V & V (wlw)

Chapter 22 - the one with the contract (reprise)

"Sweetheart, you can't camp in a living room for the rest of your life."

"It's not the rest of my life, Ma. It's been two weeks." Veron had spent her past two weeks rolling around in her parents' living room, because she hadn't found the will to do anything else. And moving away might mean Vic could find her, and she didn't want that.

Ron wanted; wanted to sleep in a bed again, wanted to curl up and cry, wanted to go ten minutes without crying. Most of all, Ron wanted Victoria. Either to explain or to argue with or – in an unlikely probability, and one she wouldn't actually like, because it would be a blow to her pride – to tell her they'd both be okay.

Instead she hauled herself off the floor she'd been sleeping on, and said, "Did we make coffee yet? I'll go make coffee."

"I'll bring you coffee. Go wash your face. We need to talk."

Veron had, and she blamed recent developments, turned into a meat golem capable only of sustaining basic functions to stay alive. This meant that she did not pick up on her mother's tone, or the new car parked on their driveway. She scrubbed at her face and made the choice not to look in the bathroom mirror, because it made her sorry. She hated to be sorry for herself.

Ron sat herself on the couch and stared at the TV – which wasn't turned on – while she waited for her mother to come back.

Of course she'd been ignoring Victoria's attempts to reach her. She didn't need to hurt that way, not when she was already hurting. And the worst part is that she hadn't even expected to be hurt!

Which was untrue. There were moments in her life with Victoria where she would think, this won't end well, each one more urgent that the last. At the time, she hadn't cared, and looking back, she still would have made the same choices.

Veronika, in an excruciating press of dissociation – and the awareness of the fact was what made it excruciating – thought she was being very stupid.

But it wasn't stupid to feel pain. Knowing you're hurt, and feeling that hurt were two different things. Maybe she was allowed to have had enough, actually.

A manila envelope settled onto her lap. Her mother sat next to her. "Take a look."

The envelope was familiar, in the same way you go somewhere new and see grass, and you go, Look, it's grass, because it's grass and it's an envelope and Ron spent her entire career in offices and knew what an envelope was.

She opened the envelope. She took a look at the contents. Veronika drew out a stack of papers. At the top it said Non-Disclosure Agreement, and at the bottom was her own handwriting – a signature.

Veronika would not have been shocked into cohesion more if her dead father barged in through the front door. "Where did you get this?"

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" Her mother's voice was kind and patient.

"I can't, it's trouble—"

"I've read the whole thing. I've got the gist of it. I need what you know, Ronnie. How you feel."

And Veronika broke down, because strong things are brittle. Not that she chose to, but because you don't fix something by holding its broken parts together.

She told her mother everything. Everything. And after that she felt a hollow hunger. Ron wanted to sleep again, but she needed to know. "Where did you get that?"

"Do you care about this woman?"

Ron had spent the entirety of her entire time here mourning her, mourning the loss, and she would mourn it for much longer, if it was up to her. It was pathetic to deny. "Of course I do."