her feet, she was mostly just eye level with his chin. “What do you mean actually ?”

“Oh, it’s no matter. You’re a genius! Hey, maybe you should consider being a professional bowler.”

“No thanks,” he replied drily, grabbing another bowling ball and readying himself for another resounding strike . 

Later, when the game is settled (their last game out of several, the one where Lucy was finally satisfied with her own score), they walked back to the apartment, letting the noise of the city blend in with their conversation.

“So what brought on the whole smoking crisis? You doing good?” asked Lucy. She was back to her usual height now, her boots making a resounding clack on the pavement as they walked. Like this, the two were nearly at the same height, making it easier to look her in the eye. 

Unluckily for Schroeder, he didn’t want to meet her blue eyes as he said, “Nothing, I was just talking to Patty and it got me thinking.”

“Hm,” she said. Not revealing anything. It was quite infuriating when one’s best friend was possibly in the know of your psychological faults. 

“It’s just,” he began, frustrated. “I used to think that I played better when I smoke. And obviously, I know that that isn’t the truth. But it settles me enough to play my best. And now that I can’t even write one bar of music, I just don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Hm,” she said again, walking steadily down the sidewalk, her hair bouncing with each step. “What did Patty have to say about all that?”

“That I should actually quit smoking and not just say that I quit,” he said. “And that I should find my own muse.”

“Did she bring up—”

“Pattie Boyd? You bet.”

Lucy snorted with amusement. “She’s right, you know. You gotta actually actively not smoke to quit.”

He sighed in response.

“I can help you with that, you know? Rip cigarettes away from you, throw you out of the apartment when you smell like nicotine. But you have to help yourself. You have to want to quit.”

“That makes sense,” he says weakly, dodging past a woman who was jogging at the odd hour of nine in the evening. 

“Of course it does,” said Lucy. “Be glad I’m not charging you for that advice.”

He laughs. 

“And about the whole muse thing, Patty’s kinda right about that too.”

Schroeder groaned. “Not you too.”

She rolled her eyes. “It doesn’t have to be in a romantic sense, bozo . It doesn’t have to even be a person. It could be a piece about the blue skies of summer, the rush of being late for an audition, the thrill of staying up all night. You need inspiration .”

Once again, she was right. But … “How do I get that inspiration is the question. Nothing in these past months has inspired me enough to create something, no matter how hard I tried.”

“It’s because you’re looking at everything like it’s not your life. You’re too detached to see everything in front of you.”

“Wow,” Schroder drawled. “Thank you, Doctor Lucy,” he said, a mild pang at her blunt observation. 

“I won’t mince my words just because you’re a friend,” she said as they rounded the corner to their apartment, past the little mom and pop that had an infuriating cashier that calls him tampon boy after one too many times of buying emergency tampons for Lucy. “I just noticed that you don’t seem to engage with much of the world. And it has so much to offer; it can even serve as your new muse.”

Opening the door to their apartment complex, the pair nodded at Marion the Landlord who nodded back solemnly. They began their ascent as Schroeder replied “I see your point.”

“Good,” said Lucy. “Now, enough talking because I’ll be out of breath by the time we reach the sixth floor.”

Before he knew it, the days have come and gone in a blur of show tunes and actors and the weekend had arrived. It was lucky for Schroeder that they hadn’t found their lead in the whole week of auditions (Unlucky for the actors, though), meaning that he kept getting fed check by check each day. But he found that it usually wasn’t enough to pay all their utilities and still have money saved over, hence, the arrangement he begun during his senior year at Julliard. 

Mondays to Fridays, he could be found at different theaters for different auditions. There was always a nonstop surplus of auditions to be had in the city that never sleeps. Those days were reserved for actors and directors while his Saturdays were reserved for his students. 

His students were mostly kids from their apartment complex and the ones neighboring it but it was still a check he was glad to have at the end of the day. Saturdays were days where he had to exercise patience as a kid butchers Mary Had a Little Lamb with no remorse. Which is why he was glad to wake up this Saturday to the smell of chocolate cake. 

On Saturdays, having his students over meant having Apartment 603 continue the facade of domestic bliss. Saturdays usually rotated with having either chocolate chip cookies, cinnamon rolls, brownies, or chocolate cake made by Lucy herself. She was an excellent baker, had known so since their home economics class in middle school. Since then, Schroeder silently dreamed of the decadent chocolate cake she made on some Saturdays. 

Schroeder sipped quietly on his coffee, the newspaper open in front of him as he and Lucy did the crossword. 

“I’m telling you, the answer is coroner ,” she insisted, her cooking mitt clad hand waving around indignantly. Her white apron was stitched with flowers that Sally Brown had sewn for her during Lucy’s seventeenth birthday, a stark contrast against the splotches of chocolate batter and flour on the surface. 

Schroeder huffed. “And I’m telling you it doesn’t fit — ”

“But what else—?” Just then, Lucy was interrupted by a loud knock on their door, letting a hush fall between the two of them. “That must be your little prodigies.”

Schroeder’s brow furrowed, heading to the door. “They’re a bit early.” Today, he had three students to teach. Two of them being twins from two floors below, Bobby and Annie. They were both a bit clumsy with the keys, but he could see that they were happy whenever they finished a piece the whole way through, even with mistakes. 

“Oh, Mr. Felton,” said Mrs. Hardy, Bobby and Annie’s mother as he opened the door. “I’m sorry to disturb your morning but the twins can’t come for their lesson today.”

“Oh no,” said Schroeder. Well, there goes his lesson plan … and the couple of bucks he thought he was sure to get. “May I ask what happened?”

“Oh God bless ‘em, the twins caught a bad case of the chicken pox from little Arnold Barkley in their grade. They’ve been itchin’ and scratchin’ since Thursday.” Schroeder, having had the chicken pox before, winced in sympathy. In fact, the person who gave him chicken pox in the third grade was just in the kitchen, humming Moon River under her breath and most likely tampering with the crossword he left unattended.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Hardy. I hope Bobby and Annie get better soon.”

She smiled warmly at him. “Oh, what a kind soul,” she said. “Well, I better get back —”

“Wait!” said Lucy, her steps quickening from behind him. He turned around to see her round the corner into their foyer, two tupperwares in hand. “I made Bobby and Annie some chocolate cake for their class today. I couldn’t help but overhear that they have the chicken pox so I thought this could make their day a bit better.”

Mrs. Hardy looked at Lucy earnestly — Schroeder could see tears — as she said “Oh what a lovely woman! You are truly blessed to have your wife, Mr. Felton!”

“Why yes, he is!” said Lucy, trading an amused glance at Schroeder. She quickly handed off the tupperwares, smiling graciously at Mrs. Hardy all the way. “I also packed some cake for you and Mr. Hardy,” Lucy said. And when Mrs. Hardy began to protest, she said, "Me and Schroeder can’t possibly eat this all ourselves!”

Lucy and Schroeder’s faces reddened, though, at Mrs. Hardy’s parting proclamation of “Oh, when you two have children, Mrs. Felton, I’m sure that they will be the happiest kids indeed!” 

With the door closing shut, the two suddenly found themselves shoulder to shoulder in their tiny foyer. They took one glance at each other before bursting out laughing, the coat rack by the door digging into Schroeder’s back. 

Later when the laughter settled and they’ve finally solved the crossword, Schroeder settles by the piano bench, waiting for his student slated at ten in the morning. 

Contrary to what people believe, he actually enjoys teaching the kids. They always had something crazy to say and brought in stories that reminded him of his own childhood. The joy on their faces after a beautiful piece wasn’t something that Schroeder came by often, and it was nice to see some pure innocence against the crass backdrop of New York. He put a lot of work into his lesson plans, painstakingly curating it for each student amidst his busy schedule. It was a refuge from the competitive performances Schroeder had to see every week, it made him happy to make the kids happy. 

Which is why when Stephen doesn’t come by at his scheduled time, the clock ticking by, he was disappointed. That’s how Lucy found him on their fire escape, two plates of chocolate cake in her hands as she wobbled onto the metal platform. Schroeder took a plate from her as she sat, snuffing out his cigarette as he did so. 

It was pathetic how easy it was to fall back into the habit. There was still a pack of half empty cigarettes by his bedside table, his lighter was in a cabinet by the kitchen, and the ashtray was still waiting for him at the fire escape. It was like he never even quit. 

Lucy raised an eyebrow at him. He sighed.

“I’ll quit next week.”

Chapter Text

Lucy had never adapted well to the New York winter in her five years of living in the city. Her first year, a still-fresh freshman, she huddled under three thick blankets, wrapped herself in her warmest hoodies, and constantly begged her roommate to keep the heating on. Still living in a dorm, Lucy dreaded having to go to the communal bathroom in the middle of the night with the cold nipping at her bones and leaving a frosty trail on her body. She hated having to go to class with snow raining down on her cheeks, she hated the feeling of sludge on her boots, she hated not getting to wear her usual heels and miniskirts, she hated the feeling of being cold. 

But it was all nothing compared to Lucy’s previous winter. 

Since living with Schroeder, the two had had an unofficial routine of settling down for the night in their little living room; Lucy with a battered paperback or her journals and letters, while Schroeder sat by his nearby piano, playing with his usual finesse. It was reminiscent of their childhood spent in Schroeder’s house with Lucy laying her head down on his tiny red toy piano, which made their little routine all the more special. They did not need to speak of it out loud, somehow just settling into their roles with practiced ease that came with the familiarity of having grown up with each other. 

Such was the case when Lucy’s finally let the world crash down on her. Her journal in hand and a pen in the other, the page remained blank even as Schroeder finished practicing another sonata. She had not said anything since she had sat down after getting home, just letting the toasty radiator do its job as she buried herself underneath a grave of blankets. 

Schroeder was well underway with his fifth sonata when he heard a sniffle. Followed by another. And punctuated with a sob. 

Lucy, too horrified at her sudden outburst, had not even noticed that Schroeder ceased playing and had found a spot on their second hand loveseat beside her. Feeling the heat of him near her, she let out a wail. 

Schroeder winced, putting a tentative hand on Lucy’s back, not quite patting, not quite rubbing. “Lucy?” he said, trailing off, not knowing how to approach Lucy when she got like this. “Are you okay?” he asked, then immediately wanted to punch himself in the face because of course not, dingus! She’s practically heaving with the way she’s crying!  

With his idiotic question, Lucy only sobbed louder. “No!” she cried. Lucy would never admit it out loud, but she felt snot running down her nose as she said it. “Everything is going to shit!” Lucy put her head in her hands, still crying.

Schroeder floundered, not knowing what to do next. Should he ask her what happened? Or would that be shitty a shitty thing to do? Should he hug her? Or would she slug him if he even dared to put an arm around her shoulders. 

Deciding that he could be brave for the moment, he asked her what happened as he pulled her to his side and laid her head on her shoulder, a much needed improvement from the way she was contorting herself on her pile of blankets. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but it could help,” he said. Again, he wanted to punt himself across the Atlantic Ocean because why was he giving advice to a psychological professional?

Instead, she sniffled and rubbed her eyes raw, saying brokenly “Reggie dumped me.”

Reginald Carter was an Engineering major in his senior year when Lucy had first met him. She had met him through some mutual friends in her sophomore year and had hit it off over their shared interest in fashion. She had her reservations, dating someone who was on the brink of graduating and trading one life for another, but on his graduation day, she had taken the leap and grabbed him by the cords of his ceremonial gown and kissed him senseless in front of the entire engineering student body. 

And thus began their relationship. He had sent her letters all summer as she went home to her family, called her every night to ask how her day was, sent gifts and flowers through the mail, and even implied that he’d like to meet her family soon. Lucy was over the moon, Reggie was doting and caring and didn’t hesitate to put her first. She swooned when he picked her up from class, straight from the office and she gave him all the affection that she had to spare. They were the happiest couple that New York had ever seen. 

But the cracks started to show early on when Lucy moved out her dorm and into apartment 603. “I don’t know why you have to leave the dorms, Lu. I just don’t get it. You’re closer to all your classes, you have unlimited access to the dining hall and the library, and it’s included in your tuition.”

Lucy sighed, letting the chatter in the subway take the tired breath away. “I just wanted something different.”

He looked at her then, his blue eyes seemingly driving a hole in her skull as if that could help him understand her better, as if he could get inside her thoughts and figure out why . “Well, I don’t think it’s such a great idea.”

Lucy bristled at that, her irritation spiking like heckles rising in her spine. “Yeah? Well, it’s not your decision to make, is it?”

The rest of the ride back to his place was thick with the weight of their silence. 

That’s when Lucy began to think. Did she have to be so mean? He was just trying to understand why I’m going such an impractical route. All I had to do was explain myself and yet I just had to go and yell. So with the air of someone unpracticed in apologies, she let herself into his apartment and hugged him tight, mumbling an apology into his shoulder. 

He relented, saying that he only ever wanted the best for her and Lucy’s heart settled. They were okay. 

“So, have you found a place yet?”

She didn’t think it would be such a problem, really. Which is why she had disentangled herself from him and went to sit at his plush sofa set as she said “Yeah. My parents seemed to like it, I brought them there last week. Would you even believe me if I said it’s a six-floor walk up?”

Reggie snorted, sitting down heavily next to her. “I guess visiting you is about to be a whole cardio workout.”

Lucy laughed, turning on a lamp by the edge of the sofa. The room glowed with a bright yellow hue as she did so, illuminating the medals and certificates hung on his opposite wall. “That’s what I told Schroeder!”

She hadn’t seen the way his face crumpled, only seeing the frown it left as he asked, “Huh. So Schroeder’s seen the place?”

Lucy nodded. Schroeder and Reggie had met a few times over dinner and drinks after work and class. They seemed to get along well, something that Lucy highly appreciated; two lives merging into one. “I mean, it will be a struggle getting his piano up the stairs in that state. But I think he likes it.”

That, Lucy supposed its when the cracks started to fissure. They were still the same couple, but without warning, Lucy found herself begin to walk on eggshells around him. It had not escaped her notice that Reggie had refused to help her move in, it had not escaped her notice how he often insisted that she sleep at his place instead of going home after their dates, it had not escaped her notice that he refused to even mention Schroeder’s name. 

But Lucy convinced herself that it was fine, just a temporary lapse in their relationship. She had convinced herself greatly enough that their anniversary went by, then another, then another. And then on one chilly December evening, Lucy had planned a surprise.

It was Reggie’s birthday and she had everything planned. Cake, balloons, chocolate, candles, roses, wine, and Marvin Gaye crooning on his record player. She had settled herself on his couch, watching the door impatiently as she positioned herself this way and that, trying to find an angle that looked appealing. 

It wasn’t until the door swung open and Reggie stepped in, drunk, messy, and his lips attached to a redhead’s neck that Lucy decided that none of that was actually worth it. 

With a startled yelp, Lucy jumped up from the sofa, cake wobbling traitorously in her hands as it crashed with a sickening splat! down onto the hardwood floor. 

That seemed to be enough commotion to split the passionate pair as their hazy gaze landed on her, Reggie’s eyes clearing just a bit as he breathed out “Lucy.”

She didn’t even know how to feel. Somehow she felt ashamed, embarrassed to even be there in the first place. Why did she even surprise him for his birthday? Why did she have to wear this stupid skimpy dress? Why did she have to let around fifty candles burn around her with a seductive glow when he was out there pouncing on another woman?

And then she thought, why should I be the one that’s embarrassed?

It had taken Lucy three long strides to rip the woman away from Reggie with an aborted noise from her as she wound her hand back and slapped Reggie’s face with all her might. Lucy expected him to cower, to get on his knees and beg for her forgiveness, to tell her that she’s the only one he will ever love and that he will remember this day as long as he lives. 

But instead, Reggie only straightens himself, tells the woman to wait in his bedroom and looks Lucy straight in the eye as he asks, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Lucy?”

That set Lucy off again, rage making the edges of her vision burn white as she wound her hand back again only for Reggie to grab it and pull her closer to him. Up close, Lucy could smell the alcohol on his breath. God, he must have pounded back a dozen shots for him to smell so sickening. “Let me go, you fucking cheater!”

Reggie frowned, letting her hand go quickly. “God,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face as Lucy righted herself. The two of them not moving from their place in the doorway. “I didn’t know you’d be here, Lucy.”

Lucy sneered, ugly in its raw anger. “Oh, I’m sorry to have interrupted you little fuck fest.”

Reggie winced. “Don’t–” he said, as if he were tortured and the sound was being punched out of him. As if he was the one to have watched her suck someone’s neck like they were trying to get venom out a snake bite. 

“And you sent her to your room!” Lucy said, laughing in disbelief, the sound wretched in her ears. “I’m glad that me catching you cheating on me doesn’t deter the two of you.”

“Could you just stop?” Reggie asked. In this light, he looked tired. His eyes sallow, his voice warbly, his shirt stained and wrinkled. But Lucy didn’t give a damn. “It’s exhausting.”

“ Exhausting ?” Lucy barked disbelieving.

“Yes!” Reggie barked back, making her jump a few steps backward in shock. In their years of dating, he had never yelled at her like this. “It’s all so fucking exhausting just being with you! I’m just so damn tired.”

Lucy crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to feel the sting in her eyes and the leaden weight in her heart as she said, as cold as ice, “Well I’m glad that you managed to find somebody to comfort you in your exhaustion.”

A groan was wrenched out of Reggie. “Would you get off your fuckin’ high horse, Lucille? If you could find comfort in another man, why can’t I find someone else to do the same for me.”

“What?” Lucy snapped. “What in the fresh hell are you talking about?”

“ Schroeder! ” Reggie yelled. “It’s always fuckin’ Schroeder!”

Lucy shook her head, pointing an accusing finger towards Reggie. “Don’t bring him into this. Just because you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that Schroeder and I—”

“Deluded,” Reggie scoffed. “Tell me, Lucy. Why move in with him instead of me.”

“This isn’t the point. The point is you cheated —”

More insistently, Reggie pressed. “ Why did you ask him to live with you instead of me? ”

Disbelieving of what she was hearing, Lucy said slowly, as if to make him understand, “We had only been dating a couple of months by the time I moved out the dorms. That was too quick a step. And I’ve known Schroeder my entire life.”

“And when the lease expired after a year? That was after our first anniversary, wasn’t it? Why did you still choose him then?”

“The rent was cheap ! I wasn’t doing it to spite you, you ass!”

“And did you have to pretend to be a married couple? Didn’t you notice how fucking weird that is for me?”

Lucy was aggravated, her teeth gritted, she replied, “The landlord wouldn’t let us stay if he knew we weren’t married. It was just pretend!” She didn’t evene know why she was bothering to defend herself to him. Maybe it was the pride, maybe it was something else. 

Reggie rolled his eyes. “You could have moved out when the lease was over. But you renewed it. You hated your fucking landlord and you still went through with this bullshit.”

Lucy wanted to strangle him. She didn’t know how a person could possibly be so aggravating. “Then Schroeder wouldn’t have a place to stay —”

“Schroeder’s a big boy, Lucy,” Reggie yelled, pulling at the strands of his dark blonde hair. “He can fucking handle himself without your help.”

“I know that.”

“I don’t think you do,” said Reggie. “It’s exhausting being with you, Lucy. Just so fucking exhausting trying to keep up with what you want. And you don’t seem to notice that what you want is that stupid pianist roommate — ”

Lucy had silenced him with a cracking punch. 

Whuch is how she found herself red-eyed and with a bag of frozen peas on her hand as she told her tale to a wide-eyed Schroeder. 

“Lucy,” he said carefully. “That’s ridiculous —”

“I know,” she said. She was so goddamn tired of crying, her voice rubbed raw. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

That winter had been colder than the rest. 

But winter had gave way to spring and spring melted into summer. With it, the lingering ache of what Richard had done had dulled to a faraway pinch. The ice of winter had even thawed enough for Lucy to accept dates. Dates that were shitty and insubstantial, but dates nonetheless.

She had went to an Italian restaurant near her work with a whiny mommy’s boy who seemed to only hang out with his own mom and valued her opinion over everything else. She had two dates with a man that did not so much as smile at her jokes or show any interest in her at all. She went on a blind date with a scrawny brunette who just wanted her company in bed and nothing more. Her disastrous date with her coworker just two weeks ago was still fresh in her memory, his glares over her cubicle at the clinic were sharp enough to cut through raw steak. And by the fifth blind date, Lucy’s had enough. 

She tells Schroeder as much over the roaring crowd of the Mets game, hotdog in one hand and soda in the other. “I mean … there’s only so much a girl can do in the pursuit of love,” she said idly, sipping at her cola as she did so. 

The sun was beating down on them hard, but Lucy and Schroeder were well protected against its rays by the Mets hat they had purchased before heading in. The game was well underway, Schroeder’s eyes glued to the diamond as the players did their thing. His nachos went untouched, sitting in the crevice between him and Lucy as she tried to subtly suggest that he give it to her instead. 

Schroeder had been a fan of the Mets for quite some time. But it was to her shock that he’d never even so much as been to their games, only catching up on his dose of Mets through radio broadcasts and television coverage. So, in her valiant act of getting him to see more of the city, she had contacted a coworker of a friend’s cousin’s boyfriend to score them free entry into the packed stadium. 

Schroeder had stared owlishly at her as she presented the tickets, only managing a tight “Thank you” before pulling her to him in a quick hug. 

“And, dating in New York is so tricky,” Lucy rambled on. For someone who was once a part of a little league baseball team, she had no interest in the sport whatsoever. Sure, she knew the mechanics, she knew the rules, she knew what each player did, but she just didn’t give a damn. Schroeder for his part, had been gripped from the moment that the game started, his eyes tracking each movement as he mumbled his vague assent to whatever Lucy was saying. “I mean, guys are beating down the door to be with me but —”

“No guys have beat down our door,” said Schroder distractedly, his focus still on the game. 

Lucy rolled her eyes, glad that he couldn’t see it through her dark eyewear. Crossing one leg over the other, Lucy considered this game as an investment for her tan instead of an entertainment venture. “As I was saying, men are eager to be seen with me, but not actually to be with me, y’know? And I’m not all too eager to be with them either with their poor attitude, and poor hygiene, and poor fashion sense, and poor manners —” she was cut off by a loud cheer from the crowd, several people standing up with their hands over their heads in triumph. 

Schroeder, meanwhile, had pitched himself forward, still seated yet looking ready to jump up with joy all the same. Lucy held in a smile of affection. She rarely gets to see Schroeder like this. It was a novelty all in all, to have him beside her on a warm Sunday afternoon, outside where the people are instead of in their apartment torturing himself with his own genius mind. Lucy decided it was worth all the trouble getting all those damned tickets. She might even consider buying some for each game if she had the chance. This might become somewhat a new tradition between the two of them. 

She was broken out of her reverie when Schroeder leaned back in his seat and said, “So all in all, what I’m getting at with your spiel is that you want to get back into dating but everyone is just poor?”

Lucy turned to him, stunned. “You were listening?”

Schroeder shrugged, finally reaching for his nachos. “I’m very practiced in the art of focusing on something and listening to you yapping about.”

She was so touched that she didn’t even smack him on the shoulder for his trouble. Just then, the stadium organ began its jolly little jaunt. Lucy picked up, “Hey, you think you could be one of those stadium organists? Combine your two great loves?”

Schroeder merely frowned and turned back to the game, giving it once again his entire focus. Lucy hid a smile behind her hotdog, trying and failing to focus on the game before her. The winter was cold, but she had a feeling this summer would be alright.

Chapter Text

 Things have been awkward in the office since her date with Albert.

Not in an immediately noticeable way, of course. They were still professionals after all. But there were no longer kind good mornings from her workmate, no doors held open, and the uptick in glares he sent her way drastically increased. Safe to say, they really did not hit it off. 

“van Pelt,” he said, stopping by her cubicle and looking as if someone had a gun pointed to his head. He had a manila envelope in his hands, his button-up shirt covered by the brown leather jacket she recognized as the one he wore on their tragic date. “McMillan wants you to make a report on Liao’s file.”

Lucy sighed. That was another one of the causes of her woes in the office. Ever since graduating, Lucy had worked at a psychological clinic two subway stops away from her apartment. It was convenient and it paid well, but she was just so bored . In her year of working there, she only got to handle one patient. Hell, she’s spoken to more patients when she set up her childhood psychiatry booth than her entire post-graduation career! It was always a point of contention between her and Dr. McMillan, to which he always just told her that she still needed to learn. 

I think I’ve learned enough! She always wanted to yell. But in a herculean show of strength, she never did. Because maybe Dr. McMillan had a point, it was only her first year in the clinic, she had plenty of time. 

She just can’t help thinking that there’s something she should be doing instead of the dreadful report writing. 

With a sigh reminiscent of Atlas holding up the sky, Albert placed the manila envelope on her desk and turned to leave. Lucy didn’t know what possessed her, but the words ‘Wait!’ had left her lips and the man was turning back around, confused at her sudden outburst. 

“What?” he asked. Lucy could tell that he was barely concealing his annoyance by the quirk in his brow and the set of his mouth. 

“I just…” she began, not really knowing what she set out to do. “Wanted to know when the deadline for the report is?” Internally, she kicked herself for the most stupid question she had ever asked. 

Albert sighed, a seemingly common occurrence in his presence. “Thursday before three,” he said promptly. “Not a minute late.”

“I’m never late,” Lucy couldn’t resist saying. Albert didn’t respond as he usually did; with a conspiratorial grin or a joke of his own. He just turned to leave again. And Lucy must have contracted some sort of disease because suddenly she was calling out to him again. “Wait! I haven’t apologized!”

Albert turned around. An eyebrow raised. “For what, exactly?”

Oh, Lucy knew this game. It was one that she played often, drawing out apologies, making people spell out just how wrong they did her. It was a shame that it didn’t work out between her and Albert because they seemed to have that in common. “For the whole date fiasco. For not explaining what the hell was going on before it was too late.”

“And too weird,” Albert tacked on. Lucy nodded in agreement. 

“That was my friend, Schroeder. He and I have been sharing the apartment for three years now. We were childhood friends back home and he was the only one I trusted to come live with me in this city,” she explained hastily. She didn’t know why she had the urge to spill it all, she just knew that she needed to clear his view of her. And Lucy had to admit, it was quite tiring having an enemy in the office. “Our landlord doesn’t really approve of men and women living together unmarried so we just told him that him and I were newlyweds when we first moved in. Hence, the ring,” she said, holding up her left finger where the golden band lay. 

Her and Schroeder had got it in a thrift store in Brooklyn, only planning to sell it to Marion the Landlord as Lucy’s engagement ring. But two weeks later, Lucy had spotted a matching band, just Schroeder’s size, at a flea market downtown. She had brought it home to him, and since then, their farce had began. 

Albert seemed to be considering what she had said. Lucy knew that it sounded ridiculous, even to her own ears. But somehow, she needed to rationalize just how perfectly normal it all was outside of some circumstances. 

“Huh,” was the only thing Albert had to say to her, looking a bit confused. 

“Yeah.”

“Well, that clears some shit up,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And listen, I’m sorry for overreacting and everything. I should have just let you explain.”

Lucy resisted the urge to preen at the vindication of being told she was right. “You should have,” she confirmed. “But I get it, it looked sketchy.”

“Hella sketchy,” he agreed enthusiastically, his head bobbing in a nod. “Anyway, thanks for clearing that up, Lucy.”

She smiled, rolling her chair to her desk, punctuating the end of their conversation. “No problem.”

For the third time, Albert began to walk away when he spotted one of the many pictures tacked up to Lucy’s cubicle wall. He gave it a look of consideration and asked “That’s him right? Your not-husband?”

Lucy smiled at the picture. Sally Brown had taken it with her precious polaroid camera after Schroeder’s final high school performance. Schroeder, seemingly glowing with triumph in his tuxedo, stood with a barely concealed smile as Lucy stood next to him, a cupcake with a single candle in her hands, her blue dress fanning out in a wave. His brown eyes seemed to glow with the flickering candlelight, dancing with amusement as his gaze landed on Lucy who was grinning brightly back at him.

“Yeah, that’s him,” she confirmed. 

Albert hummed. “Interesting.”

Lucy turned to give him a confused look but he was already walking away. Deciding that it wasn’t worth any more of her precious seconds, Lucy adjusted her chair and opened the manila envelope. “Here goes nothing,” she mutters drily to herself. 

That dry mood follows her all through work and down the street as the sun beats down on her, Fleetwood Mac blasting in her walkman as she avoids a particularly enthusiastic group of tourists by the Met Museum. Lucy had long since shed off her cardigan, her sleeveless top swaying with the light breeze with its chiffon fabric. Her heels clacked loudly on the pavement, creating a satisfying reverberation down her spine. Her hair was tied up in a loose ponytail, the tight curls clinging to each other in clumps.

It wasn’t that Lucy hated her job, per se. It was more that she just didn’t know that this would be the reality of it. She once thought that graduating with a degree in psychology would open doors for her, she wanted nothing more than to help people with what she’s learned, and so far, what she’s only succeeded in doing a year after graduating is helping Dr. McMillan write his reports. 

In the grand scheme of things, she knows that she’s still somehow doing something but it still feels useless compared to what the likes of Albert and her coworkers are doing, administering tests, talking to clients, creating their treatment plans. Lucy thought that that would be her future. But it looks like she’s got a lot ahead of her before she reaches it. 

She continues on her walk home, buying a pretzel near the apartment, munching on it as she ascended the stairs to apartment 603. Schroeder wouldn’t be home until later in the afternoon, as he always did, preferring to stay at the theatre and practice some more with their grand piano. As such, Lucy was always the first one home, something that she relished. 

Which is why she nearly dropped her pretzel when she opened the apartment door to already find Schroeder lounging on the sofa, Charlie Brown, Sally, and Linus right next to him. 

The next few moments were a blur, Lucy thinks that everyone must have yelled ‘Surprise!’ as she came in, but Stevie Nicks was singing something about landslides in Lucy’s ear far too loudly for her to interpret what her friends are saying. 

“Jesus!” Lucy exclaimed after their overwhelming amount of welcome hugs. “One of you could have at least told me that you were coming to visit!” Suddenly, Lucy was very aware of the condensation rings on the coffee table, the pile of books on the floor next to the couch, the busted light sconce by the foyer, and the understocked kitchen. She turned to Schroeder accusingly. Like her, he was dressed lightly, not wanting the summer heat to get him. “And you knew! You didn’t even clean up the apartment?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Easy, cowboy,” he said. Lucy rolled her eyes and huffed in response. “I didn’t know either until they came to visit me at the theater.”

Lucy frowned down at her friends. “You came to visit Schroeder but didn’t visit me?”

Sally pat Lucy’s hand comfortingly. “Well, a Broadway theatre is much more fun to visit than a shrink’s clinic,” she said gently. Lucy didn’t concede, only huffing once more. 

Out of everyone, she and Sally had had the most communication in the past months. Sally had a habit of sending everyone letters that verged on being newspapers with its length and content. She had a knack for personalizing each letter, curating a theme with stamps and stickers, her handwriting a precise cursive. It was an amusing experience, to be able to read Sally’s letters and receive some pictures from home as well; Snoopy sleeping on the roof of his dog house, Charlie Brown teaching History to a bunch of middle schoolers, Rerun wreaking havoc in their high school alma mater, and Sally with her friends in the college an hour away from home. 

Talking to Sally was like having a piece of home back with her. So even though Lucy’s letters aren’t quite visually appealing, she writes everything she can as if Sally were her own human diary. 

That’s probably why Sally decides to breach the subject of Reggie before everything else is said. “We’ve wanted to visit since the winter when you and that toad broke up,” she said. “But flights were expensive and big brother’s car couldn’t manage a drive all the way here. And then university rolled around for me, then for Linus, and soon enough Charlie had to go back to teaching again. But oh! We’re finally here!”

Lucy gave a tentative smile, looking at her friends. “You really came here for that?”

Linus sat next to her and smiled, the one she remembered since childhood. “Of course.”

“You’re our friend, Lucy,” said Charlie Brown. “No matter how many miles apart we are.”

And maybe it was the combination of seeing her friends in a place she now called home, so far away from where they grew up. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn’t been able to go home since two winters ago. Maybe it was the fact that they were all looking at her like she was someone they loved more than anything. But maybe it was also the fact that something still stung inside of Lucy even months after the fallout with Reggie. She didn’t know what it was, but she just broke into tears.

It’s embarrassing to admit that someone as headstrong and confident as her had managed to be bested by a mere man. Her eight year old self would have scoffed seeing the pathetic state she had been in last December. Hell, Schroeder had to hand deliver her meals to her, or else she wouldn’t even eat. 

But something had broken inside of Lucy then, something that she didn’t even know she had. Maybe it was some kind of hope? Some wishful thinking? The need for a happy ending? Whatever it was, she couldn’t get it back. Not after realizing that she could easily be traded for something else. 

Humbling as it was, she didn’t feel any judgment from them. Sally cooed her assurances into Lucy’s hair, Linus had held Lucy’s hand, Charlie Brown who was uncomfortable with Lucy’s sudden display of emotion had tried to cheer her up by showing her polaroids of snoopy and the annoying yellow bird. And Schroeder, her trusty roommate Schroeder had walked away, trudging into their kitchen and handing her a glass of cool water. 

She looked up at him through her tears. “You didn’t even bother with a beer?”

He looked at her blankly. “Lucy, it’s five thirty.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “A perfectly dignified time for beer. God, you’re acting like I’m asking you for a shot of vodka.”

“No alcohol until night falls, Lucy.”

She groaned, falling back into the cushions of their couch. “Fine!”

He thrust the water in her direction. “Now, drink.”

“Ass,” she mumbled, drinking anyway. She ignored the look that Linus was giving her and downed the contents of the glass, still regretfully sober. “No Rerun?” she asked her brother. Behind her, she could see Sally and Schroeder parsing through his and Lucy’s shared record collection, talking about the record shop that they frequented a few blocks away. Meanwhile, Charlie Brown had busied himself with surveying the apartment’s nooks and crannies as if he were a buyer.

Linus shook his head, his dark hair falling into his spectacle-clad eyes as he did so. Lucy sighed and swept it away for him. Before she could lecture him on his hair, he responded. “Ma grounded him. D’you know he stole her car and crashed it trying to sneak out the house for a party”

Lucy winced. Rerun had grown up to be a bit of a troublemaker. Though he always was a kind kid, he had a certain knack for adrenaline and reckless actions that neither of the oldest van Pelts possessed. Rerun was ways away from Linus’ calm exterior, and even farther from Lucy’s controlled confidence. The two of them talked sparsely on the phone, the young man only gracing Lucy with thirty minutes of conversation before he began to whine about how embarrassing it was to be babied by his eldest sister miles away. 

“So I guess now he’s back to riding Ma’s bike?” Lucy asked. Linus confirmed with a nod. 

“Just like old times,” he said. Lucy laughed, leaning into her brother.

She let the warm sunlight bathe them through the big paneled window that took up most of the space in their living room, watching as the people she loved made their selves at home. She caught Schroeder’s eye above Sally’s truly voluminous blonde cloud of curls and smiled. Surprisingly, he smiled back.

Again, Linus was looking at her strangely, making Lucy’s cheeks heat. Opting to change the subject, she cleared her throat loudly and asked, “So, aside from watching me cry, what else do you guys want to be doing in the Big Apple?”

It turns out, Sally was quite enthusiastic about having her picture taken at Times Square. 

“It’s a tourist trap, Sally,” Schroeder groaned, still, he made to grab his keys and wallet as he headed for the foyer. 

Sally wound her arm through his, walking him out the apartment. Lucy could hear them walking down the hall when she replied, “And I’m a tourist! Let ‘em trap me!”

She exchanged an amused glance with Charlie Brown, hauling him unsteadily from his seated position on the couch and dragging him out behind Linus who had already followed Schroeder and Sally. “Come on, Chuck. It’s time to spend your life savings on your baby sister.”

With his eternal look of despair, Charlie groaned, “Good grief.”

She smacked his chest, locking the door behind her. “Oh don’t be such a buzzkill.”

“Wow, I sure did miss you, Lucy,” said Charlie Brown drily. 

She flipped her hair over her shoulder and went down the stairs, following the sound of Sally’s exuberant voice regaling Schroeder and Linus with tales from her college life. “Of course, you did.” Still linked at the arm, the two trudged down the steps and into the warm New York afternoon. 

And a subway ride, a few blocks, and a distraction by a pretzel stand later, the five of them found themselves seated on the grass of Central Park with their hands full of ice cream cones that dripped down between their fingers. 

“Just a little pit stop, Sally,” Lucy reassured the younger girl who still longed to see Times Square. “We couldn’t let you experience New York without letting you have a cone in Central Park.”

Sally bit at her strawberry ice cream. “New York ice cream tastes different,” she proclaimed. 

Linus raised a brow. “I don’t think it does.”

She retaliated. “It tastes like hopes and dreams,” she said.

“Sure,” said Linus with a shrug. “That could be up for interpretation. After all, it is your experience that dictates the —”

Lucy groaned. “Yes, Linus. We know you’re a philosophy major.”

“But —” he frowned. 

“Ugh!”

Schroeder elbowed Lucy for her troubles. She frowned at him. 

“I mean, to me it tastes like processed milk and hot afternoons,” said Schroeder contemplatively. Lucy by his side on the grass, still rubbing at her side. His mint chocolate ice cream was halfway eaten, clean bites marring the cone.

Charlie Brown hummed. “I think it tastes like sunlight and friendship,” he said. Smiling at his sister. He held out his vanilla ice cream, as if to make a toast. 

Linus, with his rocky road, said, “I think it tastes like the city.”

They all looked at Lucy, her legs stretched out on the grass, licking at her cookies and cream cone. “What?” she asked, her mouth half full. “I think it tastes like the best cookies and cream ice cream that I could share with you guys. That’s why I brought you here.”

It wasn’t the answer they were looking for, but it was enough. Sally leaning into Lucy’s side, Schroeder snorting at her answer, Linus and Charlie Brown analyzing the kite flying a few feet above them. 

It was then that Lucy spotted a bunch of kids, eight or so, playing football around the corner. The sight of it was so nostalgic, it sent a pang through Lucy’s heart. Not too long ago, the five of them with their friends felt like they could take on the world with their bare hands and a bunch of baseball bats. Time hadn’t dulled that feeling, but it made it harder to come back to without feeling the distance of then and now. 

Sally nudged Lucy’s shoulder with her head. “How’s everything? You doin’ good?” she asked, her eyes shining in the golden light. Lucy had always had a soft spot for Sally growing up. It’s why the two girls stayed in touch so often, driven by their friendship. 

Lucy shrugged. “It’s what it is,” she said blithely. “Reggie’s a thing of the past. I just hope that he’d stay that way.” Because sometimes, if the day had her feeling blue, she’d think of that awful night in December and ask herself if anyone would ever come to love her again. 

Reggie had been the perfect boyfriend; doting, protective, and adoring. But Lucy had never seen the signs of his exhaustion — or of the redhead that he was seeing behind her back. It made her paranoid, to think that she could give her heart to someone she didn’t really know. Still, the sight of Reggie with his hands around another girl was burned in her mind. It had taken her a while to see that she had not drove him to make the decision to find comfort in another woman. He had made that decision for himself, out of his poor judgement of Lucy’s relationship with Schroeder. But still, what scared her was the fact that she never saw how he was capable of deceiving her so much. 

It all made her scared. 

Most days, she was fine and dandy. Single and ready to mingle, if you will. But she can’t help but wonder about Reggie from time to time.

Sally grasped at Lucy’s hand. “It’ll stay that way,” she said, so surely that Lucy believed her. “He’s a dick and a cheater anyway.”

Lucy giggled, holding Sally close. “He didn’t deserve me,” she declared. Sally nodded enthusiastically. Ahead of them, the boys stood near the kids flying kites. Having some sort of argument with a ten year old about letting Charlie Brown borrow a kite. Schroeder stood with his hands on his hips, Linus knelt gently next to the kid, and Charlie Brown stood behind them both with his head in his hands. Schroeder must have sensed someone looking his way, turning his head around to catch Lucy’s eye with a wave to her and Sally. The girls returned his wave eagerly. 

It was nice to see him like this, Lucy mused. Less tense, his hair a spurned gold in the sunlight, laughter in his eyes. She hadn’t seen that look in his face in a while and she had started to miss it. This way, he almost seemed like the same Schroeder she had met all those years ago. 

Sally clucked her tongue, saying something under her breath that Lucy couldn’t decipher. “And now that you and Reggie are over, I guess I could ask; what’s with you and Schroeder?”

Lucy turned to look at Sally so fast that she nearly had whiplash. “What?” she asked sharply. 

Sally repeated her question. “I mean, I always thought …”

Lucy frowned. “Well, you thought wrong.”

“And Linus and I …”

“How’s that going?”

Sally reddened, forging on. “The point is,” she said, louder than necessary. “I was just curious whether there was something … because you two have been really close lately. And honestly, the two of you wouldn’t be such a bad idea. Linus and I even thought that you two still had feelings for each other”

“Sally,” Lucy said gently, sighing. “That’s just the two of us being roommates. We just know each other on a different level because of that. Hell, I even have him buy my tampons for me.” Sally snorted. “We’re friends. The best of friends, really.”

Sally took a second to look at Lucy, as if she were appraising Lucy’s words. Suddenly Lucy felt self-conscious. Was there something in her face that said something different? Was the way she and Schroeder interacted inappropriate for friends? Had the two of them just taken things a step too far with living together? Had she, without knowing, fallen back into old habits with him?

God forbid .

In the end, Sally just shrugged. “I mean, if that’s what you say, then I believe you.”

Lucy smiled. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Sally frowned. “But I can’t believe you called Schroeder your best friend! I’m right here!” 

Lucy laughed, bright and loud, ringing through the golden afternoon. “I guess I think of you as more of my sister.”

Sally’s eyes, doe-like in all honestly, turned soft. “Well, you’re my sister too. I’ve never had one of those.”

Slinging an arm around Sally’s shoulder, she said. “Well, you do now.” Sally smiled. “And as a sister would do, I am obligated to ask. How’s the whole school thing? I know you mentioned in one of your letters that …”

“Oh,” Sally squeaked. “Yeah. That.”

Lucy peered at the girl, concerned. “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it any more than you did in your letters then it’s alright.”

Sally didn’t look her in the eyes as she said, “Well, it’s easier to just write it all down on a piece of paper than just saying it out loud. Makes it less real, I think.”

Lucy nodded. She knew the feeling. “Well, I’ll be looking forward to your next letter, then. You write the best ones. Seriously, they’re like novels.”

Sally brightened. 

Looking ahead, she saw the boys hang their heads in defeat, walking back towards her and Sally sullenly. “No dice with the kites?” she asked Charlie Brown. 

“New York kids are mean,” he mused, sitting down. “He called me names I’ve never been called before.” Linus patted Charlie Brown’s back encouragingly. 

Lucy snorted. “New York with love,” said Lucy, sarcastically. Schroeder rolled his eyes. “Tell ya’ what, Charlie Brown. I saw some kids up there tossing around a football. Wanna go for a kick? I promise to hold it down this time.”

Linus sighed. “Lucy,” he said. 

“What?” she protested. “For old times' sake! And I can see that Charlie Brown is down. We’re not kids anymore. This is just a little pick me up after that snot-nosed kid cussed him out. I really swear that I’m not gonna pull old tricks. I just wanna have fun with my friends. I haven’t seen you guys in a while and it’s got me feeling a bit nostalgic.”

When night fell and Sally had bought what seemed like their entire town shirts plastered with the I love New York graphic, they took a picture in front of Times Square with Sally’s trusty polaroid. Linus’ arms tight around Lucy’s shoulders, Lucy’s smile smug with joy, Schroeder’s lips upturned slightly with his hand on Charlie Brown’s shoulder, Sally laughing with sheer joy as plastic shopping bags were looped around her in bundles, and Charlie Brown with his meek smile holding onto Sally with his other hand, and nursing a pack of ice on his ass with the other. 

That picture found itself a home in the ever-growing collage of photos on Lucy and Schroeder’s refrigerator, a magnet from Sally sealing its place. 

Chapter Text

The sheets were bearably warm underneath Schroeder. Cool enough not to have him break out in sweat from the stifling New York heat, warm enough to keep him cocooned in the safe burrow of his sheets. And while his bed was a mere twin mattress with no bedframe, no headboard, and no duvet, it was his bed all the same. 

Which is why it was quite odd, that Schroeder felt the unmistakable pressure and presence of something in his arms. With a quiet whine, Schroeder realized that it was not so much of a question of what was in his arms, rather, who was in his arms. He was saved the indignity of rifling through his back catalog of possible candidates of sharers of his bed (a humiliating number flashed in his head: ZERO !), when that someone shifted in his arms to face him in all her van Pelt glory. 

Huh , Schroeder thought, his body relaxing, it’s only Lucy. Had she crawled in his bed after a nightmare? Had the two of them fallen asleep mid-conversation? Had he invited her …? No, the last thought was too out of reach, even for Schroeder. 

The woman in question buried her head in his chest, a content sigh falling from her lips. Schroeder burned, his cheeks, his ears, his skin. They burned, red-hot and sticky. “Schroeder,” Lucy sighed quietly. Schroeder did not dare move, his legs ramrod straight where they were tangled with hers, his arms mechanical in the way they held her, his eyes not wavering to the patch of skin that her tank top revealed. 

And yes, this was Lucy. His Lucy who was crabby when he forgot to buy vanilla extract during his grocery trips, who had stayed up with him for all nighters during the worst of his time at Julliard, who had seen him sprout from a young boy with a penchant for hauling his toy piano everywhere to the man he was today. Their relationship had been something reliable for Schroeder in these recent years. It grounded him to know that somewhere in the mess of New York, he had her. 

But if that relationship were to change, the damage would be something Schroeder couldn’t pick himself up off. And that was what he did, he pushed people away with his intensity for music, his sudden disappearances, his lack of communication. 

But Schroeder was getting ahead of himself. Here he was, with Lucy van Pelt in his bed, in his arms, thinking miles ahead. She had probably just fallen asleep after talking about Sally’s recent letter with him and yet here he was, catastrophizing about an improbable relationship with her. Deciding to bite the bullet, he pulled away from her, disentatngling every limb from hers. 

This was met with great protest, as one would expect from Lucy. “Schroeder,” she whined, grabbing him and placing him right where she wanted him. Schroeder had no strength to stop himself from toppling ungracefully back onto the bed. “Come back to bed, baby.”

Baby . He spluttered. Maybe Lucy had fallen asleep as he was taking care of her during a high bout of fever? Because there was no way that that would have fallen from her lips. She was an affectionate woman, always had been, but this wasn’t something she had ever done. The burning continued, somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach, spreading out into his body in licks of fire. “Uh, Luce?”

“Five more minutes,” she mumbled, eyes still closed as she laid her cheek on his chest. He prayed to every god he could name that she didn’t feel the drumbeat of his heart. 

He didn’t know what possessed him. Maybe it was the long resisted urge to do it, maybe it was the fact that everything just seemed unreal, but with tentative hands, he stroked her hair with his fingers. It was soft, silky in a way that he never would have guessed from the amount of curling and hairspray she sicced on it. Nonetheless, it felt to Schroeder as if he was combing through a cloud. She let out a content sigh, melting further into the heat of him. “I mean, you gotta wake up.”

“How can I if you’re doing that ?” she rebutted, eyes still stubbornly closed. Schroeder smiled, soft as the morning light shining through the gaps of his perfunctory navy blue curtains. “And besides, you’re not even awake either.”

His hand stilled in her hair. He blinked dumbly, “What?”

Suddenly, her head was no longer laying on his chest. And the warmth of her dissipated into a chill that was far too out of season for New York in this time of month. He tried valiantly to grab at her, his hands reaching for her from where she perched herself on the end of the bed. “Wake up, Schroeder,” she said gently, her back to him. “You gotta wake up,” she echoed. 

“Luce, what?” he scraped out.

That was when Schroeder woke up, his sheets warm, his body cocooned in a thin blanket, his shirt riding up his stomach, with no Lucy to burrow herself on his chest. With his eyes shooting open, one would think that he had risen himself from a nightmare of unspeakable horror. But the fire in his veins and the heat in his cheeks told a different story. 

It should be horrifying, yes. To have dreamt a dream that put him in such a vulnerable and intimate position with his best friend and roommate. Schroeder waited patiently for the disgust and shame to settle in, his back forming sweat against the mattress. But it never came. 

“Good grief,” he groaned, raking his hands through his already disshevelled hair before running it down his face. “No,” he moaned. 

The first time Schroeder had dreamt of Lucy had well and truly been a nightmare. It was at that tender age where she had been insistent of their impending marriage, hanging off his every word as she hung off the edge of his red toy piano. In the midst of sleep, Lucy had gotten her wishes; horrified, Schroeder had found a band on his left ring finger, his piano gone from its usual perch, and a myriad of saucepans had taken its place. 

Embarrassingly, Schroeder had woken from this dream kicking and screaming with tears running in rivers down his face. It alarmed his mother so much that he made up a story of a monster in the closet. To this day, no one knew of that particular happenstance. Still, he shivered at the sight of Lucy for two months preceding that particular nightmare. 

The second time he dreamt of her was odd. It was the night before his first day of high school and Schroeder had went to bed with a jangle of nerves setting his being alight. He had managed to work himself up by tossing in turning for four hours before finally passing out in the early stillness of an hour that he rarely saw at that age. That night, he dreamt of Lucy, with her head on his shoulder in the bus on the way to school. He woke up strangely calm that day, electing to get ready in silence and to sit beside anyone but Lucy at the bus. 

The third time it happened was a blur. He was sixteen, a gangly mess of a teenager at the time, dreaming of a girl miles away from his league with a laugh that rang like church bells, eyes that shone like starlight, and hair that fell like waves. 

And the fourth, well. Schroeder blushed just thinking about it. 

Lucy had been by his side for a long time. Longer than necessary , he often joked, which earned a swift smack to the back of the head from Lucy. It was natural for Lucy to star in some of the dreams that take him at night. 

Schroeder had once dreamt that he and Charlie Brown were doctors in a magical hospital with beagles for nurses and cats for receptionists. That didn’t mean that he secretly had a desire to put himself through med school and train old Snoopy to work alongside him. 

But the dreams weren’t the main issue. It was the feeling he had that came with wakefulness. It was the inability to look Lucy in the eye and the twist in his chest whenever he did manage to do so. He always felt off kilter after these dreams, as if he had the rug pulled out from under him in an odd approximation of the tablecloth trick. And while Schroeder maintained that this is definitely not part of his unconscious telling him of his secret desire for Lucy — fuck Freud for even putting that in his head , it still felt wrong. It felt much like the time that his mother had caught him, six years old, with chocolate smeared over his chubby little face and his grubby fingers dipped into the cookie jar that was kept supposedly out of his reach. 

And these dreams, it all felt like the time in his life where looking at Lucy had felt like he would catch fire just from the bright look in her eyes. But while those times are over, it would do the both of them no good to bring that back up. He had never told her how he felt, fifteen and lovesick in a way that a younger Schroeder would have berated him for. It would have done them no good then, and it would do them no good now. Especially when her room is only a few feet away from his, separated by thin drywall and will continue to be for as long as she doesn’t find someone more worthy of her time and affections. 

This wouldn’t do , Schroeder thought to himself. He had spent enough time in his teenage years moping about her. It had taken him years to get over himself and those dastardly feelings, and he would be damned if those feelings came back all because of a stupid dream. With a quick glance at the alarm clock by his bedside table, Schroeder realized that it would be hours yet before he was supposed to wake up for work. Without thinking, his feet had carried him out the comfort of his bed and had taken him out his room for a glass of cold water. Yes , he thought, that would wake me up from whatever this is . It would quell that strange burning that Schroeder had in his chest, if anything. 

What he didn’t expect, and well, what he hoped not to see, was Lucy laying on the couch. She had soft socks on her feet, a gift that Charlie Brown had bestowed to her before their departure from the city last week. Her hair was tied up messily by a pencil twisted ruthlessly in her dark curls, the bags under her eyes had told Schroeder all he needed to know before his gaze even landed on the textbook splayed open in her lap. With nothing but the soft glow of a lamp to light her way, she looked peaceful. 

That was until she looked up at him, her neck snapping up so suddenly that he marvelled at how it didn’t make so much as a snap. Her eyes were hazy, a look he had seen on her many times during her undergrad. Her forehead was wrinkled in a way that spoke to her current state, and her mouth was downturned to a frown. 

Still, Schroeder’s body betrayed him as it gave a shiver at the sight of her deep brown eyes meeting his. 

That damn dream . 

“Uh,” he said, his eyebrow raising in a million questions. “What are you doing?” He wanted to kick himself for the stupidity. It was obvious what she was doing, what with the book and highlighters littered around her. But it still begged the question seeing as the two of them had long since graduated and the sight of this kind of situation had dissipated slowly over time. Even so, Lucy looked at him like he was a dog stupid enough to bark at a stuffed animal.

“Reading,” she said slowly, the twitch in her mouth betraying the annoyance that she was trying hard to conceal. Even at the other end of her displeasure, Schroeder felt a rush of affection that he tried hard to fight as it rose up to his chest and threatened to tie his tongue into saying some semblance of poetry. 

“Oh,” he said, the monosyllabic syllables being the most accessible answer for him at the moment. He tried hard not to blink or look away from Lucy lest he begin to see the similarity in the tank top she wore now to the tank top she wore in his dream, to the plush set of her bottom lip, or to her tan outstretched legs hanging off their velvet loveseat. “Okay, I guess.”

And that was that. He had swiftly made his way to the kitchen, debated downing a bottle of beer, before filling up his glass with cool water instead before retreating back into his room with a swift ‘G’night’ to Lucy as he passed her. His last thought before knocking himself out was that Charlie Brown ought to hear about this shit. 

His frazzled mood followed him all the way into the morning, when his alarm clock finally rang and he let himself out of the confines of his room once more. He had not had any more dreams of the brown eyed beauty he shared a home with but he was no sooner prone to forget it. Especially not when he makes his way back into the kitchen, following the vague scent of pancakes and bacon that seemed to waft to him in a cartoonish trail. 

With her back to him, Lucy was clad in shorts that made him look away swiftly, the same tank top from when he saw her this morning, and an apron that Sally had gifted her once. Spread out on their humble table was nothing short of a feast. A stack of blueberry pancakes, a pile of crispy bacon, a full loaf of pound cake, and fried eggs just runny enough for the both of them greeted him with a warm and aromatic welcome. 

His first emotion was not what one would expect at the sight. It was neither joy, excitement, or hunger that he felt rather, fear . 

Lucy only cooked like this when they were mad at each other. Something that surprisingly does not happen all that often in the years that they lived together. He never worked out her thinking behind the act, he only knew that in every occasion that they had fought, she had cooked a feast. He thinks it has something to do with the fact that he would not refuse a breakfast made at her hand, or maybe the fact that nine times out of ten he had conceded after the first bite.

He raked his memory, they had had their petty annoyances; him not replacing the orange juice as she requested him to do so, her spilling water all over a new piece Schroeder had been analyzing in their living room, or the mysteriously broken Captain & Tennille vinyl that they had both grieved. 

Schroeder also analyzed the possibility that maybe she knew . Maybe something in his eyes had betrayed him this morning, maybe he talked in his sleep, or maybe she was clairvoyant. Because maybe Lucy knew that he had dreamt of her, sleepy and sun soaked in his bed and in his arms. And she was furious about it. 

But he wouldn’t know for sure. On the threshold of the walkway to the kitchen, Schroeder paused. Her back was still to him, moving in time to the Beach Boys vinyl spinning on the record player in their living room. Still, she must have sensed him for she turned around and greeted him with a smile. “Schroeder!” she greeted. “Good morning!”

Schroeder’s brows knitted as he frowned in confusion. She had never greeted him good morning in such an enthusiastic way in all their time together in the apartment. That coupled with the food on the table and the odd time he had caught her last night pinged something in Schroeder’s brain. Something was wrong. She was not mad as he suspected, rather there was something that he was not privy to. “Good morning?” he greeted hesitantly. 

“Sit! Sit!” she said, moving to him and ushering him to his seat with a hand on his bicep that definitely did not burn him. He did as she asked, and she followed his lead, sitting herself across from him as she shed her apron. 

“Lucy,” he began slowly. “Did you sleep?”

“Hm?” she asked, digging into a pile of syrup-y pancakes that had Schroeder’s mouth watering. “A bit,” she said offhandedly before resuming with, “Oh! These pancakes taste better than expected!”

“Okay,” he said, he felt a wrinkle steadily forming in his brow from the amount of bewildered confusion displayed on his face. “Lucy, are you okay?”

“Schroeder,” she groaned, mouth half full with pancakes. “Can we not enjoy this marvelous breakfast that I’ve slaved over?” She punctuated her non-request with a stab of a fork to an innocent piece of pound cake. 

Such was the way of Lucy. If there was something she’d like to say, then she’d say it. But she would be hard pressed to reveal something that she was playing so close to her chest. There wasn’t much that Lucy wouldn’t share, he discovered after living with her for a few years. So he allowed her the grace of being able to withhold some things from him. He did, after all, learn that she’d circle back around to telling someone some way. Whether it was him, Sally, Linus, or Charlie Brown, she’d find a way to let the tension out. And if Schroeder knew much more than the latter three, then that was just part of the roommate privilege. 

She’d tell him when she was ready. So with that thought in mind, he gave her a weak smile and bit heartily into the perfectly crisp bacon on his plate. 

That same breakfast would carry him all the way to the theatre with a renewed energy. He wouldn’t say that he played Hammerstein & Rogers like they were Beethoven, but he played it without any fuss, which is saying something. Maybe Lucy’s constant attempts to make him eat before work did actually make sense, because he felt more energy than usual. 

He supposes that it’s also because of the combined nervousness that his dream lent him. Schroeder had been so determined to erase the image of Lucy cuddled up to him that he tried harder than usual to lose himself in his music. It was that same mess of nerves that drove him to beg out of lunch and smoke outside instead with Charlie Brown guffawing in his ear. 

“It’s not funny, Charlie Brown,” Schroeder grumbled between puffs of his cigarette. “It’s awful.”

The guffawing only got louder. Schroeder thanked the stars for the invention of the telephone as he distanced the phone from his ear to let Charlie Brown laugh at Schroeder’s sorrow. “This is hilarious,” he said. “I told you this whole roommate thing would come back to bite you in the ass, man.”

Schroeder rolled his eyes. Charlie had, in fact, told Schroeder years ago that maybe moving into an apartment with a girl who once loved him and who he once liked, would be complicated. Still, he insisted that everything would be fine. But everything was fine, nothing had been weird with them in the time that they settled down at apartment 603. They fell into an easy rhythm that they were both grateful for. Schroeder hadn’t even felt a speck of jealousy for any of her dates, or her long-term boyfriend for the matter. So why now ? Why would his mind remind him that the woman who sat with him in his home, the woman who made the best chocolate cake he had ever tasted, the woman who had seen him through his worst years, is a woman that he can never have? 

He told this all to Charlie, no detail spared. By the time he had gotten his frustrations out, his cigarette was reduced to a stub and he had replaced it with another, lighting it with a click of his lighter. “How’d you get over it the first time, then?” asked Charlie Brown after a few seconds of silence following Schroeder’s admission. “Maybe you can do that again?”

Schroeder had already asked himself this question several times. It must have been distance, he always told himself. He had spent a summer away from her at seventeen, flying to England to visit a few distant relatives. And then suddenly, he came back to her, his heart no longer beating out wildly in his chest. “I can’t exactly put distance between us now, Charlie Brown. Not unless I want to be out of a home.”

Charlie considered this. “Well, what’s so bad about falling in love with her anyway? I mean, you two already love each other as friends. What’s so different if you loved each other in a different way?”

Schroeder shook his head violently enough that he was sure Charlie could hear it. “No. We would never work. I’d end up hurting her, she’d end up hurting me, and we’d never be the same.”

“You sound so sure about all this. It’s like you never even stopped to consider that you two might work. Look at you two, you live together perfectly fine but somehow you think that if you were her boyfriend, everything would suddenly be ruined. You’ll still be Schroeder and Lucy. So what’s so bad about that?”

“It’s different,” he said. His tone brokered no argument for Charlie Brown just sighed. 

“If you say so,” he said. “But I’ll be here if you need to talk about it again. And I know you enough to know that you will.”

With swift goodbyes, the call ended and left Schroeder sighing what seemed like all the air out of his lungs.

“Rough call?” someone called. Schroeder was about to summon his Lucy-esque New Yorker courage to tell the woman to fuck all the way off and mind her business when her turned to see Amanda, the producer of the Broadway show holding auditions in the theatre looking at him with an amused smile. 

Schroeder straightened, suddenly alert. He suddenly felt stupid for the urge to tell the woman off as if he’d done it before. “Oh, I was just talking with my friend from home about something.”

“A girl?” she asked conspiratorially, an eyebrow raised. Schroeder redenned. 

“That’s – it’s not —” he stuttered, making a fool of himself in front of the woman who was technically his employer. 

“No need to be shy about it, Mr. Felton. I’d never tell. Your secret’s safe with me, I promise,” she laughed again, her blonde hair seemingly winking at him. She took out a cigarette from her purse and asked with an arched brow, “Now, d’you have a light or do I have to steal one from a poor man off the street?”

He quickly lit her cigarette and stood by her to smoke his own. “Sorry you had to hear that, Ms. Henderson. It was unprofessional and not part of my job.”

She took him by surprise when she snorted. “What you do on your own time does not concern me, Mr. Felton. All I need to know is that you’re a talented pianist with the passion of a real artist.” He nodded, she continued “And if that passion is from your feelings from this Lucy character, then who am I to oppose seeing as I reap some of those benefits?”

Schroeder redenned. He did not think that he’d had a more embarrassing day in his life. He had to suffer the indignity of dreaming about his best friend in bed with him, his other best friend guffawing in his ear about it, and his pseudo boss teasing him about it. 

Amanda must have sensed his embarrassment because she let off him with a direct shift of conversation. “Now that’s enough about love and the likes. When I was your age, I would probably react the same,” she said, settling into the brick wall behind them and smoking her cigarette. Schroeder mirrored her. “So, are you a fan of the Mets?”

He smiled. This was safe ground. “Yeah. Been following them since I was a kid,” he admitted, cigarette between his lips. “Even went to their previous game.”

Amanda smiled enthusiastically. “I was there too,” she said. “Never seen a home run like that in my life before.”

Schroeder agreed. “I thought I’d fall out my seat from the shock of it.” She laughed. “I’ve never been to a game until then, you see. Didn’t think I had the time or money for it.”

She raised a brow. “I don’t know you enough to conclude whether or not that was a request for a raise or not.” Schroeder began to protest before she cracked a sideways grin that showed him she was only joking. “But what changed?”

He shrugged. “Lucy took me.”

Amanda smiled, turning to face him, her cigarette still between her fingers. “Mr. Felton, how’d you like to join the rest of the team for dinner tomorrow night. Y’know, to talk more about the game and such.”

Schroeder resisted the urge to raise a brow. Such an offer sounded monumental. This was a Broadway producer asking if he’d like to join dinner with a bunch of executives. Granted, he’d spent weeks with the same people in the same theatre, going through the motions of playing the same audition tunes again and again, but the offer still sent an anticipatory chill up his spine. He smiled. “I’d even trade baseball cards with you, if you’d like.”

Amanda nodded, a smile playing in her lips and a glint in her eye that Schroeder could not glean. “The board would love to have you tomorrow, Mr. Felton. Now, we better get back before lunch is over.”

And that was that. 

The entire afternoon, he had become even more of a mess of nerves than he was in the morning. He felt like someone had skinned him alive and exposed every single nerve ending he had to jump into the Hudson River. He pretended not to see the way that Amanda made a beeline to the executives after their smoke break and had also pretended not to see the way that each panel member had turned to see him as he sat down on the piano bench. 

He had ended that day with his hands short of shaking as he bid them all goodbye. Amanda had made an acknowledgement of their dinner the next night and he nodded stoically in what he hoped was a professional way instead of dismissive. 

Schroeder had brought that mess of nerves all through his walk home, his head a mess of thoughts that he had a difficult time disentangling. First, there was the matter of his dream Lucy, then came the matter of his real Lucy, and then there was the matter of what could possibly be the direction of a great career shift for Schroeder. 

He detoured through the streets, walking past teens shrieking loudly as they passed them by with their feet clad with roller skates, of women giggling as they passed by him in a cloud of powdery perfume, of lovers walking past with their hands clasped between them. He passed by the bowling alley Lucy brought him to, he stopped to pet a lovely white cat that twisted itself around his ankles, he bought a second hand book underneath a bookshop awning, he twisted his face to the sunlight and breathed . He walked, looked at the crowds, and thought until his head could take no more and his feet had brought him back to his door. 

“Luce? I’m home!” he called out, tossing his keys by the dish they kept by the door, toeing off his shoes by the shoe rack, and locking the door behind him. “You’ll never guess what just happened today!”

“In here!” Lucy called from the kitchen. Schroeder followed the sound of her voice diligently, side stepping her work pumps laid on the floor and walking past his piano on the way to their kitchen. He had been familiar to this particular song and dance after work, gravitating to wherever Lucy was in their apartment, but today seemed different. 

“Lucy? Why are the lights off?” He called, confused as he stopped at their darker-than-usual living room, speckled with the candles they kept for blackouts and emergencies. The moon was not quite out and the darkness had not settled in yet, but the candles danced in place to an invisible tune as they cast light shadows along the walls adorned with pictures and posters. “Ah, hell. Did we forget to pay our electricity bill again?”

He could hear Lucy’s frown as she replied, “No, blockhead. You really think I’ll let us make a mistake like that again?”

On instinct, he followed the sound of her voice. “Geez, sorry for considering all the options as to why the hell there’s around a dozen candles lit around —”

He paused. If he had any brainpower left, he’d say that he had responded exactly as he had this morning at breakfast, being presented with yet another feast made by Lucy van Pelt herself. 

Schroeder adored Lucy’s cooking. He could eat anything at all as long as Lucy made it. Crickets? He’d give it a go if Lucy had been the one to see the poor sucker off into his greasy end. Snails? It would be chic. Raw eggs? He’d heard they have some nutritional value that he could use. 

So, in any other context, Schroeder would have rejoiced at the sight of roasted chicken, baked potatoes, cole slaw, and the first thing that caught his eye, Lucy’s special chocolate cake . But not today when his brain was still halfway scrambled from his dream, when he could see the fraying edges of Lucy’s smile, and when he was honestly just so confused .

“Uhm,” he said, with all the intelligence he could muster, one foot in the threshold and one outside. 

“Lovely, isn’t it!” Lucy exclaimed, never humble enough to not go digging for compliments. “You took your sweet time getting home so I thought I’d prepare all this for you.”

“For me?” he said slowly, he couldn’t help his small frown of confusion. 

Lucy rolled her eyes. “Yes, husband dearest, you! ”

“Alright?” he said, finally crossing over into the dim light of the candles lit on the counters of their kitchen. With no windows in this part of the apartment, it really did seem like the candles would be the only things to guide their way. In this light, he could see the soft edges of Lucy’s face, the button shaped nose, and the gloss of her hair. 

Suddenly the thought occurred to him, was this a date?

He did a quick mental calculation; Lucy was wearing make-up, something she rarely did around the house, she had lit candles unnecessarily ( To set the mood ? His mind supplied unhelpfully), she had shucked the work clothes that he saw her off this morning and opted for one of her usual night dresses with a tissue thin cardigan to match. She had cooked the two of them a feast fit for nights like birthdays and career milestones. Exactly what was going on ? Schroeder had not been on a date since he was sixteen years old, but he knew enough to draw some conclusions. 

Instead of voicing this, he sat himself down on the chair and ate, a look of suspicion surely marring his face. Between bites of the chicken and gulps of their wine ( Wine! A date beverage!), Schroeder pondered. And this was something that Lucy had noticed. 

“Will you stop smoldering, Schroeder?” she snapped at him. Oddly enough, this settled his nerves. A crabby Lucy was a familiar Lucy. “You’re ruining the ambiance.”

“And the ambiance you’re going for is …?” he asked, sawing his knife through the expertly cooked chicken on his plate. 

“I was kinda going for the restaurant on fifth avenue that we went to one time. Y’know? With the steak and mashed potatoes?” 

Oh. Schroeder remembered taking her there after getting his first paycheck. It put a crater-sized dent in his savings, but it was worth it to see her excited to dress up and have a night around the city. 

“Hm, we haven’t been there in a while,” he said. “Might need to go again soon. Maybe for your birthday?”

The other side of the table was silent. He looked up to see Lucy, staring at her with her head at an angle and her brows drawn together. “You already planning my birthday, Schroeder?”

He bristled. “Well, you brought it up,” he grumbled defensively. 

She smiled. “ You brought up my birthday,” she said. “Which isn’t even for another three months.”

He glared at his potatoes. “Well, you went through all this trouble of cooking this dinner for us. So I just thought it would be nice.”

Her hand landed on top of his, warm and soft. “Thanks, Schroeder.” He didn’t look up. “So, what was all this you’ve been saying about what I wont believe about your day? I think you’ll find that living in New York has extended my limit of thinks I would believe.”

So he told her, not about his dream or his conversation with Charlie, but of cigarette break conversations with important producers and offers for dinner for the next day. He told her that he would have to owe her for bringing him to the Mets game that sparked a conversation, and privately he thought that he should thank her for being in his dreams so that Amanda would have that peculiarly intrigued look in her eye at the sound of Lucy’s name on Schroeder’s lips. 

When he was done regaling her of his tale, the pair of them had finished their feast and had began talking over the rims of their cheap and cracked wine glasses. “Oh, Schroeder. I’m so happy for you.”

In the years that he’s known her, Schroeder has learned to catalog all her expressions. He knew what excited sounded like on her lips. And this wasn’t it. 

“Thanks, Luce,” he said. “What about you? You doing okay?”

At that, Lucy’s face crumpled. He was glad for the sight of her tear-less face, for he didn’t know what to do with himself or with her if he saw her crying again. He would also be glad of the sight if it meant that Lucy wasn’t hurting. Alas, he knew her better than anyone and knew beyond doubt that there was a burden lodged in her heart. 

“I don’t like my job,” she said quietly. “I don’t think a lot of people do, but I always thought I’d be an exception, y’know? I thought I’d graduate and actually get to help people with what I know. But all I’ve been doing so far is push pens, push papers, and not push myself to the limits of what I can do. I can’t do anything without a psychologist license and that would have to mean that I’d need to put myself to school again just to get that freedom in my career. I’m so sick of being bored and asking for permission from everyone before doing anything.”

Schroeder had remained silent until then. “So, you plan on quitting? Is that’s what’s bothering you? Because I can help you find a new job if you want.”

She shook her head vehemently. “If I quit and move jobs, everything will still be the same. I’ll still be a psychometrician answering to the doctor’s orders. No, what I need to do is get my master’s.”

Schroeder blinked. “Was that why I caught you studying this morning?”

Schroeder hadn’t thought of getting his post-graduate. He felt like his education at Julliard was enough and it was all up to him to do what he could with his degree. So the concept of needing a master’s degree was a bit foreign to him. “I mean, if that’s what you want, then you know I’ll help you out when I can. But, Lucy,” he said, his brows furrowed as he asked what had first come into his mind when she uttered the word master’s “How are you gonna afford another degree? Can you make time for that with your job?”

He almost regret asking as he saw her deflate. It was never enjoyable to see the unbreakable Lucy van Pelt in such a state. Still, Schroeder was not in the business of sugar coating, and neither was Lucy. So she simply said, “I have no fucking clue.”

Chapter Text

On their way to the subway, Schroeder had managed to trip over his own feet precisely eleven times. Lucy had gotten so sick of his stuttered apologies after each one that she slapped a cassette into her walkman and pretended not to hear Schroeder over the low hum of The Who in her ears. After parting with him in the station, Lucy just couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going through Schroeder’s head. 

The logical reason was the dinner with the producers of the Broadway show he was working for. Yet the dinner came and went with Schroeder’s nerves still alight. He spoke freely about the night that passed and regaled Lucy stories of people who knew people in an industry where such a thing mattered. Wine drunk and flushed from his work dinner, he had been loose limbed as he sprawled on their loveseat with his long legs splayed over Lucy’s lap, her hand loosely wrapped on his socked ankle. He had been devoid of nerves then.

The matter was, Lucy wanted to look out for Schroeder. But if he wasn’t going to cough it up, she wasn’t going to go snooping. She had other matters in her life to tend to; her job, her masters, her atrocious love life. None of which she knew what to do with. Of course, the obvious solution was to take up her masters and move up ranks in the psychology community. But that would mean making significant changes in her life to study again, may it be less shifts or less sleep, she had to do something to work it out. Then there was the matter of the whole unfulfilment thing she had with her job. It was a right mess. 

Pushing open the glass door to the office, she was met in the office lobby by Dr. McMillan himself, a clipboard in his hands, his brown eyes kind, his greying hair a sign of his progress in life, and the words “Lucy, you wanted to talk?” falling from his lips. 

She had done it on a whim before the respite of the weekend. At the last possible minute of her shift, she made sure to tell Dr. McMillan that there was something she needed advice on. It was an effort on her part to make sure that she didn’t chicken out on herself. But she did hope against all odds that he had somehow forgotten that in the haze of the weekend.

When she told him this, he laughed quietly and showed his pocket notebook. “Can’t forget it, can I? Marked it down on my calendar and everything. Lucy wants to talk, 9AM .” That was what made Lucy settle down in her seat in his office, sparsely decorated yet kept precisely clean. He had no clients until the afternoon and had blocked off part of his busy schedule all because of a concern she had. 

That was the kind of person Dr. McMillan was, the kind of person Lucy wanted to be. He had been a friend of one of Lucy’s professors in Columbia, a connection of a connection. She remembered the buzz of nerves as she shook his hand when they first met, talking of internships and job opportunities. He had painted a vivid picture of the clinic, the clients that they often had, and the surge of hope and accomplishment after a long day. But there were bad days, he warned her sternly, the days where you come home sinking into the couch, remembering the hollow eyes of a patient, hearing their words echo in your head. Those were the days that made the job the hell that it was. But Lucy had been all in from that moment. 

She started out fresh from graduation, spine ramrod straight as she carried herself with the air of someone trying to prove something. She did everything that was asked, reports, interview questions, filing, interpreting drawings. In those first few months, she was content. She came home to Schroeder and talked endlessly about the fascinating new test that the clinic had brought in, she had spent hours studying how to administer it to patients, her head bent low on her desk. 

But after another few months crept past, the contentment stretched thin, creating a steadily growing hole in the middle where it began to grow thin and ragged. Suddenly, things weren’t enough. She hadn’t had the chance to speak to a client, she had started to become a living paper cut, she started and ended days without even having that sense of fulfilment in her bones. 

She told all this to Dr. McMillan, the odd feeling of being treated like one of his clients in that moment making her stomach churn. “And I am very grateful for this job, I really am. I don’t want this to come off sounding like I’m complaining about being in an airconditioned clinic pushing papers when I can be out there doing worse things. It’s just that there are more things that I want to be able to do.”

Dr. McMillan listened with a patient ear, his focus solely on her. She didn’t squirm under his analyzing eye, she sat with her hands closed around each other and her breaths steady, content with her decision to open up to him. “So what I’m hearing is that you are feeling quite discontent with your career, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

He arched a brow slowly, a friendly smile gracing his face as he said, “Well, I hope this isn’t you putting in your resignation, Lucille, because you are one of our most hardworking employees.”

She smiled back. “No, Doctor. You’ll have me around for a while more.”

“Right, then. Before I start getting into what you just said, I’d like to say that what you do in this clinic is not unimportant in any way. It helps us understand our clients more, it helps us get a grasp on the tests we administer to them, and it just helps us get a better rhythm going. I know that’s not what you’re thinking about, but I just cannot have you leaving this office thinking that your work goes unnoticed.”

Lucy blinked. “I understand,” she said. She wasn’t quite sure she did, if she was being honest. She knew her work was important in a way that meant that some things in the clinic could not proceed without her outputs, but that was the extent of it. She didn’t know that Dr. McMillan put that much stake in her work. 

“With that said, I gotta ask you if you’ve considered a master’s program,” he said. Lucy resisted a sigh, it was all that she thought about at that point. “Because much of the limitations that you’ve described to me are limitations brought on by your license. There’s a lot we can’t hand off to you because of that.”

“Yes, I understand that,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about getting my master’s for a while, but there’s just a lot of complications that I need to think through before settling my mind on that option. It’s just a lot.”

Sinking into his chair, Dr. McMillan sighed woefully. “It is a lot. It’s overwhelming, especially at your age and with your particular hunger for success.”

She cocked her head. “Hunger for success?” she echoed. 

Dr. McMillan looked at her amusedly, “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed how ambitious you are, Lucy. You work like you have five families to feed.”

She laughed then, a real laugh. “Oh no, Doctor. I know I’m ambitious; have been since I was young. I was just shocked that people have parsed through that. I would bet it’s hard to know that from seeing me in a cubicle.”

“I’m a top-notch doctor of psychology, Lucy. You don’t get to build a clinic in New York without my talent for reading people.”

“Ah, of course,” she joked. 

“And about your problems in this field, I won’t tell you to take it easy or slow down. Yes, you are young and you have a lot ahead of you. But this fire inside you is what will take you places. I won’t sabotage you by telling you to quell it. So what I am going to tell you is that I have a few brochures here for master’s programs in New York that you might want to look into. It has schedules that accommodate the clinic, and are quite close by. It’s not Columbia, but it’s something,” he said gently, rummaging through his drawers noisily for the brochures that he slapped onto his desk with increasing enthusiasm. “And, for today, I want you to grab a pen and notebook from your cubicle and meet me back here in the office. You’re shadowing me today. I have three patients; one of them —”

Lucy’s smile was blinding. 

What followed was a day that left her dizzily tired, her feet aching, and her head pounding in a beat that would be a good background for an Kiss track. But something had settled in her even then, much like a bone that had gone too long without being set back in place. It hurt like hell — well, her feet did from all that standing around in Dr. McMillan’s office. The man did not have a second desk to perch herself on — but it felt right .

She walked through the streets of New York on some kind of high. She let her hair loose, busy and wild, from the bun she had put it in during the busy hours of her shift. She hadn’t even bothered to cling to her walkman on the way home, preferring instead to listen to strangers and the snippets of conversation she heard as she passed. In the hours since her talk with Dr. McMillan, she had gotten to see a side of her career that she hadn’t been privy to. She had done such an enthusiastic job that Dr. McMillan had offered that Lucy shadow him every Monday of the week and on days that he wanted to show her something particularly interesting. 

She could have punched a hole into the wall from all the energy that she still had despite the tiring day. But luckily for her apartment, she settled for putting a record on and celebrating with a glass of cold beer instead. The sunlight was burning golden through the windows, catching on the chiffon yellow of the curtains Lucy had swept aside as she came home. The vinyl spun on the record player with a low hiss that went unnoticed as Lucy swung her hips to the beat of a new McCartney song. The neighbors across the road were probably wondering what kind of stroke she was having, but she could not contain herself. 

She fluffed the throw pillows on the loveseat, ate the leftover cake she made from the previous week in celebration of Schroeder’s dinner invite, and flit from room to room with joy. She dusted the picture frames nailed to their foyer, she vacuumed their small persian rug, she watered the jug filled with daisies that Schroeder had brought the other day. She turned on the phone to listen to the messages left on the answering machine, ready to parse through what was her’s and what was for Schroeder. Their voicemail tone, a mess that they have yet to fix in the years since they moved in together, still made her laugh. It began softly with Schroeder’s piano playing with Lucy’s voice pitching in with a haughty and loud ‘ TURN THAT RACKET OFF, SCHROEDER!’ and Schroeder replying promptly with a ‘ DON’T BE A FUSSBUDGET, LUCY!’. It was beyond stupid and yet still very them . They had made it while they were drunk on a cheap bottle of vodka that they had splurged on after one too many mouthfuls of liquor that tasted like gasoline.

The first voicemail was for Schroeder, yet Lucy listened with amusement as Patty recited methods that she had read on the newspaper that were meant to help one quit smoking. “Suckin’ on a lolly! You used to love that when you were a kid. Apparently it helps you stop with the nicotine. You might wanna give it a try.”

Schroeder had predictably set out to quit again, yet Lucy had noticed that he had yet to throw out the half full pack of cigarettes he left out on the porch. She predicted that he’d be back at it before the week ends, too keyed up from whatever’s got him tripping over his own shoes. 

The second voicemail was from Rerun, calling Lucy to ask for an interview for one of his classes. “I’m doing one of those reports about what it’s like to be a massive fussbudget,” he said. Lucy’s nose flared in annoyance. “Nah, I’m just kidding. I wanted to ask about what people often get wrong about your profession. So call back, or I’m telling mom that you’re the reason why I didn’t get my final done. Love ya.”

The third voicemail was for both residents of the apartment, Charlie Brown’s perpetually sorrowful voice asking the two of them how they’ve been doing and if they knew of any New York poodles that they can set Snoopy up on a play date with. “He’s just so mean and snappy,” Charlie Brown said. “Last week, he wanted to put me on the leash!”

The fourth voicemail was from a college friend of Lucy’s. They had shared much of the same classes and had often studied together in the library to keep each other in check. Macy, with her honey blonde hair and tan skin, with a laugh like bells and a walk like a model. She had been the one to teach Lucy how to be confident in the New Yorker way, not just in the way that she was confident in their small town. Without Macy, that freshman year would have been miserable. So to hear her voice on the answering machine was a refreshing joy. They rarely had the time to meet each other, settling instead for sparse phone calls and occasional brunches. 

It started with the usual updates; Macy’s job has been working her ragged but she’s been up for a promotion which is why she’s been sticking it out, her cat has freaked her out again by bringing in an injured bird in its mouth, and she plans on going to a few estate sales that she invited Lucy to. Then it took a turn. 

“So as much as I would like to say that I called to tell you that I’m still heavily in debt and looking forward to my promotion, I gotta break some news to you, baby. Oh, I hope you’re sitting down,” she said. Without question, Lucy sat down and lowered the volume of the record still spinning. “Reggie’s getting married. As in, your ex-boyfriend Reggie.”

Lucy could have done without the clarification. But it still knocked the air out her lungs. She was now glad that she had listened to Macy’s then nonsensical advice to sit down. 

She tried to rationalize it all, to prevent the slow spiral of throughts. They had broken up not more than six months ago, yet he’s already gotten a ring on some poor girl’s finger? Did she know that just last November, he had been talking about weddings with Lucy? Did she know that on his birthday, Lucy had caught him with his lips on another woman? Was he marrying that other woman? If he was, then how long had their affair really lasted? Lucy had never bothered trying to get the specifics from the man himself, but she’ll be lying if she said that she’s never thought about the possibility that he’d been cheating for years. Maybe she didn’t want to know, maybe she’d fall apart if she did. 

But suddenly, the afternoon’s warm sun turned colder, reminiscent to the winters she spent aching over a loss she shouldn’t be grieving. It wasn’t the fact that he was getting married and she was not. Lucy had already made it quite clear that she didn’t see marriage in the cards for herself until she’s suitably happy with the success of her career. And with the way that everything’s been going, it wouldn’t be for a long while. 

No, it wasn’t jealousy that he had attained something she hadn’t. It was more of the niggling feeling in the back of her head that asked ‘ Why not me ?’. Why had she been the woman to get cheated on? Hadn’t she been the marriagable type that he hadn’t even thought to ask? Was there just something about her that made him turn away?

Logically, she knew that Reggie was just a right bastard with a god complex. But logic had no way of penetrating her racing mind. Not when she was two beers deep and thinking about the woman he had in his arms the night that they broke up. 

He didn’t want her. And hell, she didn’t even want him. But something there stung deep enough to take root. 

Not even taking notice of her movements, she had began to go about the motions of getting her hair and make up ready. She didn’t know what for. A party? A night out? Just something to keep her hands busy? All that she knew was that she had a straightener in her hands, working tirelessly on the frizz of the afternoon. 

The disco, she later decided, with the swish of a makeup brush. The disco would be a great distraction. Her hair done up, her face dolled up, a vinyl mini skirt on, a new sheer blouse donned, and her trusty go go boots were what greeted a confused Schroeder as he came home that night. She had sat patiently on the couch, fighting back the impulse to fetch him in the theatre instead. When the lock clicked open and a harried Schroeder stepped in, she stood up quickly and faced him with a wide smile. 

He quirked a brow, hanging his satchel on the coat rack. “Going somewhere, Lucy?”

“Yeah,” she said, still smiling. “The disco.”

He toed his shoes off and headed to the kitchen without sparing her another glance. “That’s great,” he called out to her. “Have fun.”

She followed him to the kitchen, seeing him bent over the fridge, most likely digging through the contents to find his leftover Chinese take out. “You’re coming with me, silly.”

At that, he whipped his head up so fast that he bumped into a carton of milk. “Ow,” he groaned. “And what? No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” she argued back. 

“Lucy,” he said with the patience of a saint. “What business do I have in a disco?”

She shrugged, leaning against the countertop. “I dunno. Making sure I don’t get plastered?”

He sighed. “Not to sound rude, but don’t you have any other friends?”

“When have you ever feared sounding rude, Schroeder? And besides, I want you to come with me. I’ve never been to the disco with you and this could count towards one of our New York field trips.”

Mirroring her stance, he leaned himself against the countertop, recovering a beer from the fridge and taking a long swig before answering, “Yes but I thought we agreed on the whole no surprises thing.”

She snorted, crossing her feet at the ankles. “I would hardly say that this is a surprise. You have at least an hour’s notice.”

He merely grunted in reply. 

“Please, Schroeder?”

“It’s a Monday fucking night. You do realize this? I’m not really keen on going to work tomorrow with a pounding hangover,” Schroeder said, unimpressed blonde brow arched impossibly high. Lucy had seen her fair share of The Eyebrow of Disbelief through the years. She had seen a spike in his usage of The Eyebrow during that one time that she played Roll Over, Beethoven by the Beatles on an endless loop; he had not appreciated the band’s use of his god’s name in vain, apparently. She was thus unfazed.

“Please, Schroeder,” she echoed her begging. “Look, I just got some shit news and I just need a night out.”

The eyebrow did not let up, but an expression of vague concern appeared as a shadow in his face. “What news?”

Suddenly finding her platforms more interesting than his face, Lucy mumbled, “Reggie’s engaged.”

The silence that followed made Lucy lift her head. She knew a lot of things about Schroeder; the way he buttered his toast, how he liked his tea, his favorite route to work, the crinkle of his nose when he held in a smile. She knew nearly everything there was to know about Schroeder Felton. But she never quite knew how he’d react to things about Reggie. At the beginning of their relationship, Schroeder had been reserved around the other man. Later, the two had begun to form a bond based on some baseball thing that Lucy did not care to identify. Much later, Schroeder began to adopt a tight lipped smile around Reggie or whenever he was mentioned. This all accumulated to the way he rolled his eyes or got quiet at the mention of Reggie after the break up. Now, Lucy wasn’t quite sure she knew how Schroeder would react to the news. 

“Well, fuck,” said Schroeder. Lucy held in a snort at his eloquence. “That has to suck. Shit, I’m sorry, Luce.” With that, he set is beer down on the countertop and wrapped his arms around her in one smooth motion. 

It was nice, Lucy thought, being held . She buried her head in the crook of his neck, smelling clean sweat, the faint trails of his cologne, and the absence of cigarette smoke that made her smile. Her arms wound around his middle, and he let her do it without complaint. That’s how Lucy knew Schroeder cared; when he didn’t bother to put on a grumpy front and just let the world crash into him. 

The hug could have lasted seconds, but to Lucy it felt like an eternity. She disentangled herself from Schroeder, the heat of him pulsing within her like a drumbeat. She tried to speak, tried to make light of the situation like she always did, but she found that her mouth was dry. Must be all the beers , she thought hazily. 

Schroeder, stepping away from her, looked at her with the expression of a man making many decisions at once. Which was dramatic considering that she only asked him to come with her to the disco, but that was Schroeder for you. 

He sighed a sigh that Lucy knew it meant she won. He picked his beer back up from the countertop, took a swig then said, “Let me finish my beer and get dressed, then let’s head out. And if you bring me to one of those overpopulated tourist trap discos, I will drag us both home. Got it?”

Lucy resisted a smile. “Got it.”

He nodded, sipping on his beer, not in any sort of hurry to get out for the night. “A disco on a Monday night. What a psycho,” he mumbled between sips which earned him a great slap on the arm. 

“Just drink your beer, weirdo. Consider this your pregame.”

He rolled his eyes. “ Pregame ,” he spat out the word like it burned him. “I won’t be drinking tonight, thank you very much.”

Lucy pouted. “Why not?” she whined. “Getting drunk isn’t half as fun when everyone else is sober. It just makes you feel like a fucking alcoholic.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” he said. Lucy privately thought that that was a rich statement coming from him. “And besides, I expect that you’ll be drinking enough for the both of us tonight,” he said. Lucy looked at him and saw a question in his eyes How are you really doing ? 

“Well, I certainly will be thoroughly sloshed by the time we get home so I guess we’re better of with only one blind drunk mice for the night.”

He gave her a mock salute. “At least one of us has to be responsible. Guess it’s my shift tonight.”

She smiled, small and amused. “Well, get on with finishing that beer and getting dressed so we can actually get on with it!”

“Ah, yes. The earlier we get there, the earlier we can leave,” he joked, she frowned at him. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get going,” he said, his beer in hand as he trudged down the short hallway to his bedroom. 

“Ooh! Wear those new bell bottoms I got you last month!” she called out to him. She heard him hum a faint response that she didn’t bother to respond to as she sunk into the couch and tried not to think too hard. 

Luckily for Lucy, Schroeder knew that leaving Lucy alone at the state she was in would not end well for either of them. So with a quickness that Lucy did not know he possessed with regards to getting ready to go out for the night, Schroeder reappeared with a tight white graphic tee, brown lace up boots, and the bell bottoms that Lucy had requested of him. She tried not to make a face at the too-casual top, but Schroeder seemed to sense it coming anyway. “Don’t start. I’m not wearing a stupid vest or a stupid button up tonight. It’s this T-shirt or nothing.”

She stood up from the loveseat slowly, sizing him up. “I didn’t take you for someone who’d willingly go out to the disco shirtless, but I find that even after twenty years together, you’re still full of surprises, dear husband.” His frown made Lucy giggle. “Come on now, Beethoven,” she said, taking his arm and dragging him out the door, closing all the lights and switches as they went. “We got a night ahead of us.”

He willingly followed behind, letting himself be dragged around the city and it’s glittering lights. New York at night was a different place than it was in the day. Lucy knew that sounded quite stupid and tourist-y, but she believed New York came alive at night. It was electric, the energy of thousands of bustling bodies making their way down busy streets, living lives that were so different from the one she led. Somewhere out there was a girl with a ring on her finger and a boy that adored her — nasty cheater, that boy may be. 

She sighed at the thought. Her brain felt like a game of whack-a-mole ever since she heard the news. Just trying to kill the thought the moment it arrived, not letting herself dwell too much on the why, what, and how of everything lest she go completely insane like she had last winter. 

She glanced at Schroeder, lagging behind her as they walked. He had been the one to see her through the cold. He got her up on her feet, took her to the park for some sparse sunshine, and bought her sweets he knew she’d like on the way home from work. He took her window shopping for lavish fur coats they won’t be able to afford with their measly paychecks, they went to libraries for a bit of peace and a change of scenery, and he brought her to a few plays and musicals to which he had free tickets to. Schroeder got her through the ugliness of winter. Which is partly why Lucy feels the need to repay him by showing him the warmth of a New York summer. 

“C’mon, this way,” she said vaguely, turning a sharp right down a narrow alley. 

“Look, I know I said that I didn’t want any big tourist trap discos, but there’s absolutely no reason to bring me to a seedy abandoned one instead.”

She chuckled, dragging him by the arm as they charged forward past a group of giggling girls with glittering dresses. “Don’t be such a worrier, Schroeder. Where I’m taking you is fun, and safe, and will very soon be Schroeder-approved.”

His only response was a huff. 

Lucy did genuinely wish that Schroeder would have a good time tonight. She knew that as a rule, Schroeder generally avoided big crowds that weren’t audiences and noises that weren’t sonatas. But silly as it seemed, Lucy wanted to bring him where she would normally go. She wanted to bring him into her world. Which sounds crazy to her own ears because the two of them were damn near inseparable. Not a day goes by where they wouldn’t speak to each other, what with their roommate arrangement and all. But Lucy wants Schroeder close. No other thought behind it other than the fact that if he had brought her back from the brink once, he can do it again. 

“Are we there yet?” Schroeder asked as they veered left into a wider street, packed with people. 

“Almost.”

“Please tell me that this place has AC because I am sweating through my shirt right now.”

Lucy laughed, loud and full. “That’s disgusting,” she said, not even bothering to turn around and confirm it for herself. “But yes, there’s AC there.”

“Thank god,” he groaned into the night. She let the sound get lost in the city’s noise, drowining out the two of them as they get swallowed into what the night has to offer.

It wasn’t long before they found themselved, Lucy with her third Long Island Iced Tea in hand — yes, she could already feel the pleasant buzz of the alcohol in her system. A Long Island Iced Tea always did the trick quickly — and Schroeder with a Shirley Temple. The place wasn’t as packed as it would be on a weekend, but it was far from a thin crowd. The mirrorball gleamed silver in the dim light, casting glittering lights on everyone as the deep groove of the song bounced off the speakers. A dim purple glow highlighted the neon atmosphere of the place, getting lost in the haze of glitter, hairspray, and cigarette smoke. 

Lucy looked sideways over to Schroeder, his arm hooked over the bar as he sipped his drink with the other. “Itching for a smoke?” she asked him.

Without moving a muscle, he responded, “I would genuinely kill for one, right now.”

Luc laughed, schooching closer to him, her side pressed to his just to hear him over the raucous noise. “Then why don’t you just bum one off some cute girl instead? Strike a conversation?”

“Nah,” he said. “Not interested.”

Lucy raised a dark brow. “In the cig or in the cute girl?”

Finally tilting his head over to look at her, he said, “Guess,” then shrugged. 

Lucy shook her head at him, amused as she turned her gaze back over to the mass of bodies swaying to the beat. “Come on, if you’re not gonna drink, and you’re not gonna smoke, and you’re not gonna talk to any of the pretty girls who’ve been throwing you glances all night—” She had noticed, of course, the amount of giggling women that looked over at Schroeder and whispered among themselves. And in the interest of showing Schroeder a good time, she thought it would be nice to get him out in the dating scene just to flirt a little bit. But something burned low in her stomach. Maybe it was the fact that she had no intention of leaving him alone for the night in the state she was in. Maybe it was the fact that she didn’t want to see him with his hands over some girl while she grieved an engagement that was never hers to begin with. Maybe it was tha fact that there was very clearly a wedding ring on Schroeder’s finger, yet they still ogled him like he was a piece of meat. All she knew was that she wanted him close. “We might as well dance.”

He raised a blonde brow at her. “Musicians don’t dance.”

“Not that tired phrase again, Schroeder. I’ve seen you dance in middle school!”

He sniffed. “Different time.”

She grabbed his bicep between her hands and pleaded up at him, “Please? For your heartbroken best friend whose cheating ex-boyfriend just got engaged six months after their break up? Pretty please?”

He sighed and tapped his mocktail glass with a finger. “Need to finish this first, Luce. Don’t wanna spill it over the dance floor and turn it into a slip and slide.”

Lucy, with her drink finished faster than it should have been, let go of Schroeder and began her confident stride to the glowing tile of the dance floor. “Well, follow me in when you’re done. I’m goin’ in.”

He gave her a mock salute. “See you on the flipside, van Pelt!”

She laughed to herself, turning her back on him and losing herself in the crowd. The speakers were blasting a Commodores track that had Lucy’s hips swaying and her arms flying high abover her head. She bumped into a guy in sunglasses offering her a hit of his spliff, and she thought why the hell not before taking it between her lips and puffing. She danced with a blonde girl with a fresh tattoo she had no memory of getting with a story about a poodle in a penthouse. A brunette girl came along and held her waist as they moved together to the beat, neither of them knowing each other’s names but holding close to each other as they danced. 

It wasn’t until a familiar arm wound itself around Lucy’s waist that she realized that her drink must have been stronger than she thought and the spliff a reckless decision made by a tipsy haze. “What a lightweight,” said Schroeder from behind, his breath warm in her ear as he fought to be heard over the music. She tried to turn around in his tight grip, yet remained where she was, still swaying to Marvin Gaye as Schroeder held her waist in his hand. “Three beers for pregame and a drink at the bar has already got you like this?”

“And I had a hit of a joint,” Lucy said easily. 

She could almost hear the rise of Schroeder’s eyebrows as he said, “You’ve got weed on you?”

She shook her head, fully letting herself melt into Schroeder, his back to her front as she swayed in his grip. “Nah, a guy offered me a few hits.”

“Lucy,” he scolded, his grip tightening ever so slightly as he turned her around in one smooth motion as he looked straight into her eyes. Red rimmed, for sure, judging by the way he hissed. “Jesus, you’re high already. How many hits did you say you had?”

She hummed. “Maybe four. Or five. Or six? I dunno. We shared the whole thing between the two of us, though”

“Lucy.”

“Oh stop being a worrywart, Schroeder. I’m not gonna go on a bad trip and leave you babysitting me. I’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there.”

“See! It’s all good.”

He frowned. “Yeah, except for the fact that you took hits off a joint from a guy you don’t even know.”

She grinned up at him, resting her chin on his chest, his hand still on her waist. “Jealous, dear?”

He snorted. “As if,” he said. “But you gotta be careful next time, Luce. There’s a lot of weirdos that have bad intentions.”

“Okay, mom ,” she said. “I know that, obviously .”

“Did you? Did you really?” Schroeder tested. 

Haughty as ever, Lucy challenged him. “Of course. I knew you’d be here, so I knew I’d be safe.,” she shrugged. 

Her words landed a blow on Schroeder, one that left him breathless. Lucy, too far gone to care, just turned right back around and let herself melt back into Schroeder. She didn’t wait for a response, didn’t need one, because his hand on her waist and his breath tickling the back of her hair was enough. 

“Y’know,” she began, just as the opening notes to Love Train trilled on the speakers. “Me and Reggie used to dance like this when we went for nights out,” she said it like it was being pulled out of her. Maybe it was the liquor, maybe it was the weed, but it felt nice to be able to say something that hurt her to say and have it get lost in a jumbling crowd. Maybe that was why she loved New York so much. 

Schroeder elected not to respond, only felt his thumb rubbing circles on the bone of her hip carefully, like he was afraid that she’d stop talking if he stopped touching her. 

“He’d hold me just like you’re holding me right now,” she said. “And it would be fun. I’d be drunk, he’d be drunk, we’d stumble into his apartment, enjoy ourselves for the night, and wake up in the morning and reminisce about what a good time we had. And that was basically it.

We’d talk about all the good times we had, all the good times that will come. But I don’t think we ever talked about anything that actually mattered. Politics, my childhood, where he grew up, who his favorite teacher was, what book made me love literature, what superpower he wished he had. We were always so close to each other, but it was never in a way that mattered.” It helped that she couldn’t see Schroeder’s face as she said it, tears already blurring her vision and marring her voice.

“And he said he’d marry me, Schroeder,” she said, her voice cracking embarrassingly high as she said it, a tear falling down her face. “I loved him even when I knew I probably shouldn’t. And maybe that’s on me but I fuckin’ loved him, ‘ya know?”

“I know,” Schroeder consoled.

“He said he loved me. So why didn’t he want to marry me.”

Schroeder was silent for a few moments before responding, “I don’t know, Luce.”

“What did I do wrong? Why didn’t he want to marry me? And why the fuck do I care so much about this? I’m fucking Lucy van Pelt. I don’t cry over boys, especially over boys that cheat on me and think I’m in a twisted relationship with my roommate.” Schroeder couldn’t hide his wince as she said the last bit, feeling his body jolt into hers. “I shouldn’t care that he doesn’t want to marry me. I don’t fucking want him either. But why not ?”

“Because he’s an idiot, Lucy.”

“I know that! But there must be something about me that —”

Stone cold and sure of himself, Schroeder responded, “There’s nothing about you that drove him to the arms of another woman. All that he is is a bastard that doesn’t know the worth of someone until they’re gone.”

Lucy didn’t respond. Couldn’t really with the hot rivers running down her face and the short gasps of breath that went past her lips. She couldn’t stop thinking of it all, his lips on the girl’s neck, his steadily waning affections that left her wondering what she’d done wrong, the adoration in his eyes the next moment making her feel on top of the world. Why not, why not, why not?

It was embarrassing to be reduced to a walking panic attack all because of a man. But some things were just unavoidable. She didn’t even notice it at first, Schroeder’s grip on her waist migrating to the small of her back as he walked her out the disco, the sudden flash of fresh air, and the chill of the night that was not warded off by her sheer top. 

“I’d offer you a jacket but I don’t have one,” Schroeder said, scratching the back of his neck as he tried to lighten the mood. Which was a hard task considering she was still choking back sobs. 

“Maybe we should take a quick walk. Warm ourselves up,” she said after collecting herself and reigning in the small hiccups. 

“Okay, yeah. Whatever you want.”

She didn’t have time to ponder over the sentiment of the statement as she wiped her tears with one hand and trudged forward down the alley, not caring over the mussed make-up she must be sporting right now. She must look like a right nightmare, the very picture of a dumped woman. 

Schroeder’s heavy steps echoed her own as they silently walked side by side down the alley, not even budging when the streets grew packed and tight and it would have been more advisable to walk in front of each other. They stayed hovering beside each other, Schroeder sneaking worried glances, and Lucy pretending not to notice as she calmed herself down. 

Lucy truthfully didn’t know what direction she was walking in. And she especially doubted that Schroeder knew either, being the homebody that he is. But they kept walking, past fruit stands, kitschy tourist shops, and a guy serenading a girl on her fire escape as he held a boombox up his head. 

It wasn’t until they hit a particularly big crowd that Lucy stopped to question where they were. It wasn’t a remarkable place in terms of tourist areas. It wasn’t usually clogged with people trying to get a look in the windows. It was just an old bookshop that she recognized on one of her morning jogs that she grew out of once she’d grown tired of waking up at five in the morning. 

“What’s going on?” Lucy mumbled as she wove her way between the crowd. 

“Wedding in the bookshop,” a gruff old man told her as she passed by, his eyes glued in the scene in front of them. And Lucy felt amusement rise in her as she gazed past the storefront at the small wedding party in front of her. Trust New Yorkers to find new places to get married. 

Inside was a woman, blonde and short with her hair in waves and her dress puffing up like a princess’ as she gazed up at the bulky man in front of her with dark hair and darker eyes. It sent a pang through Lucy, seeing them together, their eyes locked on each other as if they can’t even see the strangers ogling them from outside. As if they were in their own little corner of the world and no one else mattered aside from the two of them. 

The book shop must have been of some significance to them, Lucy mused. It could be where the pair had first met, or they might both be authors, or this must be the place where they went on their first date, or it could really be the world that they built for themselves. Just the two of them and hundreds of books to witness their love. 

But it wasn’t until Lucy saw the man’s hand reach to grasp onto the woman’s hand, as if to ground himself to where she stood the Lucy’s eyes began to pathetically water again. And when she saw the way that she mouthed a discreet I love you in between the minister’s speech, she began to wonder once again. 

“I wonder if anyone will ever love me like that,” she mused aloud. 

Schroder, still standing beside her asked, “Like what?”

“Like we’re in our own little corner of the world.” “Oh, Luce,” he said, something in his voice making Lucy break, tears running in rivulets down her cheeks once again. Schroeder took under his arm, hooking it around her shoulders as his other hand took the bottom of his pristine white tee, lifted the hem up to her face and delicately wiped the mess clean with the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “I’m sure someone will.”

Chapter Text

Composing had always come in stages for Schroeder. He’d think of a little cluster of notes that he’d obsess over for a week, playing the same four or five notes over and over until he’d grown sick of it and deemed it unusable in any composition. Then, two weeks later, he’d be sat at his piano bench, the same notes echoing with trills and arpeggios in between. From there, it was always a toss up on whether or not something would come of it; lately, nothing has. But if someone put a knife to his throat by way of a strict deadline, then what choice did he have?

“A month?” Schroeder echoed, to his ears, his voice sounded faraway. It reminded him of when he was a kid at the local pool, cooling himself down on the deep end of the pool while his family talked and laughed by the sidelines. But his family wasn’t there, that pool has long been cemented over, and Schroeder was in a fucking New York skyscraper with a bunch of Broadway executives who wanted him to perform at a swanky charity gala. “You’re giving me a month?”

It would have been no problem. Schroeder could easily just take a piece from his Julliard portfolio like he always did; but flipping through the pages and pages of notes and scales, he just couldn’t find what he needed to impress a room full of people looking for a generational talent. 

“Ugh!” Schroeder groaned loudly, dropping his head in his hands and tossing aside the pile of sheet music to next to him on the living room carpet. 

“Calm down, Beethoven,” Lucy’s voice lilted from the kitchen along with the scent trail of her homemade chocolate chip cookies. “You’ll tear your hair out from stress soon enough. And we can’t have that. I’m pretty sure I already see a bald spot shining in its premature glory from all the way over here.”

Schroeder huffed a heavy breath.  

“Yikes,” said Lucy, her voice closer now. Schroeder took a peek from between his fingers to see Lucy closing in on him, embroidered apron donned over a pair of denim shorts and a t-shirt that used to belong to a fifteen year-old Schroeder, carrying a platter of cookies, floral oven mitts still on her hand. “That bad?” she asked as she set down the cookies on the coffee table in front of him and settled on the loveseat by his head.

“Really bad,” Schroeder garbled, his head hitting the armrest of the loveseat, inches away from Lucy’s thigh. “None of this is good enough.”

“Hm,” said Lucy. 

“And don’t try to do any of your therapy speak on me, Lucille. I just know that it’s not good enough.”

It was Lucy’s turn to huff, her knee hitting his head with a playful nudge. “Well, now you won’t ever get to know what I was about to say.”

Ever since Lucy had taken to shadowing Dr. McMillan in the office, Schroeder had noticed a slow change in her. He remembered the hungover morning after their night at the disco, Lucy mumbling around her Cheerios about patients and Mondays and notepads filled with client intakes. Eyes still red-rimmed from the cross-faded breakdown the night before at the disco, he could see through just how tired Lucy was. 

Ever since they had been kids, Lucy had taken to great lengths to appear put together. The loud-mouthed, confident, better-than-you kid from around the block had no time for sulking. Not when she scraped her knee when she fell on the playground swings, not when her parents divorced, and certainly not when they had to move away. This meant that seeing Lucy so raw and unguarded had definitely rankled Schroeder enough to consider banging on the door of her ex’s house and delivering a swift punch to his too-sharp nose. He had expected Lucy to rage, to yell, to shout; he always expected her to do those things when faced with something not to her liking.

Seeing her in the morning light, her night shirt rumpled, her hair a mess, and her eyes still glazed with sleep, Schroeder found that he had met a new side of Lucy. One that she rarely let anyone see. And that tugged at his heartsrtrings painfully enough that he had to excuse himself to go change for work as she laughed at some dumb joke he had said. 

He loved the new side of Lucy, and Schroeder was beginning to see just how much she glowed. She lit up when she talked about her days in the office, something that she had stopped doing a few months back. She was a spark in the night when she was reviewing her notes to know how to connect with a client. She was so bright that Schroeder wanted to shield his eyes from her but just couldn’t bear to. 

“Lucy,” he said, turning his chin up to see her frowning face. “Just trust me when I say that if I even attempted any of these pieces at that damn gala, I would be put in the New York Times as the most daft pianist to have ever lived.”

Lucy raised a brow at him. “Well, then at least you’ll be on the Times.”

Schroeder stuck his tongue out at her in response. She retaliated with a quick flick to his ear. 

“I just need to write some new pieces, then I’ll be in the clear,” Schroeder mumbled absently, playing with the frayed ends of his shorts. 

“Should be easy,” Lucy drawled sarcastically. “But start with eating some fresh cookies, come on. Might strike some inspiration.” She picked up the platter, taking one cookie for herself and taking one cookie to shove unceremoniously in Schroeder’s mouth. 

“Ballad of the Golden Brown Cookie,” Schroeder said through a mouthful of cookies. 

“See, you’re already getting there!” said Lucy triumphantly. “Eat up. You’re gonna need that energy for when your students get here.”

For what seemed like the upteenth time, Schroeder groaned. With the audition process for the broadway show complete, he had all the time in the world to tutor his pre-teen students, ruminate on his lack of musical inspiration, and contemplate picking a cigarette back up. In fact, today held nothing but time for him to teach the now-recovered chicken pox twins and run some errands with Lucy in the afternoon. No excuse for him to hide from his piano and his empty sheet music. What a thrilling Saturday. 

“What’s been buggin’ you about your music, anyway? Is it that cigarette thing again? Because if it is, I’m telling you, Schroeder, you seem equally as distressed now as when you were smoking a pack a day.”

Picking up another cookie, Schroeder took a big bite before replying through a full mouth, “I just can’t write.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Schroeder rolled his eyes. He had heard that particular phrase many times growing up. From his mother, from Charlie Brown, from his professors, and from Lucy van Pelt herself. It was exhausting trying to wring his brain out for bits and pieces of genius. No amount of wanting it to happen could ever make it happen. Maybe that was self doubt, or his lack of self confidence, but Schroeder just thinks it’s plain ol’ writer’s block. 

Schroeder must have taken a hot minute to reply because as he was opening his mouth to tell her not to concern herself with his writing, Lucy piped up with; “And don’t think that I haven’t noticed the fact that you haven’t written anything since graduating Juliard.”

He sighed. She had caught him. The last time that he had written and completed a piece was years ago, for his last final in Juliard. It was a good one, too; dedicated to his mother and her flourishing back garden with trills up and down the piano that reminded him of the birds that woke him up in the morning whenever he visited home. 

Schroeder had been homesick then. He had called his mother nearly everyday just wanting to hear her voice and straining his ears trying to hear the birdsong in the background. He hadn’t managed to save up quite enough money for a ticket, but that probably served him well because he ended up writing a piece that made even his slimy old professor nod with approval. 

Would it take that same stomach churning ache for home for him to make a new piece? He had reluctantly found a home in apartment 603 with Lucy; the hours he used to spend calculating tickets for a plane ride home are now spent chasing Lucy down the street as she takes him on a new adventure. To him, that song was written by a different Schroeder. And he knows in his heart that he would not be able to go up in front of everyone in the gala and play that piece with his whole heart. 

These days, Schroeder doesn’t even know where to land his eyes on, what with how big a city he had found himself in. Where was he to find inspiration when every single spot was teeming with something that somebody loved? What was he to do when he can’t even muster that same love? How was he to focus on writing about something he can’t place his finger on when his hand is fully submerged?

“Writer’s block does that,” Schroeder sighed. “If I could just figure out what in the world I feel strongly about in that I could write a piece about it, then I would be set.”

Lucy reclined on the couch, her arm warm against his back as she scooted closer to him. “What about Beethoven?”

“I’d probably end up writing a rip-off.”

“Hm. Your mom?”

“I’ve written numerous pieces about her. If I write one more, I would start to fear that I’ve become one of those Freudian mommy’s boys.”

Schroeder didn’t need to turn around to know that Lucy had wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Gross, Schroeder,” she scolded with a shove to his head. “What about New York?”

“What about it?”

“Not grand enough for you to write a song about?”

Picking at the frayed edges of their carpet, Schroeder shrugged, “Everyone who’s anyone has written a song about New York. If I try to write one, I think it’ll end up just being a cheap copy. I mean, the city is wide, and I would hate my song to be just one wide and generic piece that ends up in one ear and out the other.”

“Well, now I’m at a loss. Why don’t you just write about lil’ old me, then?”

Schroeder’s heart felt like it had plummeted. I have, he wanted to tell her. Back when he was going through his first growth spurt and Lucy had just loudly claimed in their high school cafeteria that No! I’m not in love with Schroeder Felton anymore. Gosh, that was a bajillion years ago!

He had written furiously in his notepad then, something that swelled and dipped in a way that he thought mimicked the way that Lucy jostled him around. He had written another after that, then another, then another, then another until his notepad was filled with nothing but Lucy. 

His cheeks flamed. His pubescent yearning for his best friend had no place in his head. He was about to tell her to fuck right off when three knocks came at the door and Schroeder jolted up from his position on the floor. 

“Saved by the bell,” Lucy singsonged as she stood from the loveseat and retreated into the kitchen. “I’ll be waiting for that song about me, maestro.”

Schroeder hoped against hope that the burning in his cheeks wasn’t visible as he opened the door to the two twins looking up at him with their excited eyes. “Mr. Felton!” Bobby exclaimed. 

Schroeder smiled, soft and mellow and something that he would deny if anyone saw him do it. “Hey, Bobby. Hey, Annie,” he allowed himself to ruffle their hair, smiling at their responding giggles. “Your mom not with you today?”

Schroeder stepped aside to let the kids into the foyer, watching as they ungracefully bumped into the coatrack, a framed picture of Snoopy smacking a wet kiss to Lucy’s cheek, and a pair of fairly expensive heels that Lucy had found at an estate sale. “She said me and Bobby could go up here like big kids!” exclaimed Annie, her toothy grin shining at him as she sat herself on the piano bench. “And we went up and up and up the stairs and we didn’t need mommy’s help! She said that next time, she’d let us walk down the street to the corner store! We’re all grown up!”

“Big kids, huh?” said Lucy from the open doorway of the kitchen. “Well, I heard that big kids don’t eat chocolate sweets anymore. Which is a shame because I just made you kids some gooey chocolate chip cookies,” she said with mock sadness, sending a wink Schroeder’s way. He rolled her eyes at her antics. 

“No!” Bobby explained, his eyes wide. “We’re big kids now, but not that big. Right, Annie?”

Annie, in her overalls and pigtails, nodded enthusiastically. “Oh yes! We wouldn’t want to waste your cookies, Mrs. Felton! They’re our favorite!”

“Oh, well Mrs. Felton and I could just give them away to the other kids if you’re too grown up for that,” Schroeder joined in with the teasing, sitting beside a doe-eyed Annie on the piano bench. Behind him, he could hear Lucy giggle. 

“Please, Mr. and Mrs. Felton!” Bobby pleaded. “We’re still little like those kids!”

“I see, I see,” said Lucy, her eyes shining with mirth. “You’re still our same old Bobby and Annie as always, right?”

The twins nodded fervently. Schroeder suppressed the urge to laugh at their eager and open faces. 

“Well, what do we say about having a crack at warm-ups and then eating some cookies before we start with our Bach?”

The resounding agreement made Schroeder’s resolve fall as he laughed.

Contrary to what people may believe about him, Schroeder would consider himself to be a man that was good with kids. Growing up as an only child didn’t leave him stilted, he had Charlie Brown and Patty and all the kids in the neighborhood to keep him company. Sure, he never truly understood the nature of having a sibling or why Lucy and Rerun got into fights as often as they laughed together, but he was never so isolated as to be a closed off kid altogether. 

He could be grumpy, sure. He scowled a lot, he refused invites to hang out, and he would much rather be at home listening to Beethoven records than be spending his night pounding down shots at the disco. But kids were different, they were curious and honest and they always had a peculiar story to tell you when you listened. He always made sure to make his students feel welcome enough to spend the first five minutes of their session talking his ear off about their pet turtle, or their playground nuptials, or their latest dream. He loved teaching the neighborhood kids, he loved seeing their faces light up with joy at a new accomplishment, and he loved hearing the hopes and dreams that they whisper to him in hushed tones.

But having a kid dropped on you on your front doorstep is a different matter. It was only ten minutes after Bobby and Annie had gone down the stairs to their own floor after insisting that they do it without Lucy or Schroeder’s help that a new knock on the door sounded through the apartment. 

Schroeder and Lucy, mouths full with the leftover chocolate chip cookies looked at each other with curious eyes as they called out, “Just a minute!” through muffled chocolatey goodness. 

“D’you have another student?” asked Lucy as she strode to the foyer. 

“No, just Annie and Bobby for today, then we’re supposed to do some errands,” replied Schroeder, his eyebrows raised to high heaven. 

It was not in any way odd to have people knocking on your door in New York. There’s always someone wanting to sell something, wanting to preach something, wanting to tell you to pipe down on the piano, and wanting for a bit of salt for their cooking. But the funny thing is that when Lucy opened the door, they had found a kid, probably five years old by Schroeder’s estimate, gazing up at them as if they were skyscrapers. 

“Mommy said that I could stay here,” she said plainly. 

Schroeder and Lucy shared an odd look before crouching down in front of the girl. She had little sneakers on, an old flowery frock, and a headband that matched her frilly white socks. Her blonde hair shined against the dull light of the hallway and her brown eyes were darting to and fro their foyer. And most noticeable of all, she had a bare cast on her right arm, supported by a dark blue sling that went across her shoulder. With or without the sling, she didn’t look the least bit familiar to Schroeder. And judging by the confusion written all across Lucy’s face, she did not know the child either. 

“What’s your name, sweetie?” Lucy asked, in a voice that Schroeder knew she reserved only for kids aged five and below as well as kittens and puppies. “My name’s Lucy and this is Schroeder.”

“Ella.”

“That’s a nice name,” said Schroeder in a voice that he hoped was not anything like Lucy’s puppy voice. The soft snicker from his side said otherwise, though. “Who’s your mommy, Ella? Where is she?”

“She had to leave for work. We live in 201 and mommy heard that you guys were babysitters so she told me to go up here.”

Babysitters? Lucy mouthed to him. Schroeder shrugged. Someone must have mixed up his piano lessons for something else. 

“Is your mommy still downstairs, Ella? Do you mind if we talk to her?” asked Lucy. 

The girl shook her head no. “She already took a cab. She said that you would take care of me and that I should tell you that she’d pay you when she picks me up.”

A heavy silence settled over the three of them. Schroeder cleared his throat. “And what time will your mommy pick you up?” 

“She said she’ll be a bit late and she’ll be back for me at eight.”

Eight?! Schroeder mouthed incredulously to Lucy. It was barely even noon! 

“Right,” Lucy said, standing up and straightening herself as she smiled down at Ella. “Why don’t you come in and sit at the couch, Ella. Me and my husband would follow in, we just need to talk about something really quick.”

“Okay,” she said, meek as a mouse as she walked into the apartment, her eyes darting every which way before finally setting on the faded loveseat. 

“I have a doctor’s appointment at three, we need to do our laundry unless we’re suddenly okay with spending tomorrow buck ass naked, and we need to go out and pay our bills before tomorrow. And we can’t do all that after eight.”

Schroeder sighed, running his hands through his hair. “For a city that claims to never sleep, it does follow a strict schedule.”

Lucy shrugged. “Call it a circadian rhythm,” she said. “Schroeder, what are we going to do? You very well can’t teach a kid with a sprained wrist piano for nine hours and I doubt that we’d survive the next couple of days without clean clothes, water, and electricity.”

“What’s your doctor’s appointment for?” Schroeder asked. Because focusing on asking Lucy questions was better than being the one to answer them, in his opinion. 

Lucy blushed, her gaze drifting down to her shoes as she whispered, “Oh, just an appointment with my gynecologist.”

“Oh,” said Schroeder dumbly. He was twenty-four for god’s sake and he was acting as if he were a blushing virgin learning about a woman’s period for the first time. “Okay.”

“It’s nothing serious,” she reassured. “I just need a prescription for some … birth control pills.”

Schroeder reddened even more, the thought of Lucy with contraceptives making his eyes dart around the room in an effort to not meet hers. He knew in some capacity that she was active, had known when she’d call from Reggie’s apartment and tell him not to wait up. But talking about sex lives was always awkward for Schroeder. Especially when it concerned his roommate/ best friend/ fake wife/ girl he’s pretty sure he’s sorta in love with. “Right.”

“Not for sex!” she exclaimed in a hushed shout. It would be a lie if Schroeder claimed that her ridiculous exclamation didn’t bring a bit of relief to him. “Just to regulate my period and all that.”

“Okay,” Schroeder said. He should have just answered her initial question, then he wouldn’t have had to send his mind through whatever rollercoaster it was going on now. 

“What’s sex?” a tiny voice asked from a few feet away, her feet dangling off the loveseat and swinging above the floor. 

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” muttered Lucy. “We’ll explain it later, sweetie.” At Schroeder’s bewildered look, she whispered, “Trust me, in a few hours, she’ll have forgotten all about this.”

“Well, aren’t we the best babysitters in the world.”

Lucy rolled her eyes. “We are the best babysitters in the world. Because we are not staying in this apartment. We’ll get our chores done and we’ll have a nice little field trip.” Turning to Ella with a wide smile, Lucy asked, with all the enthusiasm of a character from Sesame Street, “Ella, have you ever been to the bank?”

The resounding silence told Schroeder that he was in for a very long day. 

Chapter Text

When Schroeder begged the universe for a distraction that would present itself as a way for him to live another day without toiling in front of his piano trying to write a piece, he didn’t exactly envision himself to be carrying a little girl on his shoulders to the laundromat, with what seemed like two kilograms of clothes in his arms and sweat forming in places where sweat shouldn’t be. 

Lucy was right about a lot of things, Schroeder knew that. And it pained him to realize that all he basically had to wear out were a pair of basketball shorts that his mother had given him a few years back in an effort to tell him to work out, and a wifebeater that was a size too big. Lucy in comparison, was wearing denim shorts that showed a bit too much leg, and a bralette that had her squirming to cover herself up. 

“Why didn’t we do our laundry earlier?” she grumbled, her own laundry in her arms. “I’m basically a call girl in this outfit.”

“What’s a call girl?” asked the girl atop Schroeder’s shoulders curiously. Schroeder winced and shot a nasty look at Lucy who in turn smiled sheepishly. 

Schroeder pat Ella’s knee in what was meant to be consoling yet might have just come off as awkward. “Don’t worry about that, kid.”

“You guys are so weird,” said Ella, getting comfortable on her position high up and placing her arms on Schroeder’s head. “You keep saying silly words.”

It wasn’t until he had spent so much time with Ella that he realized just how potty-mouthed he and Lucy had become. He didn’t know how much of it was New York’s influence, how much of it was just being a twenty-something with a lot on their mind, or how much of it had to do with their squeaky upbringing. All he knew was that since finding Ella on their doorstep, he and Lucy had had to stop each other from a few well-placed swear words. A ‘fuck’ became ‘fridge’, a ‘shit’ became ‘shame’, and ‘bitch’ became ‘birch’ all with a simple glare. It felt like being in high school again getting scolded by his mom after he had stubbed his toe on the dining table and dropped a motherfucker! that made the whole room shake afterwards. 

“Well, grown ups say a lot of weird things, sweetie,” said Lucy, jumping over a spill on the sidewalk and wobbling as she found her feet. “You’ll see when you grow up.”

Ella huffed. “I don’t want to grow up. It looks boring. I want to be a little kid forever and ever and just play with my toys and eat ice cream and listen to the radio.”

“Well, look at Schroeder. He’s a grown up and he loves doing all those things.” Schroeder stuck his tongue out at Lucy, she stuck hers back. “See, he’s practically your age.”

“No he’s not!” Ella shrieked, making Schroeder wince and apologize to a pack of camera-holding tourists that pushed past him. “He’s old! He’s ancient!”

Lucy’s response of loud, unrestrained cackling did not earn them any favors from passerbys. 

“Ancient?” asked Schroeder incredulously, taking a curious peek at Ella above him. “D’ya think an ancient man can carry you ten blocks on his shoulders?”

Lucy snorted. “Not if he’s panting like a dog while he does it.”

Schroeder shot Lucy a glare. “I am not panting like a dog, you as–”

“Tut tut. No silly words, Schroeder.”

Rolling his eyes, he conceded with a dry, “Yes, ma’am. Whatever the wife wants, the wife gets.”

Lucy’s smug smile stayed in place all the way to the laundromat, stayed in place as she slot in her quarters, stayed in place as she sat down on a nearby bench and watched the machine spin. 

Once, he and Lucy used to leave their clothes in the laundromat and come back for them once they were done with their chores. They’d even go out for a quick cone of ice cream if they had the time and the extra money to spare. But ever since the previous year where they came back to discover that someone had taken all their clothes save their underwear, they kept a close guard of their things, even being so diligent as to sit and watch the machine spin idly. 

This routine, naturally, would come out as boring for a little five year old girl that you’re babysitting. 

“Are we done yet?” she whined from her position on the checkered floor, limbs splayed and loose, her hair painting the floor golden. 

“No, honey. We weren’t done five seconds ago when you asked, and we aren’t done now,” said Lucy, thumbing through a magazine that she had found on a nearby rack. It had something to do with George Harrison from what Schroeder could see on the front cover. He nearly snorted at her choice, of course. The only time that Lucy ever cried in front of him was when she scraped her knee badly in fourth grade, when Reggie broke up with her, the night at the disco when Reggie had gotten engaged, and when the Beatles broke up. She had been inconsolable then, a black and white picture of George Harrison clutched in her hands as she wept. He had wanted to laugh at her then, but the fantastically rare sight of a Lucy beside herself with emotions had rendered him motionless. To this day, any mention of George Harrison had him teleporting back to that day and that moment. 

“This is so boring!” groaned Ella. And Schroeder who hadn’t found a magazine to interest him, was inclined to agree. A man could only watch machines spinning his underwear around for a specific amount of time before he began to lose his mind. And don’t get him wrong, he was a patient person, he had always been. But the static lights of the laundromat, the sticky heat of summer, the whining child at his and Lucy’s feet, and the constant clamor of the crowd outside the laundromat had him itching to do something. 

“You know, she is kinda right,” Schroeder began. Lucy, from above the glossy pages of her magazine, shot him an unimpressed look. “This is so boring.”

“You’re boring,” she mumbled under her breath, wetting her thumb and flipping to a new page as if Schroeder had not spoken at all. 

Schroeder shot a conspiratorial look at Ella, waggling his eyebrows with an exaggerated glance at Lucy. She shot him a gummy grin back, sitting up from her position on the floor with a renewed sense of purpose.

“Please, Lucy!” Ella whined, pouting as she settled herself at Lucy’s feet, looking up at her with her wide eyes. 

“Yeah, please, Lucy darling,” Schroeder mocked, his pout a poor imitation of Ella’s. “It’s so boring here.”

“Unless you want to spend the next few weeks wearing nothing but your ragged sports shorts and wifebeater, then I suggest we stay here and keep watch for the next however few minutes it takes for this to finish.”

“Lucy, please!” cried Ella with a drawn out whine. Schroeder got to hand it to the kid, she knew how to make the most of her childlike charm. “I promise your clothes will still be here when we get back.”

Lucy, chagrined, looked at Ella with a raised eyebrow, mirth in her features as she asked, “Oh, you promise, do you?”

Nodding enthusiastically, Ella responded with a loud, “Yes!”

“And what do you suppose we do?”

“Get ice cream!” yelled Ella. So loudly, in fact, that a few other patrons turned their heads to see the three of them together, their heads bent conspiratorially. 

Lucy shot Schroeder a look that he interpreted as a look of Now, look what you’ve done. In return, he shot her a look that said, I have nothing to do with this whatsoever.

Apparently, their little conversation had managed to catch the attention of an old lady, her brown skirt swishing as she approached them with a large bag in her hand. She might as well have been an angel in disguise with the way she told them, “I hope you don’t mind the fact that I’ve been listening to you folks, but I just can’t help but notice your dilemma.”

Suddenly embarrassed, Schroeder protested, “We’re so sorry for the disturbance, ma’am. We’ll keep it down and —”

The old woman waved him off. “None of that nonsense now, boy. I just came over here to tell you that I can keep watch over your laundry while you go out and take this wonderful little lady,” at that, the woman shot a wide smile at Ella who gave a shy smile back as she tried to hide herself behind Schroeder. “To the ice cream parlor down the street.”

It was Lucy’s turn to be embarrassed as she tried to decline the offer. “There’s no need for that, ma’am. We can wait the few minutes that it takes and then go have ice cream after.”

“Well, to me, it seems like your daughter’s been bored out of her mind for the past few minutes that I thought I might relieve you for a while. Honestly, it’s no trouble. I have nowhere else to be and my laundry’s just over yonder.” Pointing to the spot across from them with laundry spinning around in the machine, Schroeder realized that he probably shouldn’t let this woman keep on thinking that Ella was his and Lucy’s daughter. The idea was preposterous; just because she had blonde hair like his, or eyes that shined like Lucy, or because she was clutching Schroeder’s arm for comfort and looking to Lucy for approval that she was their daughter. But then again …

Schroeder chanced a look at Lucy, whose cheeks were cherry red. Great, now she’s embarrassed, Schroeder thought. It wouldn’t do them any more good to correct the woman, it would only further the conversation by a number of unnecessary minutes that could be spent eating a sundae at the ice cream parlor. And by the way that Ella was tugging on his sleeve, she was thinking the same thing. “Please, please, please,” she whined. 

Lucy sighed, relinquishing her hold on her magazine. “Alright,” she said as Ella cheered loudly. Schroeder laughed, tickling her lightly with affection. “But we come back as soon as we finish the ice cream, alright?” she said sternly. Ella nodded, Schroeder saluted her, making Lucy roll her eyes in exasperation. “And thank you …”

“Maricel,” the old woman introduced. “And it’s a pleasure, getting to do something good for such a wonderful young family. The time you spend with one another is precious, you know? It won’t be long before your precious little daughter grows her own wings and is leaving for a life of her own.” And with that, she sat down on the bench, shooed them away with her giant bag, and picked up the magazine that Lucy had left. 

As soon as they were out the door, Lucy still blushing, Schroeder still looking down at his shoes, Ella said, “So, should I call you two mom and dad now?” she asked, her voice pure innocence, but her voice full of mirth. 

Schroeder picked her up, mindful of her broken hand, and ruffled her hair which made it stick up in every which way. “Pipe down, kid.”

Lucy laughed, already crossing the street with a lightness in her step. Not even the banana split he ordered was as sweet as the sight of her dappled in the summer sunlight, her tan skin glimmering as she dodged a cab that tried to speed past her. 

Ella, uncaring to the world, had nothing else in mind except the chocolate sunda in front of her. With her one arm out of order, Schroeder had to shovel in bites of sundae in her mouth whenever she demanded it. Ella, who seemed to be getting more comfortable in their presence, would just say a quick ice cream, please! And Schroeder, at her beck and call would find a proportionate bite of ice cream and chocolate sauce, gently feed it to her, then wipe her mouth diligently with a napkin which made Ella wrinkle her nose everytime. Lucy watched the scene with amusement. 

“And so the only child finally becomes an adult,” she mused, her arms crossed, her strawberry ice cream cone in her hands. 

Schroeder huffed, ignoring her teasing.

“How come you don’t have any kids?” asked Ella, in the blunt way that only kids could manage. Schroeder, focused on his task of feeding her, choked on air. Lucy let out an incredulous gasp in turn. Ella was undeterred, looking at the two of them with curious eyes. 

Right, Schroeder thought, we’re supposed to be married. The ring on his finger bore no different weight to him, oftentimes he would even forget that it was there. He never took it off for fear of being caught out by their landlord. Lucy was much the same. So much so that the two of them would be caught off guard by people asking them questions such as How long have you been married? And How’s married life been treating you? And their least favorite When will you be having kids? 

Lucy in particular hates that question with a passion. “As if it’s my sole duty and purpose in life; having your babies!” she would rage. “I’m a human person! I have a life, I have a career, I have a million different fucking things I want to get done before I even think about having a baby.”

“Aw shucks, darling,” Schroeder would drawl sarcastically, bored and bemused. “So no baby makin’ tonight?” That was always around the point that he’d get a couch cushion to the head. 

Now, with a child asking her, Lucy couldn’t just fly off the handle. Schroeder knew that Lucy didn’t want to upset Ella by getting annoyed, but he knew her well enough to spot the twitch in her eyebrow and the disbelief in her laugh. Taking the chance to help Lucy find her words, Schroeder replied, “Well, some couples don’t have kids, honey.”

Ella frowned in confusion. “So you want kids, but you can’t have them?”

“Well, not exactly. There are couples who go through that, definitely. But that really isn’t me and Lucy,” he said. Mostly because the situation definitely didn’t apply to him and Lucy who wasn’t his actual wife. 

“We have a life,” Schroeder said, quoting directly from Lucy’s manifesto. “We have careers, and a lot more in life we have to do before we have a kid. Lucy wants to be a doctor of psychology,” he said, pointing to Lucy who smiled. “And I want to be a pianist for the New York Philharmonic. And we can’t take care of a baby if we have so much to do. Do you understand that, Ella?”

Ella nodded slowly and Schroeder breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Maybe we’d have kids one day,” said Lucy. Schroeder jolted with shock. “Or maybe not. We don’t have to have kids, really. Just because we’re married doesn’t mean that that’s what we should do. That’s a big responsibility.”

“So I won’t get any playmates from you?” asked Ella. Lucy laughed, bright and ringing like a chruchbell. 

“Well, you can play with me and Schroeder,” Lucy offered. “He can teach you some piano and the two of us can talk about the Beatles!”

Ella wrinkled her nose. “But you guys are old,” Ella whined. “And the Beatles don’t exist anymore!”

The twitch in Lucy’s eyebrow made Schroeder laugh. He carried that amusement with him in his chest as they crossed the street back to the laundromat and met with Maricel’s patient gaze again. 

“I took the liberty of wrapping your clothes back up in their bags, if you don’t mind,” she said, rising up slowly to meet them. 

“Oh, you’re a saint, Maricel,” said Lucy. “Thank you, really.”

“As long as you folks had fun, then that’s payment enough for me,” she said. Then. meeting Ella’s eyes she asked, “Did you have fun, sweet girl?”

“Yes,” she said shyly, burrowing her head in between Schroeder’s neck as he was carrying her. He smiled gently at Ella then gave Maricel his thanks. 

“Remember my advice, you two,” she told them as they were walking out the laundromat. “Cherish the days with your little one.” Lucy, tight lipped, nodded obediently.

It was a few blocks later that Schroeder groaned at the weight in his hands. He knew logically that it was a waste of time to go to the laundromat, back to the apartment to drop off the clothes, then back out for their other errands, but with a kid on his shoulders and what felt like a thousand pounds of laundry in his hands he had already began to lag behind Lucy. He didn’t know exactly why the hell his laundry was heavier compared to Lucy’s considering how much of a fashionista she is. Mybe it was the fact that he skipped out of doing laundry last time, or the fact that the summer heat had him changing sweaty shirts every second. Either way, he was cussing out past Schroeder in his head for letting his laundry pile up so high. 

In front of him, Lucy groaned. “Just give me your laundry. Let’s trade, mine’s lighter.”

“But—” Schroeder began to protest. But he should have known that Lucy, always impatient, wouldn’t hear a word of it as she snatched his bag from him and hiked it up her shoulder, now carrying both his and her own bag. 

“Whoa,” breathed Ella with amazement. “You’re strong.”

Lucy turned back to send the little girl a wink. “A win for feminism,” she said. 

“You’re really weak, Schroeder,” said Ella suddenly. Making Schroeder almost stumble upon a pack of busy tourists. 

“He is,” Lucy agreed without even turning around.

“Well, it’s because I’m carrying you, aren’t I?” he said, jolting them both so that she was lifted off his shoulders for a few seconds, making Ella squeak with shock. 

Ahead of them striding with purpose around a wall of camera holding tourists, Lucy said, “You know you can put her down, Schroeder.”

He had considered the option of setting Ella down to have her walk for herself. She was certainly old enough and very capable of doing so. But with just one quick look around the crowded streets of Midtown, Schroeder banished the thought. He didn’t want Ella bumping into any unsavory New York characters, he didn’t want someone snatching her from his grasp, and he didn’t want her to get tangled between the weaving crowd. It was easier to keep track of her with her arms on his head and her weight on his shoulders. And sure, he could just carry her the normal way, but Ella just seemed so thrilled to have a view from high up. The entire walk back to their apartment complex, Ella narrated what she saw from her angle. A pigeon just took a man’s hotdog! Yuckie, there’s people kissing! I SEE SPIDERMAN!

Schroeder was so amused by the narration that he took her up and down the block while Lucy brought their laundry upstairs, the pair of them walking the length of the neighborhood. “That doggie’s been following us.”

“Hm,” said Schroeder, already walking back to meet Lucy by the apartment building steps. “I seem to be catching the attention of a lot of strays today.”

“What’s that? Asked Ella curiously.

“Nothing to worry about, Ella.”

“You’re so weird,” Ella grumbled, just in time for them to stop in front of Lucy whose arms were now bare of the laundry she lugged across town and who was now wearing a more appropriate set of clothes. Donning a longer pair of shorts and a denim vest, a pair of sunglasses high on her head, Schroeder envied her change of attire and regretted not heading upstairs to exchange his ratty clothes for his normal ones. But Lucy’s stride — yes, in wedges — did not falter as she led them back out into the fray. 

“Schroeder is very weird, hon,” said Lucy. “But you do get used to it.”

“You’re weird,” Schroeder mumbled. 

Lucy, who had slowed her stride to match his, had raised a brow at him. “And that,” she said, ponting to him “Is why we get along so well.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” said Schroeder, trying to hide the red in his cheeks. “D’you have the money for the bills?”

“Bills,” Ella spat in disgust. 

The two ignored her sudden outburst. “Yeah, it’s a bit higher than usual this month because of the heat but we’ll manage. Especially when you become a world class pianist next month.” Lucy bumped his shoulder, making him bump into a passing stranger. Schroeder reddened even more and apologize to the man quickly.

“We don’t know that. I barely even have a song ready.”

“What about the Beach Boys! They have nice songs,” Ella suggested helpfully. Lucy snorted an amused laugh. “You can play those!”

Schroeder tried not to outwardly laugh as he said, “That’s a nice suggestion, Ella. Thank you. But I need to make my own song, unfortunately.”

“Make one? How do you do that?”

“Well,” Schroeder began. “With music, there’s what we call notes. And these notes, when put together form music. So what I have to do is arrange some notes into what would become a piece of music that I made.”

“That sounds hard,” said Ella. 

“Well, I can teach you sometime if you want. It’s really not as hard as it sounds.”

Lucy laughed lightly. “Trying to recruit new students already? Are bills are high but not that high.”

Schroeder rolled his eyes and ignored her. “Just swing by the apartment anytime you want, Ella and I’ll try to teach you, alright?”

Schroeder pretended not to hear Lucy’s teasing humming of the Sound of Music under her breath, instead lightly pushing her into the next building to pay their bills. 

He followed her around the place like a lost puppy with another lost puppy on its shoulders. He truly would have liked to just wait outside as to not be such a distraction, but the heat was getting unbearable and the place had air conditioning. How was he supposed to say no? He sat near Lucy in line, stood next to her as she paid, and followed along on her clacking heels as she made her way back outside, the two of them a few bucks short now. 

“That was boring,” said Ella.

Schroeder, who spent the last few minutes being glared at by the tellers for wearing his sweaty wifebeater and shorts, had to agree once again. Lucy, who had to suffer the lines and banal conversation, added in her ten cents as well. 

“Please tell me where we’re going next is fun,” Ella pleaded. 

Lucy shot a sideways glance at Schroeder which he met with a wince. Their next stop was the hospital for Lucy’s three o’ clock appointment. It was only a short walk from where they were, but the question wasn’t whether the walk would be unbearable for Ella who was sat comfortably on Schroeder’s shoulders; the question was will the poor girl survive the hospital waiting room, no matter how quick Lucy’s appointment must be. 

“It’s just supposed to be a quick fifteen minute appointment,” she reassured as she went inside the hospital. Lowering her voice, she whispered to Schroeder, “But there’s a playground in the quadrangle. I recommend you take her there before she starts to lose her mind.”

With that, the three of them split up, Lucy to her gynecologist and Schroeder and Ella to the quiet little playground in the hospital grounds.

It wasn’t as depressing as Schroeder would have thought. There were only two other kids milling about, their respective parents hovering over them as they climbed the monkey bars and slid down the slide. Ella, who has spent nearly all afternoon attached to Schroeder’s shoulders, was a bit hesitant to put her feet back on the ground.

“Come on, kid,” Schroeder coaxed as he was crouched down on the ground, waiting for Ella to safely dismount. “Go have a bit of fun.”

“But —” she began with a light whisper. “What if they’re mean to me?” she whispered in Schroeder’s ear. He didn’t have to ask to know that she meant the two little kids in the playground with them. In Schroeder’s opinion, the kids posed no threat; one was wearing Bert and Ernie overalls with stripey socks that showed over his pants, drool dripping from his chin accounting for the fact that he was visibly three years old. The other kid, a girl around Ella’s age was wearing a poofy pink dress and was being pushed around on the swing set by who Schroeder assumed was her father. If push comes to shove, Schroeder knows that he could talk a mean threat to either one’s parent should they do something to Ella, but rationally, he knew that they’d be alright. 

“Well, I’m sure they’re pretty nice,” said Schroeder. “And I’ll be right beside you too. So there’s really no need to worry, right?”

Schroeder felt rather than head Ella’s agreement as she nodded and slipped down his shoulders and onto the ground. The groan of relief that Schroeder released was louder than he intended as he massaged his aching neck and stood up again at full height. He tailed Ella all the way to the swing set where she sat down and expectantly raised her brows at him. Schroeder resisted a sigh, his duties were not done.

“Hi, my name’s Ella,” he could hear her say to the girl next to her on the swing as he took the spot behind her and began to gently push. “And this is Schroeder,” she said, pointing to him. “What’s your name?”

And thus began a conversation between Ella — from what Schroeder could hear between pushes — and Marie. The girls talked about everything under the sun in the way that only kids could; quick and enthusiastic. The conversation went from names, Barbie dolls, their favorite candy, pancakes, trips to the cinema, and how weak they were swinging at the moment.

“Higher, daddy, higher!” Marie squealed, and with an amused glance to Schroeder, Marie’s father pushed her higher and higher. 

“The name’s Mark,” he introduced. Schroeder, who was subtly competing with the height that the man was pushing his daughter at, responded with a quick mention of his name. “Funny name,” the guy said. He wasn’t much older than Schroeder, maybe only three years past Schroeder’s humble twenty-four. “So, where’s the wife at?”

Schroeder nearly stumbled before catching himself. “Just having a quick check-up. Gynecology.”

The man shot Schroeder a knowing look that Schroeder hated to have blushed at. He knew the implication, his blonde self swinging a little blonde girl on the swing with a golden ring glinting in the summer sunlight and a wife in the gynecology wing; it painted a domestic picture from a life borrowed from someone else. 

“What about your wife?” Schroeder asked tentatively, new to the scene of the unspoken husband club. 

“She’s a doctor here,” the man said. “Me and the little one went for a little visit and she just had to stop by the swingset. Kids, huh?”

Schroeder didn’t know how else to respond to that other than with a tight smile. “Yeah, kids.”

“Well, you have more on the way, so you better get used to it.”

“Right.”

“Higher, Schroeder. Come on!” Ella roared, snapping Schroeder back into reality. Stepping back, he rolled his shoulders and heaved a might push that earned a sparkling laugh from Ella. 

“Well, aren’t you two having fun?” said a voice from behind him. Schroeder didn’t so much as jolt at Lucy’s sudden appearance, used to her just popping in and out of his orbit, just tuned into her every move. 

“When the cat’s away…” Schroeder teased slyly, earning a smack to his shoulder. 

“Hi! You must be Schroeder’s wife. Nice to meet you, I’m Mark. Congratulations on your little bundle, by the way,” the man said with a wink. Schroeder rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as Lucy choked on air. 

“Right,” she said. “The little bundle. Thanks.”

“You’ve got a great kid,” he said to Lucy, oblivious to the awkward tension he had created. “She’s the spitting image of you two.”

“Yup,” said Schroeder.

“Spitting, right,” said Lucy, still dazed. “Well, I’ll go on and have a bit of a sit on the bench over there. Y’know, pregnancy feet and all that.” With that, she sat down on the bench a few steps away, effectively leaving the conversation.

Ella, who must have gotten bored of Schroeder’s lackluster pushing stood up suddenly and beckoned to Marie to the slides, both of them running with their hands clasped in each other’s. And to think that she was worried that she wouldn’t make any friends. 

Deciding that the benches had a good view of the kids, Schroeder sent a parting smile to Mark and sat down next to Lucy with a heavy huff. 

“How’d the appointment go?”

“I’m pregnant, it’s yours, and it’s a boy,” she said drily.

“Wow, now we have one of each,” Schroeder responded in the same tone of voice. “No, but seriously.”

She waved him off. “I got the pills. I even got an impromptu check-up. I’m all good.”

“That’s nice.”

The little playground in the quaint pocket of a silent hospital was filled with the laughter of two girls who had proclaimed themselves the best of friends, the blubbering of a three year old and his nanny, the chirping of birds on a nearby mahogany tree, and none of the smoke and noise of New York. Their own corner of the city where the sun shone bright and the days even brighter. Leaning his head on Lucy’s shoulder, Schroeder thought; this is a good day. 

“Hey, Luce,” he drawled, still settled on her gentle shoulder. 

“Hm?”

“I don’t think I can carry her all the way back to the apartment,” he confessed. “I’m so fucking tired.”

Lucy laughed, ruffling his hair. “Aw, what a big baby,” she mocked, he bat her hands away from his hair with a hiff. “And what did we say about silly words?”

“Whatever,” he said. “You’re silly.”

“Y’know we still have a couple more hours until Ella’s mom picks her up. We still need to bring her back, make dinner, and somehow entertain her until eight.”

Schroeder groaned. “Am I a bad person for hoping that she falls dead asleep after this playground session?”

Lucy snorted. “Schroeder, why do you think we’re hanging around here instead of heading home back to our nice AC unit? I’m betting five bucks that she’ll be out like a light once we cross the street back out into the city.”

“Well, as long as I’m not the one carrying her,” Schroeder said. “I’m feeling as geriatric as Ella makes me feel.”

And as if she could sense that she was being talked about, Ella laughed, so hard and so happy that it could have reached the tallest skyscraper in their busy little city. It was then, that the summer had felt a little less hot and a lot more golden.