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Chapter Text

“Let’s return to this idea of American cultural attitudes toward technology and war,” Mark Scout posits to his students. “What role did they play in shaping the development of air power doctrine?”

Half of the classroom isn’t even paying attention, but he can’t blame them. It’s Friday, and outside the windows of Room 210, torrential rain threatens to flood the Ganz College campus. Rainy Fridays always make Mark sleepy and lazy, even without any alcohol in his system. He can’t expect any less of his students, who are almost all under twenty-two and trying to figure out where the big party will be this weekend. Mark received his undergraduate degree over twenty years ago, but little has changed since he went from sitting in desks to standing in front of whiteboards. At least there are only twenty minutes left in the class.

“Well, Sherry argues Americans believed in technology as a force for progress,” one student finally offers. “They saw the airplane as something modern and progressive instead of a weapon.”

“So the airplane symbolizes innovation and control? Maybe even moral superiority?”

“Yeah. He talks about how the airplane led to a kind of moral detachment. Like, once you’re thinking about radar screens and damage assessments, it’s easier to ignore people bombed on the ground.”

Mark nods. “Exactly. So at least according to Sherry, air power turned war into a kind of bureaucratic exercise in destruction. But is there more to this? Did this mindset serve any legitimate purpose?”

Another student raises her hand, but then speaks before Mark can even acknowledge her. “I think Sherry is oversimplifying.”

Mark swallows the sigh bubbling up his throat. “Go on.”

“I mean, sure, air power was used destructively, but the idea of strategic bombing in World War II was also rooted in the hope of avoiding another deadly trench war. Some planners really thought that bombing industrial centers could shorten wars and save lives in the long run. That doesn't automatically mean they were morally blind. They weren’t just cold technocrats. They were also terrified of losing.”

Usually Mark would encourage this back-and-forth with his students, but this disagreement comes from Eustice Huang, one of those child prodigy types who got a GED at thirteen and then went into undergrad before becoming a legal adult. She’s smart, no doubt about that, but her teen genius demeanor often clashes with all her professors. 

 “Good criticism, but doesn’t Sherry lend his argument to the nuances of the situation?” 

“Sometimes it seems like he’s so focused on the consequences that he downplays how uncertain things were.”

Mark’s never sure if he ever learned the art of the poker face, so he pivots the rest of the class into a discussion of Billy Mitchell and Curtis LeMay. As all the other students pack up and file out of the room, Eustice Huang approaches his desk. “Dr. Scout, may I have a word?”

He catches the groan before he can exhale it. “Sure.”

“Well, I’m curious why you have us reading books that are outdated now.”

“Excuse me?”

She pulls out a paper copy of his syllabus and points to the reading list. “Nearly all of these books are from thirty years ago, some even older than that. I mean, even today’s book is almost forty years old. It really seems like we’re missing out on more contemporary accounts that have improved upon the research.”

He exhales. Now he’s definitely not wearing his best poker face. “I appreciate your…feedback. But as historians and researchers, we often read the previous historiography to understand how that shapes our current methodologies. Sherry’s book is one of the most influential scholarly works about air power in military history. I’d be doing you a disservice in not assigning it.”

Eustice Huang just stares at him. “Um, okay.”

“Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. See you Monday, Dr. Scout.”

“See you,” he dismisses, then packs up his messenger bag and returns to his office down the hall. 

He woke up with a sore neck, narrowly avoided a crash due to all the rain and was still almost late to the department meeting this morning, and then Eustice Huang had to question his teaching and syllabus for the third time this semester. They were only six weeks into the semester and midterms were just two weeks away. Oh, and he forgot his lunch sitting on his kitchen countertop. 

Not even noon, but he could really use a drink right now. Seven months ago, Mark would’ve snuck a nip from his flask to take the edge of the day off. Definitely would’ve made this Friday more bearable. Instead, he chugs down some water and brews a cup of coffee from the department’s coffee machine. Sobriety can be a real bitch. 

He spends the next hour grading the book reviews for his afternoon History Practicum class, getting through four or five until his empty stomach growls. The rain still hasn’t let up, but he knows his hunger prevents him from making any significant progress through the remaining dozen papers. He groans, then sucks it up and slips on his raincoat, still wet from his morning dash from the staff parking lot to Ingram Hall. If this Friday is going to suck and he can’t have a drink, then he needs to find other ways to make it more bearable.

He eats lunch at the café across the street from Bailiff Books and Records, even grades an additional four papers while avoiding any spills from the sandwich or grease stains from the fries. The rain has let up a little. Less of a monsoon, but still enough to keep sidewalks shining and keep most everyone off the streets. There’s a few other patrons in the café. A group of retired old men laugh in the booth next to the window. A student sits at the bar, typing away on a laptop while shoveling down a burger. The waitress, a local girl, flits between her customers, filling coffee mugs and soda cups. 

Right as Mark settles his check at the register, a young woman wearing a hooded navy raincoat and heavy sunglasses enters and slides into a booth in the far back corner. She pulls the hood down to reveal coppery red hair pinned back in a pristine bun, but keeps her sunglasses on. Why she has them on at all makes no sense– the sun hasn’t shone at all today.

Whatever. Mark shoves his credit card back in his wallet and braces himself for the rain to cross the street into Bailiff Books and Records. The bell rings as he opens the door, and he’s instantly greeted to the sight of a dog trotting up to greet him.

“Hey Radar,” he says and scratches the dog’s ears. “Sorry, no treats today.”

“He doesn’t need any more treats,” a disembodied voice hollers gruffly from somewhere to the right. “He just got fed, so don’t let him fool you.”

“Where are you?” Mark calls out.

“Religion and Spirituality.”

Mark removes his coat and hangs it up at the coat rack Irving graciously keeps at the front door, then weaves through the shelves to the Religion and Spirituality section and finds Irving Bailiff’s wiry frame crouched down, scanning book spines. 

“What are you doing down there?”

“Trying to find our sole copy of Man’s Search for Meaning . Customer wants to make sure we have a copy before he comes out in the rain to pick it up.” Irving looks up at him. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“Forgot my lunch at home and decided to kill some time before my afternoon class.” The title of a book catches Mark’s eye. “ Becoming Supernatural: How Common People Are Doing the Uncommon. People actually write and read this stuff?”

“I’m not in the business of judging what people write and read, mostly. I’m in the business of making sure people are still reading at all. Aha!” Irving pulls out his target and stands up to return to behind his cash register. Mark hears him speak on the phone to someone about the book being held behind the counter for a few days. As he waits for Irving to get off the phone, Mark makes his way to the small History and Politics section close to the counter, scanning for any new additions that might be worth adding to the stack of books collecting dust on his bedside table. 

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No. Unless you have something for me?”

Irving holds up his index finger, then fishes for a record behind the counter. “Thought you might like this. The most recent Everything But the Girl album.”

“I’ll consider it. Thanks.”

Irving slips the record away. “Believe it or not, you’re the second person to walk in today. Rain really keeps away any potential customers.”

“So it’s another slow day for you?”

“Maybe up in the front, but Fridays are never slow. I’m expecting UPS to show up any minute in the back to unload some new arrivals.”

“When are you going to hire someone?”

“What are you talking about? I already have a full-time employee right here.” Irving smiles and pets Radar right as he returns to his dog bed behind the counter. “His job is to lure people in with his eyes and make them loyal customers.”

“He's good at it.” Mark speaks from experience. When he first got his position at Ganz ten years ago, he spent a sunny spring weekend wandering the downtown area next to campus. He was always going to check out the bookshop that also doubled as a record store, but as soon as he saw the dog wandering through the aisles, he knew he would be returning. Within six months, he became a regular, and in another three, he was grabbing beers with Irving Bailiff, the store's owner and eternal bachelor. A retired naval lieutenant, Irving slotted into Mark’s circle of friends so well– the oldest one out of all of them, providing sage advice like the father none of them had. He was probably the second close friend Mark made since moving to Baird Creek after meeting Petey Kilmer, one of the faculty in Ganz's music department. 

“By the way, have you heard the news going around town?” Irving asks.

“What news?”

“There might be something of a celebrity in Baird Creek.”

“Up in this neck of the woods?” Baird Creek is almost exclusively a liberal arts college town with a nearby state park, fifty miles away from the Canadian border. He can’t think of any reason why a celebrity would come here. It hasn't fully gentrified yet. 

“That's what the streets are saying, or were saying yesterday.”

“An actor?” Maybe a film is set to shoot in the area.

“Don't think so. I think they're one of those newfound celebrities who are famous just for being rich and famous.”

Mark nods and lets that conversation die there. He hasn't kept up with most pop culture since he was finishing up his PhD, so he doubts he'd recognize anyone famous under the age of forty. He continues to peruse the selection of history books. God's Chinese Son: The Taiping Heavenly Kingdom of Hong Xiuquan. Generation Kill. Indispensable Outcasts: Hobo Workers and Community in the American Midwest, 1880-1930. Most of these must be the books his colleagues assigned to their classes, and students then pawned off to Irving for a few bucks in cash when the semester ended. 

Another ten minutes pass when Irving announces, “I'm heading out back because UPS just arrived.”

“Need any help?”

“Can't accept even if I wanted to. You're not an employee. Too much insurance liability.”

“Hire a fucking part-timer! This town is full of college kids looking to make money!”

“When I can afford extra help, then I will!” Irving shouts as he heads to the far back of his store, fumbling to put his raincoat on.

Mark moves on to the shelf Irving labeled as “Staff Favorites,” both books and albums. Mostly Motörhead and Philip K. Dick. He picks up the copy of A Scanner Darkly and thumbs to the introductory pages when the front door swings open and the bell rings. A young woman in a navy raincoat enters. Mark is almost certain she’s the same woman from the café because he can’t forget the thick sunglasses she kept on her face despite the lack of sunshine. When she pushes the hood of her coat down to reveal her red hair, his suspicions are proved correct. She’s young, but older than his students. 

The doorbell must’ve alerted Radar to the presence of another human because he strolls out from behind the counter and moseys up to the woman who is already browsing the fiction section. 

“Oh, hello,” Mark hears her greet the dog with a small drop at the end, a hint of unexpected apprehension. 

“He’s mostly harmless. Just wants attention,” Mark assures her. 

She looks at him, or at least he thinks he does because she’s still wearing her sunglasses. “Mostly?”

“He only bites shoplifters.”

“Right,” she responds, then draws her attention back to the fiction shelf. 

Radar doesn’t seem to take the hint that this customer doesn’t want to pet him. He stays by her side as she lingers along the shelves. Mark continues to read the first few paragraphs of A Scanner Darkly . He’s surprised Irving hasn’t returned from the back yet. The rain has since picked up, pummeling the roof and the sidewalks. 

He briefly looks up to see the woman pluck one book out from its spot. Mark can’t help himself. “Oh, that one will wreck you.”

The woman glances at him with a small twitch in her eyebrow. She’s since removed her sunglasses and perched them at the top of her head like a tiara. “Pardon?”

He points to the book in her hand. “The book you’re holding. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell. It’ll wreck you.”

Her expression is unreadable. “Sounds exhausting,” she mutters, preparing to settle it back into its designated spot.

“It is, but in a good kind of way.” He’s somehow so defensive over a book he read three years ago. “It lures you in with the whole ‘Jesuits in space’ hook, so you think you’re getting something kinda pulpy. Turns out it’s a whole treatise on existential dread, faith, morals, and linguistics, surprisingly.”

The woman seems to soften at this, but she remains aloof in her posture and tone. “So I take it that it wrecked you?”

“Yeah. There’s a scene towards the end that–” he pauses to prevent himself from swearing at a stranger– “really, really gutted me.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not gonna spoil anything. You’ll have to read it. And the sequel– Children of God .”

“I see,” she says coolly. “I’ll consider it.”

He takes that to mean she’s not interested in continuing the discussion, so Mark doesn’t follow up, just sets A Scanner Darkly back on the shelf and moves to a different section of the store . Still no Irving. Minutes later, Mark is busy thumbing through the selection of R.E.M. LPs when she appears in his view again. Radar still follows her like an unsatisfied shadow. She sifts through the Jazz section and lands on one that Mark can read from his position. 

“Miles Davis?” 

She looks over her shoulder. “Do you have a jazz suggestion, too?” Her voice is a sharp knife.

“I don’t know much about jazz except what’s in Whiplash .” He pauses to read her reaction, but she just looks at him with the blankest stare. “You know, the movie?”

She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen it.”

Tough crowd. “Right. Well, anyways, I know nothing about jazz. I still listen to the same music I was listening to when I was in high school a million years ago.”

The suggestion of a smile curls on her lips, the first expression of emotion he’s witnessed from her since she stepped in. “I doubt it was that long.” 

Mark chuckles, then shakes off the sensation. This is probably the most he’s talked to a woman who wasn’t Devon, Lorne, Gretchen, Ms. Cobel, or one of his colleagues in a while. There was that disastrous date with Alexa back in July, but he only agreed to that as a favor to Devon. Hearing a young woman say he doesn’t look as old as he is is certainly flattering, but that’s all it is. Polite flattery from an aloof stranger, whom he’ll never see again. 

Still no Irving. Mark walks towards the back and cracks open the door to the storage backroom just for a peek. The back door is still wide open, and Irving hauls in wet boxes with the UPS delivery driver. He returns towards the front, ready to browse through another section, when the woman stops him.

“Excuse me, sir, but I need to go.”

“Um…okay?”

She stares at him. “Aren’t you going to ring me up?” 

“Oh.” She has The Sparrow in her hands, and she thinks he’s an employee. He considers calling Irving to handle it, but the woman keeps looking at him expectantly. “Um, okay.” 

How difficult can a register be? Mark steps behind the counter and studies the screen in front of him. He hasn’t operated a cash register since he worked the front desk of a museum gift shop back in his undergrad days, and that was before everything computerized. He takes the book from her and glances at the price tag on the bottom right corner of the back. “That’ll be eleven-fifty.”

The woman opens her purse and hands him fifteen dollars, then taps away on her phone. Thank God she didn’t want to pay with her credit card. “You can keep the change,” she says without looking up from her screen.

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“Hmm?” She’s distracted, just barely looking up from her phone. 

“ The Sparrow . Seems like my recommendation was successful.” He manages to find one of the paper bags Irving likes to use for books, slips the book into its sleeve, and hands it back to her. She breaks her gaze from her phone just long enough to meet his. Her eyes are hazel, somewhere in between brown and green. With her poise and polish—the sleek navy raincoat, unscuffed rain boots, shiny nude-colored nails, and sleek bun of hair—she looks entirely out of place in Baird Creek.

“Uh, yeah.” She takes the bagged book from him, then offers the slightest of grins. She must be thawing out. “Thanks again.” She glances down to see Radar, still anticipating a pet. Carefully, she glides her hand along the space between his ears. 

“Have a good day.”

She nods. “Same to you.”

She walks out of the store with the hood of her coat covering her hair and the sunglasses back on her face. The rain swallows her up as she crosses the street. 

Mark checks his wristwatch. Oh shit . He’s spent more time on this break than expected. He quickly scribbles a note to Irving about the book he just sold and leaves it next to the fifteen dollars she handed to him before darting out to make it back to campus in time for his scheduled office hours before his afternoon class.

Mark returns to his townhouse that evening to find his neighbor, Harmony Cobel, lugging her recycling bin up her driveway as the rain beats down.

“Let me get that for you, Ms. Cobel,” he offers as soon as he exits his car.

“That’s not necessary, Mark,” she answers, yelling over the downpour. “But thank you for your offer! I have something for you. I’ll go get it out of my house.”

Mark scurries inside, sheds his raincoat, and drops his messenger bag onto the dining room table. He’s barely settled in when a knock rattles against his front door–Ms. Cobel with a plate of cookies covered in beeswax wrap.

“I made a batch of chamomile and lavender cookies and had extra to spare. I hope you enjoy them,” she says when he opens the door and nudges them into his arms.

“Thanks.” She’s made these for him before, and they tasted more like an herbal bath bomb than a cookie, but he accepts them anyways. He’ll pawn them off to Ricken. “Did you want to come inside?”

“Oh no, I don’t want to keep you too long. But I am curious if you know anything about the socialite that’s come to visit us here in Baird Creek? I heard murmurings these past few days in the shop.” Ms. Cobel kept her nose in everyone’s business. She owned the handcraft soap and lotion store several blocks down from Irving’s bookstore, and she was a fixture at Baird Creek City Council meetings. 

Mark shrugs. “Not really. Irving Bailiff heard something like that, too, but that’s all I know.”

“We hardly get anyone cosmopolitan up here. This used to be quite the hotspot for New York society back during the Gilded Age, you know.”

“So I’ve heard.” He spent a little of his free time researching Baird Creek’s local history when he first moved in.

“I wonder what she might be town for now. She’s probably staying up at the Grand Kier.”

“What makes you think they’re a woman?”

“Most New York socialites are. Don’t forget I spent most of my career in Manhattan corporate circles. Just because I run a soap shop now doesn’t mean I’m not worldly.”

Despite the long braids she wears in her gray hair and the paisley prints she wears, Mark can imagine Ms. Cobel as a ruthless corporate workhorse, if Irving’s recollections of City Council meetings are accurate. He’s grateful he hasn’t experienced that side of her yet. 

“Well I won't keep you any longer. Enjoy the cookies! Have a good weekend, Mark. Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks, same to you.” 

For the rest of the evening, he eats the lunch he packed but forgot to bring and grades a few more papers. He takes stock of the day. A pretty pathetic Friday. Sore neck, near car crash, annoying child prodigies, apathetic undergrads, rain, rain, rain.

God, the rain, which still pelts outside. If Gemma were still around, she'd find a way to bring the sunshine indoors. Their old home was a greenhouse first and house second, full of life and vibrant colors. Since moving into this townhouse, the space remains neutral and sterile. The rain doesn’t help. Gray and drab, inside and out.

Well, today couldn't have been all bad. He convinced a stranger to read The Sparrow . Come to think of it, her hair is probably the most vivid thing he's seen all day. 

When he finishes his grading for the night, Mark turns the TV on and flips through his ever-elongating “to watch” list. But when he can’t settle on a movie or a show to start, he switches the TV off. He makes his way to his bookshelf, scans through all the history books that couldn't fit in his campus office, and finds The Sparrow tucked between copies of A Farewell to Arms and A Night All Blood is Black. 

Chapter Text

“Samuel Prentiss just called. He’s rescheduling the meeting at one for Monday.”

“The rain?” Helena Eagan cradles her morning coffee and stares out the hotel window overlooking the creek as the downpour blurs and grays the landscape. It’s seven in the morning, and Helena still wears her pajamas from the night before. Her assistant, Natalie Kalen, is already dressed with a full face of makeup and her hair neatly pulled back, all sharp focused energy. In all of Natalie's eighteen months as her assistant, Helena has never once seen her look tired or unkempt in the morning. Natalie is on at all times.

“Yes. According to him, the site will be flooded.”

Helena huffs. “Then it's not a very good site, now is it?”

Natalie doesn't respond, just taps away on her phone. “Your meeting at ten is still on for today.”

“Which one is that again?”

“Here, with Martin Greaves.”

She remembers now. The moment her reservation hit the system, the Grand Kier reached out about a meeting to discuss the Eagans investing in a new spa wing. Any other hotel pulling that kind of move would’ve lost her business on the spot. She’d have canceled, no question. Instead, she agreed to the meeting, but changed the reservation name to Riggs. Helena can’t quite bring herself to cut ties with the Grand Kier. She hadn’t set foot in it since she was a preteen, when she and her parents pretended to be normal and spent summers in upstate New York. The hotel had roots in her bloodline. Her great-great-great-grandfather had grown up nearby before founding Lumon Industries. The Grand Kier was named for him, started by a less successful brother in the 1890s and sold off just ahead of the '29 crash, but Helena’s family maintains a small investment in the hotel. It's a relic of another era—dimly lit rooms, quiet service, the scent of cedar and aged paper in the lobby. It isn’t modern or particularly fashionable anymore, but for some, that’s the point. Upper-middle-class tourists and hopeful brides still came for its faded grandeur.

The meeting with the manager, Martin Greaves, isn’t optional. Not politically. But Helena knows his type. Men like him admire legacy and respond to charm. She’ll be warm, polite, just aloof enough to leave him wondering.

“Do we know what he’s asking for exactly? Numbers? Proposal?”

“Just ‘a conversation.’ But he’s likely expecting your soft commitment and the opportunity to bring it in front of the Board. He’s trying to position the expansion as a legacy project. Play your cards right, and he might even suggest it bear your name.” 

Helena sips her coffee.

“I ordered you some room service so you don’t have to eat in the dining room. It should be here any minute,” Natalie moves along. “It’s best if we limit your time in the public spaces of the hotel. Seems like word has already gotten out about you being in town.”

“How?” She hasn’t even been in town for a day. She and Natalie arrived yesterday afternoon, and she spent no time out and about in Baird Creek. Went straight from checking in at the Grand Kier to a late afternoon meeting that became dinner.

“College town. Gossip moves faster than Wi-Fi connections. Someone must’ve recognized you at that gas station. Took about five minutes for a blurry photo to make it online.”

Helena sighs and sets her coffee down to get dressed for the day. “Fine.” 

The meeting with Martin Greaves went well enough, Helena thinks. “No promises,” she told him as they sat in an administrative conference room with other staff members, “but I’ll share all of this with my father, and he’ll get back to you.” Smile, laugh, vague commitment, rinse, repeat. By the time the meeting finishes, it’s past eleven. 

“Anything else for the day?” she asks Natalie as soon as she returns to her suite and kicks off her heels.

Natalie works from a tablet, seated on the hotel room sofa. “It was going to be your one o’clock with Prentiss but since he canceled…it seems like you’re free for the day.”

“Really?” What was supposed to be a small vacation for herself can actually be a vacation? “Are you sure?”

“I double checked. You don’t have anything until Monday.”

Music to Helena’s ears. 

“Oh but I did receive an email from a reporter from Scientific American who would like to schedule an in-person interview for sometime next week. Apparently they live close by and want to discuss Lumon’s work on bioprinting.”

Even Scientific American pays attention to her? “I thought we agreed on no interviews,” Helena chides. “And I don’t know anything about bioprinting. They should reach out to Mauer if they want to know more.” They won’t. Dr. Max Mauer creeps everyone out, doesn’t photograph well, and he’s a behind-the-scene labcoat. He doesn’t have the pedigree, the youth, the legs, or the cheekbones. She thought the media circus would run its course. It usually does for everyone else. But it hasn’t, not yet. Somehow, she’s still “the next Elizabeth Holmes.” Pre-arrest, of course. The image endures, and she’s done nothing to feed it. That’s the most interesting part about all of this. 

“I already spoke with Seth about getting Media and Outreach’s approval, and they think it'll be good that your first interview since The Photo is with a science rag. Focus on the company rather than your image. They emailed me some talking points for you to go over.” 

So the interview is just going to happen. Helena’s still learning to roll with the punches, but they just keep coming, barely time to catch her breath between them. She grimaces, but Natalie is too enraptured with the tablet screen to notice. 

“How does Wednesday at one sound? He can meet you here.”

“That should work,” Helena responds, as if she actually has any real input over her agenda these days. Natalie knows her schedule better than she does. “Anything else I need to know about?"

“Don’t think so. Your weekend has started early.” 

“Great.” Helena reaches for a pair of boots and her navy raincoat. “I’m going to wander around the downtown strip.” As much as she enjoys the Grand Kier, she can’t stay cooped up all day just because of the rain. And she really wants to shake off Natalie. 

Natalie stops what she’s doing on the tablet, looks up, raises an eyebrow. “You need to maintain a low profile.”

“I doubt many people will be out and about in this rain,” Helena suggests, more for her own peace of mind than Natalie’s. “I’ll be discreet. I won’t even ask Judd to drive me around.”

Natalie bites her lip in frustration, but gives in as Helena zips up the boots. “At least wear your sunglasses and keep your hood up?” Sometimes, she feels more like a nanny than an assistant. 

Helena grabs her sunglasses, brandishes them so Natalie can see, then exits the suite. 

Finally, time to herself.

She keeps her hood and sunglasses up in the rideshare–her profile name kept at Myrtle, named after an elderly aunt. She keeps them on as she leisurely strolls down the sidewalks of the main drag. As suspected, few people are crazy enough to hang around outside as the rain falls midday. She stops in a vintage store and a handcrafted soap store, not looking for anything in particular. No one pays much attention to her, and it’s nice to just not be noticed for once.

Around twelve-thirty, she passes a little café, then backtracks when her stomach growls from hunger. Inside, it's exactly what she expects from a college town café. Vinyl booths cracked with age, a chalkboard menu boasting bottomless coffee, and the comforting clatter of plates behind the counter. Elderly men at the window laugh at each other’s jokes. A student at the bar keeps laser-focused on whatever he’s typing up on his laptop while pounding down a burger. A man pays for his check at the cash register, and the young waitress tells Helena to “sit wherever you’d like” once Helena enters.  Helena removes her hood, but keeps her sunglasses on, and thankfully the waitress says nothing about it. She’s probably seen far worse in the evenings.

Helena orders a Greek salad with grilled chicken and scrolls on her phone as she waits. She reads headlines from news sources, then switches over to the usual sites where her face might show up. Sure enough, she sees a photograph of her at that gas station on Route 12 yesterday, when Judd had to stop to fill the car up, and she just ran inside to use the restroom. It’s from a distance and a lower resolution, but the photograph is unmistakably of her. 

HelenaEaganUpdates : Helena Eagan spotted yesterday outside of Baird Creek, NY!

gg_queenie : she looks like she’s fleeing a murder she didn’t commit but definitely facilitated

Wendy2f2f : why does she look like she just closed a hostile takeover inside a Mobil

Helena-eager2004 : she’s not even trying. like actually not trying. and still eating everyone up. unfair.

sparklemerkin : omg i was just there yesterday, i might’ve been there when she was

emilys-farts : can someone explain why this looks like a still from a sofia coppola film 

Helena turns her phone screen off and shrinks into the booth, picking at her salad. When she pays, she leaves the waitress a ten dollar tip–a silent thanks, either for not knowing who Helena is or for keeping it to herself. 

The rain pummels down even harder right as she steps outside, so Helena beelines for the bookstore across the street– Bailiff Books and Records. She could use a book or two for tonight, and any fleeting moments of free time that Natalie can pencil into her daily schedule. She’s the only one in the store, apart from a man who stands at one shelf with a book in his hands. This place looks safe enough, so she removes her hood and begins to parse through the shelves.

That is, until a dog walks up to her.

“Oh, hello,” she murmurs to the dog, who stares up at her with big, pleading eyes. She’s never been comfortable around animals, yet this one insists on staying close to her as she browses.

“He’s mostly harmless,” the man off to the side says, as if that will assure her. “Just wants attention.”

She looks at him through her sunglasses. “Mostly?”

“He only bites shoplifters.” He seems so self-satisfied with that joke, and she hates that she finds it funny, too, so Helena stifles a laugh. 

“Right.” Helena replies and returns her focus to the books on the shelves, removing her sunglasses from her eyes but situating them in her hair like a headband. 

She’s not looking for anything specific, she’s just curious. But curiosity is dangerous in a place like this. The shelves are overstuffed, bowing with the weight of forgotten paperbacks and out-of-print hardcovers mixed in with the regular bookstore fare. One copy of everything. She trails her fingers along a spine or two. A well-creased paperback of Les Misérables. A hardcover of The Valley of the Dolls with pink on the edges. She lands on one paperback and picks it out to read the back cover.

“Oh, that one will wreck you.”

It’s the man again, who holds a copy of a Philip K. Dick novel in his hands.

“Pardon?” 

He gestures to the novel she just selected. “The book you’re holding. The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell. It’ll wreck you.”

“Sounds exhausting,” she grumbles, ready to push the book back into the slot she found it and go about her window shopping. Helena really doesn’t want to talk to him. He doesn’t show any sign of recognizing her, but she doesn’t like the risk. Someone might walk in and instantly clock her for who she is.

“It is, but in a good kind of way.” Wow, he will not shut up. “It lures you in with the whole ‘Jesuits in space’ hook, so you think you’re getting something kinda pulpy. Turns out it’s a whole treatise on existential dread, faith, linguistics, and impossible moral decisions.”

Okay, that does sound interesting. And he certainly sounds passionate about The Sparrow. Helena takes a moment just to study him. A button-up dress shirt over gray slacks and a pair of shoes that were not meant for trudging around in the rain. He must be the owner, or at least an employee. He looks the type– bookish and weary, right at home within the stacks. Hardly the type to spend much time online.

 “So I take it that it wrecked you?”

“Yeah. There’s a scene towards the end that… really, really gutted me.”

Well now she’s intrigued. “What happened?” she asks.

“I’m not gonna spoil anything. You’ll have to read it. And the sequel– Children of God.”

“I see.” Helena reconsiders the novel in her hands. She can’t remember the last time she received such a sincere book recommendation, let alone from a stranger. “I’ll consider it.”

That seems to end the conversation. He sets aside whatever he was reading and heads further into the store. Helena paces through the rest of the fiction section, The Sparrow clutched in her hand and the shop dog at her heels. When she finishes scanning the bookshelves, Helena eyes the vinyl records. The employee is also in the records section, looking at something in the Rock Pop Soul bins.

Helena knows little about music save for the symphonies she attends with Father, but she keeps a small selection of cool jazz records. Chet Baker. Dave Brubeck. 

“Miles Davis?” 

Helena glances at the employee. “Do you have a jazz suggestion, too?” She tries for sardonic, but it lands as bitter instead.

He doesn’t seem that phased by it, though. “I don’t know much about jazz except what’s in Whiplash .” 

Helena frowns. 

“You know, the movie?” he follows up.

Helena shakes her head. It sounds familiar, but she can’t place it. “I haven’t seen it.”

He sighs in disappointment. “Right. Well, anyways, I know nothing about jazz. I still listen to the same music I was listening to when I was in high school a million years ago.”

She’s smiling because it's just so endearing. “I doubt it was that long.” The words just spill out of her, and she goes warm from the instant regret.

He laughs, but then lets that conversation die, too, before walking towards the back of the store. Helena sifts through the collection of records a little longer until she feels a faint vibration in her coat pocket. A text from Natalie.

Change of plans! Prentiss can meet you at 2:30! Get back to the hotel now!

Well, a couple hours of quiet are better than none at all, Helena surmises. When the employee returns from the back, she grabs his attention. “Excuse me, sir, but I need to go.”

He knots his brow together. “Um…okay?”

“Aren’t you going to ring me up?” 

“Oh.” He stares at her as if she asked for something unreasonable. “Um, okay,” he repeats, then walks behind the counter. He seems a little dazed, doesn’t even use the cash register, just takes  the book from her and turns it over. “That’ll be eleven-fifty.”

Helena opens her purse and reaches for a credit card, but another text from Natalie comes in. 

Better be on your way!

Just to keep things quick, Helena fishes out fifteen dollars and hands it to him. “You can keep the change,” she says as she taps out a text to Natalie. Be there in 20-30 min.

“I hope you enjoy it.”

“Hmm?” She’s busy hailing another rideshare back to the Grand Kier. 

“The Sparrow. Seems like my recommendation was successful.” He slips the novel into a thin paper bag and extends it back to her. Helena meets his gaze. In closer proximity, she examines him. Brown hair, brown eyes. He’s maybe a decade older than her, judging but the few lines around his eyes. He's handsome, in an approachable way.

“Uh, yeah.” Helena takes her book, then without thinking, smiles. “Thanks again.” 

Before she can walk away, Helena notices the dog by her side, silent but expectant. She reaches out to pet the dog at the top of his head.

“Have a good day,” he offers as a farewell.

Helena gives a small nod in acknowledgment. “Same to you.”

The sunglasses return to her eyes and the hood comes back up to cover her hair. The rain is heavier than ever, and it's almost impossible to see the café across the street where she just ate lunch. Her rideshare car waits for her. She’ll have to tip him well.

A photo of Helena having dinner with the Prentisses circulates online before she even returns to her hotel suite at the Grand Kier.

big_blond_ass: she always looks like she’s 10 seconds from vanishing in a puff of smoke and NDAs

helena-eager2004: she looks GORGEOUS let her eat dinner in peace omg

megglysquared2: this has ‘we’re all adults here’ energy written all over it

“I’ll call around to find more private restaurants,” Natalie bombards her as she removes her makeup and washes her face.

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll have to speak with the restaurant manager tomorrow–”

“Natalie, please , just let it go. You’re technically doing overtime right now. Stop thinking about it.”

Natalie’s usual worker bee facade falters with a small pout. “Okay. I’ll drop it for now. You’re still keeping a low profile, anyways. No one posted any photos of you from your little downtown adventure earlier today, so that’s good. We'll strategize in the morning.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday.”

“So?”

Helena sighs. “Good night.”

Once Natalie is out of her suite and in her own room, Helena changes into her pajamas and turns her phone completely off. Out of sight, out of mind. She settles into the sheets of the hotel bed with her copy of The Sparrow , and begins to read.

She spends almost the entirety of the weekend in the Grand Kier. She swims a few laps in the pool as soon as it opens in the morning, and Natalie makes sure no other guests enter the pool area. She orders room service for all her meals. Eggs and toast for breakfast. Salads for lunch. Fish or steak for dinner. When the rain lets up for a couple hours on Sunday, she prepares to go on a hike in the nearby state park, just to get out of her suite and do something, but Natalie reminds her how muddy it will be from the downpour. So instead, she and Judd play a few hands of cards. 

She also finishes the entirety of The Sparrow . 

She loves it. 

It wrecks her.

She’s never thought a science fiction novel about making contact with an extraterrestrial species could be so thoughtful and heartbreaking. 

Didn’t the store employee say it had a sequel? Helena researches that online. That’s right. Children of God. She has to know what happens next to Emilio Sandoz. 

Monday is bright and sunny, as if the last three days of rain never happened at all. Natalie knocks on her hotel suite door at seven sharp with her wide, toothpaste commercial smile and rattles off Helena’s schedule for the day. Helena planned this trip to get away from work, and yet it just followed her along.

“You’re booked solid until three, and then you have a dinner–”

“Until three?”

“Yes, then a few hours of free time until dinner with Louis Heatherton at seven.”

The lonely copy of The Sparrow sits on the bedside table.

Helena goes about her morning. More potential site visits. Lunch with the Mayor of Baird Creek to discuss bringing a Lumon branch to the town and the economic development and jobs that would provide. Helena grins and bears it because that’s what she does best. 

“I need to run an errand,” Helena informs Natalie as soon as three o’clock rolls around. “I’ll be back before seven.”

“What do you mean you’re ‘running an errand?’ I can do it for you. Discretion, remember?”

Helena grits her teeth and steels herself. “I’ll wear a hat and some sunglasses,” she compromises, slapping on her heavy sunglasses and retrieving the only hat she brought with her on this trip. She's already halfway down the hallway before Natalie can offer a retort. In the elevator, she hails another rideshare bound for Bailiff Books and Records.

“Do I know you?” the driver asks as they near the bookstore.

“No.”

Helena thanks the driver for their service and enters the bookstore. The dog from before lies in the main aisle, half-asleep in the sun but alert as soon as he spots her. She searches for the man from before, but Helena is the only human in the store.

A flush of a toilet whirs, and someone pops out of the restroom in the back. Someone older and taller, with tight gray curls and a mustache. Not the man from Friday.

“Oh, good afternoon!” He greets her with a grandfatherly smile.

Helena hopes she doesn’t look too disappointed behind a pair of obscuring sunglasses, but she really wants to speak with the employee who recommended The Sparrow to her. 

“Hello,” she answers.

“Can I help you with something?”

She chews on her cheek and waits a second. “I'm sorry, you're not who I expected.”

“Well, who were you expecting?”

“I came in here on Friday and there was a gentleman here who sold a book to me.”

He narrows his eyes. “What book?”

“The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell.”

“Ah.” He chuckles, then shakes his head. “He doesn’t work here.”

Helena frowns. That doesn’t make any sense. He recommended a book to her. He was behind the counter and accepted her cash. “He doesn’t?”

“No, just me, and Radar.” This man points to the dog, who now sits at Helena’s side with the same expectant eyes and a tail that wags gently. 

“But you know him well?”

The man nods. “He's a regular, and a friend. He was just helping me out in a bind that day while I was out back with a shipment.”

Helena picks at a hangnail on her thumb with her index finger. The man from Friday is a regular customer. He’ll be in here at some point. Helena’s not sure when she’ll have the free time to stop by again. She just wants this stranger to know how much The Sparrow destroyed her.

 “Can you tell him I really enjoyed the book?”

The man smiles. “Certainly. Anything else I can help you with while you’re here?”

She pets Radar the dog. “Do you have a copy of Children of God?” 

Chapter Text

The weekend is lazy and gray thanks to all the rain. Mark finishes grading those book reviews early Saturday morning and spends the rest of his weekend watching old episodes of E.R. and The Twilight Zone. The nostalgia adds some warmth to the dreariness outside. Gemma would’ve made fun of him at first, but then join him after preparing a large bowl of stovetop popcorn. He can sometimes feel the weight of her on the couch next to him, and the buttery smell of popcorn, only to remember it’s not real.

He rereads The Sparrow to give his mind a break from stressful medical situations and speculative moral musings– as much of a break as a tragic novel about Jesuits in space can provide. Wherever that stranger is with her copy from Irving's store, he hopes she's enjoying the book as much as he is.

Sunday evening rolls around, so Mark dresses in something other than sweatpants and a t-shirt, and heads over for weekly Sunday dinner with his sister and brother-in-law. After their mother died seven years ago, Devon insisted on moving out to Baird Creek to be close to Mark because they were the only family they had in the world. At the time, Mark didn't think it was necessary. He and Devon grew up close and stayed in touch, but having her close by just seemed like forcing something inorganic between them as adults. Eventually, he realized it was for the best. Without Devon, and even Ricken to an extent, Mark would’ve drunk himself to death in the wake of Gemma's passing. They staged the intervention that convinced him to get sober. 

Now they had a baby girl, Eleanor, and Mark would give his life for his niece because she is the cutest fucking baby ever. Not that Mark has interacted with many babies in his life. But he's certain she is.

He brings Ms. Cobel's gross cookies, untouched from Friday evening, and immediately hands them to Ricken when he walks through the door. “These are for you. Chamomile and lavender,” he says.

“Why thank you!” Ricken accepts graciously. “That is so thoughtful. You've never brought anything for me before. What's the occasion?”

“They just seemed like something you'd enjoy.”

“And that I will!”

Devon sits in the living room with a six-month-old baby in her lap. “Look, it’s your Uncle Mark!” she whispers. “Say hi!”

“Buh.”

“Close enough. Hi, Eleanor.” Mark wiggles her little hand to mimic a handshake. “She looks like she’s about to keel over.”

“It’s her bedtime but she’s a little stubborn brat, trying to fight the sleepiness. Isn’t that right, Eleanor?”

Eleanor struggles to keep her eyelids open, which prompts Devon to stand up from the couch. “I’m gonna set her down in her crib. Hopefully this means we get to sleep a whole fucking night.”

Once Devon returns and announces the success of putting Eleanor to sleep, Ricken dishes out the meal he prepared for them. “I’ve been wanting to make this one for a while,” he gushes as they sit around the dining table. “Bon appetit!”

“It’s good,” Mark says, but anything Ricken makes has to be better than the time he burnt a soufflé and kept insisting that it was intentional. 

“Why thank you! You’re in an awfully generous and kind mood. Any reason why?” Ricken asks.

“Not really. Just glad to get out of the house. Been stuck inside all weekend.”

“That reminds me,” Devon says, “We’re moving my birthday dinner to this coming Saturday, so no weekly Sunday dinner for next week.”

“Who’s coming?”

Devon lists names off while counting with her fingers. “You, Lorne, Dylan and Gretchen, Irving, and Petey.” She eyes him and smirks. “Don’t worry, Alexa can’t make it. She has to be on standby for one of her clients who’s due that day.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But you were thinking it.”

“You’re welcome to bring a guest if you’d like,” Ricken steps in. “A plus one, in case there’s anyone– ”

“Babe,” Devon warns.

“I’m not seeing anyone right now,” Mark sighs. 

“Well, are you even trying?” 

“Babe! What the hell?”

Mark rubs his forehead because he’s heard this one too many times. He really shouldn’t have agreed to that date with Alexa. Not just because it went poorly – though it did – but since then, everyone wants to set him up on a date or know what’s going on in his dating life. “No, I’m not trying,” he says. “I don’t want to try. I’m tired.”

It’s Devon's turn to interrogate him. “Tired of what?” 

“Trying to date just because people expect it of me.”

He catches the look that Devon and Ricken exchange. Subtle, wordless, knowing. He used to exchange looks like that with Gemma. 

Mark preps himself with a swig of water. “She’s your friend, so I’m going to be polite, but I don’t think Alexa and I were right for each other.”

“She said you were very ‘rooted in the past.’”

“I’m a history professor,” Mark deadpans.

Ricken chuckles. “You walked right into that one, honey.”

Devon, however, rolls her eyes and purses her lips. “You know what I meant.”

Mark does know what Devon meant. “I’m not not open to meeting someone new, but I don’t want to force anything.”

“Do you mean that, or are you just using your widower status as a shield?”

Mark clenches his fork and knife. “That’s not fair,” he mutters.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” Devon replies. “We just worry that you’re so focused on not being pushed that you won't move forward, and not just in your love life.”

“I move,” Mark raises his voice. “I get out of bed. I go to work. I got sober. I hang out with friends. I come here every Sunday. I even agreed to go on that date. I’ve done all the things people say you’re supposed to do when the love of your life fucking dies in a car crash!”

The air stiffens. The eruption subsides, and Mark heaves a sigh. Ricken keeps his eyes down, pushing around the mashed potatoes on his plate, but Devon glares right back at him, steadfast and unflinching. She’s about to chastise him, but the guilt already washes over him. Devon– and okay, Ricken, too– doesn’t deserve his wrath, not when they’ve watched him fall apart and slowly put himself back together.

“I’m sorry. I know you – both of you – mean well. Can we just drop it?”

“Fine,” Devon stabs and hacks away at her steak au poivre. “Is there something else we can talk about?”

“Yes, actually!” Ricken pipes up as if he’s been powered up and activated. “Have you heard about the possible celebrity in town?”

Mark presses his lips together to stifle a groan. This kind of Internet gossip is not what he had in mind, but he’ll accept the change, however banal.  “Yeah, I’ve heard something like that,” he says.

“I’m too busy with a baby to pay attention to the news,” Devon grumbles. 

Yet Ricken remains undeterred. “Seems like it's Helena Eagan.”

Now Devon's fork clangs onto the plate and table, her eyes as wide as the plate in front of her. “Holy fucking shit . You're only telling me this now?”

“That’s what the local subreddit says. Someone posted a photo of her having dinner with some local bigwigs the other night.”

Only part of that name rings any bell to Mark from the news and his own research into Baird Creek's history. “Wait. Eagan? Like, the second worst medical family after the Sacklers?” 

“Yes, exactly. That’s what makes Helena Eagan so fascinating.” 

“I’m sorry, are you a fan of hers?” Mark furrows his brow, but he doesn’t even know who Devon and Ricken are referring to. Everyone knows the Eagans by name, like a not-so-mythical Boogeyman, but no one can put a face to them. 

Devon snorts. At least she’s let go of their earlier spat, and they can talk about something other than Mark’s nonexistent love life or dead wife. “‘Fan’ is the wrong word, but I do have a vested interest in her. It’s literally my job. Occupational hazard.”

“I’m sorry, there’s lore?”

“I wrote about her once a few months ago when she first blew up online, and that was enough to keep me in the algorithm hell forever. Anytime she breathes near a camera lens, my feeds light up.” Devon pauses to take a bite of her meal before continuing. “Except I hadn’t gotten anything about her being here, in Baird Creek. None of my contacts even reached out to me. I should’ve gotten something. ”

“Can we please backtrack? Who is she? Why is she famous?”

“That’s the thing. She’s like, anti-famous, and that’s what makes her famous. No one cared about who she was for years because no one really cares about the Eagans. Then one photo of her at some gala goes viral, and now she’s the new Internet it-girl.” Devon takes a moment to bite into a roll. “You should really read my stuff, especially if you want to keep up with your students.”

He won’t. Internet pop culture and celebrity stuff is Devon’s domain. Mark’s is the past. He’d rather not know how his students spend their downtime.

“But why is she in Baird Creek?” Devon muses absently, more to herself than to her company. 

“The founder of Lumon came from here, before Ganz was founded,” Mark says, putting his research to good use. “That fancy hotel by the creek is named after him. Maybe she’s in town to get in touch with her roots or something.”

Devon mulls over it. “Maybe.” She chews, then points her fork at Ricken. “You said the photo is of her with some local hotshot?”

“According to the subreddit,” Ricken replies. Devon rummages for her phone out of her pocket, but Ricken swats her hand. “Honey! I thought we agreed on no phones at the dinner table .” 

She surrenders. “Fine, I’ll look it up later.”

“So, compared to Sherry from last week, what does Satia think about the use of air power?”

Immediately, Eustice Huang’s hand shoots up, and Mark grits his teeth and purses his lips. “Eustice?”

“She argues it was a very deliberate yet paradoxical use of terror. They actively employed aircraft to scare a group whom they deemed ‘lesser’ and ‘savage’ in an attempt to come across as more peaceful and civilized, worthy of conquering Arabia.”

“Is that any different from Sherry’s argument?” Mark tilts his head.

Eustice Huang doesn’t back down. “Yes, absolutely. Satia says the violence was intentional, performative, and racialized from the start. The British didn’t lie to themselves like the Americans did. They thought it was necessary to the imperial identity.”

Goddammit. He should hate her because she’s so annoying, but she’s also his best student in years.

“No! Not the fucking split!”

“Tough luck,” Pete Kilmer offers as condolences as Dylan George sulks back to the bench. “Looks like your streak is over.”

“Don’t get cocky, Petey. I’ve seen that arm of yours.”

“Yeah, we all know Dylan is gonna win anyways,” Mark calls out as Petey walks towards the bowling lane. 

“Actually, I’ve got my eye on Irv. He’s improved his game a lot,” Dylan adds. “Both of you suck though.”

“Shut up!” Petey yells over his shoulder, then swings his bowling ball. It swerves into the gutter halfway down the lane. “What the hell?”

“What’d I say? That arm of yours does you no favors.”

“Hey, speaking of Irv, have you heard from him recently? Last I checked, he said he was on his way, but that was an hour ago.” Mark double checks his phone in case Irving gave any update about his whereabouts in the last hour.

“Nah, but I’m sure he’s fine. Probably just needed to drop Radar off at the house.” Dylan stands up. “I’m getting a soda. You want anything?”

Mark’s stomach growls a little, but he refuses to eat any food from the bowling alley’s concessions. He can wait until they all inevitably end up at Pip’s for dinner, like they do every Monday after bowling. It’s been a weekly tradition for a year and a half now, when Petey brought his new neighbor Dylan to the casual bowling meetup that he, Irving, and Mark formed as an excuse to just hang out. They didn’t know at the time Dylan previously played in leagues – had his own glove, custom-made ball, shoes, everything. 

“Nah, I’m fine for now. Maybe you can get something to cheer Petey up, though.”

“Shut the fuck up, Scout.”

Dylan heads over to the concessions, leaving the two academics at the bench in the mostly empty bowling alley. 

“So what did the teen genius do today?” Petey asks as they wait for Dylan to return. He had Eustice Huang in his Music Theory class the previous semester and warned Mark about her abrasive nature. Mark thought Petey was kidding. 

“Just be her usual teen genius self. She’s definitely reading the material, better than I can say for half the class. Maybe institutions of higher education shouldn’t accept anyone under eighteen. She should be socializing with kids her own age instead of annoying the shit out of us.”

“Wait until you have to grade one of her papers. Blows every other fucking undergrad paper out of the water.”

“And here I was looking forward to another AI-generated essay on shell-shocked soldiers.”

“Enough of the boring scholarly shit, the cool kids are back,” Dylan boasts as he sidles up to their bench with someone else by his side. “And look who I found on my way back here.” 

“Hello, hello, sorry I’m late,” Irving apologizes. “I was running late closing up the store this evening. Had a bit of a rush in the last few minutes.”

“You don’t mind that we started the game without you, do you?” Petey asks.

“No, not at all. I’ll join in when you’re done with this round.” Irving removes his jacket and sits down. “By the way, Mark, I have something to share with you.”

“Oh yeah?”

Irving nods. “Yes. If I recall correctly, you helped someone out in my store on Friday. Sold a book while I was out back with UPS?”

The Sparrow and a young woman who wore sunglasses on a day when it wasn't sunny, looking like a porcelain doll come to life, brittle and severe. “It’s ringing a bell.”

“Well, firstly, thank you for helping, but also a huge insurance liability for me. Next time that happens, please fetch me.”

“When the fuck are you going to hire some extra help?” Petey chimes in.

“That’s what I keep saying,” Mark replies. “And, for the record, she was in a rush and assumed I was an employee.”

Irving sighs. “Anyways, I thought you should know that your customer came in again this afternoon. She said she loved the book you recommended.”

“Oh yeah?” So, the mysterious stranger was out there enjoying Jesuits in space as much as he did. He was about halfway through it since picking it up to reread Friday evening. The news brings a smile to Mark’s face. Maybe he should give up academia and find work as a literary critic. 

“Hold up, you said ‘she?’” Petey butts in. “Mark Scout, you had an interaction with a woman who then came back looking for you?” 

“Okay, it’s not like that. I recommended a book to her and she bought it.”

“She bought the sequel when she came in today. She said you recommended it as well,” Irving adds.

Petey whistles low. “Sounds like this mystery woman is down bad for Scoutie here.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, that doesn’t fucking mean anything.”

“Was she hot?” Dylan asks bluntly. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Sometimes Dylan and Petey could be just as irritating about his dating life as Devon and Ricken. Petey made some sense, at least – he was divorced and frequently dating. Dylan, however, was happily, sickeningly married to his high school sweetheart and had three children, but maybe he just needed to live vicariously through others. At least Irving never seemed to push regarding romance and never talked about his own romantic past. Mark suspects there's something tragic behind that. 

“She was…pretty,” Mark mutters, in hopes it will get them off his back.

“That means she was hot, you’re just too chickenshit to admit it.”

“She was quite attractive, although not much fashion sense for a woman her age,” Irving notes ponderously.

If a trap door could open up underneath him, Mark would appreciate that right about now.

“Look at him, he’s blushing,” Petey ribs, then turns to Irving. “Did she leave her number? A name?”

“No, afraid not.”

Thank God. He would never hear the end of it if she did. Petey and Dylan would want to know if he would ever call Bookstore Redhead. “Whose turn is it in this game?”

“Yours, actually.”

Mark exhales and, fortunately, bowls a spare. 

Mark doesn't have any classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but he still comes in to focus on any research, institutional paperwork, grading, and meetings with colleagues or students. They can end up being his busiest days. 

Like today. One meeting right after the other. Online, in person, across campus. No one tells aspiring academics how much the job requires just listening to administration talk about changes that will take years to come, or sorting out issues with the registrar's office because they forgot to process the course he submitted for next semester. Not that many students would sign up for “The American Way of War.” There were few history majors at Ganz, and even fewer who showed an interest in military history. 

Mark takes his break later than usual, scarfing down leftover pasta and desperate to not read any more words or listen to anyone else speak administrative jargon at him. Petey and Irving said that the new exhibit in the gallery on campus is good, and looking at visual arts will certainly help relax his brain. Once he finishes his meal, he heads over to Alvey Hall across the way.

It's a stunning exhibit on the Hudson River School of artists, and Mark wanders through the paintings of detailed landscapes. Gemma always liked coming to the campus gallery, even the student showcases and the more avant-garde contemporary exhibits. She would've loved to see the paintings of Susie Barstow and Eliza Pratt Greatorex. He wanders through the space, pacing like a ghost as Gemma's memory lingers. 

“Oh, it’s you again.” 

Mark searches for the source of the voice. In the corner of the room in front of a William Guy Wall landscape, a woman wearing all charcoal gray and a mismatched blue cap stands and looks at him with intensity. She's familiar, but it's difficult to tell from the opposite corner of the gallery.

She registers his confusion, then points to herself. “The Sparrow.”

“Oh, right.” He recognizes her better now as she strides towards his spot by the John Dodson Barrow painting.  

It’s too much of a coincidence, how she visited Irving's store yesterday and now he's crossing paths with her in the campus art gallery. And Irving was right. Mark knows little about women's fashion, but she's almost dressed like a Silicon Valley tech bro trying to strike a balance between casual and corporate. Who was the tech woman who conned a bunch of rich people a few years back? 

“I heard you really enjoyed it. Even got a copy of the sequel,” he says.

“And I heard you don’t work there.” She stares at him, targeted and unwavering, but the faintest smirk quirks her lips. 

“I never said I worked there. You just assumed I did,” Mark counters.

“But you still went behind the counter and took my money?”

“Technically, I didn’t. I never processed the order.” 

“So you don’t work at the bookstore. Do you work here?”

“The gallery? No. But I do work here.”

She pauses, puzzled at first, judging by the arch in her eyebrow. Mark realizes she's not wearing her wrap-around sunglasses. “At Ganz?”

He nods. “Faculty member. History.”

She considers the information. Is that what she expected? Is she impressed? Why does he care? 

“What’s your specialization?” she inquires.

“World War I military history.”

“Interesting,” she mulls. 

“You should read my dissertation. It’s about the efficacy of rail logistics in trench warfare.”

“Sounds riveting.” She then chuffs, almost surprised at her own humor, and Mark joins because it's kind of adorable to see her express any emotion other than careful indifference, her nose scrunched and a smile lighting up her eyes. “Pun unintended,” she adds as if it isn't already clear.

Mark extends his hand out to this woman and she shakes it, her touch clammy. “Mark Scout,” he says.

“Helly. Riggs.” Mark swears he hears a moment of hesitation in her response, but shakes it off. He’s never heard the name Helly before.

Now it's his time to ask some questions. “What brings you to the Alvey Gallery?” 

Helly turns away as if she’s examining the painting in front of them, but her eyes are elsewhere. “I had a meeting with someone in the development office. I'm just killing a little time until my next appointment.” She says it with a forlorn exhale, but then glances back at him and offers a polite but reserved smile. She doesn’t want to talk about it, and he can oblige.

“So, you loved The Sparrow?”

She springs back to life once more with relief. “I read the entire thing over the weekend. I know exactly what scene gutted you.”

“Yeah, it’s rough.” At some point, they started wandering around the gallery because now they’re in front of a different painting. “Have you started Children of God yet?”

“Only twenty pages or so. Not as much time on my hands as I had over the weekend.” Helly checks her phone. “Speaking of, I need to head to my next meeting.”

Mark’s chest drops a level. “Sure. I’m glad I caught up with you.” Her attention is more on her phone now, typing away, but he has to let her know one more thing. “I actually started rereading the book, too, but I’m maybe halfway through it.”

Helly’s hand lingers on her phone with her thumbs hovering over the screen, but her eyes flick back to him. “You reread your own recommendation?”

“Yeah, I uh… figured if I sold it that hard, I should remind myself why I loved it.”

She seems to forget about her phone now, sliding it into the pocket of her jacket. The gallery is awfully still, and underneath the studio lights, it’s warm. Mark doesn’t remember it being this warm a few minutes ago, especially on his neck.

Helly steps closer to him and, with a swift motion, leans forward to kiss him right on the lips. Soft yet firm, uncertain yet resolute.

Um.

What the fuck?

Before Mark can even wrap his head around the situation, Helly pulls away. She looks up at him with hopeful uncertainty, as if seeking his approval. Mark doesn’t know what the hell to say. He’s too aware of the charged air between them now, too aware of her eyes on him. He just spits out the first thought that comes to mind. 

“Was…was that because of the book?” 

Her eyes widen, then she panics. “Oh God. I shouldn't have done that. I’ll just go–”

“Wait.” Mark grabs a hold of her hand right as she pivots to run off. “You just caught me off guard.” 

“I’m really sorry. I read the situation wrong.”

“I didn’t say that.” Mark hears the words leave his mouth like someone else said them for him, and he blinks. 

What the hell is this? 

Helly knits her brows together, and he’s just as bewildered as she is. Mark scratches the back of his head. “I mean, I don’t know why I said that. I just…” He trails off because he hears his heart pounding up to his ears. Helly remains frozen, her hand still in his grasp. Her hair is pulled back in a sleek low ponytail underneath her mismatched hat. What her hair would look like if she let it hang loose over her shoulders–

Mark closes the gap between them and kisses her this time. He’s still confused, but right now, his body just wants to keep kissing this stunning, strange woman. His hand finds her cheek, and she gasps softly against his lips before sinking into it. When they part, he’s lightheaded and spinning, like the room used to do when he drank for fun before he drank to numb the grief. 

“This is not what I expected when I walked in here today.”

“Neither did I,” she mumbles, almost dreamily, but then snaps back into her usual rigid self. She reaches for her phone again and sighs at whatever message she’s just received. 

“You really have to go, don’t you?”

She casts an apologetic look. “Is…is there a chance I can see you again?” she asks with pleading eyes. “Maybe tonight, for dinner?”

Mark wants to say yes, but he has his twelve-step group this evening. “I can’t.” 

Helly wilts, and that breaks his heart, so he quickly adds as a consolation, “Maybe tomorrow?”

She perks up a tad. “Maybe. I’ll have to check with…my agenda.”

“Can I at least have your number?” He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but Petey and Dylan would be so proud.

Helly hesitates as her eyes flicker, but then reaches into the bag slung over her shoulder. With a fountain pen and a small memo pad, she scribbles some numbers, then rips out the slip of paper and hands it to him. “Here.”

“Thanks.”

She nods and shares a small smile before turning away for real this time. Mark watches her slip out of the gallery with a spring of urgency. Hope and hesitation sit side by side in his chest, and he tucks her number into the pocket of his slacks. 

What the actual fuck just happened.

Chapter Text

HelenaEaganUpdates : Helena Eagan spotted having dinner at The Bier Garden in Leonora Lake, NY. Sources for who is her guest are unconfirmed.

helena-eager2004 : this is such an invasion of privacy omg let her BE!

srmintsjr : so fucking sick of seeing her everywhere on my feed, she's just an uninteresting billionare who gives a shit

captain_allears13 : her style is SO BORING, i love it

officer.blunt.78 : she really is racking up all these old men in upstate ny like what is going on???

"I think we’re approaching these sightings the wrong way,” Natalie informs Helena as she moisturizes her face and brushes her teeth after returning from her dinner with Louis Heatherton. “Maybe we should lean into them more.”

“Why?”

“Because pretending they’re not happening hasn’t helped. Trying to be lowkey only works to an extent. The more silent you are, the more the Internet will fill in the blanks.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Well yes,” Natalie says gently. “But now, people think you’re dating.”

“We were talking about investing in MRI interface patents,” Helena deadpans.

“Do you think the Internet cares? They see you and an older man drinking wine together in a candlelit restaurant. It’s suggestive.”

“I wore a blazer,” Helena states. “He brought spreadsheets.”

“Spreadsheets can be sexy,” Natalie counters without missing a beat. “You’re already an enigma, and this makes you even more of one. As far as the Internet is concerned, you haven’t been seen with a man who isn’t your father. This is an opportunity for you to seem more like a woman about town. Desirable. Relatable.”

“I thought the whole part of my appeal is that I’m unrelatable.” That’s how Helena has interpreted this entire frenzy since The Photo.

“Being untouchable is one thing. Being completely inaccessible is something else entirely, and your family has been inaccessible for decades. People want to connect with you, even if it’s just through aspirations and rumors. I think we should give the people what they want.”

Helena doesn’t understand these mental gymnastics.  “Good night, Natalie.”

Tuesday morning is another blur of meetings. Helena barely has enough time to herself to eat lunch when Natalie is reminding her about her afternoon meeting with the Ganz College Office of Development. “No doubt they’re looking for an Eagan donation to something, but just tell them– ”

“That I’ll bring their proposal to the Board and my father,” Helena recites like an automaton.

She expects the meeting to last a while, but it lets out earlier than she expects. Her next meeting isn’t until five, though Natalie wants her back at the Grand Kier to prepare for it. Helena checks the time; she has maybe forty minutes before she needs to return to the hotel. She can’t go too far from where Judd dropped her off, so she wanders the campus with her sunglasses and trusty cap on. Too many very online undergraduates who might recognize her and try to snap photos or ask for selfies. 

A flyer on a bulletin board grabs her attention. An advertisement for a new exhibit at the gallery on campus, located in Alvey Hall. Looking at art always calms her down, so Helena navigates her way to the gallery and sighs in relief to see no one is in the space. She chucks her sunglasses into her bag, but keeps her cap on just in case, and takes in the landscape paintings around her.  

Helena is alone for maybe ten minutes when she hears the door to the gallery open. Her heart stops for a moment at the very real possibility that whoever it is might recognize her, but when the footsteps walk into space, there is no fanfare. She peeks over her shoulder just to see who it might be. She expects a student with an always-on phone, in which case Helena will have to retrieve her sunglasses. 

But no. Instead, the new visitor is a man, most likely not a student. She gasps.

He’s the not-employee from the bookstore on Friday.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she exclaims. Her voice just spills out of her without a second thought, words almost running into each other from the shock.

The man turns and looks at her and her chest swells, but his brows knit together. He recognizes her, but is unsure from where. Helena points to her face. “The Sparrow.”

That does the trick because his face softens from the realization. “Oh, right.” He recognizes her better now, and Helena takes that as a sign to approach him on his side of the gallery. It’s too much of a coincidence, how she returned to Bailiff Books and Records yesterday, and now she’s in the same campus art gallery as he is. It really is a small world, and Helena is just fine with it.

“I heard you really enjoyed it. Even got a copy of the sequel,” he says.

Oh, so he got her message! That warms her heart, but she needs to keep it cool. “And I heard you don’t work there,” Helena remarks. She channels as much confidence as she can with her straight posture and direct eye contact. 

“I never said I worked there. You just assumed I did.”

Two can play this game. “But you still went behind the counter and took my money?”

“Technically, I didn’t. I never processed the order.” 

“So you don’t work at the bookstore. Do you work here?”

“The gallery? No. But I do work here.”

Helena takes a second to think about what that means, but makes a guess.  “At Ganz?” she posits.

“Faculty member.” Of course. He’s dressed for the part. Slim-fit slacks, a checked collared shirt, sneakers. Maybe a professor of political science, or–

“History.”

Nailed it. Helena leans in, just slightly, as a warmth blooms in her chest. History opens a dozen possible questions, and she wants to know more. “What’s your specialization?” she presses further. Knowing her luck, he’s probably a Marxist labor historian who focuses on agricultural workers in the twentieth century.

“World War I military history.”

Not what she anticipated, but that checks out. Men tend to like military history. All battle tactics and campaigns. Never one of her strong suits in school, but maybe if she had the right teacher—

“Interesting,” she says to get back on track. 

“You should read my dissertation. It’s about the efficacy of rail logistics in trench warfare.”

He drops that detail like an invitation.

Is…is he flirting with her? 

No, that’s ridiculous. She shakes the thought away. He’s just being polite and academic. Probably used to pitching his work to anyone who’ll listen. 

“Sounds riveting.” She says it in an attempt to come across as nonchalant and blasé, but once she realizes what she said, Helena snorts from the unintentional joke. He even laughs with her, probably out of pity. For extra clarification, she says, “Pun unintended.”

“Mark Scout,” he introduces. He holds his hand out, and without hesitation, Helena shakes it. The contact tingles from her palm up her forearm and to her shoulder.

“Hel–” mid-syllable, she realizes he can’t know her real name, so she settles on something else, “–ly. Riggs.” Helly, a childhood name that died out around the time she turned thirteen.

“What brings you to the Alvey Gallery?” 

Helena looks at the landscape painting in front of them, but she can’t focus on it with him next to her. “I had a meeting with someone in the development office. I'm just killing a little time until my next appointment,” she breathes, then smiles at him weakly. Maybe if she doesn’t check the time, then they can just remain frozen in this moment together. 

“So, you loved The Sparrow?”

Helena beams at the mention. “I read the entire thing over the weekend. I know exactly what scene gutted you.”

“Yeah, it’s rough. Have you started Children of God yet?”

She started it last night but fell asleep with the book on her chest, then woke up this morning with the front cover creased underneath her arm. “Only twenty pages or so. Not as much time on my hands as I had over the weekend.” 

Her phone buzzes in the pocket of her jacket, snapping Helena back into reality. She pulls it out and illuminates the screen.

Natalie, of course. Where are you??? You were supposed to be back here ten minutes ago!

Helly exhales her disappointment. “Speaking of, I need to head to my next meeting.”

“Sure. I’m glad I caught up with you,” Mark says, but Helly is busy typing out a response to Natalie. On my way soon. She then types out a message to Judd as well. Are you still at the front gates?

“I actually started rereading the book, too, but I’m maybe halfway through it.”

Helly glances back up at him, raises an eyebrow. “You reread your own recommendation?”

“Yeah, I uh… figured if I sold it that hard, I should remind myself why I loved it.”

That’s so…charming. Sweet. Her insides flutter.

Helena sends the message to Judd, then slides the phone back into her pocket. The gallery is so quiet, with only the hum of bright studio lights against her skin. He doesn’t quite meet her eyes, but he doesn’t look away. She’s so glad they’re the only two people in here right now because she doesn’t have to worry about any surreptitiously snapped photos invading the privacy of this tender and authentic moment with someone who doesn’t know who she is.

Mark is halfway between stepping forward and backing away. His quiet uncertainty draws her in, and she inches closer, just a little.

Helena leans in and kisses him before she can talk herself out of it.

She’s never dared to initiate a kiss before, so Helena’s heartbeat is caught somewhere between anxiety and a burning want. 

Then, her mind pulls in different directions.

What is she thinking?

She retreats, separating from him, her lips still tingling and chest tight. Helena lifts her eyes to search his face. 

“Was…was that because of the book?” he whispers.

 Oh no. Her heart drops right into her gut.  “Oh God. I shouldn't have done that. I’ll just go–”

Helena doesn’t even think to finish her sentence, she’s ready to sprint away and wallow in her embarrassment. But Mark takes her hand. “Wait. You just caught me off guard.” 

“I’m really sorry. I read the situation wrong.” If only he’d just let go of her hand, then she can disappear and just forget that any of this ever happened.

“I didn’t say that.” 

Helena frowns. 

Maybe…she didn’t read the situation wrong?

“I mean, I don’t know why I said that. I just…” His voice tapers off, and he searches her face as if she has an answer. She’s frozen, her hand still in his grasp. 

Mark leans forward and kisses her now, firmer than her previous attempt. So she didn’t misread their interactions! His hand touches the side of her face, and she lets out a small gasp before melting into him. It feels so nice to kiss him, to just let the rest of the world fade away. This is the best thing to happen to her since The Photo.

He moves away. “This is not what I expected when I walked in here today,” he murmurs.

“Neither did I,” Helena sighs, still coming down from the high until the vibration in her pocket sobers her up. She fishes for the phone and reads the messages. One from Judd— Still at the gate, as requested—  and one from Natalie — HURRY!

“You really have to go, don’t you?” Mark pouts.

Helena softens, regret etched in every line. It’s not fair. She never gets enough time just for herself. Even this small vacation to Baird Creek has become a business trip. So why can’t she just enjoy herself? She deserves it.

 “Is…is there a chance I can see you again? Maybe tonight, for dinner?”

“I can’t.” 

She drops her shoulders, and she must look crushed because he then suggests, “Maybe tomorrow?”

Helena doesn’t know what her schedule looks like tomorrow, but it’s possible. She’ll need to double check with Natalie. But how is she going to get this by Natalie? 

“Maybe. I’ll have to check with…” she catches herself from saying “my assistant” and settles on, “my agenda.”

“Can I at least have your number?” 

Helena pauses. When was the last time a man asked her for her number for something other than business? Definitely before The Photo. Should she give it to him? What if Natalie finds out? But then how would she have a way to contact him? Instinctively, Helena digs in her bag for her pen and palm-sized memo pad, then scratches her phone number onto the first page, rips it out, and gives it to him. “Here.”

“Thanks.” He takes it with a smile.

Helena nods as a farewell. Her phone vibrates in her pocket again as she darts out of the gallery towards where Judd dropped her off previously.

As Judd drives to the Grand Kier, Helena deep dives on her phone.

She locates Dr. Mark Scout’s faculty page on the Ganz College website. The portrait photo they have of him shows him when he was younger. Less lines on his face, shorter hair, dopey smile that reminds her of school yearbook photos. 

It lists his educational background. Bachelor’s in History from the College of William and Mary. Master’s and doctorate from Georgetown University, which he received around the time she graduated from Choate Rosemary Hall. Spent some time as adjunct faculty with American University and the University of Connecticut before landing his position at Ganz College, and has been there ever since. He specializes in World War I, military history, war and society, memory and war. There’s even a list of book reviews and articles he’s written, all published in scholarly journals. The most recent one is from three years ago, with the title “‘All a Poet Can Do Today Is Warn’: Combat, Consciousness, and Literary Identity in the Works of T.E. Lawrence, Wilfred Owen, and Their Contemporaries.”

That reminds her– his dissertation that they joked about. Helena searches “Mark Scout Georgetown dissertation railways” and finds a PDF of his dissertation, dated thirteen years ago, from the Georgetown University library website. “Locomotives and Logistics: Operational Control and Railways in World War I.” She downloads and emails it to herself. Sorry Children of God. This takes priority right now.

Then she just searches “Dr. Mark Scout” to see what else she can find. He’s listed in the credits of a Netflix documentary about Gallipoli from four years ago. There’s a whole website dedicated to rating professors, and his page is almost empty save for three comments from five years ago. 

Then there’s one page that redirects back to the Ganz College website from two years prior. It reads like an obituary for Dr. Gemma Scout, a Russian literature professor who passed away unexpectedly in a car crash. “Our condolences go out to her spouse, Dr. Mark Scout, in Ganz’s History department.”

He was married? 

Well, he is older than her, by about twelve years.

That leads Helena down another rabbit hole. Who is Dr. Gemma Scout?

There is less information about her readily available, save for a more formal obituary in the Baird Creek Chronicles. Died at 39 years old, received her PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from Northwestern University, survived by her parents in San Diego and her husband, Dr. Mark Scout. Helena can’t find any photos of Gemma, but she’s back at the Grand Kier before she can go further into her search. 

eggyspaghetti4:  Pretty sure I saw Helena Eagan on campus!!

I go to Ganz College. I  know there have been a few sightings of her in the Baird Creek area these past few days, but I am like 90% certain I saw her leaving the gallery on campus around 4 in the afternoon. My phone was dead at the time so I couldn’t take a photo, but I recognize that deer-in-the-headlights face. IDK why she’d be there but still! 

zz-bottom99: Helena Eagan always keeps us guessing

blackcatrising12: cool for you OP but I don’t think it’s really that interesting to speculate WHY she’s there? didn’t someone already find out that the Eagans are originally from that area? remember, she’s basically a spokesperson for Lumon, she’s probably just doing business and PR lol

j.mclean89: mommy 

As Helena eats her room service breakfast and Natalie taps away on the tablet, her phone vibrates. She doesn’t recognize the number at first, and she's about to delete the message until she reads it.

Hi this is Mark

Her eyes widen and her stomach coils. She quickly looks over at Natalie, who remains oblivious and engrossed in her tablet. Helena is about to type out a response when she sees the ellipses on his side of the screen move in and out.

From the bookstore

And the gallery

This is Helly, right?

A grin spreads across her mouth, and she types out a response.

Yes. How are you? 

Good, thanks

This might be short notice, but are you free tonight?

“What does today look like?” she asks Natalie.

“Looks pretty free. Just that Scientific American reporter at one.”

“And after that?”

“Nothing on the schedule as of now.”

Yes, I am

Would you want to get dinner and a movie?

With me, that is

Helena bites the inside of her cheek.  She acted so impulsively yesterday when she kissed him, but it just felt so right at the time. In truth, when she handed him her number, she never expected him to actually cash in the spur of the moment invitation for dinner. That moment in the gallery was always meant to be a secret she kept with herself for the rest of her life, a little quiet rebellion to everything around her. But actually going out to dinner – not just a dinner, but a date ? He doesn’t even know her real name!

When?

5:30 dinner? 

The movie I have in mind is at 7

Helena gulps down the rest of her water. This trip was supposed to be a small solo vacation, just a week to herself upstate, but ever since she arrived in Baird Creek, she’s had to steal minutes for herself. 

I’d love to join you.

Her heart pounds as she hits the send button, ready to shoot out of her throat. Over on the sofa, Natalie has no idea about Helena’s inner turmoil.

Oh God, how is she going to explain this to Natalie?

Great! 

She doesn’t have to tell Natalie about this. Natalie is her employee – okay, not exactly, Helena doesn’t sign her checks – and her position is strictly handling Helena’s schedule as it relates to Lumon. The Photo has complicated that in the last few months, and Natalie’s taken on more of a publicist role, but Helena hasn’t done anything different than what she did before The Photo. She still meets with others on her father’s behalf. She still shows up to the requisite Lumon functions. It’s not her fault now that everyone is clamoring to take photos of her and document her every move even when those moves are just for work.

This is not related to work, and Helena’s personal life is not in Natalie’s purview. Helena hasn’t been on a proper date in a couple years, not since the defense policy analyst she dated for a few months. Otherwise, she’s been a good little workhorse for Lumon. 

She deserves some fun, too. Right?

Will you be able to pick me up beforehand? I don’t have a car. I’m staying at the Grand Kier. 

Judd doesn’t need to know about this either, not that he’d ever tell. His discretion is exactly why he’s her favorite driver. But he deserves a night off, and arriving at any restaurant in a chauffeured Lincoln Town Car is bound to receive attention she’d rather avoid. Rideshare could work, but Helena is old-fashioned at heart. One of the few bits of advice her mother ever offered was that a man should always pick up a woman before dinner.

Oh, ok. I can pick you up at 5:15 then?

I'll see you then

Helena sets her phone down, stretches her arms over her head, and beams. What a great start to the morning. She can swim her laps in the hotel’s pool and then just laze around until that Scientific American interview, so she can just do whatever she wants until then. Maybe she’ll read more of Children of God so they can talk about it at dinner. Maybe she’ll reread his dissertation. Maybe she’ll –

Wait.

What is she going to wear on this date?

Of course it’s not until this evening, but it’s better to know now.

Helena stands up and approaches the closet where she hung all her items when she first arrived last Thursday evening. She packed all pantsuits, pencil skirts, turtlenecks, vests, and sensible flats. Combinations range from “here to negotiate a merger” to “extremely organized aunt.” Great for business meetings, not for first dates.

She could go into town to find something at a local boutique, or maybe get Judd to drive her to the nearest Nordstrom, but then she runs the risk of Natalie badgering her about where she was and why she feels the need to buy a new outfit. Still not any of Natalie’s business, but still not worth the headache. 

Helena scans the wardrobe once more just in case she missed something and the perfect outfit will manifest itself. Her eyes land on a dress she brought with her – a navy wrap dress she bought a few months ago. Not the most exciting dress to wear because it’s off the rack, but it’ll have to do. It's tried and true. Clean, presentable, and matches the color of the only pair of heels she brought on this trip. 

God, it’s only eight-thirty in the morning. How is she supposed to move about this day? Her mind runs through endless simulations of how the night will happen. What will she say? How will she smile? What if she laughs too hard? Or worse, not enough? She tries to picture herself as calm, charming, effortless, but her imagination keeps glitching. In one scenario she spills water all over the table. In another she accidentally knocks over the candle on the table and it sends the entire thing up in flames,burning the entire restaurant to a crisp.

“I’m going to the pool,” Helena tells Natalie. 

“Do you want me to get management to clear out the space?”

Helena sighs. “No, that’s really not necessary.” 

The swimming clears her head and helps her relax somewhat, and she returns to her suite to shower and dry off. Natalie is not in her suite at first, which lets Helena breathe a sigh of relief. She dries her hair and, for the sake of efficiency, decides to softly curl it so she doesn’t have to worry about styling it after the interview. Helena has a section of hair wrapped around the hot curling iron when she hears Natalie enter the suite.

“You’re curling your hair,” Natalie’s lilt morphs into something genuine. “That’s nice. You never wear your hair down. Do you know what you plan to wear for the interview?”

The plan was to keep it simple and then change into her wrap dress for the evening. Helena still hasn’t figured out how to dodge Natalie about dinner with Mark yet. She’ll cross that bridge when she gets there. 

Helena opens her mouth to answer, but Natalie’s back on her phone now pressed to her ear. “Natalie Kalen speaking. … Yes, I am. … Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. … Why don’t I check? … That should work. We’ll see you then.” When she pulls her phone away, she says to Helena, “Dan Appleton from Scientific American just called. He’s postponing the interview until four.”

Helena narrowly avoids singeing the curl of hair wrapped around the iron. “What? Why?”

“Something about car trouble, I’m not really sure.” 

Helena frowns at her reflection in the mirror, watching the warm curl fall softly against her cheek before she pins it away from her face. “That throws everything off,” she mutters under her breath. If the interview is now at four and Mark intends to pick her up after five, she won’t have much time to get ready. She’ll have to get ready before this interview. 

“Throw what off?” Natalie asks, looking up from her phone.

Helena panics. Maybe that bridge is closer than she thought. “Just some plans I had,” she says, avoiding eye contact and wrapping another section of hair over the iron.

Natalie arches an eyebrow, but leaves it alone. For now.

“So how close are we, realistically, to bioprinting fully functional human organs for transplant?” Dan Appleton asks her. Notebook in hand, he sits in the armchair across from the couch Helena is perched on. Natalie remains at the table by the window, quiet but observant.

That’s one of the questions she and Natalie anticipated, so Helena clears her throat and dials up the corporate charm. “Well that’s the question everyone wants an answer to, right?” she smiles. “Lumon has made incredible progress in biomaterial development since taking on the project a few years ago. At the same time, we’re learning that biology doesn’t always move on our timeline. Rather than thinking of a definitive finish line, we should look at the ecosystem being built. Each advancement brings us closer, whether it’s through enabling better tissue models for drug testing or improving our understanding of how cells behave in printed environments. It’s an extraordinary time to be in this field.”

He just nods and scribbles in his notepad. 

“You mentioned that biology doesn’t always move on our timeline. Is there a milestone that Lumon is aiming to achieve soon?”

That is not a question that she and Natalie prepared for. She takes a beat to think of a decent response based on the points that Executive Assistant Seth Milchick emailed to Natalie the other night. “One of our biggest challenges still seems to be vascularization. If that can be solved, it could really change what's possible, even beyond transplantable organs.” She pauses for a moment, then adds another point that Seth would want her to address. “Personally, I think some of the most exciting progress might happen in the near term in areas like drug testing or regenerative patches.”

As he jots down in his pad, Helena discreetly checks the time on her phone. It’s past five, and this interview was supposed to be over at least fifteen minutes ago. There’s also several text notifications from Mark, but she can't read any of them. Bad interview etiquette.

“Let’s switch gears for a moment,” Appleton asks, and Helena is so relieved to hear those words, until he follows it up with, “because while you and your family might have been known in the biotech space for a while now, lately you’ve become something of an internet phenomenon. Did you expect that kind of attention, and how are you navigating it?”

Helena purses her lips together, adjusts her seat, and hopes her face doesn’t betray her. She should’ve seen this coming. Of course Scientific American wants to be the first to get an interview with Helena Eagan about her sudden new fame, striking the iron while it’s still hot. She opens her mouth to answer.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Natalie interrupts, and Helena could hug her. “We look forward to the full piece.”

“Well I was hoping I could–”

“That’s all,” Natalie declares with finality. “I’ll walk you out.”

Appleton frowns, but he takes the hint. “Okay, well, thank you for your time, Ms. Eagan.”

“Of course,” Helena replies, stands up and shakes his hand. “Lovely to speak with you.” 

As soon as he and Natalie walk out that door, she’ll wait a minute or two, then head out herself and take the stairwell instead of the elevator to avoid them. She watches as Natalie walks side-by-side with the reporter, turns the door handle, swings the door open.

“Oh, uh…hi?”

Helena’s heart plummets deep into her stomach.

Mark Scout is on the other side.

Chapter Text

Okay, but really though.

What the actual fuck just happened.

Mark shuts his eyelids tight, then opens them to make sure he didn’t dream of what just happened. He hopes to wake up in his dark bedroom with the ceiling fan staring back at him. Instead, he’s greeted to the bright gallery space.

Okay, so that actually fucking just happened.

The slip of paper with her handwriting burns a hole in his pocket.

Mark rushes out of the gallery and beelines for Pembroke Hall. Petey’s afternoon class should be ending soon, and Mark needs to tell someone about this. 

Petey’s office door is closed and locked when he arrives, so Mark waits in the little communal space. He replays the recent memory over and over again in his mind. 

“I read the situation wrong,” she said.

But did she?

He wasn’t trying to flirt with her. Sure, he finds her attractive, but a fork is found in the kitchen. God, he even told her about his thesis dissertation. So maybe he didn’t intend to flirt with her, but he didn’t mind it, either.

“Hey what’s up?” Petey asks as soon as he steps into the music faculty’s offices. 

“Emergency,” Mark answers and follows him to his office. “Just happened. Fresh off the press.” 

As soon as they’re inside and Petey situates his things away, he collapses into his chair. “Okay, well, I’m here. What is it?”

Mark starts to speak, but then eyes the open door. “Can I close it?”

“Jesus, what the fuck is it that you don’t want others to hear?”

“It’s not work-related.”

Petey rolls his eyes. “Nothing we talk about is work-related.” Mark stares sheepishly back at him, so he relents. “Okay fine, close the fucking door. Just stop dragging it out.”

Mark shuts the door and takes a seat in the empty chair in front of Petey’s desk. He inhales a sharp breath to collect himself.

“So, remember last night when Irv mentioned the customer I helped out on Friday?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was in the Alvey gallery just to kill some time and she was there.”

Petey lights up and leans in. “Holy sh–”

“That’s not all,” Mark interrupts. “She recognized me, and we talked.”

“That’s it? Just talked?”

“No. She, uh…kissed me—”

“Mark, what the— ”

“And I kissed her back.”

“Holy fucking—”

“And I got her number.”

Petey snaps to his feet. “You done for the day?”

Mark blinks. “Yeah, but—”

“C’mon.”

“Where are we going?”

Petey throws his jacket on. “Irv’s. This needs a full consultation.”

“Okay, what’s this all about?” Dylan grouses as soon as he enters Bailiff Books and Records. Petey, Irving, and Mark are congregated around the counter, with Radar asleep on his bed. 

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Irving replies. “They refuse to say a word until you arrived.”

“Well I’m here now, so what’s so important?”

Petey taps on Mark’s arm. “Go ahead, tell them.”

“You’re making this into a bigger deal than it is—”

“Actually, you did that when you came to my office.”

“We didn’t need to call a conference for this,” Mark retorts, but now that he thinks about it, they always do this. Last time was a month and a half ago, when Dylan requested input on what to splurge on for Gretchen for their twentieth anniversary. They all meet at Irving’s bookstore, or Devon’s house if the women are involved, and hash it out. Mark’s been due for one since the intervention at Devon’s.

“Jesus fuck, can someone just tell us already?”

Mark groans, then looks at Irving. “I saw your customer again.”

“The one from Friday?”

“Yeah. She was in the campus gallery this afternoon.”

“And?” Dylan presses.

“And she kissed me.”

“And?” Petey prods. 

“And I kissed her back.” Before he can receive any more badgering, he quickly adds, “And got her number.”

“So it was ‘like that,’” Dylan teases.

“All of this happened just this afternoon?” Irving asks.

Mark nods. “Not even two hours ago.”

“Wait, why are we here then?” Dylan deadpans. 

“Yeah, Petey, why are we here?” Mark teases.

“Hey, you came to me right after it happened, so clearly you wanted to talk about it. Now we’re gonna talk about it.”

“But what is there to talk about?” Dylan bemoans.

Mark frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“Bro, you literally just said she kissed you, so she’s definitely into you. You kissed her back, so you have to be into her. She gave you her number. What is there to talk about? You’re gonna call her or text her or whatever and ask her out on a date.”

Mark mulls over it. “Well…she wanted to have dinner tonight—”

“What the fuck?” Petey exclaims. “You left that detail out earlier.”

“Tonight? This girl is so into you.”

“Her name is Helly, actually,” Mark cuts in defensively. It doesn’t feel right to keep referring to her as ‘the customer’ or ‘girl’ or ‘mystery woman.’ “And I can’t do tonight because I have twelve-step. But I did mention we could maybe do something tomorrow. It was very noncommittal, though.”

“Again, I don’t know why we’re here,” Dylan huffs. “You’re gonna reach out to her. Case closed. Get back to us when the date is over.”

“Yeah, but it’s weird.”

“You are making this way more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Irving!” Petey butts in. “What do you think about all of this?”

Irving folds his arms over his chest. “Well, Mark, what’s giving you pause?”

Two days ago, Mark told—well, yelled at—Devon for pushing him to pursue dating, declaring he wasn’t quite ready for that. Yesterday, he insisted to Petey and Dylan that whoever the mystery woman was, their interactions meant nothing. 

But this afternoon? He not only saw her again, they kissed. And he asked for her number. 

Mark exhales and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know. I keep thinking I’m not ready, that I shouldn’t be ready, like there’s some clear sign that it’s okay to move forward that hasn’t happened yet. But when she kissed me, I didn’t want it to stop.”

“So you feel guilty?” Irving asks. He speaks calmly, with no judgment, but the word ‘guilt’ lands heavy in Mark’s chest. 

“Maybe?”

Irving offers a knowing smile. “It’s normal to feel that way if you do.”

“Yeah, and no one is saying she’s going to be the love of your life,” Petey chimes in. “In my professional opinion as a divorced man, the whole point of dating is to figure out what works for you. You go out, you talk. Maybe you kiss. Maybe it’s awful, maybe it’s great. Then you do it again. Or you don’t. You’re not signing a contract.” 

“That’s what marriage is,” Dylan quips.

“Exactly,” Petey points to him. “This right now? There’s no stakes, no promises.”

“So are you gonna call her or what?”

Mark sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

Mark first met Gemma at a campus blood drive in early April. They were both grading papers as they waited, bonding over the inane titles their students used. It was Gemma's second semester at Ganz, and Mark's fourth. They organized a first date for that weekend. The mediocre Mexican food embarrassed Mark even more when Gemma said she grew up in San Diego, but it gave them something to laugh about later in the evening as they played kitschy mini golf next door. He kissed her at the sixteenth hole, and then again in the parking lot. It wasn’t perfect, and that’s what made it so. He drove back home that evening, hopeful it would be the last first date he would ever go on. And for six years, it was.

Then there was that date with Alexa earlier this year, which really shouldn’t even count. Part of it was his fault, he’ll admit. Didn’t put his best foot forward, didn’t really try to come across very well. But Alexa, while nice, was also just not right for him. Talking with her felt like pulling teeth, and Mark just assumed he wasn’t ready to start dating anyone, especially after going sober. AA warned him about starting new relationships within the first year of sobriety, though he had no real plans to pursue dating any time soon. He only agreed to the date with Alexa as a favor to Devon and get her off his back.

But this thing with Helly? Only two short conversations and he felt a stronger, more natural connection to this stranger than Devon's friend. 

Maybe that’s what makes it all so confusing?

When he came home yesterday, he did everything he could to distract himself from the contact in his phone listed as “Helly R.” He watched A History of Violence to take his mind off of it, and it worked until he had to get ready for bed. He’s not sure how well he slept last night, not with her copper hair in every corner of his mind whenever he drifted off. Now, at eight in the morning, Mark moves about his kitchen, doing his best to go about his day as normally as possible. He packs a lunch for the day while a couple eggs boil in a pot on the stove. 

But his phone beckons. 

Hi this is Mark , he texts, hovers his thumb over the send icon for a couple seconds, then hits it.

From the bookstore. Just in case she doesn’t remember his name.

And the gallery. Just for extra context.

He’s not even in front of her, and he’s talking too much.

This is Helly, right? He cross-references the contact number in his phone with the scrap of paper she wrote on because maybe he typed it in incorrectly. He pours himself a cup of coffee to sip and calm his nerves. 

Then her response comes in.

Yes. How are you? 

Good, thanks , he shoots back.

Then, he adds impulsively, This might be short notice, but are you free tonight?

He should delete that and start over, but he sends it anyway.

Yes, I am.

Fuck. He doesn’t even know what they would do on a first date. There aren’t many options in Baird Creek for non-students, and it doesn’t feel right to copy his mediocre-Mexican-and-mini-golf date with Gemma. That belongs to her. 

Would you want to get dinner and a movie? Not the most original idea, but a safe bet. With me

Okay, he needs to stop clarifying like that.

The pause is a little longer than before. When?

Fuck. What’s even showing in theaters right now? He quickly searches online for showtimes, but then he remembers Century Cinema in downtown and their “Wednesday Rewind” series. They’re playing Bringing Up Baby at seven tonight . He’s never seen it, but Irving has sung its praises in the past. As for food, well, the best option for the sake of time would have to be Zufu, the nearby Chinese restaurant. It’s probably the best Chinese food in this part of up-upstate New York. He can leave campus right after his afternoon class finishes, giving him enough time to get ready. 

Okay, yeah. This is a decent plan for something so improvised.

5:30 dinner? 

The movie I have in mind is at 7

Is she taking longer to respond, or is he just too wracked with nerves?

I’d love to join you.

Oh, so it’s happening. He has a date scheduled with Helly.

Great! 

He types out the details when she sends another message: Will you be able to pick me up beforehand? I don’t have a car. I’m staying at the Grand Kier. 

Mark rereads it to wrap his mind around it. She doesn’t live here? She’s just in town for a few days? Is he…disappointed?

Well, what does it matter? So she's not local, just passing through.  That should make everything easier then, right? Because if this date goes poorly, he’ll never see her again.

Oh, ok. I can pick you up at 5:15 then?

I'll see you then.

Mark drops his phone on the counter and sighs. So, he has a date scheduled tonight. 

This has been a weird fucking twenty-four hours.

And this was the easy part.

“So?” Petey singsongs as soon as he rounds the corner into Mark’s office that morning.

“So what?” 

“Don’t play dumb, dickhead.”

Mark slings the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder and brushes past Petey. “I have a class to get to.”

Petey follows Mark's heels. “You contacted her,” he smirks.

“I never said that.”

“Not denying it, either. So when’s the date?”

Mark sighs. “Tonight.”

Petey lets out a low whistle and grins. “That’s a quick fucking turnaround! What’s the plan?”

“Dinner and a movie.”

“Yawn . That’s so boring.”

“I have to lecture about colonial troop movements and underfunded supply lines in the African theatre now, if you don’t mind,” Mark dismisses, already half-turned toward the door.

“Fine, but this isn’t over, Scout. I’m gonna need a full report by noon tomorrow.”

Mark leaves campus as soon as the Practicum class ends so he can beat traffic and prepare for this date with Helly. He tries not to overthink what he’s wearing. He keeps the button down and sweater, changes out of the pair of work slacks into fresh jeans, keeps the sneakers. Standing in front of his bathroom mirror, he runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the nerves buzzing at the back of his mind.

Should he buy flowers for her?

No, that’s too much. It’s just dinner and a movie. 

He texts her as he locks up his front door. On my way.

“Oh, hello, Mark! Why, don’t you look sharp!” Ms. Cobel greets him from her front stoop with her syrupy voice. “Where are you off to on this lovely evening?” 

Mark hesitates. “Just dinner and a movie,” he says out of politeness. Best to lie by telling the truth

Ms. Cobel grins and beams. “Is there a lucky lady in this equation?”

Can’t a guy go on one date without everyone up in his business about it? “Maybe,” he shrugs as he heads towards his car, but Ms. Cobel is now walking towards him, her hand in her bottomless tote bag. 

“Why don’t you take some of these soap samples from my shop to give to her?”

Mark’s been out of the game for a while, but showing up with soap as a gift on a first date might not make for a great first impression. “That’s really not necessary— ”

“Nonsense! I’m sure she’ll love them. Everyone loves a little something thoughtful,” Ms. Cobel interrupts with a wink and deposits into his palms a handful of wrapped soap squares no bigger than a quarter each. They’re labeled with names like ‘spearmint and patchouli,’ ‘Guinness beer,’ and ‘basil and black pepper.’ 

“Uh, thanks. I’ll make sure she gets them.”

“Always a pleasure,” she smiles. “Now go on then! Don’t keep her waiting!”

In his car, Mark groans and tosses the samples onto the passenger seat. 

He arrives at the Grand Kier seven minutes after five. In the lobby , he texts Helly, but she doesn’t respond right away. He waits a little longer.

Five-twelve rolls around. Everything alright?

Still no answer.

There’s only one Grand Kier in Baird Creek, so he’s definitely in the right place. He briefly looks up at the reception desk, and an idea crosses his mind. 

“Excuse me,” he says when he approaches the desk, “can you tell me what room Ms. Riggs is staying in?”

“Do you have an appointment with her?” the receptionist asks.

Well, we wouldn’t use the word “appointment,” but they did schedule to meet. “Uh, yeah, at five-fifteen. She’s expecting me? Mark Scout?”

That satisfies the receptionist enough. “She is staying in the Dieter Suite on the third floor. Once you go up the elevator, take a right and head to the very end of the hallway. It will be on the left.”

Mark thanks him and follows the provided directions. Up the elevator, take a right, very end of the hallway, on the left. The soft carpet muffles his footsteps as he approaches his destination, making everything feel more intimate than it should. He stops in front of the polished wood door labeled Dieter Suite in brass letters. He takes a deep breath and closes eyes. 

Why is he so fucking nervous right now? 

He rolls his shoulders to shake off the anxiety, then raises his hand to knock, but before his knuckles make any contact, he hears subdued voices on the other side. 

Then the door opens.

“Oh, um…hi?”

Standing in front of him are a woman and a man. They both stare at him. 

“Yes? Can I help you?” the woman asks with a smile that suggests corporate precision instead of invitation. She’s maybe the same age as Helena and dressed in all clean lines and neutrals, with curly blonde hair pulled back. 

“Uh, sorry, maybe there’s a mix up?” Mark stammers, but then he spots the flash of red hair behind the two in front of him. Okay, not a mix up.

But still confusing.

“I’m just heading out,” the man slips past him and down the hallway to avoid this any further, leaving the three of them all surveying each other. 

“Natalie, this is Dr. Scout!” Helly says finally. “Dr. Scout, this is my assistant, Natalie.”

“How do you do?” Natalie asks, wary yet perfunctory, then turns her attention back to Helly. “What’s this all about?” That time, there's an edge underneath the professionalism.

Helly is standing next to him on the other side of the door now. “We can discuss this later. Why don’t you take a nice bath and get some rest? See you tomorrow.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow,” Helly asserts with cold intensity and steeliness, then flashes a quick, close-lipped smile. “Have a good evening, Natalie.”

She’s pushing Mark down the hall before Natalie even responds. 

Mark has no idea what the hell is going on.

“I’m sorry about that,” she mutters as they wait at the elevator. “I was caught up in a meeting and couldn’t answer your messages.” Then she shifts, a little tense, a little reluctant. “How did you know what room I was in?”

“I asked for your name at reception.”

“My name?”

“Riggs?”

She looks off to the side. “I see,” she whispers.

“So you're on a business trip?” Mark inquires to change the subject. He remembers yesterday when she mentioned something about a meeting in the development office of Ganz.

A ding alerts them to the elevator’s arrival, followed by the swift opening of the doors. Inside the closed space, Helly chews on her bottom lip.

“Yeah, something like that.”

As they descend to the lobby, Mark takes the full sight of her next to him. Her red hair is no longer contained in a sleek bun or ponytail, but cascades over her shoulders in soft, gentle curls. She wears a sheer berry color on her lips. In the dim elevator light, he can’t tell if her dress is navy or blue, but it hugs her figure perfectly.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

The elevator stops and the doors open into the lobby. Navy. It’s definitely a navy dress, and it moves with an effortless elegance as she walks out of the elevator. 

Helly avoids his eyes and tugs at the cuff of her sleeve as they walk towards the front door. 

“I just threw on what I had on hand.” She says it like it’s an apology.

This is what she has “on hand?” Does she really think she’s underdressed right now? Zufu is a decent place, but it’s far from receiving a Michelin star. If anything, she’s overdressed, but in the best way possible. The way that turns heads and stops conversations. The way that inevitably makes everyone else wonder what she would possibly be doing with him—older, softer, worn on the edges.

“You look great,” he assures before he catches a glimpse of the red bottoms on her navy heels as she steps just ahead of him to exit out the door.

Yeah, he’s definitely out of his depth.

As they head into the parking lot, Mark is suddenly very embarrassed about his old Volvo that he bought shortly after finishing his PhD, and it was used even then. It's been reliable ever since. He can't picture Helly in the passenger seat while she's dressed like this, and yet, it's just seconds from happening. He opens the passenger door for her in an attempt to class up the situation. 

“What are these?” she asks.

Mark glances down. Goddammit, he forgot to hide Ms. Cobel's strange soap samples. 

“Uh, soap. My neighbor owns the soap shop downtown.”

She sifts through the little wrappers. “I've been there. It's a nice place. I bought some goat milk lotion.” She sniffs each sample. “I've never seen Guinness scented soap before. And she just gave these to you?”

“Yeah, she wanted me to pass them on to you.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he shouldn't have said that.

But Helly laughs. “A businesswoman through and through, I suppose.” She slips one of the packets into her purse, also navy, and hands the rest to Mark. “I’ll take the spearmint and patchouli. Tell her I say thank you.” 

Crisis averted, for now. 

“We’re not too late, are we?” she asks as he pulls out of the Grand Kier’s parking lot and heads towards downtown Baird Creek. 

“No, we should be fine.” It’s almost five-thirty now, so they might hit some traffic, but Zufu is pretty quick with getting food to the tables, and Century Cinema is just a couple blocks away. They still have a few minutes until they reach downtown, so he tries to get most of the typical small talk out of the way in the car. 

“So, uh, what do you do?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re in town for business. What do you do for work?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds too long that Mark thinks she’s evaporated away. Then she finally responds with reticence, “Media.”

“Like journalism?”

“More…public relations.”

Public relations always sounded like a fake job in television shows and 2000s romantic comedies. “So what does that entail?”

“A little bit of everything. Messaging. Events. Making sure the public sees what they’re supposed to see.” She sounds like she’s calculating every word as she speaks it.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s a family business.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.” Halted at the stoplight, he looks over to flash a grin, but Helly doesn’t look so charmed. 

“Let’s not talk about my work,” she replies. “It’s not very interesting. Tell me about the fascinating world of academia.”

“Well it’s not that fascinating, either. Mostly it’s grading undergrads’ hastily-written essays and pretending I remember enough about Philippe Pétain to teach about him.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” she ponders out loud.

“Pétain was the great hero of the Battle of Verdun during the First World War, but today he’s probably best known as being the head of Vichy France during the Second World War.”

“Oh, that’s right. Collaboration with the Nazis.”

“Yep. National hero turned national shame.” 

He winces. Why is he turning this into one of his lectures? 

“Sorry ’bout that. Kinda hard to shift gears from teaching history all day to being in the present.”

Helly laughs softly. “That’s quite alright, as long as you promise not to give me a pop quiz at the end of the night.”

He smiles as he parks the car in the public lot behind Zufu. So far, so good.

Helly specifically requested the booth in the far back, away from the front windows, and he didn’t question why. He always feels like he’s in a Wong Kar-Wai movie every time he eats here, with its glowing red interior, quiet corners, and the liminal elasticity of time. And now, with an achingly gorgeous woman across from him, it feels almost too cinematic to be real.

“So this is sorta related to work, but what public relations business is there for you in Baird Creek?” Mark asks as soon as they’re seated.

Helly keeps her gaze on the menu in her hands. “It was supposed to be a vacation,” she mutters. “Work just followed me here.”

“You picked to come here for vacation? Why’s that?”

“My family used to vacation up here frequently when I was younger. We’re originally from this area.”

“Oh yeah? Where do you live now?” Probably in the city, he guesses. Manhattan. Maybe Boston or Philadelphia, but she’s definitely Northeastern. 

A waiter arrives at the table, breaking the rhythm to take their drink orders, so Mark has to wait for her answer. He opts for some ice water.

“What does your selection of red wine look like?” Helly asks the waiter.

“We have a house red.”

Mark can tell she’s hiding back a look of disappointment. “I guess that’ll do,” she sighs. 

When the waiter leaves, she returns her eyes to the menu and says offhandedly, “New Jersey.”

“Jersey?”   There is no way this woman lives in fucking New Jersey.

She looks up at him. “What?”

“You live in Jersey.”

“Yes. Holmdel.”

“Where is that?”

“It’s about forty miles outside of New York.”

Ah, so New York-adjacent. “Okay, that makes more sense.”

“What makes more sense?”

Their drinks arrive, thankfully saving Mark from having to answer that, and they place their food orders. When the waiter leaves again, Helly sips her glass of wine. Mark stirs the straw in his ice water. 

“How’s the wine?” he asks.

“It’s better than I thought it’d be,” she replies. “Are you going to order a drink?”

“I have water.”

“I mean a proper drink.”

“No. I shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“I’m sober.” The confession tumbles out of him, unsure if mentioning his sobriety is a better or worse first date topic than Philippe Pétain’s allegiances.

Helly gasps oh so slightly, but just enough for Mark to notice it, and sets her wine down. “Oh, I didn’t—”

She releases a sigh of regret. “Let me start over. Congratulations. That’s a big step.”

“Twelve, actually.”

Her brows knit together, but then she chuckles. “Sobriety humor. That's clever.” 

“And oh so easy.”

Her smile lingers for another second or two, but then the reality settles in, and her expression falls into something more somber. “Can I ask…” She trails off, seeking his permission with her doe eyes.

“You can.” He’s never had to share the full story with anyone yet. Everyone in his life so far already knows.

“Was there a moment? A reason?”

He exhales through his nose and looks down at the condensation sliding down his water glass, then takes a sip to prepare himself. 

“My wife died in a car crash over two years ago. She taught at Ganz, too. That’s how we met. But then the crash happened and it really… really fucking sucked.”

Another sip of water. He avoids making eye contact with her. 

“You know, I didn’t think I’d end up like my dad, but I did. Alcohol was kinda the only thing he and I had in common. I just needed a way to numb the pain, and alcohol was cheaper than therapy.”

He pauses, but doesn’t sip his water this time. He’s getting too sidetracked, bringing up family trauma bullshit into this. 

“Anyways, back in February, my sister organized an intervention, and she was like…eight months pregnant doing that. All my friends, at least the ones in this area, were there. I realized I either need to get my act straight, or I’m definitely going to end up like my dad. Dead in a shitty apartment with empty bottles on the floor and no one calling until it’s too late.”

Helly doesn’t say anything right away. Her expression is still, steady but unreadable.

“So, yeah,” he finishes. “Seven months sober. Or eight. Depends if you’re counting from the last drink or the first meeting.” He gives a short, humorless laugh. “Sorry, is that better or worse than talking about Nazi collaborators on a first date?”

She considers it. “Hmm. Objectively, better by a thin margin. But it’s honest. And that counts for something.”

He exhales, a little lighter now. “Is that bar that low?”

She swirls her wine but doesn’t drink it. “You’d be amazed how many people manage to talk for an hour and say absolutely nothing of note.”

“Tell me about it. Academic conferences are full of them.”

That earns a smile from her, and it soothes all of Mark’s lingering anxiety.

“Thank you for telling me. I know I’m a bit of a stranger, but I appreciate the honesty. And it sounds like you and your sister are close, if she’s setting up an entire intervention.”

“Yeah, uh, she’s alright for a little sister. I think you’d like her.” 

The waiter returns with their respective plates, not even ten minutes after placing the order. Good, reliable Zufu. 

“Do you have any siblings?”

Helly shakes her head as she unwraps her set of chopsticks. “I’m an only child.”  

They both dig into their meals. “Mm, wait a second,” Helly says as soon as she finishes a bite of her steamed shrimp and vegetables. “Earlier you said it makes sense that I live near New York. What did you mean by that?”

He did? He doesn’t remember saying it.

“Oh, uh…I mean…look at you.” He gestures toward her with a faint, open-palmed motion, then immediately regrets it. Sounds too forward. 

“I mean… you’ve got this very controlled vibe that just seems like you belong in Manhattan. Jersey doesn’t really seem like a place you belong. But you’re in the greater New York metropolitan area, so that makes sense for you.”

She blinks at him, surprised. Maybe even a little flattered, though she masks it well.

“So I’m intimidating and high-maintenance.”

Shit. Mark can feel the earth opening up underneath him. 

“I mean—”

“I’m teasing,” she interrupts. “And you’re not wrong.” She says it breezily, with a flicker of wry acknowledgment behind her eyes. Mark takes that as a sign that this date is going surprisingly well. Despite the Nazi collaborators and the deep-dive into his sobriety.

“Rapid fire round?”

“Rapid fire of what?”

“Answers. No explanation, just answer from your gut.”

“Okay. I think I can handle that.”

“Dogs or cats?”

“Cats.”

“Same. Next one. Winter or summer?”

“Fall.”

“That’s not an option.”

“Winter, then. I like the cold.”

“I’m more of a summer guy myself.”

“Because you have less work to do?”

“Hey, the point of the rapid fire round is we don’t explain. Now, are you ready for the next one?”

“Okay, okay.”

“Ice cream or cookies?”

“Cookies.”

“Think I’m going ice cream on this one. Burgers or pizza?”

“Pizza.”

“I do love a good pizza slice, but I gotta pick burgers.”

“I have one.”

“Okay.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

“I prefer tea.”

“We haven’t agreed on anything since cats.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure we can agree on something else.”

“Like what?”

“This date is going well. Yes or no.”

“I’m gonna say…yes?”

“See? I agree with you.”

“Are we going to make the movie in time?” Helly asks as Mark pays for the check. They finished their meals maybe thirty minutes ago but just kept talking, and then Mark ordered dumplings to split between them. Now it’s quarter to seven, and the Wednesday Rewind series can fill up quickly, depending on the movie.

“Yeah, it’s right around the corner.” They step outside onto the street, which now buzzes with more life than when they first arrived downtown, crisp early autumn air around them. Helly’s posture stiffens every time someone passes them on the sidewalk as he guides her towards Century Cinema.  

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” The worry in her forehead melts away, but her walls still seem up. When they come into view of the theater’s marquee, she beams. “Oh, this theater! I remember it now. I saw Dirty Dancing here for the first time.”

“Did you know that resort is actually in Virginia, not the Catskills?” 

“No, I didn’t.”

“I did my undergrad in Virginia. College of William and Mary.”

“Isn’t that next to Colonial Williamsburg? Were you churning butter on your off time?”

“You’re not the first one to make that joke, but I might’ve spent a semester as a seasonal costumed interpreter,” he quips as they approach the box office. “Two tickets, please.”

“That’ll be twenty,” says the old man in the booth wearing a Buffalo Bills cap.

“Here, let me pay,” Helly butts in. 

“But I’m the one who made the plans.”

“I insist.” She lays her credit card on the counter before Mark can make any additional rebuttal. The card lands with a metallic clink .

The audience inside is not too large, but not too sparse, either. Usually these nights attract an older audience, but several undergrads mill about the space tonight. Mark senses Helly tense up again as they walk through the front lobby after their tickets are taken and they pass the line leading to the concessions. She keeps dodging her head as if trying to hide, and some of the younger patrons keep doing double takes at them. 

“Can we sit in the back?” she whispers. 

“What about the balcony?” he offers, and she softens at the suggestion.

They sit in the very first row of the balcony, with no one to obstruct their view. There are less people up there, which seems to relax Helly more. As they wait for seven to approach, she turns to him. “What are we even seeing? I should’ve read what the marquee said outside.”

“Bringing Up Baby.”

“I don’t know that one. Have you seen it before?”

“No, but a friend of mine really loves it.” Mark smiles. “Irving, actually. The bookstore owner.”

“Does he know we’re on a date right now?”

“Sorta.” When she tilts her head, he furthers, “I mentioned seeing you yesterday, but I haven’t followed up with him about this.”

“Are you going to tell him?” she inquires impishly.

The house lights go dark before he can answer that question. The movie starts, and they’re drawn into the black-and-white chaos that unfolds for the next hundred minutes. Flighty rich heiress Katharine Hepburn moons over paleontologist Cary Grant who insists he feels nothing for her despite so obviously being in love with her. 

“Now it isn't that I don't like you, Susan, because, after all, in moments of quiet, I'm strangely drawn toward you,” Cary Grant sputters in goofy coattails and a top hat, “but…well, there haven't been any quiet moments.”

Mark steals a quick glance at Helly as the characters all end up in a jail cell and Katharine Hepburn pretends to be “Swingin’ Door Susie.” Her profile cuts sharply through the blue illumination of the screen, with every angle and curve etched in light and shadow. A quiet smile plays on her lips, and she remains unaware and unguarded. He can’t look away because if he does, then she might vanish, and it will be revealed that this is all a vivid dream. He blinks for a split second, expecting all of it to disappear into his dark bedroom, alone at three in the morning with the sheets crumpled up into a ball next to him and his forehead slick with sweat.

But she’s still beside him like she belongs there, like this is normal, like this isn’t some sick joke the universe is playing on him.

When the movie ends, the red curtain draws and the house lights go up. Mark starts to stand up, but Helly stops him. 

“Let’s wait until the crowd thins.”

“Okay. Sure.” He sits back down. “What’d you think?”

“It’s funny.” 

Mark expects her to provide an explanation, but Helly doesn’t say anything. “That’s all?”

“Yes. I liked it. I thought it was funny. What about you?”

“’S good. Not sure if I buy Cary Grant as a paleontologist, but it was 1938, they needed some escapism back then.” 

“Well, I bought it,” she smirks.

“Yeah, I’m sure you did.”

“Do you own a pair of glasses like that?”

“No.”

“That’s a pity.”

“Is that so?”

“You’re a professor, you should dress the part.”

Their eyes lock together, and Mark’s mouth goes dry. Is she leaning in? He can’t tell. The balcony section is empty now except for the two of them, the faint noise of footsteps and chatter from the lobby below.

“We can probably head back downstairs now,” she suggests, breaking the spell.

They spent the drive back discussing movies, though Helly admits she hasn’t watched many recently. “What was the one you mentioned on Friday in the bookstore?” she asks as he parks the car at the Grand Kier. 

He has to think it over because he doesn’t quite remember that detail, but then the memory floods back to him. “Whiplash.”

“What’s that one about?”

“Jazz. It’s pretty intense, but worth the watch.”

Helly looks past him at the front entrance of the hotel. “Thank you for picking me up and dropping me off.”

“I’ll walk you to the front.”

He darts out of the driver’s seat to let her out on the other side, and they stroll side by side. The night is even cooler now, and the sounds of the night echo in the distance—the trickle of the stream, an owl or two hooting to one another, a few crickets chirping, the last vestiges of summer as the autumn takes a hold.

“Well, this is me,” Helly says. She stands next to the brick wall of the Grand Kier’s facade and smiles up at him.

“I hope you had a nice time tonight,” he says.

“I did. Did you?”

“Yeah, I did.”

And to prove it, he leans forward to kiss her, slow and deliberate, pressing her back against the wall. He’s wanted to do this all night. Ever since they were in the elevator, when he first noticed just how breathtaking she looked. She reciprocates the kiss without hesitation, her arms first snaking around his neck, then her hands winding through his hair. Her fingernails lightly scratch against his scalp, and he can already feel pressure tightening against his jeans. Right here, right now — it’s both intoxicating and sobering. Better yet, it’s her, it’s real, and he’s present for all of it, with no buzz to cloud his judgment.

Chapter Text

Helena doesn’t check her phone all evening, unwilling to see whatever messages Natalie might’ve sent. When she heads up the elevator and down the third floor hallway, she anticipates Natalie waiting up for her in her hotel suite like a stern mother catching her daughter past curfew. Yet when she steps inside, the room is dark and empty. She steps out of her heels and flicks the light on, then looks at her phone for the first time in hours. No messages, not even from Natalie. 

She tosses the phone onto the bedside table and collapses onto the bed, arms stretched over her head. 

She was definitely recognized tonight. The Chinese restaurant was quiet and dim as they ate. She requested a booth in the back away from the front windows, so the chances anyone noticed her there are slim. 

But she caught the undergrads doing double takes in the theater, their conversations faltering mid-sentence before turning into urgent whispers and frequent glances her way. 

It didn’t matter. 

Was it the best date she’d ever been on?

Yes. Absolutely, yes.

Did she say that out loud? Maybe. 

But it was. 

The room spins lazily around her, and her warm lips tingle. Helena touches them and grins stupidly.

She has a busy day tomorrow. She should use this time to get ready for bed, put on her pajamas, wash her face and brush her teeth, maybe read a few pages of Children of God before turning off the light and drift off to sleep. 

Except Helena is too lightheaded and dizzy, caught up in mental loops of “what just happened?” and “when can I see him again?” She presses her palm flat against her chest, as if it will steady the rapid fluttering of her heart. This is absurd. She's thirty years old, and yet she’s acting like a lovestruck teenager in her dorm room at Choate Rosemary Hall. She's not supposed to be this affected. But here she is, fully clothed on top of the bedspread, with flushed cheeks and—

Impulsiveness gets the better of her as Helena lifts the hem of her dress and rolls the waistband of her pantyhouse down to her toes to kick them off. She reaches for the wireless vibrator she packed with her to let off some steam, but hasn’t had a chance to use it since first arriving last week. In the silence of her suite it's embarrassingly loud, even on the lowest setting. She really hopes Natalie can’t hear it through the wall, but that’s her only hesitation before she gingerly touches the head against herself, closing her eyes, and letting the pleasurable waves ebb and flow over her body.

Helena imagines it isn’t a vibrator between her legs, but Mark’s face. She invited him up to her suite after he kissed her. He needfully pushed her onto the mattress, crouched at the edge of the bed, hiked the skirt of her dress up to her hips and yanked her pantyhose and underwear off. He’s too impatient as he licks a wet hot stripe up her before giving focused attention to her apex. She wants to rake her fingers through his hair like she did outside when he kissed her, but he’s not really here, so her free hand slides against the hotel’s sheets, outstretched and trembling slightly as it searches for stability. The crisp cotton is too clean, too pristine, too cool for the heat building behind her ribs and hips. 

Her breaths are shallow and staccato, responding to his mouth, or her vibrator—whichever it is, she doesn’t care. Natalie better fucking not be able to hear any of this. This is not in her job description.

Helena is molten and restless, chasing a high just out of reach. Her thumb searches for the button to increase the speed and pushes on it, but instead of a faster pace, the vibrator goes still. Helena’s eyelids burst open. Maybe she accidentally hit the power button and turned it off?

She tries again, but the vibrator remains inert.

No, no, no!  

Helena groans. Must’ve forgotten to charge it before packing.  She discards the toy and switches to using her fingers, all circling and pinpoint pressure. The boiling under her skin from before has cooled to a simmer, and the motions of her fingers offer gentle pleasure, yet never fully satisfies. The high is further away now, and she’s unable to reach it. Her groin is more numb than white hot now. 

Dejected, Helena gives up trying. It’s a disappointing endnote to an otherwise incredible evening, and she tries not to dwell on it as she prepares for bed. 

tastes-like-cola: I DEFINITELY just saw Helena Eagan out on a DATE 

I go to Ganz College, and I know there have been some sightings of her in the area. There’s this old movie theater in the downtown area near campus that always plays old movies on Wednesday nights, so I went with my friends. I SHIT YOU NOT, after getting our seats, I went to get popcorn before the movie started and I saw HELENA FUCKING EAGAN entering the theater looking STUNNING. At first I didn’t think it was her because every photo of her she’s so buttoned-up and uptight, but it’s definitely her. And she’s with an older guy! There’s NO way this is some business thing because who the fuck goes to the movies “just for business” 

ParkRangerBarbie: pics or it didn’t happen

Lightning-McQueef: she’s not capable of love

helena-eager: helloooo we need an UPDATE on this

fractured-sage406: wait ok so OP said they go to Ganz College in Baird Creek, NY and they’re at an old movie theater. Quick google shows that theater has to be the Century Cinema, and based on when OP posted this, it seems like it’s currently in its showing of Bringing Up Baby 

tastes-like-cola: ok just got out of the movie, we waited outside to make sure it was her. YES definitely Helena Eagan and she was DEFINITELY on a date no doubt in my mind

helena-eager: WHO WAS HE

taste-like-cola : idk! someone older? none of us could get a good discreet photo

“Good morning.”

Helena rubs her eyes and adjusts to the newfound sunlight in her suite. Natalie stands at the foot of the bed, her posture impeccably straight, hands delicately clasped in front of her, wide corporate grin plastered on extra thick this morning. 

“I trust you slept well last night?” Natalie asks, syrupy sweet. “I let you sleep in somewhat.”

Helena sits upright and yawns. It’s almost seven-thirty in the morning. 

“Would you like some tea? Or orange juice?” Natalie heads towards the table, where a cart of room service food and beverage sits. “Tea,” Helena replies, her voice still husky from sleep, then climbs out of bed as Natalie pours her a cup. Helena examines the spread. Buttered toast, brûléed grapefruit, some cheese. No eggs. 

Natalie takes her work very seriously.

As Helena eats her grapefruit, Natalie sits opposite her and studies her tablet. “You have lunch scheduled with Senator Angelo Arteta and his wife Gabby in Wileston at noon, and that’s about an hour away. You will need to be ready by eleven so Judd can make the drive. Then you have the Baird Creek City Council meeting this evening. Graner is on his way now, took the first train out of New York. He’ll meet us when you return from Wileston and we can go over the pitch.”  

She’s just going to pretend she doesn’t care about yesterday? 

Helena’s spoon clangs against the plate like a cymbal crash. “Go ahead,” she says.

“Pardon me?” Natalie questions.

“Yesterday. Go ahead. I know you want to discuss it.”

Natalie inhales sharply like a shark smelling blood in the water. “Oh yes, Dr. Scout. I remember now.” 

Helena purses her lips, and it’s not from the grapefruit.

Natalie returns her attention to the tablet, tapping away on the screen. “Your personal life is none of my business,” she says. Helena knows that’s not the end of it.

“But… ”

“But, my business is knowing your schedule,” Natalie continues, “and for the last few months, I am also responsible for how others perceive your personal life.”

Helena frowns. “What?”

Natalie turns the tablet over to her. “Here. These cropped up last night.”

Helena takes the tablet and scrolls through. Photos of her from last night fill up the feed, and various posts all share their comments — flattering, mean, attempts to be humorous.

HelenaEagansCloset: While out to dinner in Baird Creek, NY, Helena was spotted wearing the Diane Von Furstenberg Sana Dress in Navy ($398), the Christian Louboutin Sporty Kate heel in Marine ($895), and a vintage Chanel navy linen and raffia shoulder bag (price unknown).

In the months since chronicling Helena’s outfits, this is probably her best look yet. The DVF dress works well for the cooler fall weather, especially in the navy. The Louboutins add a polished touch, and then she tops the monochromatic look with a matching Chanel bag. Is this a new chapter in Helena’s style evolution? 

helena-eager2004: oh my GOD i didnt know she was capable of this?

timmyteethatsme: i don’t care if she and her family are evil i would let her drill a hole in my head with those stilettos and implant nanobots into my brain

HelenaEaganUpdates: FRESH! Helena Eagan seen leaving the Century Cinema in downtown Baird Creek, NY in a stunning new look.

imursummergirl96: what the fuck is she’s on a DATE? is she even allowed?

helena-eager2004: ok so i KNOW she looks great but WHO IS SHE WITH?

helena-eager2004: WHO IS HE hes too out of focus WHO IS HE

yellowmnm3: IT SHOULD’VE BEEN ME

doorcity3: this feels like an elaborate nathan fielder prank. the plan: stage a fake date with a mysterious man for helena eagan to convince everyone billionaires are capable of feeling human emotion and maybe buy some of her family’s medication

helena-eager2004: its been almost 12 hours and we STILL DONT KNOW who he is where are the internet detectives when you NEED THEM

She studies the photos some more. There’s no denying they all feature her, all from different angles, different distances, varying degrees of resolution. Walking down the street. Entering the theater’s lobby. Exiting the theater.

Mark is in them, too.

Thankfully, in a twisted way, whoever took these photos were more interested in capturing Helena than Mark. In the two or three higher resolution photos, Mark’s back faces the camera, or he’s behind her like a shadow, partially obscured. He’s difficult to discern in the photos with lower resolution, mostly photos taken in the interior of Century Cinema.

Yet the Internet knows about him now. They might not know his name, yet. But they know he exists, and that unsettles her.

Helena sets the tablet down for Natalie to pick back up. “This is me speaking not as an employee, but as a fellow woman—” Helena notices she doesn’t use the word friend — “but you only have a few days left. What are you aiming to get out of this flirtation with a history professor?” 

Of course Natalie researched him. Dr. Scout Baird Creek, no doubt, yielding the same results Helena found online. 

Helena opens her mouth to respond, but she's unsure of what to say. Natalie’s right. She leaves in a few days to return to Holmdel. She’s usually not so impetuous. She doesn’t go around kissing strangers in campus art galleries just because they recommended books to her before. 

So, what is she looking for with Mark Scout? 

Helena avoids the question. “Just the other day, you said we should ‘lean into’ this image of me as a ‘woman about town.’”

Natalie sighs. “This is different. Those previous dinners could be construed as romantic, but at the end of the day, they were professional and kept people guessing. This is definitely romantic, and… if this is something you wish to pursue, then it opens a whole new kind of scrutiny you haven’t experienced yet.”

“You think I’m inviting trouble?”

“Inviting? You're already in it,” Natalie corrects. “I spent fifteen minutes on the phone with that reporter from yesterday twisting his arm to not mention anything about what he saw in his piece. And you’re lucky the Internet hasn’t figured out who your date is yet. When did you even meet him? Does he know who you are?”

“No. I said my name is Helly Riggs. I met him at a bookstore downtown.”

Natalie sighs. “That explains how he knew to come to the suite, then. I’ll need to have a word with reception.”

Helena sinks into her chair when another ghoulish thought crosses her mind. “Do you think Father has seen these photos?”

“At the moment, no. I’ve been in contact with Seth all morning, and we both agreed this isn’t something that Jame needs to be privy to at the moment.” Natalie glances down at the tablet and scrolls through once more. “Unless you would like him to know about this—”

“No,” Helena interrupts. “I agree with you and Seth. Father doesn’t need to know.” She can’t even fathom what Father would say about an academic if he didn’t like the defense policy analyst who worked for the State Department.

“Are you planning to see him again?”

Helena blinks. She wants to, especially when she only has a few days left in Baird Creek, but they haven’t scheduled another date. 

“If you are, I would appreciate a heads up for when and where it will be. Again, your personal life is not my business, but optics are, and I can’t spin what I don’t see coming.” 

Helena sits in the backseat of the car as Judd drives to Wileston. She’s glued to her phone, sifting through the new crop of comments and reels and posts. The same dozen photographs of her from last night, and none of them with a clear view of Mark. That relieves some of the anxiety wriggling in her chest, but everyone is adamant about uncovering his identity. The term “DateGate” seems to take a hold in this particular online corner. How unoriginal.

Then, at the top of the secret, a notification comes through.

How are you doing?

She smiles. It’s Mark.

Good , she texts back. What about you?

Great

I had a lot of fun last night

So did I

Three dots appear on the screen, then vanish. They come back, then disappear again. Helena’s heart ticks a little faster as she waits.

You wanna do it again sometime?

I’d love to

Tonight?

She wishes, but she remembers Natalie’s debrief earlier that morning. 

Not tonight. I have something scheduled for work

She sees the three dots on the screen, but she sends another text before he can finish his.

Tomorrow?

Can’t

What about Saturday night?

Helena bites her lower lip. Saturday night is cutting it close, but it is the weekend, which means no obligations.

Okay, I can do that

Great

I’ll pick you up at 6 pm?

Yes

Lunch with Senator Angelo Artera drags on, dull and unnecessary. He reiterates over and over again how he plans to support the planned Lumon branch and the upcoming legislation. His wife, Gabby, is mostly there to smile politely and nod on schedule, occasionally interjecting with a comment about how excited she is about the potential economic growth or how much she loves Helena’s outfit and perfume. Her presence feels more decorative than participatory, fulfilling an unspoken social obligation rather than engaging with the policy talk. She’s boring, but at least Gabby Artera doesn’t have thousands of people online, if not millions, all scrutinizing how she dresses or speculating who she’s dating.  

When Angelo excuses himself to use the restroom, Gabby leans in. “I have to ask,” she says in a conspiratorial voice, as if she and Helena are old friends catching up after years apart, “who was that you were with last night?”

The familiar prick of irritation settles behind her eyes, but Helena keeps her expression even. “A friend of mine,” she answers coolly. 

“Just a friend?”

Helena gives a curt nod. 

Gabby taps a manicured nail against the side of her glass. “Everyone’s trying to figure out who he is. You’ve caused quite the stir for the second time this year.”

Helena doesn’t flinch. “They’ll get bored. They always do.” She says it more for her benefit, that maybe saying it out loud means it will come true. But four months after The Photo, and that hasn’t happened for her yet.

“Will they?” Gabby’s tone is light, but her stare cuts through the polite smiles and small talk. “I suppose it depends on who he really is.” She brings her glass of ice water to her lips.

Before Helena can respond, Senator Artera returns to the table and settles back into his chair with the ease of a man who’s never dealt with real consequences. Gabby leans back as if nothing had happened, smiling up at her husband and placing a hand lightly on his arm. Helena forces a smile of her own.

HelenaEagansCloset: While having lunch with Senator Angelo Artera and his wife Gabrielle Artera in Wileston, NY, Helena wore the Totem Collarless Cinches Jacket ($1040), the Saint Laurent High-Wasted Pants in Grain de Poudre ($1550), and the Manolo Blahnik Srila Leather Low Pumps in Black ($895).

After shocking us all with her monochromatic look last night, Helena returns to her usual brand of high-buttoned corporate chic, suggesting she was on a business lunch. Now that we know she has it in her, when can we expect another stunning outfit?

ibrakeforcemeteries: for anyone else this is boring, but on her, it’s chic evil dictator vibes, i expect her to be breaking civil rights left and right

helena-eager2004: helena girlie PLEASE go out on another DATE so we know WHO HE IS

jenniferkissme25: the duality of a billionaire: first look stunning, then like a total robot within less than 24 hours

She and Mark text each other the entire drive back to Baird Creek. She sends a photo of her Children of God paper copy with the message Reading in my spare time, even though she hasn’t gotten very far in it. He asks her all the questions he didn’t get to ask last night. They play another rapid fire round. She asks him about the classes he teaches. He tells her about the irritating child prodigy in his class this semester.

“Who are you talking to?” Judd inquires from the driver’s seat. 

Helena meets his eyes in the rearview mirror. “No one,” she answers quickly. 

“You’re smiling a lot. Sure seems like they can’t be ‘no one.’”

Helena considers rolling the partition up so he can’t see her anymore, but decides against it. She has nothing to hide from Judd. He’s the least of her worries.

“This town has something rare,” Helena recites in the chambers of the Baird Creek City Council. “It has a deep-rooted sense of community, a strong work ethic, and a genuine curiosity for the future. They’re the values that my great-great-grandfather, Kier Eagan, learned while growing up here.”

She glances at Doug Graner beside her, who remains straight-faced and composed. As soon as she returned from her lunch with Senator Artera, Graner was at the Grand Kier, just off the train and ready to sketch out their proposal for City Council. Graner answers the nitty-gritty questions, but naturally, Helena presents the “big picture” ideas. Better to hear all the talking points of progress and modernity from a young, pretty woman. Not that he needs to say as much. 

“What we’ve outlined today is more than an expansion plan for Lumon. It’s a homecoming. It’s a reinvestment in the place that shaped Lumon into who we are today. We are committed to providing high-skilled local jobs, sustainable research practices, STEM education partnerships, and shared growth. Our branch here won’t be a distant corporate satellite. It will be part of the fabric of Baird Creek. My family built Lumon Industries not just to innovate, but to invest in places where that science can help people live better, healthier lives. I see that opportunity here. With your support, we’re ready to get to work. Together. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Eagan,” City Councilmember Quayle speaks into the microphone. “At this time, the floor now opens to the citizens of Baird Creek who wish to speak either in favor of or against approval of PLN-DEV-2425-014, Applicant Lumon Industries, before City Council votes on it.”

Helena sits down in between Natalie and Graner. “You did well,” Natalie whispers to her. 

She hopes so. She rehearsed the closing remarks at least a dozen times in the car as Judd drove the three of them to City Hall. Graner doesn't offer any solace, just remains as austere and gruff as ever.

Helena tries listening to all the citizens as they share their input, but she struggles to focus on everyone’s comments, either positive or negative. One of the more impassioned citizens is an older woman with long gray hair tied into braids.

“Councilmembers, My name is Harmony Cobel, and I am the owner of the Swab Girl Soap Shop in Downtown Baird Creek.”

Helena remembers the goat milk lotion and patchouli and spearmint soap sample from yesterday, now sitting on the bathroom counter in her suite. So, she must be Mark’s neighbor.

“My late husband and I moved here over a decade ago to avoid faceless corporations, and I just know he is turning around in his grave over this threat to our beloved community. This is land theft by a multi-billion dollar corporation looking for a cheap foothold and some good PR. Ms. Eagan may tout her family’s history all she wants, but how have the Eagans and Lumon Industries meaningfully contributed to the community? They don’t care about our town or the people who live here. My business, along with many others, will get priced out because of the gentrification that will inevitably come from this new site. Next thing you’ll know, they’ll buy our beloved state park and put rollercoasters and Ferris wheels in it! So, I ask you, Councilmembers: do you work for us, the citizens of Baird Creek, or do you work for Lumon Industries? Thank you, and I will be available for questions.”

“I'm not sure what amusement parks have to do with us,” Graner mutters under his breath. “Lumon isn’t Disney.” 

Helena keeps her eyes down and her hands in her lap, but her skin prickles when the City Clerk announces the next speaker. 

“Next speaker: Mr. Irving Bailiff.”

She knows that name. There’s no way it's—

“Good evening Councilmembers. As you know, my name is Irving Bailiff, and I own Bailiff Books and Records in Downtown Baird Creek.” He looks over at Helena for a split second.

Fuck.

“Lumon Industries promises a great deal to the citizens of Baird Creek, but their track record suggests otherwise. Salt’s Neck. Stonelatch. Redden Hill. These are just a few of the company towns that Lumon helped to build up, only to abandon them and leave when it was no longer profitable. Baird Creek certainly has enough going for it that it does not need a megacorporation like Lumon to step in. As my fellow business owner Ms. Cobel put it so…colorfully, a new branch of Lumon will do more harm than good. It will contribute to a higher cost of living and price out many citizens and businesses like my own. I implore you, Councilmembers, to vote ‘no’ on this proposed development. Thank you.” 

Irving returns to his seat in the back of the chambers, and more citizens continue to speak at the podium, but Helena hears none of them. Her heart races and her head thickens as she keeps looking at him in the corner of her eye. She doesn’t even hear how the City Council votes. As soon as the meeting adjourns, Helena jumps to her feet. Irving is walking out of the chambers. If she could just reach him, tell him not to say anything to Mark about this—

“Where are you going?” Natalie asks. “We need to celebrate!”

“I, uh…” 

But Irving Bailiff is gone.

HelenaEaganUpdates: Helena spoke in front of the Baird Creek City Council this evening regarding a new Lumon branch in the city’s limits. You can watch the video at this link.

gg_queenie: damn so that's why she's been there? occam's razor…

sparklemerkin : wtf i shouldve been going to city council meetings this whole time???

helena-eager2004: BUT WHO WAS SHE OUT WITH LAST NIGHT? How do we not know yet?!

BairdCreekGov: Due to an unprecedented amount of web traffic, the City of Baird Creek website is functioning at a limited capacity. Video recordings and ePay transactions are suspended until further notice.

Helena sits in front of her laptop with the webcam turned on, barely paying attention to the talking head of Doug Graner as he relays last night’s City Council meeting to other higher-ups at Lumon. She’s not sure why she needs to sit in on this when yesterday’s City Council meeting was recorded and readily available online. Her mind is too preoccupied with wondering how she can get to Bailiff Books and Records this afternoon. She needs to speak with Irving. Mark hasn’t texted her yet about her real identity, but that doesn’t mean Irving hasn’t said anything. 

“Helena?”

“Hmm?” she snaps out of her daze.

Graner and the other talking heads are gone; it’s just her and Seth Milchick in this virtual room now. He smiles at her like a snake, his eyes directly on the camera and bearing directly into her soul. “Natalie informs me that you anticipate returning to Holmdel on Sunday. Is that correct?” 

Fuck. The end of her time in Baird Creek crept up on her. It’s unfair. How is she supposed to tell Mark when she sees him tomorrow? My apologies for not telling you sooner, but after two great dates, I am afraid I must depart forever. Goodbye! 

“No,” Helena answers. Her voice shocks even her. 

Seth Milchick blinks at her through the camera. “No?” he repeats.

“I’m extending my time here in Baird Creek,” she improvises. She ignores Natalie’s wide eyes from across the room.

“But, Jame is expecting you back on Monday—”

“This trip was intended to be a vacation, so I will be taking a proper vacation for at least a week.” She needs to call reception and see if that’s even possible, though she doubts anyone else has the Dieter Suite reserved for the next month. “You can tell my father that, Seth.”

Seth seethes. She can see it in his face and the way he sits back in his chair. “Very well. We wish you a restful trip and look forward to your return. Is there anything else we need to discuss before we part for the day?”

“No,” Helena snaps. “Have a good weekend, Seth.”

“Enjoy your—”

She exits the room and shuts her laptop together.

“Extending?” Natalie exclaims. “Since when are you extending?”

Helena ignores her and uses the hotel phone to call reception.

“Good morning. This is the Grand Kier Reception Desk. How may I be of service?”

“Good morning, this is Helena Ea—Riggs, in the Dieter Suite. I am scheduled to check out on Sunday morning, but is it possible to extend my reservation?”

“Just a moment, Ms. Riggs.” Faint tapping noises come from the other end of the line. “Currently, I see no reservations in the Dieter Suite until mid-October. How long would you like to extend it?”

“A week.”

“You are all set. Is there anything else I can help you with at the moment?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Helena sets the phone down, pulls her hair back into a ponytail, and retrieves her favorite blue cap and sunglasses. Natalie fumes with her arms across her chest. 

“This is about the professor, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t just about him,” Helena replies defiantly as she stuffs her purse with her wallet and her phone. “I would just like one week where I have no obligations. Is that too much to ask?”

Natalie purses her lips together but doesn’t respond. 

“You don’t need to stay with me,” Helena offers. “You and Judd can return to Holmdel, and I can take a train back when I am finished.  Judd deserves a break, too, and I’m sure there’s some intern back there who could use some of your micromanaging.”

She steps out of the hotel suite before Natalie can respond. 

Bailiff Books and Records is dead quiet when she steps inside. She peeks over the counter to see  Radar the dog curled up, fast asleep on his bed. Just last week she met Mark and bought a book. She was here on Monday, too. Everything before their date on Wednesday feels like weeks ago, a different lifetime.

“Hello?” she calls out, but there’s a small, infinitesimal part of her that hopes Irving Bailiff is not here at all, that Radar owns and operates the store singlehandedly—

“Yes, how can I help you?” a voice rings out as the tall figure emerges from the back room. When his eyes settle on her, his customer service cheer falters. 

“Ah. Ms. Eagan, I presume?” 

“Mr. Bailiff, I…” she trails off. During the whole ride to the store in the back of a rideshare, she rehearsed what to say to him, but nothing sounded right. What is she supposed to do in this situation? Interrogate him? Beg him? Threaten him? Even she knows that’s a recipe for disaster.

Irving takes a hold of the conversation for the both of them. “I must admit, I was quite surprised to see you at the City Council meeting last night.” 

“Um…the feeling is mutual,” Helena mumbles.

“I was disappointed that the City Council voted in favor of the new Lumon branch, but I shouldn’t be surprised.” He makes his way behind the counter. “Although, you are not here to talk shop with me about that.” He chuckles humorlessly.

“Mr. Bailiff,” she tries again, but he holds up a hand.

“I greatly value my friends,” he continues. “I am a lonely old bachelor, and apart from this store and my dog, my friends are all I have. And Mark Scout is a very good friend of mine who has been through quite a lot the last few years—”

“I know,” she interjects. “We, um, we saw each other the other night—”

“Yes, I assumed as much. He suggested he would be reaching out to you. I haven’t heard from him in a few days.” Irving smiles. “He’s quite taken with you. Well, Ms. Riggs, that is.”

Helena blanches. 

“I haven’t said a word to him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Helena’s shoulders drop in relief. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“Don’t thank me, dear. This isn’t something he should hear from me.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but once again, she’s at a loss for words. 

“Now, is there anything else I can help you with today?”

Helena just stills. “No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll wish you a good afternoon, Ms. Eagan.” 

He disappears to the back room once again.

Helena isn’t ready to return to the Grand Kier yet, so she wanders around the downtown drag to window shop and calm her nerves. She’s hungry, and yet she’s not at all, and she’s not willing to sit still for longer than fifteen minutes and risk being spotted. She tries not to think too much about Irving’s words. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t exactly kind, either. 

And the worst part is—Irving is right. She needs to tell Mark the truth. He’s going to find out at some point.

But it’s just so much easier to not be Helena Eagan. And Helly Riggs is still her, right?

She wanders through the aisles of an antique store when her phone vibrates. Her heart skips a beat as she checks the message.

Mark.

So about tomorrow  

I forgot that tomorrow is my sister’s birthday dinner 

And I really do have an obligation tonight, otherwise we could meet tonight

Any chance you’re free Sunday?

Helena chews her bottom lip. She will be free, but Sunday sounds so far away. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to do tonight. 

I can come

The message just manifests itself from her thumbs. So does the next.

I’d love to go with you to your sister’s birthday dinner

A trio of noisy undergrads waltz into the antique store. Helena ducks into an alcove filled with pink and green Depression glass with her back turned to the main aisle. 

You want to be my date to my sister’s birthday dinner? 

Is that alright?

The dancing ellipses keep appearing on and off the screen. This was too forward. She’s too forward. They only met a week ago and went on one date, and now she’s inviting herself to his sister’s birthday dinner? He must think she’s insane, or desperate, or obsessive, or all of the above. 

The ellipses cease for longer this time. Oh no, he’s just going to leave her hanging. She extended her time in Baird Creek for nothing—

Yeah

That’s actually the best present I can get for her

Is my presence a present? Helena snorts to herself as she types and sends that out.

In a way

She smiles, and her stomach flutters.

I can pick you up again. It’s at 6 tomorrow

What can I get her?

You don’t need to get her anything

I want to. She’s in an antique store right now, surely something in here would be a suitable gift for Mark’s sister. 

Ok. She’s a writer, if that helps

It does! Antique stores always have old fashioned typewriters, and all the writers Helena knows own a typewriter despite never using it.

But then another question picks at her brain. What’s the dress code for this dinner? 

Uh…casual?

Helena frowns. She hates being in this predicament. The dress she wore on their date was the most casual article of clothing she packed, but she can’t wear that again. Mark would notice. Maybe one of these boutiques will have something she can find.

I look forward to it

Ok

Helena returns to her suite with a boxed-up antique typewriter, just in time for her final meeting that afternoon—a meeting with the Baird Creek Planning Department Director to discuss next steps for the upcoming branch. Natalie leaves her alone for all of Friday evening, which is just fine with Helena. She uses that time to catch up on Children of God and carefully curate the perfect look for tomorrow’s dinner party. None of the downtown boutiques were satisfactory, so she goes back and forth with the items hanging in her suite's closet. The dress remains off-limits, so she cycles through different combinations of skirts and pants and blouses. After much deliberation, she settles on a brown houndstooth-patterned pencil skirt, an ivory button-up, and the leather flats with a slight heel. This is casual, right?

Helena goes stir crazy on Saturday as she waits for six to roll around, trying to find ways to occupy her mind. Swims laps in the hotel pool in the morning. Showers and styles her hair. Reads more of her novel. Catches a cable broadcast of While You Were Sleeping and watches it, ad breaks and all. At least Helena isn’t pretending to be the fiancé of a man in a coma like Sandra Bullock does.

She hasn’t seen Natalie all day, not that she wants to see Natalie much, but she just wants to check up on her. She might’ve been a little cruel when they last spoke yesterday. Natalie does eventually show her face around five, as Helena applies a light layer of makeup and touches up her hair.

“I assume you’re seeing him again?” Natalie asks. She’s not even disdainful, just direct.

“Yes,” Helena responds with her mascara in her upper eyelashes. She pauses to glance over at Natalie. “I don’t need you to comment on it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Natalie states coolly. “You look lovely. Where is he taking you?”

“It’s his sister’s birthday, we’re going to dinner at her house.”

Natalie’s brows rise. “Meeting his family already? I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Helena finishes her mascara and fills in her brows. “We won’t be in public.”

“Oh, sure. But what if someone at this dinner recognizes you?”

The thought crossed her mind last night when she struggled to fall asleep, but her morning laps helped her clear her head. Mark doesn’t recognize her, and she doubts anyone in his circle would recognize her. Not that she knows much about his circle of friends, save for Irving. But even he didn’t know who she was until the City Council meeting, and what are the chances Irving is going to be at Mark’s sister’s birthday dinner? Helena Eagan is a niche Internet fascination, not someone whom academics and actual adults would know about—

“I’ve considered it,” she says, ignoring the anxious worming in the back of her head, “and I’ll handle it.”

Natalie just nods. “Well, I’ll be here.”

I’m downstairs

Helena meets Mark in the lobby with her boxed typewriter, and she smiles when he notices her. He smiles back at her.

“Hey there,” he greets.

“Hello.”  

“What’s that?” He points to the box.

“Your sister’s birthday gift. It’s an antique typewriter.”

“Oh, cool. She’ll like it.”

“Really?” Helena beams.

“Yeah, I think so.”

He leans in, but Helena steps to the side. The hotel has been a relatively safe private space, but the lobby is still too open and public-facing. “Let’s get going, shall we?” she suggests over her shoulder as she walks towards the front door.

“Uh, sure,” Mark says.

She requests to put the box in the trunk of his car, and he opens the passenger door for her. It’s dark and secluded enough in the Grand Kier’s parking lot, and once Mark is in the driver’s seat, she grabs a fistful of his forest green sweater and pulls him into a hungry kiss.

She’s been wanting to do that ever since their last one.

“I thought for a second I did something wrong,” Mark says when she breaks away. “Back in the lobby?”

“Not at all. I just didn’t—” she stops because she was just about to say I didn’t want anyone to see us , but that suggests she’s ashamed of him. She thinks rapidly for a different answer. “I just didn’t want to be holding that box any longer. It’s really heavy.”

“Oh, well, good thing it’s been put away now.” He kisses her once more, leaving Helena warm and soft inside. 

They keep kissing, unwilling to separate, until Helena opens her eyes and notices the clock illuminated on the center console. They’ve been here for almost five minutes, just kissing. It’s not even that comfortable. 

“We should get going, though,” she says as she breaks apart. “Don’t want to keep your sister waiting.”

“Right,” he exhales with a crooked smile and a look that burns through her.

Mark informs Helena more about his sister as he drives towards their destination. Her name is Devon, her husband is Ricken, and she gave birth a few months ago to a little girl named Eleanor. She's a freelance writer and editor, and Ricken also claims he is a writer despite remaining unpublished. Mark tells Helena embarrassing childhood stories about Devon that she must never repeat, otherwise Devon will kill him for ever mentioning them. She was their mother's caretaker in the years leading up to her death, and then she moved to Baird Creek to be close to her only family. She dated a woman named Lorne for a while after arriving in town but broke up and met Ricken sometime after. She's still friends with Lorne, who will probably be at the party. 

Helena listens intently, both in awe and envious of this close relationship Mark has with his sister. Helena has no siblings—none formally recognized, at least. Father is her only immediate family. Her mother passed away when she was sixteen, and Helena’s still not sure she ever felt sad experiencing her mother's death. As a child, her mother treated her like a prized accessory, but as she grew older, she became more and more of an afterthought, an heirloom kept around out of familial obligation. 

“Why’d you want to come to this anyway?” Mark asks right as he pulls into a driveway.

“Just felt like being around some new company.”

“Well, I gotta warn you. Devon and I share a lot of friends, so everyone here is going to jump on you the second they learn who you are.”

Helena frowns. “What?”

“Once everyone finds out I brought a date, they're gonna give you the third degree.”

Helena relaxes. “Even Devon?” she teases.

“Especially Devon. And Ricken, by extension. But yes, Devon's been on my ass lately about…uh, dating again.”

“Oh, so that's what you meant with me being the best present you could give your sister?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, exactly.”

“Well I won't disappoint. I'll put on a good show.” 

“Oh really?”

“Mhmm,” she hums as she leans in to kiss him one more time before they have to get out.

They kiss for another minute before they pull away to make it to the front door, boxed typewriter in Helena’s arms. 

“By the way, you look great,” he says as they head up the walkway.

“Thank you,” she accepts. She expects him to knock on the door or ring the doorbell, but Mark just strolls inside. 

“Hello,” Mark announces. He turns to Helena and whispers, “We're the first ones here.”

He moves further into the home, and Helena takes the quiet time to absorb the space. It's a beautiful mid-century modern home, all wood and glass. She sets the boxed typewriter on the dining room table and admires the craftsmanship of the chairs around it.

“Hey, sorry about that,” a feminine voice from behind them says. “We were struggling for our fucking lives to put Eleanor down for the night. Ricken's in the bathroom now.”

Helena turns to see a woman with curly brown hair in jeans and an aubergine sweater at the bottom of the staircase. She readies herself with a friendly smile, but Devon's eyes widen and her jaw drops as soon as they make eye contact.

“Devon, this is Helly,” Mark gestures between them.

There's not a shadow of a doubt in Helena’s mind.

“Holy fucking shit,” Devon deadpans.

Holy fucking shit.

She knows.

Chapter Text

“So how was it?”

Mark jumps out of his skin from the sight of Petey sitting in a chair in the history department common space. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, how long have you been there?” he asks. 

Petey shrugs. “Only five minutes. Wait, hang on, before you say anything, let me get Dylan on the phone.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

But Petey is already dialing up Dylan. “Hey, I’m with Mark right now, he wants to talk about his date—”

“No, I don’t, actually!” Mark raises his voice so Dylan can hear him, then strides to his office in hopes Petey will take the hint. Instead, Petey just follows him, holding his phone open-faced.

“Okay, chop chop, I’ve got ten minutes before this meeting,” Dylan’s voice emanates from Petey’s hand. 

Mark groans. “Really? What are we, a bunch of gossiping old hens with nothing better to do?”

“Do you wanna wait and talk about it with Irving?” Petey suggests.

“No,” Mark exhales and rolls his eyes as he sinks into his chair behind his desk. Petey will never stop badgering him about this, so he relents. “It was good.”

“That’s it?” Petey stares at him expectantly.

Well, no. It was fucking great. So great that Mark’s not even sure it really happened. He doesn’t remember anything between kissing Helly against the wall outside the Grand Kier to when he woke up this morning. All of it feels like the most intense lucid dream—his lips against hers, her fingers threaded in his hair, the breathlessness of her voice when they broke apart and she said, “Good night.” He keeps rewinding the memory over and over so he can never forget it. 

Petey and Dylan don’t need to know all of that.

“It went really, really well,” Mark offers.

“What’d you do?” Dylan asks.

“Dinner and a movie,” Petey answers.

“Really, Mark? Did you take date suggestions from your students in exchange for extra credit?”

“What is wrong with dinner and a movie for a first date?” Mark exclaims. “It’s a classic.”

“‘Classic’ is just another word for predictable,” Dylan chimes in.

“Okay, well, I had less than twelve hours to improvise, and I think it turned out really well. We went to Zufu—”

“You took her to Zufu?” Petey interrupts gravely.

“Yeah, and then we saw something at Century Cinema.”

“Okay, Century’s cool, I’ll give you that,” Dylan chimes in.

“Thank you,” Mark accepts. 

“And you think she had a good time?” Petey asks.

“Yeah, I do. She said so.”

Petey sighs. “I guess that’s all that matters. You going on a second date any time soon?”

Mark opens his mouth but then pauses. He’s been riding the high of last night all morning that he hadn’t even considered what a follow-up date would be like. Especially when she doesn’t even live in Baird Creek. She’s in town for business, and he doesn’t even know for how long. For all he knows, she’s packing up today, never to be seen again, and he’ll be left with one perfect memory to think about until it fades away.

“It’s only been a day. We haven’t discussed it,” he finally says. 

“Hey, uh, I gotta head to this meeting, but Mark, don’t be a pussy,” Dylan’s disembodied voice threatens.

“Thanks, Dylan.”

Petey puts his phone away and shoves his hands in his pockets. “So if this date is as good as you say it is, you will be asking her out on a second date, right?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“Turns out she’s not from here. I had to pick her up at the Grand Kier.”

“Oh, she’s just visiting ?” Petey raises an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s stifling a smirk.

Mark nods. “I don’t know when she leaves, just that she’s in town for something work-related.”

“Who comes here for a work trip?”

“She said she’s in public relations.”

“That’s not a real job,” Petey scoffs, but doesn’t draw more attention to it. “Whatever. Your time is limited. Get another date in the books and have fun while you can.” He smirks, then adds, “While she can.”

“Jesus—”

“I’m just calling it like it is, okay, Scout? I can tell you like her, and it sounds like she likes you.” He pauses to check his watch. “Fuck, I gotta get to my morning class, but this isn’t over.”

Once he’s left alone, Mark runs a hand through his hair and gathers himself. He has work to do this morning, so he throws himself into answering emails and developing the syllabus for next semester’s class. It works for a few hours, allowing him to settle back into reality and focus on the tasks at hand rather than the nebulous outside world. But as noon approaches, his mind wanders off to Helly’s red hair framing her face and how her navy dress hugged her figure—

How are you doing? he types out after fishing for his phone in his messenger bag. He sets the phone down in an attempt to not stare at it anxiously because she’s probably busy right now—

The phone vibrates lightly, and Mark springs into action.

Good . What about you?

Great

I had a lot of fun last night

So did I

Good. This is good. She really did enjoy their date. Not that he had any doubts. But, you know. It’s good to receive the validation. He types up different responses but keeps deleting them because none of them sound right. When can I see you again? sounds pushy. I'd like to see you again sounds too formal. Since when did he get so mushy?

He types up You wanna do it again sometime? and hits send before he second guesses himself. He takes a deep breath to steady his racing pulse.

I’d love to

“Your time is limited. Get another date in the books and have fun while you can,” Petey’s voice reminds him.

Tonight? He can improvise another date if need be. Maybe the state park has one of their fall stargazing programs tonight, or 

Not tonight. I have something scheduled for work

Oh, okay. That’s fine. Maybe Saturday works. It gives him more time to plan something. He’s in the middle of texting up a response when she sends another message.

Tomorrow?

Fuck. Friday would be perfect, except he had promised to help his colleague, Dr. Eric Schwartz, prepare for the conference they were going to in a couple weeks. But Saturday—

Can’t

What about Saturday night?

Okay, I can do that

Saturday sounds so far away, but it’s also the perfect amount of time. He can actually think of a date idea that won’t make Dylan and Petey think he’s too washed up and out of ideas.

Great

I’ll pick you up at 6 pm?

Yes

He sets the phone down with relief. He’s having fun, like Petey suggested. Seems like she’s having fun, too.

The rest of Thursday is uneventful, though he and Helly innocuously text each other a little more. Ms. Cobel regaled him with the speech she prepared for the City Council meeting that evening, speaking in opposition to a proposed branch of Lumon Industries in Baird Creek. He knew Irving planned to speak as well, and maybe he should've gone to support Irving, but honestly, he's not in the mood to sit through a dull City Council meeting when he already knows the outcome. So instead he spends the evening making an omelette and catching up on the historic MRE YouTube channel a student introduced him to last semester. Anything to not think too much about Helly and how much he’d like to kiss her again, though his mind kept drifting off to her red hair and blue dress.

Friday morning rolls around, with the sun shining a little brighter, the air a little crisper. October is just around the corner, and the tree leaves are initiating their annual changing of colors. Answering student emails doesn’t feel so inane. In his WWI class, Eustice Huang isn’t as annoying as she usually is, and other students actually contribute. When class finishes, he puts his messenger bag in his office and texts Petey to meet him for lunch.

“So, what d’you wanna talk about?” Petey asks as soon as they sit down at a table in the staff dining room with their assembled plates.

“What makes you think I asked you here to talk about something?” 

“Mark, please,” Petey deadpans. 

“Fine, fine. I spoke with Helly again.”

Petey smirks. “Oh yeah?”  

“We’re going on a second date.”

“Well, well, well, look at you. Someone took my advice about having fun.”

Mark rolls his eyes, but he knows Petey isn’t wrong. “I’m just trying to go with the flow right now, that’s all. But I was wondering—”

“Second date idea?”

Mark’s shoulders slump. Is he that obvious? “Yeah, uh…since you and Dylan gave me shit for dinner and a movie.”

“Well, when are you seeing her?”

“Saturday.”

“Like, during the day?”

“No. In the evening.”

Petey’s eyes narrow. “Isn’t Devon’s birthday dinner Saturday evening?”

“Fuck, I forgot about that.” He’s still so used to Sunday dinners at Devon and Ricken’s.

“Ask if she can do tonight.”

“I can’t do tonight. I promised to help Schwartz out with something for our conference. What about Saturday during the day?”

“Who goes on a ‘day date’ on Saturday?” 

Mark huffs. All these “rules” sound so arbitrary. “Sunday?”

Petey makes a face. “Eh, not great, but Sunday night is better than Saturday during the day.”

Mark pulls out his phone and texts Helly a series of texts.

So about tomorrow  

I forgot that tomorrow is my sister’s birthday dinner 

And I really do have an obligation tonight, otherwise we could meet tonight

Any chance you’re free Sunday?

Mark sets his phone down. “Okay. I asked if she can do Sunday.”

Petey is about to say something, but the phone vibrates. Mark checks the message. 

I can come

Before he can even process what she means by that, another message pops up.

I’d love to go with you to your sister’s birthday dinner

“What the fuck?” he blurts out, then flashes the screen to Petey. 

Petey reads the exchange, and his brows spring up. “Holy shit. I figured she’s down bad, but she is down bad.”

Mark quickly responds: You want to be my date to my sister’s birthday dinner? 

Is that alright?

He keeps typing up different answers and deleting them. What the hell is supposed to say?

“What the fuck are you laughing at?” he asks Petey, who cracks up beside him.

“Nothing. You should take her.”

“My second date should be to my sister’s birthday dinner?”

“Yeah.”

“That sounds like an awful idea.”

“She’s not willing to wait until Sunday and invited herself to your sister’s birthday dinner? Look, obviously I haven’t met her yet but based on what I’ve heard, you could ask her out to a fucking funeral and she’d say yes.” Petey pauses to take a bite of his lunch.

Mark sighs. “But meeting family on the second date? And you just want to see who she is.”

“Yeah, but so what? It’s unconventional, but memorable. Frame it as ‘come get free food and listen to my weird brother-in-law talk about his latest self-help book.’ She’ll love it, and you’ll have a conversation starter for a while. Oh, and you can use her as proof to Devon that you’re putting yourself out there.”

“Let’s maybe not say ‘use her as proof.’” Mark counters, but he won’t deny—Petey has a point, and the suggestion makes sense. He mulls over the thought, then picks up his phone again.

“What is it, m’lady?” Devon asks when she answers. He can hear Eleanor babbling in the background.

“M’lord. Are you busy right now?”

“Just parked outside Eleanor’s pediatrician. Why? What’s up?”

“So about tomorrow—”

“You’re still coming, right?”

“Yeah, I am! But I’m just wondering, uh…can I bring someone with me?”

For a few seconds, all Mark can hear is Eleanor’s occasional gurgling.

“Hello?”

“I’m sorry, what the fuck? You want to bring a date?”

“Yeah. Is that okay?”

“I mean, I guess…I’m just…what the fuck? Just the other day, you were saying—”

“I know—”

“And you fucking bit my head off when I— ”

“I know.”

Devon laughs on the other end. “You know what? Fuck it. Sure. I have so many fucking questions right now, but I have to get my daughter in for her appointment. Don’t think this is over, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll take it. See you tomorrow.” Mark hangs up before he can hear any of Devon’s sly remarks, then pulls up the message thread with Helly and responds.

Yeah

“Birthday girl’s okay with it?” Petey asks.

“Yeah, she’s fine with it.” He quickly taps out another message before Helly can answer.  

That’s actually the best present I can get for her

Is my presence a present? 

He snorts.

In a way

Petey leans back in his chair and smirks. “Saturday just got more interesting.” 

I can pick you up again. It’s at 6 tomorrow

What can I get her?

Well, he hadn’t anticipated that. He stopped getting birthday presents for Devon because she never wants actual gifts. 

You don’t need to get her anything

I want to

Ok. She’s a writer, if that helps

It does! 

What’s the dress code for this dinner? 

Another odd question to ask. Uh…casual?

I look forward to it

Ok

Mark smiles as he sets his phone down.

“Oh, you’re just as down bad as she is,” Petey grins like he just won a bet.

Mark rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“By the way, you look great,” Mark tells Helly as they walk up towards Devon and Ricken’s house on Saturday evening. He picked her up earlier at the Grand Kier, and he did his best to keep his jaw off the floor when he saw her approach him. She’s so polished and precise in an outfit that looks like she just clocked out from working all day at the office. 

“Thank you,” she accepts. He’d like to kiss her again, right here at the front door, but they already spent over five minutes kissing in the car when he parked in the driveway. He’s always the first person to arrive at Devon’s parties, and he’s not about to break his streak any time soon.

“Hello,” Mark announces as he steps through the door, but neither Devon nor Ricken answer right away. “We're the first ones here,” he informs Helly as they move into the central dining room. Helly’s eyes survey the space, no doubt in awe over the architecture and design elements. Mark won’t deny it—he’d always been envious of Devon and Ricken’s house, especially because it is on the National Register for Historic Places. 

“Hey, sorry about that,” Devon’s voice emanates from the staircase behind them. “We were struggling for our fucking lives to put Eleanor down for the night. Ricken's in the bathroom now.”

Mark recognizes Devon’s surprise when she makes eye contact with Helly, as if she forgot he asked her if he could bring a date. Or maybe she’s surprised to see that he actually followed up and brought someone with him. Helly herself looks confused.

“Devon, this is Helly.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Devon mutters.

Mark grimaces. “Okay, um, wow, that’s kinda rude—”

“Helly Riggs, how do you do?” Helly steps forward and extends her hand eagerly, doing her best to be polite. 

Devon shakes Helly’s hand, but her eyes suggest hesitancy and doubt. “Devon Scout-Hale.”

“Happy birthday. You have a lovely home,” Helly offers brightly.

“Thanks.” Devon pauses to eye them, then holds up her index finger. “Hang on, sorry, I just…can you give me a few minutes? I need to talk to Ricken.” 

She bolts back up the stairs before either of them even respond.

“I’m so sorry,” Mark turns to Helly, “I don’t know what her problem is—”

“It’s fine,” Helly dismisses.

“I asked her if it was okay that I brought a date and she seemed fine with it—”

“It’s nothing, really.”

He’d argue it’s definitely something. Between the Scout siblings, he’s usually the rude one—and he’s working on that—but Devon is challenging that claim. What the hell is her problem? First she gets on his case about getting back out into the dating scene, and now she’s freaking out because Mark actually brought a date with him? Of course she’s gossiping with Ricken upstairs right now.

“I promise she’s not usually like this,” Mark apologizes.

“It’s okay,” Helly says, and she’s about to say even more when both Devon and Ricken are descending down the staircase together. Ricken wears a bright smile, big enough for him and Devon.

“Welcome to Casa de Scout-Hale!” Ricken greets enthusiastically. “It is an honor to meet you, Miss, uh, Riggs, is it?”

Helly nods. 

“I’m Ricken Hale, Mark’s brother-in-law. Would you like a tour of the house before other guests arrive?”

“Oh, um…” Helly looks to Mark pleadingly.

“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” Mark tries to butt in, but Devon already has her iron grip on his forearm.

“Mark, you’re helping me out in the kitchen,” she demands and tugs him with her. 

Mark mouths sorry to Helly as Ricken leads her into the depths of the house.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” Mark asks hoarsely as soon as he and Devon are in the kitchen together.

Devon pours herself a glass of ice water and gulps nearly all of it down in one go. “No, you don’t get to ask ‘what the fuck is going on?’ I do. What the fuck is going on?”

“Why are you asking me? You’re the one overreacting over her brother’s date—”

Devon laughs humorlessly, then spins her fingers around. “This isn’t overreacting. I think I’m reacting quite normally now—”

“You’re not—”

“Okay well, maybe I am overreacting, but I have a good fucking reason.”

“Do you? You literally just met Helly—”

He stops when he sees Devon’s mouth agape and her brows near her hairline. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Oh,” Devon whispers. “You don’t know who she is.”

What the fuck does that mean? Sure, he and Helly met last week and they’ve been on one date, but he knows who his date is. 

“I don’t get you. Not even a week ago you’re telling me to try dating more even though I technically shouldn’t because I’m not even a year sober, but now when you meet my date, you’re judging—”

“Jesus fucking Christ, this isn’t about that at all.” 

“Then what is it about?”

Devon pulls her phone out of her back pocket and swipes around on the screen before turning it around to face him. “Look familiar?”

Mark takes her phone and examines the page she’s brought up—a Google Images search for Helena Eagan.

Except the image results all depict Helly— his Helly. Dozens and dozens of results of Helly out and about, mostly dressed like how she was when they first met in Irving’s bookstore, walking along sidewalks or in cafés. A few show her at dinner, dressed similarly to how she’s dressed now. But there are two specific photos that grab Mark’s attention the most as he scrolls through.

The first is Helly, her red hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and dressed in a black gown with sparkly green and blue panels snaking up from the hem and wrapping around her waist. She’s looking off to the side with the most inscrutable expression on her face, as though she’s both bored out of her mind but also terrified of what’s to come. 

The other is a photograph of her from the other night, in her navy blue dress and her hair down. 

“Do you remember what else we talked about when you came over on Sunday?” Devon’s voice interrupts the static forming in his brain. 

 “Have you heard about the possible celebrity in town? … Seems like it's Helena Eagan.”

“Wait. Eagan? Like, the second worst medical family after the Sacklers?” 

Devon snatches her phone back, then flashes the screen back at Mark. “Here. You really should read my work once in a while.”

The page is open to an online article with the headline: Helena Eagan and the Allure of Anti-Charisma, by Devon Scout-Hale.

Mark tries to focus on the words as he reads, but they’re difficult to process when everything is being thrown at him all at once. From what he gathers, Helena Eagan—the young heiress to the biotech Eagan fortune and Lumon Industries—had largely been out of the public eye until a few months ago when a random fashion blogger took a photo of her at a charity gala. Specifically the photo of her in a gown looking like she’s missed her carriage and it’s about to turn into a pumpkin. The Internet is obsessed with her now. At first, they’re just memes and jokes related to this one specific photo, but eventually they grow into fan accounts that treat her like a full-fledged celebrity. He’s not sure he understands the argument Devon is trying to make in this piece—something about how class and the patriarchy allow for wealthy women to not have a personality, not that it’s Helena Eagan’s fault—but he’s too preoccupied the fact that his date is not Helly Riggs, but Helena fucking Eagan.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mark mutters under his breath.

“I’m sorry, I just—I gotta ask, how the fuck did you meet her?” Devon asks.

“Meet who?” a new voice cuts through. Mark looks up from Devon’s phone to see all six feet of Lorne Michaels, his sister’s ex with whom she’s still good friends, standing at the kitchen threshold. “By the way, happy birthday, Dev.”

“Hey there, and thanks for coming,” Devon smiles. “My brother’s dating Helena Eagan.”

Lorne’s face falls. “Pardon me? The Lumon heiress? How the hell did you meet her?”  

“Does everyone know who she is except me?” Mark grouses.

“She’s here,” Devon says.

Lorne blinks. “You’re joking.”

“No, Ricken’s giving Helena Eagan a tour of our fucking house.”

“I need a fucking minute.” Mark shoves Devon’s phone back into her hand, then breaks away from the kitchen and locks himself in the half-bathroom near the living room. He pulls out his own phone to search Helena Eagan , coming up with the same results from Devon’s phone. Endless photos of Helly—Helena?—all from within the last few months. 

He selects one of the most recent photos, one of her from their date the other night. His heart races. He recognizes the facade of the Century Cinema and how the marquee lights shine on Helly’s—Helena’s?—face, unmistakably hers. But Mark also recognizes himself, shrouded more in the shadows, his head turned so that the camera only has a good view of the back of his head. 

What the actual fuck is happening.

He turns the screen off and exits the bathroom. He can hear Ricken down the hallway, spouting out facts about midcentury American architecture that he most definitely read off of Wikipedia. Mark locates Ricken and Helly—Helena?—in one of the back rooms.

“Yes, dear brother-in-law?” Ricken singsongs.

“Devon needs you in the kitchen,” Mark lies. 

“Now?”

“Yes, right now.”

Ricken sighs despondently. “We can continue the tour later if you would like, Helly.”

She nods. “Sure. Thank you.”

As soon as Ricken leaves, Mark shuts the door behind him. Helly—Helena?—stares at him, the tension between them thick and uneasy. 

“So,” she begins softly, “I take it you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I know what you’re about to say.”

“You do? ’Cuz I don’t.”

She frowns. “I can see you’re upset.”

“Well, yeah,” he says. He scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, I’m not angry, but I am upset.” 

It'd be a lot easier if he was angry, but he isn't. He's really fucking overwhelmed and confused, wondering how the fuck did he cross paths with Helena fucking Eagan. But the pieces of the puzzle are coming together as he remembers bits of information from the past week. The Eagans have roots in Baird Creek, and Helena Eagan was spotted in town last week. The Eagans own Lumon Industries, and…Lumon wants to build a branch here in Baird Creek, right? Irving went to City Council about it just the other day—what the fuck? Does that mean Irving also knew her real identity before Mark?

He has a P-H-fucking-D, and he didn’t put any of this together? Why she stays at the Grand Kier and wanted to be picked up? Why she has an assistant? Why she kept darting her eyes around on their date, skittish and struggled to settle in as they were out in public?

She nods, and her eyes drift to her feet. “You have every right.”

“You’re an Eagan.”

“I’m aware.” 

“Can I just ask—”

“Of course—”

“Why’d you invite yourself to this?”

“I didn’t think anyone would recognize me. You didn’t. You never saw that stupid photo of me in these last few months?”

“I don’t do social media. That’s Devon’s territory.” Then another realization hits him. “Wait, do you know Devon’s written about you?”

Her eyes widen. “No. I don’t read what’s been written about me. She has?”

“She’s a freelance writer. She wrote an entire thinkpiece about you a few months ago.” He pulls out his phone and starts to search for Devon’s article, then pauses. “Wait, do you want to see it?”

“No,” she shakes her head. 

Mark slides his phone back into his pocket. They stand in the silence of the room, but Mark can hear more folks entering the house now, greeting and laughing with one another. His head throbs from all the questions running through his brain. 

“What are you doing with me?” He already felt so out of his league on their date, but now his bewilderment is cranked up to eleven. What does a middle-aged widowed history professor with a drinking problem have to offer a gorgeous billionaire heiress and Internet curio? And not just any gorgeous billionaire heiress, but an Eagan, one of the most unscrupulous yet enigmatic families in the country?

Her face softens and smiles. “You spoke to me plainly.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘plainly,’” Mark counters playfully, but then shakes it off. He’s still trying to flirt with her? Now, of all times?

“Well, it was nice to speak to someone and be myself.”

“But you used a different name?” His voice is sharper and harder than he expected. “Sorry, I’m not trying to be a dick—”

“No, I understand. Helly is a nickname from childhood. Riggs is my mother’s maiden name that I sometimes use as a pseudonym. I was afraid you would…” 

She trails off, but Mark knows what would’ve come next. 

“I haven’t lied to you about anything else, I promise.”

She says it so earnestly, with pleading doe eyes and a tremble in her voice. He believes her, and takes her hand in his, massages his thumb over her knuckles. He still has so many questions, but holed up in a room at his sister's birthday dinner is not the time and place to further hash out this conversation.

“Do you want to go back to the Grand Kier?” he asks.

“I can call a rideshare. You shouldn't miss your sister’s birthday.”

“No, I'll take you and return, it's fine.”

Mark opens the door and leads her out by the small of her back, naively hoping no one will notice them slip out. It seems like everyone who arrived are all huddled in the kitchen, no doubt gossiping about the surprise guest. 

“Where are you going?” Ricken stops them in the last few steps to the front door. 

“I’ll be back, I’m just going to drop…” Mark pauses because he’s not sure what name to use, “her off.”

“Oh, but you just got here!” Ricken exclaims with a sincere smile. “Please stay! I have several trays of smoked salmon blinis and a Beef Wellington that must be gone by the end of the night.”

Mark is about to turn down the offer and usher Helly—Helena—out the door, but she surprises him when says to Ricken, “Okay. I’m sure I can handle things for tonight.”

“Excellent!” Ricken cheers.

“But only if everyone signs an NDA.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, then suppresses the urge to laugh when he spots Ricken’s dumbstruck face.

“I’m kidding,” she clarifies. 

“Oh, of course!” Ricken forces a chuckle. “But I’m certain we can make an arrangement that is comfortable for you, if you’d like. Maybe I can collect everyone’s phone? I know I would prefer  one evening unplugged from cyberspace.”

“That’s not necessary,” she answers, but once Ricken has an idea, there’s little chance of discouraging him. He turns around and grabs an empty decorative bowl.

“Attention everyone!” Ricken’s voice booms from the kitchen. “This birthday dinner celebration for my lovely wife is officially now an unplugged event. I am requesting everyone’s phones in this bowl. They will be returned to you as you depart for the evening.” 

Mark stares at her. “Are you sure you want to do this? We can dip out right now while he’s distracted.”

She closes her eyes and takes a breath to gather herself. “No, I’ll be fine.”

Mark gulps. Even if she is, will he be? 

The first hour is not so difficult. She introduces herself to everyone properly as Helena Eagan—“But please, call me Helly.” Mark tries to stay by her side because he is the only person she actually knows here, to provide a buffer between his date and friends. He’s impressed to see how everyone tries not to be so starstruck (billionaire-struck?), and how deftly Helly navigates the awkwardness. Maybe that job in public relations is real, to an extent.

But she stiffens when Irving arrives. “You okay?” Mark asks.

“Mark, hello,” Irving greets the two of them before she can respond. “I take this is—”

“Helena Eagan, but I prefer Helly,” she asserts. “Good to see you again, Mr. Bailiff.”

“Likewise, but please, call me Irving. This isn't City Council.”

“About that—”

“Let’s not discuss local politics now. Tonight is about friendship and camaraderie. Now if you’ll excuse me, I haven’t eaten anything since noon.” 

Irving steps away, and Helly releases the heaviest exhale. 

“We can leave any time you want,” Mark reminds her.

“No, it’s okay. Just please tell me your neighbor isn’t also going to be here?”

“My neighbor?”

“The one who owns the soap shop.”

“No, she’s not a friend of Devon’s.”

“Oh, thank God. ” She chews on a salmon blini. Mark can’t help but to smile at how adorable she looks when she’s nervous.

Devon, Lorne, Dylan’s wife Gretchen, and someone Mark thinks is named Rebeck lure Helly into the living room to chat. Mark is confined to the kitchen with Dylan, Irving, Petey, Ricken, and another friend of Ricken’s whom Mark can not remember the name of—Patton, maybe?

“When I suggested you invite your date here, I knew it’d be a fun night. But this is even better,” Petey smirks.

“Glad this is so entertaining for you,” Mark deadpans.

“I’d be lying if it wasn’t,” Petey quips.

“How did you meet her?” Maybe-Patton asks.

“He posed as an employee at my bookstore when she was browsing,” Irving chimes in.

“Again, she mistook me for an employee. I just didn’t correct her.”

“An instant connection at a bookstore? That sounds like something from a Hugh Grant movie,” Ricken offers.

“Dude, you bagged a billionaire,” Dylan deadpans.

“Let’s not say ‘bagged’—”

“Have you slept with her yet?”

Mark blinks, taken aback. Not that he should be. Dylan has always been very blunt. “We’ve only known each other for a week,” he clarifies.

“Doesn’t answer the question.”

Mark sighs. “No comment.” 

“No comment' means 'yes,'” insists Dylan.

“No, it doesn't.” 

“Do you ever jerk off?”

Mark would very much like to sink through the floor. “Definitely no comment.”

“See? Means ‘yes,’” Dylan says.

“Ricken, why don’t you tell us how you made that Beef Welllington?” Irving jumps in. Mark gives him a look that reads thank you.

Thankfully, Ricken takes the bait. “Oh, certainly! It took some preparation, but I’m happy to hear everyone is enjoying it!”

As Ricken launches into his lengthy process, Mark peers over to see Helly in the living room with the women. Hopefully, she isn’t as trapped as he does right now.

“Does anyone know what this is?” Ricken asks when the whole group is brought back together in the living room. He holds Helly’s boxed typewriter in his hands.

“Oh, it’s a birthday gift,” Helly pipes up, then turns to Devon. “I wanted to get you a present.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Devon dismisses.

Ricken hands the box to Devon. “Why don’t you open it? It’s quite heavy, so be careful.”

“I didn’t have time to wrap it nicely,” Helly apologizes.

Devon opens the box to reveal the typewriter. Her mouth is agape. “Holy shit. This is beautiful,” she says.  

She’s right. The typewriter is a green and gray portable Underwood typewriter in what looks to be great condition. Maybe it should be Mark’s birthday instead of Devon’s. 

“I saw it in one of the downtown antique stores,” Helly replies. “Mark said you’re a writer.”

“Thank you. It’s lovely.”

Helly beams. Her smile is infectious, and Mark has to remind himself not to kiss her in front of everyone.

Most everyone else has left except for Lorne, Mark, and Helly. Ricken insists he finish Helly’s house tour, and Mark helps Lorne and Devon clean up.

“Alright, Mark. Fess up your side of the story,” Lorne teases. 

“Yeah, don’t think I was gonna let this fucking slide by,” Devon says. “I need to know everything.”

For a moment, Mark is back in his childhood home with Devon.

“What did she tell you?”

“You met at Irving’s, and then again on campus?” Lorne recalls.

“I mean, that’s basically it.”

“And you’ve already been on a date. I saw the photos.” Devon leans against the kitchen counters and crosses her arms over her chest.

“I’m not in any of them, I don’t think.” He’s still not sure. He needs to do more thorough research.

“I mean, you are, but it’s really hard to tell who you are. Otherwise I would’ve bothered you about it before tonight.”

Mark shrugs. “Then I don’t know what I have to say that’s any different from what she’s said.”

“Okay, sorry, I know you’re my brother but, like…how the fuck did you bag Helena Eagan?”

“Since when did everyone agree to start saying ‘bag’ again?” Mark complains.

“I think it’s always been in our lexicon,” Lorne responds.

“Seriously, Mark, how—”

“I don’t know, okay? She likes me and…I like her.” The weight of the confession hangs heavy around his neck. There’s still so much for him to process and for them to discuss. 

“Is this serious?” Devon asks.

“I don’t know,” Mark repeats. “This was supposed to be a second date, and I didn’t know her real name until tonight.”

“Do you want it to be serious?” Lorne interjects.

Mark mulls over it. Petey keeps emphasizing ‘having fun’ in regards to dating, and that’s partially why Mark agreed to seeing Helly at all. And he had a ton of fun on their date the other night. Tonight? Verdict’s still out on that.

“Well, tonight has probably been the most memorable birthday I’ve had in at least six years, so if it doesn’t work out between you two, I at least have these memories.”

“Thanks,” Mark snarks.

“You know I’m only half-joking,” Devon retorts. “I really like her.”

“You like the typewriter.”

“And her!” Devon defends.

“You wrote a whole article about how she doesn’t have a personality.”

Devon waves her hand. “That was before I knew her. She was really fun to talk to once she loosened up a little.”

Lorne nods. “Yeah, she was on edge at first, but she’s funny. If she weren’t here with you, I’d try to put the moves on her myself.”

“Still in a dry spell?” Devon asks.

“You’d think there’d be more lesbian farmers in upstate New York but I’m not finding ’em,” Lorne sighs.

“And with that, we conclude the tour of Casa de Scout-Hale. Do you have any questions?” Ricken’s voice echoes in the dining room.

Before Helly can respond, Mark sidles up to the two of them. “I think we’re gonna head out now.”

“So soon?” Ricken pouts.

“It’s almost eleven.”

Helly politely smiles at Devon and Ricken. “Thank you for your hospitality, and I hope you had a good birthday.”

“Well, thank you for the typewriter.”

Helly hesitates. “Um, is there any chance that…” She presses her lips together and fiddles her hand together. She doesn’t have to say it. They all understand.

“I doubt anyone who was here would say something. And if they do, I’d kill them,” Devon offers.

“Oh, I would just sue for slander and libel.” Helly smiles coyly after a beat, and again, Mark has to hold back the laughter. “That was a joke.”

Mark manages to peel Helly away and make it back to his car in the driveway. 

“You can be honest now. How was it?” he asks when he turns onto the main road, an arbitrary boundary.

“It was nice, actually.”

“I said you can be honest.”

“I am, really. I had a good time. Once the novelty wore off, everyone was very pleasant.”

Mark chuffs. “Even Ricken?”

“Ricken was lovely. He provided a very…thorough tour of the house. And that Beef Wellington was exquisite.”

“Exquisite?”

“He should stop trying to be a writer and consider being a chef.”

“Now I know you’re messing with me.”

“I’m not,” she says. “Really. You asked for honesty.”

He wants to ask, Like you were honest about your name? But he knows that’s a dick move, so he doesn’t.

For the first time that night, they’re alone together. The majority of the drive back to the Grand Kier is quiet, save for the hum of the car engine and the mix of alt-rock playing on the radio. Mark racks his brain thinking of something to say, to ease them into the conversation that they need to have, but everything comes up short. Before he knows it, he’s back in the Grand Kier’s parking lot. He sets the car in park at the front of the building and looks over at Helly. For the longest split second of Mark’s life, they just hold each other’s gaze.

“I’d ask you to come up so we can talk about everything, but it’s really late,” she finally says.

“Yeah. Almost midnight.”

“Are you still free tomorrow?” she asks. “We can talk about everything then. If you want, that is.”

He does. He really fucking does . It means he gets to see her at least one more time.

“Yeah. I’m still free. When should I pick you up?”

“Five?”

“Okay. Yeah. Five. Did you have something in mind?” 

“I don’t know.” She chews her bottom lip. “Somewhere quiet?”

Of course she wants somewhere quiet, but that's not a problem. Baird Creek and the Ganz campus come to a near standstill on the weekends.

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Against his better judgment, he leans forward to kiss her one more time.

Mark goes to sleep almost as soon as he gets home, all in the misguided hope that this evening was an intense dream. He’s not exactly disappointed to wake up early the next day and realize that it wasn’t.

He spends the morning on his laptop researching Helena Eagan. She has a Wikipedia page, though it’s surprisingly skeletal compared to the swaths of information so readily available with a few clicks on Google. He finds an article dated before Devon’s— Who is Helena Eagan? A Primer to the Internet’s Newest It Girl— that outlines her entire biography. The sole daughter of Jame Eagan, Lumon Industries’s current CEO. Graduated from Choate Rosemary Hall—right around the time he was finishing up his PhD at Georgetown. Attended Princeton University for undergraduate and graduate school—no doubt an unofficial legacy admission, not that Princeton would ever admit that. Former classmates of Helena’s plaster old school photos of her in their yearbooks and on Choate’s swim team, but it seems like Helena has no real digital presence until that one photo of her, the one that catapulted her into her current status. That’s when the explosion really begins. 

He looks for any evidence of him in the recent photos of their date, but his face is not visible enough in any of them. Online comments seem dedicated to finding out his identity, but so far, no one has been successful. That’s one relief. His eyes keep drifting to Helly in her blue dress, her hair loose and bouncy. His boxers feel tighter, and a heat wave flashes over his skin.

It’s really fucking unfair that this billionaire heiress who kinda lied to him about who she is…is also really fucking hot. 

Before he knows it, Mark unbuttons the fly of his boxers to free his half-hard cock. He’s too impatient to get some of the lube he keeps at his bedside, so he spits into his hand and palms himself. The photos don’t really do Helly justice. He was there with her, and he remembers the shine of her lipstick and how it tasted after he kissed her. 

His cock hardens in his fist as he moves faster. He imagines Helly here now, in her blue dress—or even the sexy librarian get-up she had on last night, he’s not picky—on her knees with his cock in her mouth, her tongue running against his length, the same shiny sheer berry lipstick making a perfect sealed ‘O’ over him. 

Fuck .

A warmth pools from deep within his core. His breath hitches and slows. He’s close. So close. So fucking clo—

Three rapid knocks on the front door pull Mark out of his fantasy. Helly is gone—it’s just him with his cock in his hand. He pauses and remains still in hopes whoever it is will take the hint, but the knocks return, followed with the shrill voice of Ms. Cobel.

“Mark? Hello?”

Impeccable fucking timing, Ms. Cobel.

He stuffs his cock back into the waistband of his boxers, then grabs a clean but wrinkled pair of sweatpants from the dryer—a load of laundry he started days ago but still hasn’t folded.

“Mark?”

“Yeah, just a second,” he calls out.

“Mark, good morning!” Ms. Cobel declares when he opens the door.  I didn't wake you, did I?”

“No, you didn’t,” he says.

Ms. Cobel clutches her chest. “Oh, thank goodness. I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m having trouble with my sink’s garbage disposal. Would you be able to take a look at it?”

“Well, uh, what’s wrong with it?” He’s not exactly the handiest guy, but Cobel sure likes to maintain gender roles regarding home improvement.

“It’s the strangest thing! It whirs and buzzes, like it’s trying to do something, but then just stops. It’s like it wants to go, but it just won’t finish.”

Mark swallows, stifles a sigh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

One minute, Helena is beside Mark in the dining room, listening to his friends chat and laugh about their lives. Everyone dances around the elephant in the room, unwilling to ask her anything but staring at her with alert eyes and stiff smiles. It’s unclear how many of these guests already knew who she is, and how many were informed just seconds before formally introducing themselves.

The next—and she’s not sure when or how it happened—she’s sequestered in the living room with the women of the party. There’s Devon, Mark’s acerbic sister; Lorne, the statuesque blonde; Gretchen, a sweet, freckle-faced woman who is married to…Dylan; and then a mousy and skittish woman named…Rebecca? 

“So, I think this is the part of the night where you tell me how you met my brother,” Devon probes.

“It’s not all that interesting,” Helena dismisses with a nervous laugh.

“It’s my birthday, I’ll be the judge of that,” Devon replies.

Helena gulps. “I met him at a bookstore—Irving’s, actually.” She points to Irving in the kitchen with all the other men as they circle around Mark, no doubt grilling him about her. “Last Friday. I stepped in just for a few minutes, and he was the only other person there. I…I thought he worked there.”

“That’s fucking adorable,” Lorne comments.

“And he just asked you out?” Devon asks.

“Well, no. We talked, he recommended a book—”

“What book?” Devon interrupts.

“The Sparrow.”

Devon nods thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything, and Helena takes that as a cue to continue. “I bought it, and I left. We saw each other on Tuesday at the art gallery on the Ganz campus. That’s when we, uh…agreed to meet again.”

“Oh, that’s so serendipitous,” Gretchen smiles. 

“So he asked you out?” Devon inquires.

Tuesday seems like four years ago instead of just four days, but Helena remembers every detail. Her impulsive kiss, asking him out to dinner that evening, him declining but suggesting Wednesday. 

“Um, not exactly.”

“Wait, you asked him?”

“It was a…mutual agreement.”

“And tonight, he just invited you?”

“Actually, I invited myself.”

Devon’s eyebrows go to her hairline. “You wanted to come to a birthday party for someone you don’t know?” Her voice is caught somewhere in suspicion, disbelief, and amusement.

“I didn’t mean to impose.”

“No no no, it’s not that! I’m just…trying to paint a picture. When Mark asked if he could bring a date, I wasn’t expecting…” Devon trails off. They all know what goes unsaid.

Helena fiddles with her hands, and fortunately, Lorne jumps in. “Speaking of Irving’s bookstore, I have a confession to make. Just for you, Dev. Before I met you—any of you—I accidentally shoplifted from him.”

“What the hell? You never told me this,” Devon says.

“How do you ‘accidentally’ shoplift?” Rebecca follows up.

“I put the book in my bag and got distracted by the dog. Forgot to check out.”

“That checks out,” Helena offers. “I’ve been there twice now and I think Radar is the real boss of the place. Kind of like Mickey Mouse at Disney World.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Lorna says, pointing at Helena with mock seriousness. “You get those big puppy eyes on you and suddenly capitalism means nothing.” 

“If anything, Radar probably wanted you to steal the book,” Helena continues. The conversation seems to flow more naturally, more fun. They move on talking about other things like the goats Lorne tends to on the farm she works at, Gretchen’s children, and—somehow—Taylor Swift. 

She can almost forget the impending conversation she’ll have with Mark.

Most of the drive back to the Grand Kier is quiet. Mark asks her how it went, and she answers truthfully. She even tries to lighten the mood a little by complimenting Ricken’s culinary skills, but Mark doesn’t seem convinced.  

“I’d ask you to come up so we can talk about everything, but it’s really late,” Helena says once they’re back at the hotel. She’s already been so reckless this past week; she needs to tame her tempers, like Father always warned her as she grew up. Foolhardiness will be your downfall, his voice echoes in the back of her mind . 

“Yeah. Almost midnight,” Mark replies. He keeps his eyes on the dashboard clock like he needs confirmation.

They fall into the silence again, save for the hum of the engine in the cool night. “Are you still free tomorrow? We can talk about everything then. If you want, that is.”

She hopes he is. She really fucking hopes he is.

“Yeah. I’m still free. When should I pick you up?”

“Five?” Anything earlier sounds too soon, and he still has work on Monday.

“Okay. Yeah. Five. Did you have something in mind?” 

“I don’t know.” She chews her bottom lip as she thinks, but nothing springs to mind. He knows Baird Creek better than her; he should have a better idea. “Somewhere quiet?”

“Okay, I can do that.”

“Thank you.” She heaves a sigh of relief.

He leans over to kiss her, and Helena’s head spins. After everything that happened in these last few hours, and he’s kissing her. 

“Good night,” she whispers when he pulls away. She almost goes in for another but holds herself back, exits his car, and walks back inside the Grand Kier. 

Natalie isn’t waiting up for her tonight, but Helena knocks on her door when she returns to the Dieter Suite. Just three swift knocks on the door, and Natalie opens it. She’s in one of the luxurious hotel bathrobes, and her hair is half-wet. 

“Yes?” 

“Did I wake you?” Helena asks.

“No. Why? What is it?” 

Helena braces herself for Natalie’s disapproving stares and ‘I-told-you-so’ condescension. “Has anything new been said about me online in the last few hours?” she inquires.

Natalie narrows her eyes. “I haven’t checked in the last half-hour.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “Let me guess—someone recognized you?” She’s not as snide as Helena expected, more matter-of-fact and curious than venomous.  

“Have you heard of Devon Scout-Hale?”

“The name sounds familiar,” Natalie ponders aloud.

“She’s a writer. Apparently she’s written about me? Well, turns out she’s also his sister.”

“Oh.” Natalie blinks. “So, does he know now?”

Helena nods and looks down at her feet.

“I haven’t seen anything since you left this evening, but I’ll keep an eye out in the morning. Does this mean you’ll be leaving tomorrow as scheduled?”

“No. Mark and I are meeting tomorrow evening to talk about everything.”

“You can’t be serious,” Natalie deadpans.

“I am. I need to explain things to him,” Helena defends.

Natalie pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Why don’t we just discuss this tomorrow, okay? Get some sleep.”

“Fine,” Helena agrees dismissively. 

Natalie’s door clicks close before Helena can even say Good night.

helena-eager2004: it has been over 72 hours since dategate WHERE THE FUCK is helena and who was HER DATE the people wanna know

helenaeagans-microbangs: wasn’t she out with the senator the day after

helena-eager2004: @helenaeagans-microbangs i don't give a shit about him WHERE ARE THE INTERNET SLEUTHS i need to know who was her date

“I have good news,” Natalie announces first thing the next morning as Helena eats a spoonful of Greek yogurt and granola. Natalie gracefully sits across from her at the table with her trusty tablet in hand. 

“It seems like no one who attended your boyfriend’s sister’s birthday went online to blab about it to anyone who would listen.”

“Mark isn’t my boyfriend,” Helena replies. She understands what Natalie means. What else do you call someone you’ve been out with on a few dates? But maybe he could be, maybe he will be —

“Regardless, you’re safe for now. Probably not a social media-using crowd,” Natalie continues.

“I was probably the youngest person there.” Helena then chuckles. “Well, besides a literal baby, but she was asleep.”

“Oh, and I did some additional digging on his sister. She wrote a thinkpiece about you a few months ago. ‘Helena Eagan and the Allure of Anti-Charisma.’” Natalie must notice how Helena deflates, so she adds, “It’s more flattering than it sounds. Quite sympathetic to you, actually. She’s more interested in looking at the circumstances of why The Photo blew up.”

Helena stirs a little cream into her coffee. “She was really nice last night, once we got over the initial shock of…everything.”

Natalie sets her tablet down and pours herself some tea, straightens her posture and stares intently at Helena. Helena knows what’s coming next. 

“I know I’ve asked you this before, but I have to ask you again now. What are you looking for with him? Is he really worth the risk?”

“Why must it be a risk?”

“Because you are a public figure, whether you want to be or not. The Internet will lose interest in you at some point, yes, but right now, everything about you is heavily documented. Everything you do gets archived, dissected, and re-shared a thousand times over. There are literal accounts dedicated to the clothes you wear. So when you show up in public with someone, anyone, it’s not just a casual date. It’s a statement. People will read into it. By associating with you, he will become a public figure. People are still trying to play Internet sleuth and find out who he is. I have to lead them astray.”

Helena raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘lead them astray?’”

“I have a few sock puppet accounts.” Natalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. Helena is about to ask what is a sock puppet account, but Natalie barrels on. “And let me be clear, your personal life is none of my business, but if you really wish to pursue something more with him, I need to know so I can properly do my job and handle what the Internet throws at you. So once again, I am asking—what are you looking for with him?” 

Helena stares into her yogurt for an answer and sinks into her seat. “I don’t know. I’m supposed to talk about this with him later today.”

“Fine,” Natalie exhales. “Are you at least going to be discreet tonight?”

“I requested we go somewhere quiet.”

“Good.” Natalie sips her tea again and returns to scrolling on her tablet. 

“Does this mean you’re staying with me for the rest of the week?” Helena asks.

Natalie smiles, almost scoffing at such a question. “My job doesn't stop when you go on vacation.” 

Helena doesn’t know what to make of that, so she finishes up her yogurt and heads into the bathroom to take a shower. She thinks of every possible question Mark can throw at her this evening and rehearses her answer for all of them. Yes, I am an Eagan. Yes, I was in town for the proposed Lumon branch. Yes, I am an Internet joke right now and I don’t know when that will let up. Yes, I really really really really really really like you.

She considers texting Mark before he picks her up, but Helena doesn’t know what to say, so she spends the rest of her Sunday between watching a true crime documentary on Netflix and reading Children of God. After picking at her room service lunch, she walks around the Grand Kier’s gardens—hat and sunglasses on—to say she did in fact step outside and get some fresh air. Her stomach remains knotted all day, and it only gets tighter when she receives Mark’s text: Here.

“I’m stepping out,” Helena declares to Natalie. 

“Hat and sunglasses?” Natalie asks like a concerned mother.

“Yeah, I have them.”

“Remember. Be discreet.”

Natalie’s caution can be so grating, but right now, Helena clings to it like a raft. She rolls her shoulders back and lifts her chin, then makes her way to the lobby. Mark waits for her. He’s dressed so casually—slate gray hoodie, dark wash jeans, a grass-stained pair of sneakers. She feels so overdressed in comparison, even though she tried making a simple outfit from a pair of black pants and a blue sweater. At least her hat will offset the corporate look. 

“Hi there,” she greets gently. 

“Hey.”

She steps forward, ready to kiss him, but then steps backward. Mark seems equally uncertain of what to do, just jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the exit. “Ready to head out?”

“Yes. Yeah. Ready. Um, where are we going?”

“Don’t worry, it’ll be quiet.”

In his car, a thick silence settles between them. Helena recognizes some of the streets that Mark drives along, but doesn’t know where he’s going. Maybe she misjudged him this entire time, and he’s actually a serial killer about to murder her deep in the woods and drop her body off in the creek, wrapped in plastic. She can see the headlines now. Lumon heiress Helena Eagan found murdered like a TV character.

“Did you sleep well?” Mark asks her, disrupting her grisly thoughts.

“Hmm? Oh, um, I think so.” Can she sound any less convincing? “No. Not really. You?”

“Better than I thought.”

Helena can’t handle another deafening silence until they reach their mysterious destination, so she blurts out, “I'm almost done with Children of God. I have maybe a hundred or so pages left.”

“Oh yeah? What do you think?”

“It's just as good as the first. I cried when…” Helena stops herself from finishing her sentence. Her cheeks burn from the fact she was going to say it at all. “Well, when Emilio has his moment with…”

“Oh, you mean when he prematurely ejaculates?” He chuckles as he keeps driving.

The warmth on her cheeks slides down to her neck and spine. “Well, yeah. It was heartwarming and tender.”

“No, I know what you mean. It's Emilio's first time ever having, uh… consensual relations with someone he loves. I remember getting a little mushy about it, too.”

“Mushy?” Helena teases. His cheeks flush at her ribbing. 

Mark turns into a parking garage littered with early fall foliage. Helena instantly recognizes it as a section of Ganz College, with the neoclassical buildings in the distance.

“C’mon,” he says once he parks. “There’s a really nice spot where no one will bother us.”

Helena follows him along the campus walk as the sunset peeks through the trees with its changing colors. She keeps her hat and her sunglasses on and her ponytail tucked into her sweater, but the campus is barren save for a handful of sleepy undergrads hauling backpacks and laptops. They pass the gallery where they met a second time, and a few paces later, Mark points to another building. 

“That’s my second home. Second floor.” 

“Your office is in there?”

“Yeah, and all the classes I teach.”

He steps off the walkway and onto the grass, down a small hill that leads to what looks like a small outdoor amphitheater, overgrown and abandoned. The creek trickles just behind the stage. 

“This is pretty,” Helena marvels. 

“Apparently in the fifties the theater department put on a lot of Shakespeare productions down here, but as long as I’ve been here, it’s never been used for anything. Well, I’m sure at night the students will come down here and smoke, but I’ve never seen anyone here during the day.” Mark sits on the edge of the concrete stage facing the creek that lies just below. “I’m pretty sure this creek originates from the waterfall in the state park.”

“Woe’s Hollow,” Helena says.

Mark looks at her, amused. “You know about Woe’s Hollow?”

“There’s this story in my family—it’s probably complete bullshit—but there’s this story that my great-great-grandfather and his brother were swimming at Woe’s Hollow, like he was visiting family for a little after previously leaving, but my great-great-grandfather nearly drowned and accidentally killed his brother in the process.”

“Why do you think it’s bullshit?”

“I don’t think it was an accident.” She smiles when she catches sight of Mark’s surprise. “Don’t tell my father that, though,” she chuffs.

Mark laughs with her, but the weight of why they’re here at all settles over them. His laugh fades away, as does hers, and somehow, he feels like a total stranger now.

 “Right, so, we’re here, and you wanted to—”

“Yes, and you wanted to—”

“So let’s—”

“Mhmm—”

“Can you just start from the very beginning?” Mark spouts. 

“Well, I was born in—”

“Not what I….you know what I meant,” Mark sighs, exasperated.

“No, I don’t think I do. Do you want me to start with The Photo or when we met?”

Mark pauses. “The Photo, I guess? Start there.”

Helena inhales deeply, then releases the breath to calm her nerves. “Well, yes, I am an Eagan. My father is Jame Eagan, the current CEO of Lumon Industries. And for years, nobody cared about who I am. Growing up, I was told not to waste my precious time on things like social media because everything my family does is subject to public scrutiny.”

“But you’re the Eagans. I don’t think anyone even knows what your dad looks like, but they know the name.”

“That’s a very deliberate choice,” Helena clarifies. “Only be seen when necessary. Do not give the press anything that they can and will use against you. My grandmother always said, ‘We’re not the Kennedys. We don’t eat up the limelight like moths to a flame.’ That’s how I lived for thirty years.”

“Until…”

“Until I went to a gala back in May and some random fashion blogger took that wretched photo of me. I don’t understand how, but for whatever reason, I’m first a joke, then an ironic aspirational figure, and now I’m a…” she searches for the right word to use, “a celebrity, I guess? I don’t do anything to fuel it, but for some reason, that’s what keeps it fueled.”

“Is that why you have your assistant?”

Helena shakes her head. “Natalie was my assistant before all of this.” She twirls her index finger around on ‘this.’ “But she didn’t have much to do until that photo. Now she’s my own personal spin doctor on top of being an assistant. Really squeezing every cent out of that salary.” She pauses to remind herself to breathe. “There’s more, obviously, but that’s the gist of it.”

“Yeah, I looked up some of it earlier today,” Mark confesses sheepishly. “I hope that’s okay.”

She doesn’t respond right away, just looks down at her feet.

“So, fast forward to…”

“Right, so…a few weeks ago, I mentioned I would like to take a small trip to Baird Creek. I haven’t been since I was twelve or thirteen, and I haven’t even been on a proper vacation in years. Instead, my father and a few others at Lumon decide to push through their plan to develop a new Lumon branch in upstate New York, return to our roots and all, and then I can be the one to handle any business in the area because I’ll already be there. My vacation becomes a business trip.”

Mark scratches his nose. “Okay, so…where do I factor into all of this?”

Helena practiced this answer again and again all day, but she still can’t think of the right words to say. A pit forms in her gut. “We met and I like you. That’s all,” she offers, but she knows that’s not enough.

“But why lie about your name?”

“Would you have ever agreed to going out with me if I said, ‘Hello, my name is Helena Eagan, member of the Eagan family you’ve heard so much about?’”

Mark sits on his hands. “I don’t know.” He sounds wary, unwilling to admit the truth. Helena suspects she knows the real answer. 

“You know about my family.”

“Yeah, and they profit off people’s pain.”

Helena flinches. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Lumon hikes prices on life-saving treatments and products and calls it innovation.”

“We provide services,” Helena retorts defensively. She’s heard these arguments before, they’re nothing she can’t weather, even from Mark Scout. “And it’s not like I run the company—”

“No, but you benefit from it.”

Helena chills. “Well, I think we know the answer,” she mutters.

“To what?” 

“If you’d agree to go to dinner with me if you knew who I was from the beginning.”

Mark grimaces and exhales. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, okay? I like you, too. That’s what makes this so fucking crazy.” 

He presses his face into his hands and lets out a cry out of exasperation. A squirrel rustles by. The sunset hidden behind the trees is fading even faster now, and a sole street light flicks on nearby to illuminate this forgotten corner of Ganz College. A hint of summer air lingers about, but an autumnal breeze blows through the foliage. 

Mark lifts his head up, ready to continue. “I’m sorry. I won't make any assumptions about your family right now. You were scared I wouldn’t want to see you again if I knew who you were. Is that right?”

“Or maybe you would maybe use me for some kind of online clout? But you didn’t recognize me at all, so maybe not so much that.”

“And yesterday you said you didn’t lie about anything else.”

“I promise,” she reiterates. “Everything else I’ve said has been the truth.” 

Mark bobs his head as he mulls over her words. “Okay. If that’s true—”

“It is.”

“Then I forgive you for not being honest right away, and I understand why.”

Helena nods, but she senses more from him. “‘But?’” she asks.

“But, why…me?”

She furrows her brow. “What do you mean?”

“You’re only in town for a limited time. So why did you ask me out in the first place?”

“I said I like you—”

“Yeah, but why?”

“What other reason do you need? You spoke to me like a normal human being—”

“I'm at least a decade older than you.”

Helena frowns. Is that the root of all of this? An age gap? She's thirty years old, not a teenager fresh out of high school.

“I don’t care about that,” she states.

She expects him to launch into a monologue about the perils of an age-gap relationship and what it would mean for them. I'm just afraid we'll fall into a vicious circle. You'll start to question who you are. I've entered a new phase, whereas you still need time to find yourself. You don't need me waiting. You need to be completely free. I'm just afraid we'll hurt each other. Or something like that. She remembers what her college friends would relay to her after getting involved with older men, and she heard something like that in a foreign movie once. 

“How old are you exactly?” They'd been dancing around revealing their ages for a while now. 

“Thirty.”

A student on a bike whizzes next to the creek. Helena pulls the brim of her hat down to cover her face, but it doesn't seem like the kid took much notice in them. Mark waits until the bike is out of earshot to continue.

“So, you’re a thirty-year-old heiress to a biotech company worth billions, and you don't care that I'm a forty-two-year-old college professor, widower, and recovering alcoholic?”

“You seem to care more than me.”

“I'm trying to wrap my head around this.” He pauses and exhales a shaky sigh, looks up to the sky for some presumable solace.  “When are you leaving?” he asks after a few seconds.

Helena stiffens. “I was supposed to leave today.”

“Supposed to?”

“I extended my stay at the Grand Kier because I wanted to see more of you.”

There's a heavy beat between them. Helena shifts a little in her place, just to move into a more comfortable position, but Mark surprises her when he captures her lips in a kiss. It's unpolished, clumsy, and raw, and he breaks away just as quickly as he started it.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to…Jesus Christ, I'm really fucking hungry. Are you hungry?”

Helena's stomach has been a wreck all day, but not from hunger. “Is there something nearby? I'll pay. It's the least I can do.”

Mark rubs his temple. “Um, there's a Taco Bell off the corner off of Winsome, and a—”

“Okay,” Helena says and stands up. Mark glances up at her, confused. “What?”

“You want to eat at Taco Bell?”

“I've eaten there before. I was in college, too.” 

Mark snorts. His amusement brings a smile to her face and soothes the tension in her shoulders. “Fine. We'll get Taco Bell,” he concedes, then gathers himself to his feet. Helena follows behind him, back to the main campus thoroughfare.

They reach the Taco Bell that glows in the dusk. The dining room is empty, bright and fluorescent, a time capsule plucked right out of the 1990s except for two touchscreens. 

“You go first, I need to think,” Helena says. 

She watches Mark as he taps the screen and selects a combination box without a second guess. “That was fast,” she jokes.

“It's a good value. All that food for seven dollars?”

Helena proceeds to scroll through the menu. She doesn’t remember these many options from her undergraduate days at Princeton. How many different entrées can be made from the same three ingredients?

“Just get a quesadilla,” Mark grouses, but he sounds more bemused than annoyed.

Helena glares at him and instead opts for the only bowl option she can find. She's about to check out when Mark remarks, “What, no drink?”

“I don’t drink soda.”

“You can't go to Taco Bell and not get Baja Blast.”

“Are you sure you’re a professor and not one of the students?”

“I don’t make the rules,” he shrugs.

Helena proceeds to check out, taps her credit card against the terminal. Mark finds a booth in the corner of the dining room and slides in. She joins him a moment later and drinks in the dated dining room’s liminality and emptiness. She thinks back to how deserted the Ganz campus looked as she followed Mark around earlier. It seems so lifeless without students bustling to get to classes, like she witnessed this past Tuesday.

“Is Ganz really this quiet on the weekends?” she asks. 

“I think most students just go home for the weekend. Baird Creek isn't exactly a ‘college town,’ just a town with a college.” 

“Myrtle?” An employee from behind the counter calls out. Helena jumps up to grab Mark's drink. “Food will be out in a minute,” the employee informs.

When Helena returns to the booth with Mark's neon blue drink, he cocks his head at her. 

“Who is Myrtle?”

“My aunt.”

He doesn’t pursue it any further. “Thanks,” he says as he unwraps the straw and sticks it through the hole.

“It's no trouble.”

Mark draws out his sip before he decides to continue their previous conversation. “So, about what you said earlier…”

“Which part?”

“Order for Myrtle.”

Mark darts up this time to gather their food. He hands the bowl to Helena, then opens his box and immediately finishes off the taco. 

“Have you eaten at all today?” Helena inquires.

“I said I was hungry. And you always eat the crunchy taco first, or else it’ll be a soggy mess.”

“Another rule?”

He shrugs and unwraps his burrito. “So, you said you ‘extended your stay’ because you wanted to spend more time with…me. Did I hear that right?”

A group of undergrad boys enter the restaurant at that moment. Helena turns slightly and adjusts her hat, but they don’t pay much attention to her and Mark.

“You did,” she answers with a lowered voice.

“But you’re still going to leave at some point.”

Helena sticks her fork into the bowl. “I am,” she says before taking in the bite.

They eat quietly for a few minutes. The group of boys sit in another booth on the opposite end of the dining room. Helena keeps her eyes on her bowl.

“So what are you expecting from me?” Mark finally asks when he finishes the burrito and washes it down with some soda, then picks up the chalupa to bite into it.

Helena chews her bite of chicken and swallows. “I don’t know,” she replies softly. “I sometimes act very…impetuously.”

Mark smirks. “That explains the gallery.”

“But do we need expectations?” Helena asks when he returns to eating his chalupa. “Is it not enough to say I like you and that’s all?”

“But you’re going to leave soon. Maybe not today, but at some point.”

“So what?” 

Mark pauses and sits up straight. Helena swears she can feel the eyes of the undergrad boys on her and shrinks in her seat.   

“I’m not…used to this,” Mark says after a second or two. He keeps his voice deep and low. “My wife died two years ago and I haven’t really dated since then. Well, except for a really bad date Devon forced me to go on a few months ago, but I don’t count that. My friends have been not-so-subtly pushing me to date again while AA says I shouldn’t be dating at all in the first year of sobriety. So to have this young and beautiful and, uh, well…”

Helena’s heart swells, and a smile breaks onto her face. “You think I’m beautiful?” He might’ve said it before, but it sounds so different now, more honest, especially when she didn’t put as much effort into her appearance today.

Mark winces. “Uh, well, you know you’re gorgeous, alright?” He tries to play it off, but Helena can see the sweat forming on his brow. “What I’m trying to say is that I…like you, too, but I don’t know where this goes. I’ve been a serial monogamist since I was sixteen. Casual dating isn’t my thing.”

“It isn’t mine, either.” She’s only had two boyfriends in her life, but she hasn’t played the dating game for a while now. It’s not very fun. Too much small talk that leads nowhere. Too much time spent analyzing texts and silences like an armchair detective. Too much of pretending to be cooler or more detached than she actually is. 

But with Mark Scout, it never feels curated or orchestrated.

“Maybe we can go with the flow?” she offers. 

“‘Go with the flow?’” 

“Just enjoy the time we have together?” 

“Maybe,” Mark resigns. “I don’t know.”

“Oh.” That’s not the answer she wanted to hear.

They finish their meals in silence. Helena eats only half of the bowl and lets the rest congeal and go cold, unable to finish it. This isn’t going the way she hoped it would. 

“You done?” Mark asks after he refills his cup with radioactive blue. 

She nods.

“Is it okay if I drop you off?”

She nods, and they depart the Taco Bell and walk back to his car in the parking garage. Helena stares out the window as he drives back to the hotel. The silence is more than deafening, it’s unbearable, but she sits it out for ten minutes until they return to the Grand Kier.

“When are you leaving now?” Mark asks, the first thing he’s said since Taco Bell.

“Next Sunday.” She gulps.

“Okay. I, uh, need to think about everything. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll…let you know.”

Helena’s spent enough time in company meetings to know what ‘I’ll let you know’ really means. I’m not really interested. 

Her heart shatters into a million pieces and grinds into dust.

“Okay,” is all she can say. “Good night.” It feels an awful like she’s really saying Goodbye.

As she stands at the front entrance to the Grand Kier, she watches as Mark’s car exits the parking lot. Her hotel room is only a short elevator ride away, and he’s driving off. Dread pools into every limb of her body.

She’s so sick of taming her tempers.

iggly-jpm: possible helena eagan sighting?

My friends and i go to ganz in baird creek ny,  went to taco bell for dinner tonight. It was empty, baird creek is like that on sundays, except for two people in the corner eating together. We didnt notice them at first but after a while i recognized the guy as a professor at ganz. My friend had him for a class. It was kinda hard to see who the girl was with him but i have reason to believe she was helena eagan

magenta-mermaids: brand new account “has reason to believe” they saw helena eagan but doesn’t provide what that reason is? no photos either? yeah sure, this is a bait post through and through

fractured-sage406: as much as i would love to believe this is real, it sounds like BS. i just don’t buy helena eagan eating at a taco bell on a sunday night

helena-eager: helena would literally never step foot inside a taco bell. she’s a pret a manger girlie

Helena swims laps on Monday morning for longer than her usual hour. The repetition and the water block out any thoughts of Mark Scout, and she only exits the pool when her muscles ache and beg her to stop. 

Turns out, it’s really difficult to occupy your mind with something else. She finishes Children of God, but holds back from texting Mark about it. She wants to honor his request for needing a little time to think about everything, but who is she going to talk to about the ending? Why is she even sticking around Baird Creek when he isn’t going to get back to her at all?

Natalie knows better than to ask Helena about how yesterday went. Instead, when Helena eats a room-service Greek salad, Natalie joins her and smiles. “I know this is your ‘official’ vacation time, but do you want to hear some of these business emails I’ve received on your behalf?” she asks.

“Sure,” Helena replies absently.

“Everyone wants you to start a podcast.”

Helena scoffs. “What do I have to talk about for an hour a week?”

“Anything you want,” Natalie replies, but her smile suggests she also finds the idea ridiculous. “Brands are willing to pay a pretty penny to sponsor it.”

“I don’t need the money.”

“Oh, listen to this one brand. ‘I’m reaching out on behalf of Cloud Gloss, the world’s first luxury skincare line formulated exclusively for elbows. Our signature product, the Cloud Gloss Luxe Elbow Veil, blends Icelandic glacier dew, ethically harvested shimmer algae, and micro-infused cloud particles to hydrate and illuminate the most overlooked joint in the human body. We’ve been captivated by your content — your sense of style and your innate ability to make anything look chic. It’s time to take that same energy to the elbow.’”

Helena laughs, a genuine noise that lets her forget about Mark Scout for a few blissful seconds. “I’m offended on behalf of my elbows.”

For the afternoon, she flips through the hotel TV and watches more of the Netflix true crime doc. They barely hold her interest as she reads Devon’s article about her on her phone. 

For most women, personality is a survival mechanism. It’s the currency that buys access: to jobs, networks, relationships. Being likable is often treated as a prerequisite to being heard. But women like Helena Eagan are born at a different altitude. In her world, personality is not required. It’s optional, and maybe even suspect. She doesn’t have to dazzle, persuade, or even explain herself. Her status is pre-inscribed through wealth, lineage, beauty, and discretion. She doesn’t need to sell herself because she was never for sale in the first place.

But that isn't freedom. It’s containment.

What she really needs is a new book, but she can’t show her face at Bailiff Books and Records again. So Helena downloads a Jane Austen ebook onto her phone and reads that instead. It helps a little. Not really.  

The sun sets. She eats another room service dinner, then calls Judd and asks him to drive her around.

“Where to?” he asks.

“Anywhere. I don’t care. I just need to get out of this hotel.”

“Anything you want to talk about?” Judd probes after ten minutes of driving.

“No.” She looks out the window, not that there is much to see in the dark. It’s past seven, and she’s still heard nothing from Mark. When she returns to the hotel, she’ll stop at the reception desk and request an adjustment to her reservation. Checking out tomorrow. 

Judd drives around for another twenty minutes and makes his way back to the Grand Kier. That’s when she feels it—the sudden vibration of her phone.

How’s it going?

Good

I finished Children of God

Oh yeah?

I loved it

I still need to finish rereading the Sparrow

So, about thinking it over

Yeah?

I think we can make that work

Spend what time we have together, that is

Helena beams. She reads the message again, and again, to make sure it’s real. It's the door she was certain would never open again.

What did you have in mind?

I have AA tomorrow

But free Wednesday

Another movie?

Honestly, he could suggest they go to the DMV together, and she’d say yes, as long as she’s with him.

Okay

Dinner at the Grand Kier?

Sure

I’ll stop by at 5:30?

I’ll see you then

“Good news?” Judd asks.

“Yes,” she responds. “Very good news.”

She makes sure Natalie is out of the suite when the time comes, and as soon as he knocks on her door, she smiles brightly and pulls him in for a deep kiss. 

“Why couldn’t you ditch work today?” Helena pants when she peels herself off of him.

“I have classes on Wednesdays, and I have a strict syllabus to abide by,” he says before stealing another quick kiss.

“Well then what about yesterday?” She’s only teasing. If anything, she’s grateful she didn’t see him at all on Tuesday because she had asked Judd to drive her to the nearest outlet mall, about two hours away, so she could do some much needed shopping. She bought something special, just for tonight. And not seeing him on Tuesday makes tonight even more exciting and worthwhile. She spent Wednesday morning in the Grand Kier’s spa to decompress and let the outside world melt away, demanding Natalie get outside the hotel and do something . She spent the afternoon before Mark arrived preparing and planning out how the evening would go. 

She opted to keep her hair pulled in a low ponytail and selected another button down and pencil skirt combination. Not the most glamorous look for another date, but at least she wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb as she ventures back onto the streets of downtown Baird Creek. Today was chillier than the days before it, so her hooded jacket would offer a necessary shield to prying, parasitic eyes.

And besides, it’s what she wears underneath that really matters. She is not taming her tempers tonight.

Mark smirks. “I would’ve, but we’ve just entered the advising period, and I have a lot of clueless undergrads looking up to me for guidance. I can’t just leave them in the lurch.”

“Oh, you’re so thoughtful.”

Helena leads Mark down the hall, down the elevator to the lobby, all the way to the Grand Kier's restaurant, Malice & Mirth, tucked away and covered in low light and red curtains over the windows. A few other patrons sit at the tables, mostly older couples who are all preparing to go to turn in for the night. At least here, she doesn’t have to hide so much.

After a waiter drops off glasses of water and takes their drink order, Helena leans in. “You know, you’ve never told me why you chose to study history.”

“I usually save the nerdy stuff for later.”

“But last week, you brought up Petain.”

He laughs. “Okay, yeah, you got me there. But in all seriousness, I like the ability to interpret the past.”

“It’s the past. What is there to interpret?”

“It’s a perception versus reality thing. The past is messy and biased and half-recorded. Everyone says ‘those who don’t learn their history are doomed to repeat it,’ but that’s not true. The circumstances are different every time. It’s human behavior that doesn’t change.”

“That’s…really beautiful,” Helena says. The waiter returns with their drinks—Mark’s soda and a nonalcoholic green tea and basil concoction Helena chose to avoid drinking in front of him. They place their orders, and when the waiter steps away, she takes a sip of the yellowish-green beverage in front of her.

Mark points at the glass in her hand. “How is that?” 

“It’s good,” she answers.

“Is it really?”

“Yes. It’s refreshing.” She confirms with another sip, then redirects. “So you explained why you like history. Now you need to explain why you specialize in World War I.”

“Oh, well, that’s an easy one. It’s more interesting than World War II.”

“That’s it?”

“I mean, sure, World War II has a huge paper trail that makes it easy to find new things to talk about, but it’s very clear-cut. You know who the bad guy is, you know who the good guy is. But World War I is way messier and really ushered in the modern era. And, if anything, it’s history’s most fucked up game of Family Feud.”

“I don’t know, I think my family would come for that title,” Helena responds offhandedly as she reaches for the bread basket that the waiter brings out.

Mark blinks, his lips parted slightly in surprise. Helena grimaces once she realizes why he looks so caught off guard.

“Shit. Sorry. That was unnecessary. Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, sure. How about…what was your favorite subject in school?” Mark suggests with a crooked smile, trying to reignite the flame from just moments before.

Helena grins and rolls her eyes. “You’re such a teacher.”

Mark lifts his hands in fake surrender. “I’m curious! It hasn’t come up yet.”

“Art,” Helena says after finishing her bread roll. “Studio art and art history. I liked sketching.”

“Oh, do you still…”

“Not recently.”

Mark’s eyes soften. “Any chance I can see some of your work?”

“Maybe. Maybe I’lll sketch you sometime.” She brings the rim of her beverage to her mouth and sips. 

Across the table, Mark’s laugh goes all the way up to his crinkly eyes. “I’m sorry, but that looks fucking disgusting,” he says.

She rolls her eyes playfully. “I'm glad we're doing this,” she says.

“Yeah, me, too.”

Helena licks her lips and checks her watch. Just past five-forty-five. Her hotel room is just an elevator ride away. 

She’ll have to tame some of her tempers to get through the rest of this date.

The house lights go up and the audience of mostly boomers files out. Helena and Mark remain seated in the last row of the balcony seats next to the projector room.

“That was depressing,” she says.

“Yeah, I, uh…I forgot how dark it gets.”

She checks her phone out of habit to see three missed calls and five missed texts, all from Natalie, and two earlier missed calls from Seth. She swipes all the notifications away and sets her phone aside.

“I liked it, though,” she continues. “Visually arresting and sumptuous.”

“‘Visually arresting and sumptuous,’ huh? You are such an art person,” Mark teases. “Nothing to say about the acting or the plot?”

Let's see, how can she explain that this depressing and twisty thriller about obsession is also unbelievably horny and only makes her want to—

“Jimmy Stewart scared me,” Helena replies with trepidation. 

“Yeah. He's definitely not Mr. Smith Goes to Washington in this one,” Mark responds. 

Helena's eyes dart across the theater’s balcony. The employee in the projector room departs from the little closet and scampers down the steps. Once he's out of sight, Helena leans over the seat and kisses Mark. They didn't do this last time, and there's only so much room for the two of them. Warmth blooms from deep within her core. If she could, she'd stay right here forever.

Her phone vibrates and disrupts their deep kiss. Helena groans and reluctantly pushes away from Mark to swipe away the message from Natalie and set her phone to Do Not Disturb. She refuses to worry about what the Internet is saying right now.

“We can probably go now,” Mark says.

They make their way down to the theater lobby. Her jacket's hood goes up for fear of phone cameras and gossipy undergrads, though only the theater staff linger about, cleaning up concessions and closing down for the night.

“Anything else you'd like to do tonight?” Mark asks as soon as they return to his car.

Yes.

“You can drop me off at the hotel.”

The drive to the Grand Kier is short yet too long for Helena. She tries to distract herself with discussing the plot of Vertigo, but the conversation only makes her think about how Jimmy Stewart looked like an English literature professor, and she's sitting next to a history professor who is driving her back to her hotel right now. Her skin burns, and not even taking her jacket off helps.

“Here we are,” Mark announces when he pulls his car up to the front of the Grand Kier's entrance. They hold each other's gaze. Helena's tongue thickens. She hopes he can't hear her heartbeat right now.

“Do you want to come up?” 

There, she asked. Unlike before when she kissed him in the campus gallery, this is premediated. No impulsiveness. No taming of her tempers. 

Mark huffs. “There seem to be lots of reasons why I shouldn't.”

“There are…lots of reasons,” she repeats, but she can also think of lots of reasons why he should, and those outweigh any reason why he shouldn’t.  

“Tell me one reason I should,” he murmurs.

Helena’s hands tremble slightly, so she clasps them together in her lap to steady herself. “Because…” her voice falters, but she catches it before she loses it completely. “Because I want you to.”

She glances at the inviting front entrance, then back at Mark. No amount of rehearsal prepared her for just how jittery and anxious she is right now, every nerve and synapse inside of her lit aflame.

“Do you want to come up?” she tries once more.

Mark doesn’t say anything, but she sees it in his eyes when they flick to her lips and then back to hers. He's thought about this all night, too.

She kisses him quickly. “Just wait five minutes, okay?” she requests, and he nods.

Helena frolics and flies through the lobby and up to her suite. Her head buzzes from anticipation, and she’s so full of glee that she’s bursting and unraveling at the seams. This is it. She needs a few minutes to undress and get everything ready, and then they can finally, finally —

“Helena, thank God you came back,” Natalie's voice snaps as soon as Helena opens her suite's door. “I've been trying to get in touch with you all night—”

“Can it wait?” Helena groans as she hangs her jacket up in the closet and kicks off her shoes. Mark is about to show up so she can rip off all his clothes, and she cannot have Natalie around.

Natalie, however, doesn't budge. “Well, no, it can’t—”

“Please, can we just drop it until tomorrow?”

“Hello, Helena,” another voice echoes from further in the suite.

Helena’s fluttery heart crashes to a halt and plummets deep into her stomach. She knows that voice—masculine and smooth, and uncannily so. She slowly steps into her suite and takes one final glance at Natalie, whose entire face reads as I’m so sorry and I tried to warn you.

Seth Milchick sits on the sofa in the den, a chilling and vulturous grin stretched across his face. 

Chapter Text

He consults with Petey, Dylan, and Irving at their usual Monday night bowling. 

“What have I been saying this whole time? Have fun,” Petey reminds him.

“Fucking go for it, why the hell are you even here?” Dylan berates.

“Irving?” Mark requests.

“Don't look at me. I have nothing to say here.”

“Yeah, but you're the most anti-Lumon of all of us.”

“My opinions on Helena Eagan's family and Lumon Industries should not extend to what you do with your life. If you wish to gallivant with her for a period of time, then so be it.”

“‘Gallivant?’ Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Petey jokes.

Irving ignores the jab and continues. “Mark, I do not mean to sound self-righteous, but if you were so concerned about her status and her background, then you wouldn’t even be entertaining this conversation, now would you?”

Irving’s right. It’s why Mark spends extra time in the restroom of Pip’s right after bowling to text Helly. It’s why he schedules another date with her at Century Cinema on Wednesday. It’s why he stares as they sit in her car, his breath hitching when she asks, “Do you want to come up?” 

“There seem to be lots of reasons why I shouldn't,” he responds. She’s too young for him. She’s too rich for him. She’s from a family that capitalizes on people’s health and wellness. She’s an Internet joke. She’s not going to be here much longer. 

“There are…lots of reasons.”

“Tell me one reason I should,” he murmurs.

Her hands tremble even as she holds them together in her lap. “Because…because I want you to,” she admits. Helly’s eyes dart to the front door then back to him. “Do you want to come up?” she repeats once more.

Yes. He does. He really fucking does. He studies her face, how the limited light from the Grand Kier gleams in her eyes and makes her look even more delicate and gossamer.  

Helly kisses him one more time. “Just wait five minutes, okay?” She’s out the door in a whirlwind, already in the lobby. 

Mark parks his car in an empty spot and diligently waits the full five minutes—the longest, most drawn out five minutes in recent memory. A pressure in his slacks begins to form already, not fully straining the fabric but a pressure nonetheless. He tries not to let his imagination wander too much because whatever Helly has planned will certainly be better than anything his mind can concoct.

Mark’s five minutes are up, and as he makes his way to Helly’s suite, his beating pulse deafening in his ears. When was the last time he ever did something like this? He confessed to Helly yesterday that he’s been a serial monogamist since high school, but he’s never really engaged in casual sex before. Is what he’s doing with Helly even casual? He’s not sure. 

The door to her suite flies open before he’s even finished knocking. Helly stands before him and Mark smiles at her, but the desire and yearning he saw in her a few minutes ago is gone. Instead, she stares back at him with panic and concern.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You can’t be here,” she whispers.

“But you invited me—”

“I know, I’m sorry, but you have to go—”

“This must be the Dr. Mark Scout I’ve heard so much about.” A masculine voice from inside Helly’s suite rings out, and Helly blanches even more. The door opens further, and a man comes into view—dark skin, a precisely-tailored suit over a turtleneck sweater, a flashy smile that makes Mark’s own cheeks hurt just looking at him. The stranger extends his hand out to shake. “How do you do? I’m Seth Milchick. I work with Helena.”

“Um, hi,” Mark responds with caution. He looks back at Helly for an answer, but her gaze is on the floor beneath them. 

“Helena, Natalie and I will be making the necessary arrangements. That should give you a few minutes to catch Dr. Scout up to speed,” Seth says coolly after a beat. He disappears back into the suite. Helly nods and steps forward to let the door shut.

Mark takes her hand. “What’s going on?”

Helly leans against the wall, closes her eyes and sighs. “Seth is my father’s executive assistant. My father is… h-he had a stroke.” Her voice quivers as she speaks. “Seth’s been trying to contact me, but I… I ignored…” 

“Shh,” Mark soothes. He massages his thumb over her knuckles. “It’s okay.”

Helly pulls her hands away and lifts her chin up. Tears well up in her eyes, but they don’t spill just yet. “He’s in critical condition. I have to leave tonight,” she declares. “I’m sorry.”

The hotel hallway light flickers for a split second. “Tonight? But that’s at least a six-hour drive—” 

“Seth… he, um, he brought the company jet—”

“Sure,” Mark says because he doesn’t need the reality of their circumstance shoved back into his face right now.

Her breath is shaky and nervous. “I’m sorry,” she says once more, her eyes back to her feet. “I wanted to—I don’t know when I’ll see you again—”

“I’ll be in New York in a few weeks,” he blurts. 

Helly looks up at him. 

“I’m going to a conference over the fall break. We can meet up then, if you’re still…” He trails off. Interested remains unsaid. 

She bites her lip and nods. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

Mark cups her jaw into his palm, and she seems to melt to the touch. The universe has been playing a sick, twisted, fucked up joke on him this entire time, but he needs to be strong for her right now because she is barely keeping herself together. He kisses her, slow and deliberate, savoring every last bit of her he can because really—what the fuck?

“Three weeks?” he whispers.

“Three weeks,” she agrees.

Mark can’t quite bring himself to part from her, so Helly has to do it for them. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” she says as she taps her keycard against her suite’s door. 

“And we can still keep in touch. That’s what phones are for,” he adds. There’s a silver lining in all of this, isn’t there? The universe isn’t that cruel.

Helly smiles faintly, then disappears behind the door, which closes with a definitive click.

Mark’s shoulders slump. He trudges back to the elevator, one foot after the other, a sluggish shuffle. He presses the button to call the elevator and waits, shoves his hands in his pocket. 

“Dr. Scout!”

The elevator dings and opens, but he holds the door back so he can see who it is calling for him. The woman he recognizes as Helly’s assistant faces him.

“I’m Natalie Kalen. We met last week, when you—”

“I remember.”

From her posture, demeanor, and clothes, Natalie exudes a similar air as Seth —corporate, precise, curated—but her expression reads sincere. Apologetic.

“Forgive me if this is too forward, but I wish to apologize for—”

“What, exactly?” Mark deadpans. He just wants to go home.

“The circumstances,” Natalie stammers. “I know Helena looked forward to your… meetings.”

Meetings. Mark scoffs and steps inside the elevator. “Yeah, well, shit happens.”

The elevator door shuts, and Mark descends. 

“How did it go?” Petey smugly asks the next day, waiting for Mark outside his office.

“It didn’t.”

Petey frowns. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What do you mean ‘it didn’t?’”

Mark unlocks his office door and tosses his messenger bag onto the desk. “Second date was great. She even invited me up to her suite. I get up there and she isn’t alone.”

“I’m not following.”

“Someone who works with her came to fetch her because her father had a heart attack or something. She’s gone. Left last night.”

“Oh shit.”

“It’s not all doom and gloom,” Mark reasons. “Schwartz and I have that conference over the fall break, so we’re gonna try to see each other in New York. And, y’know, it’s the twenty-first century. We can stay in touch.”

“Look at you already trying to make it work,” Petey nudges. “Real modern fairytale romance right here.”

“You said ‘have fun,’ so I’m ‘having fun.’”

“I’m so proud.”

Mark has conversations similar to this one for the next three weeks—with Dylan, with Devon and Ricken, with Lorne, with Irving who offers his usual nuanced words of wisdom (“Aside from her family and connections, she seems like a lovely woman!”). They all encourage him and fuel Mark’s optimism for New York. 

He and Helly continue to text, with the promise of meeting up again just over the horizon. Three weeks is practically no time at all, Mark tells Helly (and himself) when she actually calls him on the Sunday after they last saw each other. He has to believe it because it sure as hell feels like it’s the most exhaustive amount of time ever. They talk until two in the morning, and he has to wake up in five hours to get ready for work but the sleep deprivation is worth every second he gets to hear her voice.

They chat about their lives. Keep it simple, keep it safe, keep it subtle. 

How’s your father?

He’s recovering. How is your sister?

Tired. Babies tend to do that

And everyone else?

She only met them once, but she always inquires about his friends. She never shares about her life unprompted, and usually when he presses, she replies with You can read about it online if you care so much.

Sometimes, he does, but Lumon is under lock and key. Their stock goes up and down for reasons Mark doesn't understand because he’s a historian, not an economist. The company announces a clinical trial, requesting participants with chronic illnesses. There is no press about CEO Jame Eagan having suffered a stroke.

But ‘Helena Eagan' is a gold mine of content and material. Mark doesn’t do social media, but whenever he has a few minutes to spare, he scrolls through the accounts dedicated to her just to remind himself what she looks like.

HelenaEaganUpdates: Looks like our girl is out of Baird Creek. Spotted back in Midtown, having dinner with a group of friends.

helena-eager2004: WHAT? So we’re just NEVER gonna find out who the mystery man was? what the hell

corrito-burrito: wouldn’t surprise me if her dad is on his deathbed rn and this is just to save face somehow, jame eagan is suspiciously absent these days

lucygoosey33: @corrito-burrito he’s always suspiciously absent???

namedafteraduck: i need her to be mean to me

HelenaEagansCloset: While out to dinner with friends in Midtown Manhattan, Helena wore the Bethanne Lambskin Short-Sleeve Day Dress in Dark Racing Green ($4,990) and the Celia Calfskin Pumps in Black ($750), both from the Ralph Lauren Collection.

Helena seems to be taking a page from her own style book with this outfit, but it’s missing that ‘je ne sais quoi’ of the fully monochromatic look from her time in Baird Creek. Still, she looks great in this dress, and I hope we see more outfits like this in the future. 

wendy-2f2f: helena’s loose hair supremacy 

volcanicfeelingxxx: green? on a redhead? (miranda priestly voice) groundbreaking

helena-eager2004: oh she’s MISSING him i just know it

Otherwise, Mark goes on about his life. He sleeps, he eats, he attends his classes and faculty meetings. He grades his students’ midterm assignments. To no one’s surprise, Eustice Huang’s is the best-scoring one. 

He bowls with Dylan, Irving, and Petey. He goes to AA. He eats Sunday dinner with Devon and Ricken, even babysits Eleanor for one of their date nights. 

The leaves on the trees darken to a stark crimson color that makes Mark’s chest ache. He’d kill to have some whiskey to dull the pangs of longing and loneliness, but at least that gives him something to talk about during the next meeting.

Three weeks is no time at all.

Yeah fucking right.

It’s the Wednesday before Ganz’s fall break, and Mark packs up a duffel bag and sends a photo of it to Helly. Taking the train tomorrow morning. Should arrive at Moynihan Station around 3 pm. 

Where are you staying? You haven’t told me yet

When he sends her the address, she responds immediately with Williamsburg? 

Is that a problem?

Might as well be on the damn moon

It’s still New York

It’s Brooklyn

We can meet halfway if that helps

Maybe

What else are you up to?

Nothing

He tosses his phone onto the bed as he rolls up some socks and folds some boxers. The phone lights up again after a few minutes, but when he checks it, he notices it isn't a message from the usual phone messaging app, but from the encrypted messaging service Helly suggested he download after the first week of being apart. That only means one thing. Sure enough, he's greeted to a photo of Helly from the torso up, wearing nothing but a lacy black bra. 

She's sent a handful of photos like these over the weeks, and he never knows how to respond to them. How can he? He and Gemma never sexted, and he’s definitely not bringing this into the group chat. Helena Eagan—heiress to the Eagan family fortune and an Internet fixture—sends him , Mark Scout—widower, alcoholic, mid-tier academic—sexy photographs, and that makes it at least thirty percent hotter than it already is. All he ends up doing, like tonight, is sit on the edge of his bed with his cock in his fist and his phone in the other. 

Tomorrow can't come soon enough.

Schwartz went to the conference a day early because he’s staying with his brother in Bushwick, so Mark asks Devon to drop him off at the Leonora Lake station that morning.

“Let me know when you get there,” she reminds him, sounding like their worried mother would every time they returned to college.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“And I'm picking you up on Sunday, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” She offers a pitiful smile. “I hope you see her,” she says.

“Who knows? Maybe you'll see it online.”

Devon rolls her eyes. “Didn’t take you for a starfucker.”

“I'm not, I'm just—”

“Relax, I'm kidding. I doubt she’d agree to go out with you if you were.”

Mark collects himself, stares out at the train waiting at the platform. “Am I crazy? Like, is this totally fucking batshit insane?”

“Going to an academic conference? No. Meeting up after three weeks with the billionaire heiress who likes you for some reason? Yeah, maybe.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Mark mumbles.

“Hey, so what if it is crazy? Love makes us do crazy things.”

Mark freezes. Who said anything about love? He met Helly about a month ago, went on two or three dates with her, and most of this…whatever-this-is has been over the phone. He likes her, but love? 

“I don’t lo—”

“You know what I meant,” Devon dismisses. “You better hurry up now, m'lady. Train's about to leave without you.”

So Mark boards the train bound for the city. He grades the remaining few paper proposals from his practicum class to pass the time, wondering how some of these students managed to graduate at all. He tries to continue rereading The Sparrow; he hasn't finished it yet because every time he tries to, his mind drifts off to Helly and what she could possibly be doing.

He checks his watch. It's only been two hours on this damn train. 

He sighs. He waited three weeks. He can wait another four hours.

Just checked in at the hotel

Today’s just a check-in day 

Are you free tonight?

She responds a few hours later, when Mark is already eating dinner at a nearby Jewish-Japanese fusion restaurant.

I’m sorry, I was in a meeting. I have nothing scheduled for tomorrow evening, if that works for you?

Like he has any plans after listening to other historians drone on about their research. 

Where do you wanna meet?

Since Brooklyn is too far for you apparently

You don’t live here, you wouldn’t understand

Technically, neither do you. You live in NJ

I keep an apartment in Gramercy Park

Of course she does. Sometimes it’s really easy to forget he’s talking to a billionaire.

She sends an address over. 7 pm tomorrow?

Ok

He waited three weeks. He can wait another twenty-four hours.

Schwartz’s panel goes well for one of the first sessions of the conference, and Mark tries his best to stay attentive for the rest. He spots a couple of old friends from his Georgetown days and they reconnect over lunch. He almost falls asleep during the afternoon session, and he declines the invitation to happy hour at the bar across the street from the hotel.

Mark navigates the subway into Manhattan to the address Helly provided him. He’s twenty minutes early.

Here

I might be a few minutes late, but I am on the way

He waits and people-watches, makes up stories about who these people are. The man with a scuffed briefcase is a self-absorbed playwright who debates moving to Los Angeles to write for the movies. The woman with the paisley print scarf and mismatched earrings is a florist who talks to roses as if they were her children. The elderly couple with arms linked are tourists from Kentucky on a self-directed walking tour. 

Seven p.m. arrives. 

Stuck in traffic

Then seven-ten. 

Then seven-twenty.

Everything ok?

He sticks it out until eight, but Helly never arrives, and he’s hungry. Stopped by a deli for something to eat. 

He waits another hour, but he never receives an answer. When nine-thirty rolls around, he trudges back onto the subway towards his hotel in Williamsburg.

Just want to know if you’re ok

No response. 

Mark tries again in the morning. Tonight?

But she doesn’t reply. 

He checks online for any possible insight into why she didn’t meet up with him, but the online accounts have nothing to provide him. During the conference luncheon, he checks his work email, but it’s surprisingly barren. Of course. This whole situation has been too good to be true, too much of a fantasy. Even if she has the best excuses in the world, it doesn’t change how they are totally incompatible. Disappointing, but not surprising. If anything, he’s pissed—not exactly at Helly, but for allowing himself to get caught up in the whirlwind. A gnawing pain grows in his chest. He’s been through worse, but the frustration stings nonetheless.

What happened? he texts as a final opportunity for her to explain herself.

He doesn’t get an answer until he’s already on the return train Sunday afternoon—an email that was sent to his work e-mail’s spam folder.

From: [email protected]

Mark,

I’m so sorry about this weekend. I was on the way, but traffic was miserable, and my phone broke. Not died, broke. By the time I arrived, you were gone, and I had no way of contacting you until I  could access a computer. I even called the front desk of your hotel a few times to connect me to your room, but you were out every time. 

I have a new phone now, and again, I’m so sorry. Please know I tried.

Helly

Once again, Mark finds himself stuck in the same conversation cycles with his friends and family. “Conference was fine. No, we didn’t meet up. Comedy of errors, if you will. I don’t know when we will meet up.” Eventually, everyone learns to stop asking him about Helly as the autumn colors fall and litter the ground. 

He and Helly continue to chat, but it’s more sporadic, less immediate, more cordial than ardent. Messages become shorter, replies stretch out over hours and days instead of mere seconds. Life goes on. He’s busy with work and the upcoming holidays; she’s busy with whatever a billionaire heiress and Internet phenomenon gets up to. 

HelenaEaganUpdates: Helena attended the 30th Annual Vision and Verve Foundation Charity Gala! 

fanciest-feast: omg it’s like we’re returning to our roots here

h.gruber89: rare Jame Eagan sighting too! he looks like he’s about to keel over

jenniferkissme25: whatever happened to dategate? just no follow-up there?

helena-eager2004: @jenniferkissme25 i’m LITERALLY always saying this! it’s been almost 2 months and NOTHING else has come out?

HelenaEagansCloset: While at the 30th Annual Vision and Verve Foundation Charity Gala, Helena wore the Long Keyhole Dress in Black from Schiaparelli ($10,853) the Strappy Black Satin Sandal from Jimmy Choo ($895), and Pearls by the Yard Chain Earrings from Elsa Peretti ($875).

This might be one of her best looks since, well, you know. Sleek and chic but also sexy with the keyhole cutout. By tomorrow, we’ll see more of her pantsuits and skirtsuits, but it’s nice to see Helena in a delightfully feminine look.

timmyteethatsme: this is fucking unfair

cntissmo: if you ever need a reminder that she’s a billionaire…well, she’s wearing a $10k dress to a charity event

helena-eager2004: i hope mystery man sees these and knows what he’s missing out on

ScientificAmerican: What does the future of bioprinting look like? For her first interview, Helena Eagan sat down with @DanAppleton to discuss Lumon Industries's bold plan. Read here.

helena-eager2004: omg her FIRST INTERVIEW?  

j.mclean89: she literally doesn't answer anything??? lol

cl0udbuss1n: i was willing to give helena eagan the benefit of the doubt bc she's so private, but this ‘article’ proves she has NO personality

Mark wishes her a Happy Thanksgiving, and she reciprocates. It doesn’t cross his mind to ask if they can maybe meet up over the break, and it doesn’t seem to cross hers, either. 

He grades his students’ final research papers and presentations. To no one’s surprise, Eustice Huang’s project about Gertrude Bell is the best one. 

Even with more time on his hands during Winter Break, whatever spell Helly had over him a few months ago dissipates. They stop chatting. The most they exchange now is Merry Christmas and You too. It was inevitable this would happen, he reminds himself. They went on a handful of dates that ultimately led nowhere. No harm, no foul.

When he’s by himself, he catches up on TV shows and movies from the past year that were recommended to him. He watches spaghetti westerns and the noisy action movies of his youth. He never finishes his reread of The Sparrow. It collects a thin layer of dust, untouched, on the coffee table in his living room, a bookmark sandwiched between pages 205 and 206.

The new year rings in with a blizzard. After three days of being cooped up in his house, Mark finally ventures out just to breathe in the chilly winter air and stretch his legs. Life slowly springs back up in downtown Baird Creek after existing as a total ghost town for a few days. He stocks up on groceries and checks out a few DVDs from the library before he arrives at Devon and Ricken’s for the first Sunday dinner of the year.

“Have you heard from her at all?” Devon asks the second he walks in the door.

“What are you talking about?” He knows who Devon refers to, he doesn’t need any clarification there.

Devon’s brow knits together. “You don’t know about the Lumon news?”

“I’ve been out all day and haven’t really been looking at my phone.”

“You know how there’s always one big news story to kick off the new year? Yeah, this is that.”

“Okay, but what is it?”

“Babe, can you put the news on?”

“Certainly, my dear!” Ricken’s voice bellows from the kitchen.

They gather in the living room with a news report blaring on the screen. 

DEVELOPING: Lumon accused of sharing sensitive medical info with defense contractors.

Mark’s head spins. He barely listens to what the talking heads have to say about the story, just catches phrases like “whistleblower” and “exposé” and “potential HIPAA violations.” He pays more attention to a video recording of Jame Eagan and Helly trying to avoid the press as they get into a black Lincoln town car. 

“That’s fucked,” Devon’s voice snaps Mark back to reality. “When was the last time you talked to her?”

“Can we…can we not talk about this right now?” he suggests. A headache develops between his brows and pulsates towards the back of his head.

Thankfully, Devon and Ricken oblige, but the dinner is stilted, too pleasant and artificial.

HelenaEaganUpdates: While the Lumon story is ongoing, we will be on hiatus. Please keep in mind that everyone involved is a human. Mistakes were made, but our thoughts go out to any potential victims of this breach. Thank you.

j.mclean89: are you REALLY trying to “both sides of this” now? 

tintin.scarantino: “mistakes were made” IDK a biotech megacorp sold personal medical data to make supersoldiers or some shit and you think “mistakes were made?” go off i guess

helena-eager2004: she’s not the head of the company, jfc, some of you will do anything to tear a woman down

abit-frooty: @helena-eager2004 she’s still a billionaire profiting off the sale of personal medical data and likely breached privacy laws? this has nothing to do with her being a woman????

emp-1013: Helena Eagan still doesn’t deserve our sympathy, a thread 

“You survived the blizzard,” Irving says as soon as Mark walks through the bookstore’s door around noon.

“Yeah, but I got a bad case of cabin fever. The cure is some good conversation.”

“Charming. So this isn’t about the Lumon news?”

Mark leans down to scratch Radar’s ears. “No,” he says sheepishly, but it’s only half the truth. A part of him wants Irving to chastise him, give him a good ‘I told you so,’ but he also knows that’s useless. If anything, Irving was mildly, cautiously supportive of him. 

“I see. Would you like to talk about it at all?”

“Not really.”

“Very well then. Tell me about the class you’re teaching this semester. I don’t think you’ve said anything about it?”

So Mark humors Irving with the details of his spring class—“The American Way of War,” what that means, what books he put on the syllabus, how it’ll be his smallest class yet with only eight students, the minimum class enrollment at Ganz (Eustice Huang is one of them). At some point, they start a friendly debate over the historical efficacy of naval battleships. It’s just the two of them in the bookstore, save for Radar curled up by the window. His head perks up when the door’s bell chimes.

“Oh hello!” Irving greets. “How can I help you today?”

Mark glances in the direction of the newcomer, a woman in a long trench coat. She removes her sunglasses, but it’s the tendril of red hair that escapes from her hat that makes his heart cease and his blood chill.

Helly. 

Chapter Text

“You were a difficult one to reach this evening. Not even Natalie would answer me.” Seth smirks from the couch. “You’ve kept me waiting for at least two hours now.”

Helena purses her lips. “I thought I was clear that I am on vacation right now.”

“You were, but I wouldn’t have flown out all this way if it was not important.”

Flew? Helena arches a brow, but she knows what he means. The company jet. Seems like a waste of company time and resources, but Helena isn’t the one who runs Lumon.

“Jame had a stroke around four in the afternoon today. He is in the hospital right now.”

Helena’s mouth goes dry, her tongue thickens. She should be a dutiful, concerned daughter and ask questions like What happened? Is he okay? Instead, she remains speechless, fixated in her spot.

“I tried reaching out, would’ve saved everyone this trouble, but you wouldn’t answer your phone. Natalie informed me you were entertaining some…company.” Seth pauses, always with the flair for theatrical. “You are expected in Holmdel tomorrow morning. Natalie took the liberty of canceling the rest of your reservation here.”

Helena swallows and shuts her eyes tight. What is happening right now? Her father can’t be in the hospital. He’s the healthiest person she knows, diligent with his diet, maintains enough exercise to keep himself mobile as he nears his seventieth birthday. What does Seth mean—a stroke? 

And now, of all times?

The knock on the door snaps Helena out of her haze.

“Expecting someone?” Milchick jeers. 

“Three weeks?” 

Mark holds her cheek in his palm, and Helena softens at his touch, warm and gentle. It soothes the riptide of emotions coursing through her. 

“Three weeks,” she repeats.

Seth and Natalie are waiting on the other side of the wall, so she can’t indulge in this moment for much longer. Helena breaks away from Mark and taps her suite’s keycard against the door. “I’ll see you in three weeks,” she says with as steady of a voice as possible, her hand on the handle. 

“And we can still keep in touch. That’s what phones are for,” Mark adds. He offers a sweet grin, no doubt for her, to make her feel better about the situation. She reciprocates, then swiftly darts back into her suite.

She doesn’t know it then, but that image of Mark—standing in the hotel hallway, kind and reassuring eyes with a smile to match—is the last time she’ll see him for a while.

Judd drives Helena, Natalie, and Seth to the Wileston Regional Airport where the Lumon jet awaits them. It’s almost midnight when they arrive, and the trip back to Holmdel should only take thirty to forty minutes max. Judd gets to drive back to Baird Creek and spend one more night at the Grand Kier, then drive back to Holmdel in the morning. It takes every fiber in her body for Helena not to just stay with him.

“You have a meeting with the Board at eight in the morning to discuss your role during your father’s ailment,” Seth states with austere precision once they are in the air. Otherwise, most of the flight is silent and stiff. Helena looks out the window into the black void.

Her father’s driver—Mr. Drummond—is already waiting on the tarmac once they arrive at their destination. He collects the three of them, drops Natalie off first, then heads to Seth’s.

“I am terribly sorry to ruin your vacation,” Seth says once Drummond sits outside the curb to Seth’s condominium. “Unfortunately, there comes a time where we must all eradicate childish folly and learn to grow. Your priorities are to your family, and to Lumon.”

Helena glares at him as he steps out. Seth has always been smug, but for at least seven years now, he’s been a much-needed buffer between her and her father. Not exactly a welcoming presence, but a respectable one. He absorbs the brunt of her father’s simmering moods, the clipped judgment, the cold silences. Without Seth, Helena would have detonated long ago, glass and blood everywhere. She might even consider him a friend.

But tonight, Helena realizes she cannot think of Seth Milchick as a friend anymore. She is a nuisance, the boss’s daughter who needs to be wrangled, a thorn in everyone’s side. 

“Seth?” she calls before he can close the car door. 

He pokes his head down. “Yes?”

“I know you expect to go far. Your ambition and loyalty show it. But know this: no matter what you do, no matter how much you kiss his ass, my father will never see you as anything more than a glorified valet,” Helena sneers, then jerks the door closed.

The Board insists that word of Jame Eagan’s stroke must not get out, so for the time being Helena must become the face of the company even more so than she was before. Truth be told, Helena’s never been certain what her role at Lumon is. She receives a paycheck, a formality that Father insisted on as soon as she turned eighteen and started filing papers over the summers, but Helena doesn’t have a proper title. “CEO’s Daughter” doesn’t look good on a badge.

She visits Father in the hospital right after the morning board meeting. He’s frail and his skin is almost translucent, but when he spots her, he… smiles.

“My Helly,” he mumbles, voice faint and garbled from the stroke. “How good it is to see you.”

He hasn’t called her that since she was twelve. 

The first few visits are strangely pleasant. She reads to him news stories on her phone. They watch daytime television. They make plans to attend the symphony in the future. They joke about the awful play they saw and still remember from five years ago. It’s the most time they’ve spent together, just as father and daughter, in the last decade. 

But as his health recovers, the cold exterior builds back up. No more inside jokes, no more warmth. That brief window when he forgot to be distant closes. The father she knew returns, the one who looks at her with disappointment.

Helena goes into the city and stays at her Gramercy Park apartment for a week because the Board wants everyone to lay as low as possible. She makes an effort to see her friends, mostly women she’s known since her days at Choate and Princeton, and agrees to meet them for dinner at an upscale Italian restaurant in Midtown. Even Natalie thinks it’s a good idea, an opportunity to show everything has returned to normal. 

“So who was that guy you were with while you were away?” Allison Plotnick inquires as soon as the waiter finishes taking their orders.

“Just someone I met,” Helena downplays as best as she can. 

“Oh come on, you’re among friends,” Lara Quigley probes. 

Even though she trusts these women enough, Helena is not willing to give away too much information about Mark Scout. Mark is her secret, and she needs to protect him from prying public scrutiny at all costs. 

“It’s a casual thing,” Helena offers. “We’re supposed to meet soon. He’ll be in the city in a couple weeks.”

“Oh, it’s that kind of casual,” Olivia Connell smirks. “The sex must be really good if you’re agreeing to see him again.”

Helena doesn’t correct Olivia. Back in her Gramercy Park apartment, Helena gets a little tipsy off of a bottle of red wine and texts Mark, tells him to download the encrypted messaging app her ex-boyfriend told her about, and sends him photos of herself in her underwear. They’ve been texting back and forth all week, but tonight, Helena is desirous and delirious and just drunk enough to send photos like these without inhibition. She’s never done it before, and Mark never sends a reply, but the thrill of the moment and the alcohol in her blood convince her it’s a good idea. She imagines Mark getting off to her pictures as she rides her vibrator. 

Helena returns to the glass conference rooms and sterile hallways of Lumon. It doesn’t feel like she left at all. More of the same—board meetings, thin smiles, a calendar that never empties and Natalie miraculously keeps track of. Father is discharged from the hospital but kept on bedrest. Helena sits in on meetings regarding the upcoming Vision and Verve gala.

These are the longest, most agonizing weeks of Helena’s life.

Mark texts her on a Wednesday evening. Taking the train tomorrow morning. Should arrive at Moynihan Station around 3 pm. 

Where are you staying? You haven’t told me yet

She frowns at the address he sends over. Williamsburg? 

Is that a problem?

Yeah, it’s too far away. 

Might as well be on the damn moon

It’s still New York

It’s Brooklyn

We can meet halfway if that helps

Maybe

She’s going to make this work. She has to. She waited three weeks for this conference to roll around, has already selected a more than suitable outfit. She even brainstormed with Natalie a few places they could go without drawing too much attention to themselves. Gramercy Park and private dining to the rescue—for when they actually leave her apartment, that is.

An idea floats through Helena’s brain.

What else are you up to?

Nothing

Not anymore. Helena undresses, snaps a photo of herself, and sends it to Mark. He still doesn’t respond to these photos of hers, but that’s okay. She knows what he’s doing.

Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

“The Board requests your presence at their monthly meeting,” Natalie informs her first thing in the morning. 

“Isn’t that scheduled at four in the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Why do I need to be there?”

“I don’t know, they didn’t provide a reason.”

Mark doesn’t text her all day, and all Lumon board meetings are conducted with no phones in the conference room, so she leaves her phone with Natalie while she sits in this meeting. Despite the Ivy League education and a life spent around suits, Helena barely understands everything the board discusses—or maybe she’s uninterested and too preoccupied with the knowledge that Mark is going to be in the city any minute, and then they can finally, finally see each other. She keeps a watchful eye on the clock.

“Let’s move on to the chronic illness trial slated for next month. Does that trial still apply to the Veridian deal?”

Helena’s ears perk up. “Veridian?” she blurts out. “What Veridian deal?”

The entire room stares at her, silent and austere. They look at her like she doesn’t belong, which she probably doesn’t, but they’re the ones who insisted she sit in.

“Two years ago, Veridian approached us about a collaboration regarding our data and research to better their technologies,” Father says quietly. He never misses a meeting, even with his health on the line.

“You sold trial data to a defense contractor?” 

“We licensed a subset of cognitive resilience markers,” he replies.

Helena frowns. “Do our participants know that?” 

“All participants consent to third-party research use. Such language has been standard in clinical consents for years. This is not a violation, it is an application .”

“But what does Veridian want with medical data?”

She can feel the board’s disapproval with her, silently requesting she shut up so they can continue. Father remains stoic and collected.

“You and I can discuss this later, Helena. I do not think it is in the best interest of this meeting to recount the details of a previous action for your sole benefit when everyone else knows about it.”

She wants to fight back, to interrogate for questions because the whole situation sounds murky and dubious, but she shrinks back into her chair and bites her lip. The meeting goes on for another hour and a half until it adjourns. 

“Helena, a word before you leave,” Father calls her as everyone else stands to leave. He waits for the conference room to clear. Helena holds her hands in front of her, rubs her right thumb into her left palm.

“I requested you attend this board meeting to observe it. This stroke led me to the conclusion that my tenure as CEO will come to a close sooner than I would have hoped, and you will likely need to take over. You must recognize what you will be responsible for as the head of this company. However, you were called in to observe, not provide commentary. At the next board meeting, I expect you to remain silent. Do I make myself clear?”

Helena bites her lip and looks to her feet. “I understand,” she replies meekly.

“You’re dismissed,” he says with a wave of his hand.

Helena steps outside of the conference room, pushes aside the dissatisfaction rising up her throat. Three consecutive messages from Mark await her, from just before the meeting started, when she retrieves her phone from Natalie. 

Just checked in at the hotel

Today’s just a check-in day 

Are you free tonight?

She is, but she’s all the way in Holmdel, and she had everything planned for tomorrow. She sends a reply— I’m sorry, I was in a meeting. I have nothing scheduled for tomorrow evening, if that works for you?

He responds right away.

Where do you wanna meet?

Since Brooklyn is too far for you apparently

You don’t live here, you wouldn’t understand

Technically, neither do you. You live in NJ

I keep an apartment in Gramercy Park

And he’ll get to see it. She sends her building’s address to him. 7 pm tomorrow?

Ok

She smiles at her phone. Tomorrow. She has everything all planned out. 

The gala planning meeting takes longer than Helena hoped it would. She expected it to finish at four p.m. It ends at four-thirty, and that makes all the difference in the world. She practically sprints out of the office with her weekend bag when the meeting ends and heads to the parking lot, where Judd waits for her. Friday afternoon traffic in and out of the city is a nightmare. She and Judd are barely out of New Jersey when Mark texts her twenty minutes before seven. Here.

I might be a few minutes late, but I am on the way

They’ve made no progress when seven rolls around. Stuck in traffic

The car jerks violently, and Helena jolts in her seat, sending the phone in her hands flying against the backseat window. “My apologies!” Judd calls from the front as he lays on the horn. “They’ll just give anyone a license to drive these days.”

Helena picks up her phone from the floor of the car, but it feels off in her hands, like it’s bent on the side. So much for the phone case. 

She tries to turn the screen on just to send another text to Mark, but her phone doesn’t illuminate at all. Helena groans, pressing every combination of button to make it light up. It remains a lifeless brick in her hands. 

“Shit!” she exclaims.

“Everything alright, Miss Eagan?”

“My phone broke.”

Time passes, and they remain gridlocked in Manhattan, slowly inching towards Gramercy Park. Seven-oh-five turns to seven-fifteen, turns to seven-thirty, turns to seven-forty-five. She has no method of contacting Mark, to let him know she’s still on the way. Her heart races, and she unlocks the backseat door to step out.

“Judd, I’ll see you at Gramercy. I’m just going to walk the rest of the way, okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m supposed to meet someone.”

She arrives at eight-fifteen, with no sign of Mark. He must’ve left at least an hour ago. Understandable. She wouldn’t wait around for herself, either.

But she’s not done trying.  

Helena should’ve brought her laptop with her, but it seemed like extra weight to carry along. So she finds herself in a branch of the New York Public Library, trusty hat and sunglasses on, accessing a public computer to email Natalie that she needs a new phone. She researches Mark’s hotel and dials the reception from a library courtesy phone. The receptionist directs her call to his room, but it just rings and rings until an automated voice pipes up. 

“‘The guest you are trying to reach is out at the moment. Please try again, or a leave a message.’” 

She hangs up, tries again an hour later. 

“‘The guest you are trying to reach is out at the moment. Please try again, or a leave a message.’” 

She tries to access her messages via the computer to see if Mark sent any, but ends up in a roundabout game of needing to verify her account with her phone—but she can’t because the phone is broken. Natalie emails her back with details about getting a new phone, whether she wants to pick it up at a store in the city or back in Holmdel. Helena picks Holmdel because it’s quieter and there is less chance of someone spotting her out on the street, but it means going another day without a phone. Of course something like this was bound to happen to her.

Would it be wrong of her to show up at Mark’s hotel? Does he even want to see her at all after seemingly standing him up? Probably not. She can’t risk the exposure of being spotted out in public, showing her face to provide a slew of excuses. And if she were Mark, she wouldn’t want to hear them anyways. 

Saturday evening is another bust spent alone in her apartment. Judd picks her up early on Sunday morning. Back home in Holmdel, she obtains her new phone and sets it up. Messages from Mark fly as soon as it is active. 

Everything ok?

Stopped by a deli for something to eat. 

Just want to know if you’re ok

Tonight?

What happened?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. She forgot—he’s a professor, his faculty email is readily available. She types out an email from a secure and private email service and sends it to him.

Mark,

I’m so sorry about this weekend. I was on the way, but traffic was miserable, and my phone broke. Not died, broke. By the time I arrived, you were gone, and I had no way of contacting you until I  could access a computer. I even called the front desk of your hotel a few times to connect me to your room, but you were out every time. 

I have a new phone now, and again, I’m so sorry. Please know I tried.

Helly

He responds to her about an hour later saying it’s no trouble and that he understands, but Helena knows. From this point forward, whatever she and Mark had before is gone.

Autumn rolls in with its chilly air and colorful leaves. Helena performs her duties as the CEO’s pretty daughter. She meets with friends. She turns down interviews from other magazines when the Scientific American article finally goes up. She goes to the 30th Annual Vision and Verve Charity Gala—the first public appearance Jame Eagan has made since his hush-hush stroke a month prior. 

Helena keeps in contact with Mark, but their conversations are not as charged as before. It feels more like maintaining a friendship while it slowly dies, all polite small talk and friendliness but otherwise not entirely meaningful. Every time she considers stripping her clothes off to send him a photo of herself, she shakes the thought of her head because how fucking foolish is she to think that was ever a good idea? He’s probably moved on to someone more accessible, and if he hasn’t, he’s probably still upset with her for what happened during his conference. 

How are you doing? 

Fine

Bringing Up Baby was on Turner Classic Movies today

He doesn’t answer until a day later. Cool.

He at least texts her during Thanksgiving, but by then, Helena recognizes it as a formality rather than sincerity. She briefly considers asking him to meet with her one weekend, but quickly dismisses that thought. It’s a busy time of year for him as a professor, and the holidays are right around the corner. 

Otherwise, Helena swims her laps every morning. She sits in on meetings for no discernable reason. She celebrates Father’s birthday in early December, racks her brain for what to get everyone for a Christmas present. Online accounts try to make her life sound more interesting than it actually is. She and Mark cease talking to one another completely, save for another courtesy Merry Christmas . It was inevitable. She’s not destined for a love story straight out of a romance novel or a romcom. He’s moved on, and so should she.

She rings in the New Year with her friends at a members’ club in the Upper East Side. She cheers at midnight when Allison Plotnick’s boyfriend proposes to her. Two hours later, she sobs herself to sleep in her bed.

It’s the first Saturday of the new year, and Helena sits at home watching The Notebook when she receives a phone call—from Wesley Hannelly, her ex-boyfriend who works in the State Department.

“Wesley? Hello? To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Hey, uh, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but I have some news that involves you and your family.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have some contacts at The New York Times and they’ve just told me that they’re going to run an exposé about Lumon and Veridian tomorrow.”

Helena sits up, electricity up and down her spine. “Come again?”

“A whistleblower at Veridian went to the Times, said Lumon sold confidential data from clinical trials to Veridian.”

Helena’s stomach turns. She thinks back to that board meeting she sat in a few months ago. “Why…why are you telling me this? We haven’t talked in years and now you’re calling to be a Good Samaratian?”

“I think you at least deserve to know so you’re not blindsided.” He pauses. “You…you didn’t know about any of it, right?”

“No,” she replies immediately, defensively, but it’s not the entire truth. She’s known about it for a few months now. “T-thank you, I suppose.”

She hangs up and sits motionless. Father is just upstairs in his study. She can go up right now, inform him so that Lumon will be ready. She can be a dutiful daughter and protect him. She can show initiative, foresight, and loyalty. Maybe that will make him proud of her for once. Maybe he'll say her name like it matters. Maybe he’ll look at her not just as a branch of the company and family tree, but as someone irreplaceable.

But what if…she doesn’t?

Helena unpauses her movie and continues to watch.

NYTimes: Lumon Industries allegedly sold years of clinical trial data to defense contractor Veridian Enterprises, according to one whistleblower. Read here.

Father is furious. Helena sits in the emergency board meetings and watches as everyone talks and screams and tries to spin this. She remains quiet.

When she and Father exit the Lumon offices, press swarm them with cameras and questions as they try to get their car. Seth Milchick does what he can to quell the mob.

Natalie texts her not to look at what’s being said about her online. Helena’s already one step ahead of her. 

Father doesn’t eat dinner with her, just retires to his study for the rest of the evening. She didn’t warn him because a tiny part of her wanted to see him implode, feel the sick satisfaction of it, Schadenfraude . But now, their Holmdel mansion is even more suffocating and dreadful. Would warning him have even made a difference at all in how she feels now?

Curiosity gets the best of her. She reads the article on her laptop, and the situation is worse than she thought. She shouldn’t have believed Father when he said everything was fine, shouldn’t have taken his word for it. The night is restless, tossing and turning, trying to count sheep to no avail. 

Her alarm goes off at five, and she unrolls the sheets to prepare herself for the day. But the truth is, Helena doesn’t want to get ready for the first Monday of the new year and walk into utter chaos and stress at Lumon. She doesn’t want to be here at all, but where can she go? Her Gramercy Park apartment is too close for comfort, and she’ll no doubt be spotted along the streets of Manhattan, swarmed with questions and insults. 

An idea forms.

She dresses in jeans, a loose sweater, and a pair of sneakers, then throws her trench coat over her shoulders and arms. She puts her hat on, pulls her hair through the back and tucks the ponytail into her trench coat, grabs a pair of sunglasses, shoves a phone charger and her wallet into the pockets. As soon as the clock hits five-thirty, she dials Judd’s number. He’s former military, he’s awake at four every morning.

“Miss Eagan? What is it?”

“Can you drive me to the train station?”

“Now?”

“Yes, please.”

“Give me half an hour.”

He arrives in twenty minutes, and drops her off at the station just after six. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“I can’t tell you,” Helena replies. “Please, don’t tell anyone you drove me here. I’ll give you an extra five hundred dollars to not say a word to anyone, not even Natalie.”

Judd frowns. “You don’t need to send me any money. Your secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you, Judd.”

She buys a ticket at the self-service kiosk, destination Leonora Lake, scheduled to leave in fifteen minutes. As soon as she takes her spot in the business car, Helena sends five hundred dollars to Judd’s account.

On the train, she tries to text Mark, to notify him that she's on the way. I'll explain everything later. But service and Wi-Fi on the train leave much to be desired, and none of her messages indicate they've gone through. 

Few people board the train as it heads north towards Leonora Lake, but Helena remains alert at all times. Her sunglasses come off but the hat stays on, and the collar of her coat pops up to obscure more of her face. She buys a snack and a coffee once the cafe car opens, but limits her time spent walking along the train. Can't take the risk. Her head slumps against the window and she naps for about half an hour. 

When she arrives at the Leonora Lake station just past noon, she checks her phone. Her messages to Mark still don't go through, but at least a dozen texts from Natalie flood in. Where are you?! What's going on??? I can track your phone if necessary!

Helena needs to go somewhere, but she can’t go to the Grand Kier right now, and Mark still hasn't seen her messages. All she has with her is her phone, her wallet, and the clothes on her body. It's a Monday, maybe he has work and is at the Ganz campus? But it's still Winter Break, so maybe he isn't on campus. 

Does he even want to see her at all? 

She needs to work quickly before Natalie catches wind. She opens a rideshare app and hails a car for the only other destination that she can think of in Baird Creek. As soon as the car pulls up, she turns her phone off, with no intention of turning it back on. 

The drive from the Leonora Lake station to downtown Baird Creek is at least half an hour. The landscape looks so different in the snow from a blizzard that hit upstate New York pretty hard, glistening and pure. Cars are on the roads, but downtown Baird Creek is empty.

She thanks the driver when he pulls up right outside Bailiff Books and Records. Radar sits by the window, his ears and head perking up when he notices her enter the store. Hopefully Irving will help her get in touch with Mark, not that he has any reason to help her. Especially now. He probably hates Lumon even more—

“Oh, hello! How can I help you?”

Irving stills as soon as he recognizes her, but Helena stops worrying about him. Her heart skips so many beats, certain it halts altogether. Irving isn't alone. Someone else stands with him at the register.

Mark.

Chapter Text

What the actual fucking fuck is happening.

Irving might need to get the HVAC checked out because Mark sweats despite the icy chill. He has to remind himself to breathe. Maybe he should pinch or smack himself just to be sure he isn’t dreaming right now. He hasn’t seen Helly since late September, and now she is about twenty feet in front of him. Trench coat, jeans, sneakers, that same blue cap from before— the most dressed-down he’s ever seen her and not exactly the best outfit for weathering post-blizzard Baird Creek. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say right now? 

“I’m sorry. I d-didn’t know where else to go,” she stammers to Irving, then brings her attention back to Mark. “I tried reaching you, but the service on the train wasn’t great.”

Mark checks his phone to find a cluster of texts from Helly arrived about thirty minutes ago. 

I know this is out the blue, but I’m currently on the train to Leonora Lake

I’m sure you’ve seen the news

I needed to get away

I’ll explain everything later

“Dear, does anyone know you’re here?” Irving asks.

Helly shakes her head. “No.” Her hands fidget together; she picks at a hangnail on her thumb. “I need… I’d like to talk with you, Mark.”

“Uh, okay,” Mark hears himself say, dumbstruck, his mouth dry and full of cotton. Helly— no, Helena fucking Eagan— is back in Baird Creek, the day after a New York Times exposé, and she wants to speak with him. He’s almost a year sober now, but it sure as hell feels like he just woke up from a night of heavy binge-drinking between the bottomless chasm in his stomach and dizzying throb in his head.

“Why don’t you two go across the street?” Irving suggests with a gentle push of his hand at Mark’s back. “Get something to eat, drink a cup of coffee. Shouldn’t be so busy right now.”

“S-sure,” Mark obliges, but he turns around at the door. “Hey, Irving?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t tell Petey or Dylan or… uh, anyone about this? Please?”

“My lips are sealed,” Irving responds with a reassuring grin.

Helly follows him as they cross the street, avoiding the snow and ice, and walk into the café. It’s not as empty as either of them would hope, but the crowd is mostly older men or couples far more preoccupied with their own conversations than Mark or the incognito billionaire heiress with him. They take a seat at a booth next to the wall. Helly keeps her cap and trench coat on, but the sunglasses remain off. This was the first place he ever saw her, before they actually spoke in the bookstore.

“What can I get started for ya?” an older woman with lipstick stains on her teeth asks as soon as they sit, placing menus in front of them.

“Coffee, please,” Mark says.

“Just water,” Helly answers quietly.

The waitress jots down on her pad and leaves. Mark studies Helly more closely now that there is less than five feet between them. Her big eyes are red and weary, with dark circles underneath. She must be exhausted if she was on the first train to Leonora Lake this morning, but he knows better than to tell a woman she looks tired. They sit together without an exchange of words until the waitress returns with their drinks.

“What can I get ya to eat?”

“I’ll have the fried chicken sandwich,” Mark replies.

“And for you?” the waitress asks Helly.

 “I’m okay.”

“You should eat something,” Mark presses, unsure of where this concern is coming from. 

Helly doesn’t put up a fight and glances at the menu. “What’s the soup of the day?”

“French onion.”

“Okay. A bowl of that, please.”

“One fried chicken sandwich and a bowl of french onion soup coming up.”

The waitress departs once more, and they are left with dead air between them. Mark sips his coffee and feels some mental fortitude returning to him. 

“So, uh, you wanted to talk?”

Helly absently stirs the straw in her cup of water. “I’m sorry for showing up out of the blue, but I don’t want to be at home right now. I didn’t know you’d be at the bookstore, it was the first place I thought of that seemed safe enough. The Grand Kier feels too risky right now, and I wanted to ask Irving for help in contacting you.”

“Guess you got lucky then.”

“I don’t feel ‘lucky’ right now,” she whispers, “Sorry. You deserve an explanation.”

“It’s okay, you can go at your own pace—”

“No, I promised to explain everything, so that’s what I’m going to do.” She sits up and lifts her chin, but her wariness prevents her from sitting up fully straight. “The news, this exposé…it’s true.”

“All of it?” Mark raises an eyebrow.

“I think so. I mean, I didn’t know about any of it at first, but a few months ago, I sat in on a board meeting and it was brought up. I shouldn’t have taken my father’s word for it, but he assured me nothing was wrong, said it was very standard stuff.” She pauses to take a deep breath. “I should’ve just gone to the press myself—”

“Hey, you said you didn’t know about any of it, yeah?”

She nods.

“Then don't beat yourself up over it.”

“But you were right.”

Mark's frowns, confused. “About what?”

“My family profits off of people's pain.” 

Helly's eyes cast down to her lap. Mark barely remembers saying that to her, but it doesn't matter. She remembers, and it's been weighing on her ever since.

She continues with a shaky breath, just above a whisper. “We say we help people, but if that were true, we wouldn't have sold personal medical data to a fucking defense contractor. ”

“Hey.” Mark leans forward over the table between them. His hand reaches out for her, but her hands are in her lap. “You’re not your family.”

“How do you know?”

Mark doesn’t know. Helly is the only Eagan he's met, though he's learned a bit of the family history from researching Baird Creek and general information found online about the Eagan lineage. He’s seen a handful of photographs of Jame Eagan, her father, who looks more like a living corpse than a father these days. 

“Well, for one, you recognize the dubious ethics of selling medical data to the military industrial complex. Sounds like your father didn’t. That gets points for something.”

He didn’t say anything humorous, certainly wasn’t trying to be, but Helly chuffs regardless. She meets his gaze.

“You believe me, don’t you? I didn’t know about the initial deal. I didn’t find out until—”

“I believe you,” Mark assures. 

Helly exhales and smiles weakly. “Thank you.” She takes a long sip of her water to collect herself. “I came here because I can’t be in that house with him—”

“Him?”

“My father.”

Mark opens his mouth to ask why she lives with her father at all when she’s clearly wealthy enough to afford not to, but decides against it.

“It’s like a mausoleum in there, especially now with the exposé out. I had to get out of Holmdel, and… this was the only place I could think of.”

“So you just left? Without telling anyone?”

“Yeah, but Natalie might figure it out soon. I turned my phone off so she can’t track it, but she’ll realize sooner or later. She's very good at her job. That’s why she’s paid the big bucks..” 

“Don’t you have an apartment in the city? Or friends you can stay with?”

“I don’t want to be in Manhattan right now.” She pauses. “Come to think of it, none of my friends have reached out to me since the news broke. But I need to be somewhere that isn’t suffocating, just for a few days.”

Underneath her words is a hidden request. She mentioned earlier that  it’s too dicey for her to stay at the Grand Kier, especially with a staff that will recognize her and maybe even leak her location to the press. She stares off to the side, despondent and fatigued. She’s a brewing volcano trembling on the edge of eruption, hopelessly clinging to composure as pressure mounts around her. 

“You can stay with me,” he offers. He means it. Helly deserves some peace and quiet from the media circus. 

“Thank you,” she mumbles right as the waitress drops their orders in front of them. 

They eat in near-silence. Well, Mark eats—Helly mostly stirs her soup around and brings the spoon to her mouth half a dozen times. The waitress stops by to check up on them and refills Mark’s coffee, but otherwise, they are the quietest table in the café. 

“I’m sorry,” Helly says after ten to fifteen minutes pass.

“For what?”

 “What happened during your conference.”

Mark waves his hand dismissively. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not nothing,” she insists. “You probably thought I was a total flake.”

“Not a total flake.”

“I tried, really. I wasn’t lying in that email. But I think I was scared, too, or I would’ve tried harder.”

“Scared of what? Me?” Mark never posed much of a threat growing up, so he can't imagine why she would consider him one.

Helly chuckles slightly. “No, not you exactly. More the…circumstance? I considered going to your hotel in hopes of seeing you, but I was afraid someone would see me and post something about it online. And I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me at all.”

He harkens back to that weekend, lying in his hotel room, wondering what the fuck happened and how foolish and pathetic he felt. A part of him kept holding out for Helly, but another part— an uglier, nastier part of him— was ready to shut her out forever. To an extent, as the texts between them lessened and he found less reasons to reach out to her, he did.

How does he express all of this to her now?

Mark can’t think of a good enough response, so he finishes off his sandwich. 

They don’t speak much for the rest of their lunch, or the walk to Mark’s car in the public parking lot, or the drive back to his house. He realizes at the last stoplight before he turns into his neighborhood that Helly is asleep in the passenger seat. He gently shakes her arm to wake her. 

“Hmm?” she mumbles.

“We’re here. Uh, you can take a nap inside.”

Helly rubs her eyes and exits the car with him. Even inside his house, she remains on high alert, taking careful steps and hyperaware of her surroundings, like someone is about to jump out and scare her. She doesn’t even unbutton her trench coat, keeping her hands in the pockets. 

“Can I take a bath?” she asks. 

The thought of Helly naked in his bathroom clouds his brain, but Mark shakes it away. “Yeah. Upstairs, first door on the right.”

“Thank you.” She disappears up the stairs, and Mark uses the time to remove his overcoat and rummage through a linen closet for fresh towels. He doesn’t have many guests these days, let alone those who want to take baths in his tub. He treks upstairs with two folded towels and knocks on the bathroom door.

“You can come in,” she says.

He pauses, then enters. “Here, I got you some towels,” he offers, setting the towels on the seat of the toilet. Helly sits on the edge of the tub, still dressed in her clothes, but she’s at least taken her coat off and hung it on the back of the door. “

“Thanks. Can you, uh…help me?”

Mark gulps. “With what?”

“Filling the tub? I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh. Sure.” He kneels down and fiddles with the faucets and drain closure. “It’s kinda tricky and I don’t really take baths, but…here.” Hot water dumps into the tub’s basin. “Don’t fall asleep in here, okay? Can’t have you drowning on my watch.” 

He grimaces at his attempt at non-humor. What the fuck is wrong with him?

Helly smiles faintly. “I won’t take long.”

Mark holds her gaze for a moment as the water rushes and the heat rises, then stands up. “The bedroom is right next door, if you want to take a nap. I’ll leave out some clothes if you’d like.”

“Okay. Thank you.” 

“Want me to take your coat?”

“Please.”

Mark moves out of the bathroom, grabbing a hold onto her trench coat and closing the door behind him in one swift motion. He doesn’t let himself think about Helly undressing herself to step into his tub. In his bedroom, he sifts through drawers for old clothes of his that would be comfortable for Helly to wear around the house— some old W&M and Georgetown t-shirts, a pair of sweatpants he never wears. He sets them all at the foot of the bed, not yet made from waking up this morning. He straightens that out; can’t let her know he still doesn’t make his bed like he’s some moody teenager.

He darts downstairs before the rushing water stops.

Mark spends the rest of the afternoon downstairs, struggling to find something to occupy his mind. He avoids the news on TV and his phone, most of it all related to Lumon and the implications of the Times exposé. At one point, he hears Helly padding around upstairs, the soft click of the bathroom door, but after that, radio silence. To pass the time, he opts for rewatching episodes of ER , pure comfort and nostalgia from high school through post grad.

He checks up on Helly around four to find her passed out on his bed, curled up on her side under the sheets. She’s probably been asleep for at least an hour at this point, but Mark can’t bring himself to disturb her. He returns to his living room and ER when his phone buzzes around six— Dylan’s name on the screen.

“Are you coming to bowling or not?”

“Shit, I forgot. Sorry.”

“How? It’s every Monday.”

Well, apart from it being Winter Break when time is meaningless? Or that the bowling alley is further out and he didn’t think it'd even be open after the blizzard? How about Helena fucking Eagan is sleeping in his bed upstairs? 

“Just slipped my mind.”

“Well? Are you coming?”

“Uh…I think I’m gonna sit out tonight.”

“Fucking pussy,” Dylan jeers. “Next week?”

“Yeah, sure. See you then.”

Mark hangs up and tosses the phone off to the side, and the sight of Helly catches in the corner of his eye.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” he exclaims. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she apologizes.

“It’s fine. Didn’t expect to see you, that’s all.”

She points to his phone. “What was that about?”

“Oh, I forgot about my weekly bowling…meetup? Hangout? I don’t know what to call it. My friends and I bowl on Monday nights.”

Helly wears one of the green and gold W&M shirts and the sweatpants he set aside for her. “You should go. I’ll be fine here,” she says.

“No, I, uh… I don’t really feel like losing to Dylan again.”

She nods, but her attention is now on his bookshelf. “The Complete Poems of Wilfred Owen,” she says aloud.

“No World War I historian’s bookshelf is complete without it. I wrote about him and T. E. Lawrence a few years ago.”

“I know.”

Mark’s ears perk, and he cocks his head. Helly spins around, her cheeks the same color as her hair. “I’ve, um, I read some of your work,” she explains sheepishly. 

A surge of pride grows inside of Mark, but he stifles the smile on his lips. “Oh yeah?”

She seems to wince at her admission. “Yeah. You, um… you made rail logistics sound interesting.”

“Oh, you read the dissertation?” He chuckles. “I haven’t looked at that since I started at Ganz.”

Helly turns around to observe his bookshelf once more, as if to signal this conversation was over. “You don't have to stay around, really. You should have fun with your friends.”

Mark doesn’t have an answer prepared for her. He's too preoccupied with studying her figure in his clothes and how normal she looks. She's still Helly—Helena—with her East Coast blue blood poise and demeanor, but without as many sharp edges and barbed wire. She's always looked so wound up and tense, never quite unguarded or at ease. Right now is probably the most unfettered and free he's ever seen her.

“Mark?”

“What?”

She clutches her hand to her abdomen. “I'm hungry.”

Well yeah, she barely ate her soup from earlier.

“I can get us some take out.”

“But we already ate out today.”

“So? I don’t feel like cooking.” Truth is, Mark needs a little space away from her to refocus, and he's already turned down bowling. “How about some Thai?”

Mark returns home an hour later with a bag of warm Thai food in his arms when Ms. Cobel stops him.

“Mark! Thank heavens. Would you believe, I came home about five minutes ago and saw some movement in your house, but your car wasn’t in the driveway! I was about to call the police about a break-in!” 

“Well, that’s not necessary, but thank you for keeping a lookout.”

He aims for his front door, but Ms. Cobel seems to follow him from her side of the hedge that separates their two houses. 

“I take it you have a guest over. Is she the young woman I saw you with earlier today?”

Mark stops in his tracks. “Where did you see us?” He’s basically confirmed Ms. Cobel’s suspicions, but he’s more concerned that others might’ve seen them, might’ve seen Helly.

“The two of you passed by the store this afternoon.”

Ms. Cobel must mean when they were walking back to his car after eating lunch. Her soap store is the closest business to the public parking lot. 

“She looks familiar. Would I happen to know her?”

“No,” Mark snaps. “Have a good night.” He disappears inside his house before Ms. Cobel can respond.

Helly sits cross-legged on the couch in the living room with the TV screen displaying the landing page for a movie.

“You’re back. I thought we could watch this with our food.”

Mark sets the takeout bag down on the kitchen counter and stares at the TV screen. “You want to watch Napoleon Dynamite?”

“It’s a comedy, right? I want something light and fun right now.”

“It doesn’t seem like it’d be your thing.” He hands Helly her order of pad thai, and she makes a face at him.

“Have you seen it?”

“It was pretty big when I was finishing up undergrad, I think. Maybe when I started my MA? I haven’t seen it since.”

“Then how do you know it’s not my kind of thing?”

He sits beside her on the couch with his own order of pad kee mao. “I only said it doesn’t seem like it’d be something you’d like, but if you wanna watch it, we can watch it.”

Satisfied, Helly presses ‘Play’ on the remote. 

Helly laughs periodically throughout Napoleon Dynamite. Mark spends more time watching her reactions than he does watching the movie in front of them. Her laughter is warm and infectious, and it’s nice to see her with no worries for at least ninety minutes. How long can they keep it up?

“Want to watch another?" he asks when the film finishes. It’s just past nine o’clock, and she must be wide awake thanks to her afternoon nap.

“Like what?”

Mark rummages through the stack of DVDs he picked up at the library yesterday before Devon’s, then flashes the perfect option. “Raising Arizona?”

Helly smiles. “Okay.”

Thankfully, she has just as much fun with his choice as she did with hers— eyes shining, a gentle grin on her lips when she isn’t laughing. He almost reaches out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, but pulls his hand back when she glances over at him.

“Everything alright?” she asks.

“Yeah, just fine,” he responds too quickly. Even if Raising Arizona is a favorite of his, it's hard to maintain focus when she's right next to him on his couch. But he tries. Dear fucking Lord, he tries. 

He yawns when the credits roll forty minutes later.

“Am I keeping you up?”

“No, no, I… I’m fine.” He yawns again.

Helly stands up. “You should go upstairs and sleep. I’ll be fine. The Complete Poems of Wilfred Owen will keep me company.”

Mark turns off the DVD player and the TV. It should’ve occurred to him earlier that with Helly asking to stay with him, it meant she'd be spending the night. She’s already taken a bath in his tub and napped in his bed, and he’d be a terrible host to subject her to the couch.

 “No, you’re my guest. You can sleep in my bed.”

Helly chews on her bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, lemme change into some pajamas, and get a pillow and blanket for myself, okay?”

Mark doesn’t wait for Helly’s response to dart up the staircase and into his room. He changes into his pajama pants and t-shirt. He shuffles into the adjacent bathroom to pee and wash his face with cold water, then sets out an unused toothbrush on the counter for Helly to use. He’ll head back to the living room with a pillow and blanket, settle on the couch, and do his best to get some semblance of sleep. It’s the right thing to do, after all. Never mind that Helly is downstairs, wearing his clothes and looking fucking incredible in them. She’s emotionally vulnerable right now, and honestly so is he. The timing couldn’t be worse, and that’s why it’s so fucking intense. Seeing her again for the first time in months less than twelve hours ago? While her family's biotech megacorporation is under fire? He should be rational and grounded about all of this. She came to him because he’s the only safe place she has left. He can’t take advantage of that, especially not now.

He opens the bathroom door, but before he switches the light off, he faces Helly coming up the stairs. Mark holds his breath.

“I, uh, set out a toothbru—”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish his sentence because Helly’s lips crash into his, frantic and ravenous. 

Mark doesn’t think— fuck being rational right now. He pulls Helly close and kisses her back, three or four months of sexual tension finally snapping. He almost forgot how good kissing her is after so much time apart, but her familiar, intoxicating taste reminds him soon enough. She threads her fingers through his hair like she always does, and when she does it this time he pins her against the wall. He trails kisses down her neck, pushing her own copper hair out of the way for better access.

Finally. Fucking finally.

His hands roam  her body, skimming her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass in his own sweatpants. He brings his mouth back to hers once more, letting their tongues slip and slide against one another. This can’t be real. This must be a dream. Helena Eagan is not in his house, not in his clothes, not kissing him like she’s begging to get fucked. Right?

Whatever. If this is a dream, who gives a shit? At least it’s a good one.

Mark snakes a hand up the t-shirt she’s wearing, fingertips lightly grazing along her torso until his entire palm finds purchase on one of her breasts. Her nipple hardens in his hand right as she moans into his mouth, pulling away ever so slightly.

“Let me help you with that,” Helly breathes, then pulls the sweatshirt over her head, discarding it on the floor. 

“That is very helpful, thank you,” Mark says, leaning down to close his lips over the breast he’d felt against his palm. Helly’s head thuds gently against the wall as he swirls his tongue over her nipple.

“Fuck,” she whines.

His cock twitches and strains against his own pajama pants. He could stay suspended like this forever, but he’s not so young anymore. His neck already aches from the crooked position, and he knows both of them would be way more comfortable if they were horizontal. Mark parts his mouth from Helly’s breast, then uses his free hands to pull her back towards him and into his bedroom. 

They fumble in the dark towards the bed.  Helly goes first, landing with a soft thump. Mark sheds his shirt and reaches for the lamp to illuminate the space. 

Helly stares up at him. “Why’d you turn the light on?”

“So I can see you.” She is so stunningly beautiful. She deserves to be seen and cherished and adored.

“Oh.” Her skin is already flushed from their activities, but her face turns an even brighter red. 

“Do you want me to turn it off?”

“No,” she says too quickly, then tugs on his arm to bring him onto the bed with her. “I want to see you, too.”

Mark slides a knee between her legs and settles his forearms on either side of her, bringing his lips back to hers. The tip of his hard cock pushes against her pelvis, and he can feel both of her hands skimming around the waistband of his boxers before tenderly sliding them off of his hips.

“Can I…” she whispers into his mouth.

“Go ahead,” he shoots back, almost too eager. 

One hand delicately grips his length, moving  up and down in careful strokes. Mark stops kissing Helly, her hand too thorough a distraction. He rolls onto his back and she sits up as her hand continues pumping..

“How does that feel?” she asks, syrupy sweet.

“Really fucking good,” he manages to get out. His eyes remain on her fingers around his shaft. The tip beads with a little moisture and she captures it with her fingers and slides it along the length of him. The sensation isn't all that different from when he handles himself— which is all he's done since Gemma died— but Helly’s skin is softer and her grip more languid, a playful teasing instead of chasing a quick high. 

“Why are you watching?” Helly asks.

“You don't want me to look while you give me a hand job?”

“I want you to relax.” She smiles as she continues to work him. The lamp backlights her and creates a soft scarlet aura around her hair, messy and loose along her shoulders. 

“I’m relaxed,” Mark answers. He closes his eyes and lets his mind drift off to nothing but the sensations of right here and now— naked in his bed, Helly’s hand on him. He has to be careful with how relaxed he gets, though. She is his guest after all, and he likes to think himself a gentleman. It wouldn’t be fair to her if he came before she ever got a chance. 

He runs his hand against her bare back, tracing lazy patterns on her skin. If anyone needs to relax right now, it’s Helly. 

“Do you want to do something different?” he asks, opening his eyes.

Helly stares at him. “Like what?”

Mark grins. “Sit on my face.”

“Oh.” She looks and sounds confused.

Mark props himself up on his elbows. “Do you not want to?”

“I didn’t think you’d say that.”

“Have you never sat on a face before?”

“I have,” she responds, “but it’s always more work than it’s worth.”

“Sounds like you’ve never had good head.”

Helly chuffs. “Sounds like you’re very sure of your skills.”

“I mean, I used to be very good at it. It’s been a while, I might be rusty.”

Helly bites her lower lip and presses the heel of her palm against his chest. “You want me to be the judge of that?” she asks as she rolls the sweatpants off of her hips and legs. Mark drinks in the sight of her naked body. There was a long period where he had to imagine what she’d look like without any clothes, but she’s even more gorgeous and breathtaking in person.

“Yeah, actually,” he says, licking his lips. “Practice makes perfect, I hear.”

Helly kisses him once more before maneuvering to straddle his face, her knees on either side of his ears. Her center hovers above his chin, swollen pink underneath the tidy trimmed hairs. They lock eyes, and Mark sees it all— the waning hesitancy that clings around the desire. 

“Are you sure? We don’t have to,” he reassures, his hands settling on her calves, sliding up them comfortingly. It’d be disappointing, but they can make something else work. Anything else, really. Whatever she wants. Whatever she’ll give him.

“I want to.”

“Just relax,” he says as he eases her onto his mouth. She’s slick as he drags his tongue through her, over and over again. She tastes salty and even a little sweet in his mouth, the perfect combination.

Mark looks up to gauge her reaction. She grips onto the headboard and her neck lolls back, her lips parting as she moans and whimpers. Mark shuts his eyelids and continues to lap at her as she begins to buck against his mouth. One hand sneaks its way back up to her breast, squeezing gingerly. Helly leans back just enough to give Mark some extra air to his nose as she adjusts her weight on him. His cock aches, but he refuses to palm himself no matter how deep his tongue is inside her or how hard she rides his mouth. It’s been a while for him, and he needs to pace himself.

Mark presses his tongue harder against her, circling the tip against her apex. They’ve been at this for a while now and his jaw has grown sore, but he’s too determined to make her come to stop when he can tell she’s close. Helly’s breath shortens, and she releases the headboard to grasp her thighs. She’s so close to unraveling, but can’t quite seem to do so. 

“S-stop,” Helly pants and moves away, rolling onto her back next to him. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah. My hip’s stiff.” 

“That sounds like something I should be saying,” Mark jokes.

Helly shoots him a bemused look as her breath steadies. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself, I didn’t want to disrupt you.”

Well, yeah. He's always gonna have a good time when a woman sits on his face. “Were you enjoying yourself?” he inquires.

She nods, then softly giggles. “I don’t think you have to worry about your… skills going rusty.”

“Good to know. But you didn’t come.”

Helly’s smile disappears, and her eyes glaze over. “I usually don’t,” she confesses after a moment.

“What?”

“I have a hard time coming,” she clarifies. “I can, but it takes… uh, a lot.”

“Define ‘a lot,’” he requests.

“I don't know. Time and effort? I tend to use my vibrator.”

“But with others?”

She shrugs. “Not much luck, I guess.”

“Okay, well, that's changing tonight.” Because what fucking loser wouldn't want to make her come over and over again? He doesn’t have a vibrator, and he knows he can't really compete with one, but he does have plenty of time, and— if necessary— a bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer. What else does he need?

Well, fuck—

“I don’t have condoms,” he says, “but I haven’t been with anyone since—”

“That's okay. I have an IUD.”

Mark hovers over Helly once more and peppers her neck and clavicle with kisses. He slips a hand between her thighs to part them, positions himself within her legs.

“Yes?” He looks right at her, seeking out a final confirmation.

Helly licks her lips and gives a curt nod. “Yes,” she whispers. 

He sinks into her, right to the hilt. A heavy sigh escapes his mouth because she feels even better around his cock than she did on his mouth, warm and wet and tight and fucking perfect. His whole body is covered in goosebumps, bubbles fizzing underneath the surface of his skin. Helly’s spine arches, and she moves her hips even closer as Mark begins to slide in and out of her. He wants to go as slow as possible, to savor the moment and the sensation and all of her underneath him, but she also feels so amazing that it makes him push a little harder.

“Mark?”

“What?” he asks huskily.

“I thought about you every day since we last saw each other.” She whispers this like she’s sharing a secret, anxious and unsure of the response.

Warmth blossoms in Mark’s stomach and heads right to his groin.

“Me, too,” he admits, giving her another kiss on the mouth as his hips roll into her.

Helly wraps her legs around his waist, hooks her ankles right at the base of his space, running a hand through his hair. Her neck tilts back, her lips part, her eyelids flutter close. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, then slows down to a stop.

“What?” 

“You feel really good,” he chortles. “Gotta pace myself.”

Helly grins, her nose scrunching from the flattery. She’s so fucking adorable. More than that, she’s beautiful. How the fuck is he supposed to last? He pulls out of her to sit back on his shins. 

“Where’re you going?” Helly whines. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mark replies, then drags the tip of his cock through her warmth before slipping back inside of her. She brings one leg straight up and flush against his chest, the other bending at the knee and pressing down into the bed, spreading her wider. Mark doesn’t understand how exactly, but she feels even closer like this, even better than before. 

Once he reaches a stable rhythm that won’t tire him out or make him uncork so soon, Mark reaches for the space between her legs, pressing his fingers against her. He draws tight circles as he pumps in and out of her. 

“Fuck,” Helly sighs.

“Good?” Mark can’t help but feel pleased, but he still has to hold himself back.

“Y-yeah,” she manages to say. When he increases his pace a tad, she grips his hip. “I…I might be…”

“You close?” 

“Mhmm.”

That’s all Mark needs to hear. He’s not a young buck anymore, and years of poor diet and alcoholism can’t be undone in one near-year of sobriety, but he has enough adrenaline and desire within him to see this to the end. He stops holding back, uses every last bit of energy within him to open the floodgates and push further and harder and faster. His wrist aches, but he won’t stop, not until—

Helly’s thighs tense up as she cries out underneath him. The sound of her combined with her tensing around him sends Mark over the edge, hurtling him out of his body before crashing back to Earth. 

Mark heaves a substantial sigh, rolls off of her to lay at the edge of the bed, and studies Helly as she remains lying down, blissful with her eyes closed.

“Are you asleep?” he asks after a moment of silence.

One eye opens, and she laughs. “No.” She sits up, walking from the bedroom to the bathroom. He hears the movement of the toilet paper roll followed by the flush of the toilet before she returns, his discarded shirt in her hand.

“C’mere,” he says, extending a hand out to her.

“What?”

He pulls her back onto the bed, ushering her closer to him. “You left too soon.”

Helly circles her arms around his neck, the shirt forgotten. “I had to clean myself up. I came right back.”

“Yeah you did,” he simpers.

Mark kisses her once more before she can take any playful offense. His body thrums from exhaustion and the fulfillment of the raw attraction that’s haunted him since they met. If he were ten years younger, he’d consider trying for a second round. But right now, all he wants is to feel her heartbeat against his for as long as possible because who knows how long it will last? He needs to hang on to every millisecond he can. 

Chapter Text

Helena’s internal clock forces her awake around six-thirty in the morning, when the sun has barely risen above the horizon and filtered through the blinds. She doesn’t recognize where she is, not at first. She shoots straight up from the panic until she hears soft snores beside her. 

Mark. This is Mark's bedroom. She’s in Baird Creek.

The panic subsides and she settles under the sheets, but she can't fall back asleep. Her first instinct is to reach for her phone, but then remembers—it's in the pocket of her trench coat, and she deliberately turned it off so neither Natalie nor anyone else at Lumon could track her whereabouts. But Natalie is astute, and sooner or later, she will be knocking on Mark's door.

Helena can't lie awake in bed without feeling like dead weight, so she carefully tiptoes out of the bedroom to avoid waking Mark up. Downstairs, she fiddles with Mark's coffee maker to brew a pot, notices the set of copper kettles and pots that sit on the countertop as she waits. She smiles.

The coffee pot announces its completion, and Helena searches the rest of the kitchen to look for something to put in her mug. All she can find is a half-gallon of two-percent milk and a little sugar. Just a splash of milk and a pinch of sugar, enough to take the bitterness of plain black coffee away.  

In the living room, she curls up on the couch, turns the television on and sets it to the lowest audible volume possible to watch the morning news. So far, the broadcast mentions nothing about Lumon. It won't last, but Helena is content to listen to other ills of the world. Celebrity deaths and freak car crashes. 

The news remains relatively low stakes for about half an hour, and that's when the Lumon talk starts. “A spokesperson for Lumon Industries issued a statement concerning the recent New York Times exposé allegeding that the biotech giant sold at least two years’ worth of private medical data from clinical trials—”

Helena turns the television off and savors the silence of the morning and the warm mug in her hands. She doesn’t need the negativity now. Not when she is in Mark's house, with him sleeping upstairs after the most wonderful night possible.

It wasn't how she thought it would go, either back when she was last in Baird Creek or even when he was in New York. She wasn't wearing the lacy set she bought or any of her nicest clothes, and his room smelled a little musty. None of that mattered, though. It was real, it happened, and she wouldn't change a single detail. 

Mark doesn't wake up until an hour later, while Helena reads a copy of Eugene Onegin she found on his bookshelf. “Good morning,” she greets with a smile.

He rubs his eyes, no doubt still waking up, but they go wide when he notices the book in her hand. “Where'd you get that?”

“The bookshelf.”

He casts his eyes down. “It's one of Gemma's. She wrote the foreword for that edition,” he says, forlorn.

Helena frowns and thumbs to the table of contents. Forward by Dr. Gemma Casey-Scout, printed in black and white. She didn't even notice when she picked the book off the shelf, but now the book feels wrong in her hands. 

“I'm sorry,” she says, closing the book  altogether. “I didn’t realize.”

“No, you can…you can read it. Sorta forgot about it, that's all.” He takes a beat. “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No, but I can make you something.” Helena jumps up to her feet and saunters towards the kitchen, but Mark grabs a hold of her as she walks by, and pulls her in for an embrace. 

“You’re my guest, I should be making you something.”

“I don’t mind.”

“But do you even cook?”

Helena grimaces. “I know how to cook. I'm not a helpless rich girl who can't do anything for herself.” She feeds herself whenever she stays in Gramercy Park, it's not like she has an on-call personal chef. 

Mark grins and kisses her forehead. “Now that's a treat.”

“I made some coffee if you want some.”

“Even better.”

She playfully releases herself from his embrace to survey his kitchen and pantry for what she can prepare for breakfast. A carton of eggs sits in the fridge, but as long as she’s apart from her father, she refuses to eat them. She assembles what she can find: oats, milk, brown sugar, and some blueberries for a quick homemade oatmeal. 

“Are you going to work today?” she asks as she prepares the oats.

“Next week.” 

“So I have you all to myself,” she teases. A whole day of lazing around with Mark sounds perfect to her.

The oatmeal doesn’t take long, and within minutes, she spoons two bowls for them. Mark sits at his dining table with a mug of coffee in one hand and a phone in the other. Her stomach drops at the sight of his phone. He’s on some word puzzle game, but the digital screen is too much of a portal to an ugly, cruel world.

She must’ve been looming for a second too long because Mark looks up at her quizzically. “What?”   

“Do you…would it be alright if you kept your phone off? Just while I’m here?” 

A quiet settles between them, but it isn’t tense. If anything, it’s comfortable and easy, warm like a blanket.

“Sure, yeah, I can do that.” He turns the phone off, sets it down on an unoccupied chair. “It’s not like I use it for anything really important.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. 

This time together won’t last forever. Natalie or Seth will whisk her away. She’ll face her father’s wrath, and the public’s. But she’ll do anything to stay in this bubble with him, where nothing and no one else matters. She deserves this. She’s spent her entire life putting the family name and the company ahead of herself. 

“Holy shit,” he says after a spoonful of oatmeal.

“Is it bad?” Helena chews on her bottom lip. 

“No, this is the best fucking oatmeal I’ve ever had.” 

They spend the morning watching television, not bothering to change out of the clothes they slept in or brush their teeth. They start with old episodes of ER, which Mark declares as a nostalgic favorite of his. 

“Back in high school, I briefly considered becoming a doctor until I learned how much time and money medical school would be.”

“So you pursued a PhD and became a historian instead?”

“Yeah, exactly.” He laughs. “Did you have any crazy ideas of what you wanted to be when you grew up?”

“No, not really,” she responds, trailing off as she thinks more about her childhood. Lumon was always her future, no questions about it. Sure, a few fleeting moments of thinking she could do something else passed her by. When she was not even seven years old, she fancied the idea of working in a circus when a nanny took her to see a Barnum and Bailey show. She liked the acrobats and the clowns the most, with their colorful costumes and bright makeup. She never saw the nanny again after that outing, and the new one only took her to the symphony or the ballet. 

As a freshman at Choate, after her art teacher said her sketches were incredible, Helena thought about living as an artist in Manhattan. She had the image in her head: skip college after graduating, live in a loft in SoHo, sketch to her heart’s content. Instead, she applied to Princeton—where all other Eagans before her went—and majored in Business Administration. Sketching became a distant hobby, but she at least managed to become a donor to a few cultural institutions, something Father approved.

Mark takes the hint and doesn’t press any further, but he pulls her into his side and strokes her hair. Helena molds into him perfectly, and she relishes the warmth of his body and the softness of his shirt. She’s known him for a few months now—technically less, if she considers the amount of time they’ve actually spent together in person—but she swears it feels more like they’ve known each other for a million years. 

After three episodes of ER, Mark switches the television over YouTube and grins at her. 

“Do you want to watch a guy eat hundred-year-old beef?”

Watching a man eat historic MREs for about an hour and a half makes both of them hungry right as the early afternoon creeps up, so Mark prepares grilled cheese sandwiches and heats up tomato soup in the microwave. 

“Voila. The famous Scout Grilled Cheese,” he boasts when he presents the sandwich and bowl of soup to her.

“What makes it famous?”

“It’s a recipe that my mom passed down to Devon and I, and no one else has come close to ever replicating it or making it even half as good.” 

Helena stares at the diagonally sliced sandwich on her plate, how the cheese oozes out from the cross-section. 

“Tell me you’ve had grilled cheese before.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I have. You act like I don’t know anything sometimes.” 

“So what’s the hold up?”

“You said this is your mother’s recipe?”

Mark nods, his mouth full. 

Helena remembers Mark talking about his father on their first date, implying his father struggled with alcoholism just as Mark did. She doesn’t recall him ever mentioning his mother then, and she knows that none of their text messages ever brought up their parents. 

“What was she like?”

Mark’s brow furrows and he swallows his bite. “Oh, uh, she was nice. Really tried to make Devon and I have a good childhood, but I know we didn’t always make it easy on her. She was the receptionist at this local construction company back home, practically ran the place until her retirement. Then she got sick, and Devon took care of her until she died almost a decade ago. Breast cancer.”

“Did your parents divorce?”

“Yeah. Around the time I was in undergrad. Devon was still at home then.”

Helena nods in consideration. She knows she should follow up with a discussion of her family, it’s only fair after she asked about his. But what can she share that he doesn’t already know, or at least can infer from? 

“My mother died, too,” she offers. “I was thirteen.”

“Oh, I’m…sorry.”

“Don’t be. We weren’t close. She was distant. I don’t think she liked being a mother, or being married to my father.” The makeshift noose of her father’s silk ties hanging from the stairwell remains etched in Helena’s brain when she returned home for spring break, but Helena keeps that to herself. “I had a rotation of nannies growing up, but I never felt any kinship to them, either.”

Before Mark can offer any pity, Helena snatches a grilled cheese triangle, dips it into the soup, and takes a large bite. “This is amazing.”

Helena wants to watch more television after lunch and indulge in laziness, but Mark suggests they go on a walk around the neighborhood.

“The sidewalks should be cleared out by now,” he says. “Knowing Ms. Cobel next door, she complained to the City about it as soon as the blizzard was over.”

Helena hesitates at first, but she hasn’t swam her laps since Friday morning. She doubts many people are crazy enough to walk in the cold like the two of them right now, and she could use the fresh air. So she agrees to a stroll and dresses herself in the clothes she haphazardly threw on early yesterday morning—even turns her only pair of underwear inside out because she has nothing else. The cap goes on her head, her hair loose around her shoulders. 

Outside, Mark leads her along a sidewalk loop. The sky is still gray and overcast, and the air nips at Helena’s exposed cheeks, nose and neck. She shoves her hands deep into the pockets of her trenchcoat.

“You warm enough?” Mark asks.

“I’m okay.”

“You sure? I could’ve given you an extra pair of gloves or a scarf.”

“I’m fine, I promise.” 

Mark removes a glove from his hand to hold her hand and tuck both of them into the spacious pocket of his overcoat. 

They talk as they go through the snowy neighborhood. Benign subjects, nothing related to Lumon or her current situation. They joke about the one house with its Christmas lights still up, its yard inflatables buried under the snow. Mark tells a story about how he once skipped school to go to an REM concert two hours from home, and Devon covered his ass—he drove her and her friends around for a whole month as thanks. Helena mentions how she can be spotted in the background of a low-tier romcom that filmed in Manhattan years ago. They're making up for all that lost time, talking about nothing and everything and anything in between. Helena never wants it to end. If she could, she would take this time together and enclose it in an eternally perfect snowglobe.

“Did you ever finish rereading The Sparrow?” Helena asks when they turn onto a new street.

“Uh, no, I didn’t. Got distracted.”

“Have you been reading anything else?”

“Just the books I put on my syllabus.”

“Anything interesting?”

“You might like the one about sex and American GIs in France during World War II.”

Helena smirks. “Why that one?”

“It’s darker than it sounds, but it’s compelling.”

“Is that teen genius in your class again this semester?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I didn’t think she’d be into military history for the second semester in a row, but yeah, she’s on the roster.” Mark squeezes her hand. “Enough about work. Your turn. Tell me something about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. What’s something you’ve never told anyone?”

There’s a lot she could say, actually. Few people ever ask about her, her thoughts and feelings.

“I used to pretend I had a twin, and she’d trade places with me.”

Mark laughs. “Why?”

“It was easier to believe someone else could handle everything better than I could.”

“I’m sure you can,” he replies. 

She smiles at him weakly, but Helena doesn’t admit that she still does it, sometimes. In a way, it was her fake twin who first met Mark. 

Ahead, a car parks in a driveway. A teenager pops out and opens the trunk of the car to fetch some bags, lingering for a few seconds before disappearing inside. They pass the house and think nothing of it. 

“Can we go to the store at some point?” she asks.

“For what?”

“I need some clothes of my own, and clean underwear.”

“I don’t know, I think you’d be fine without any clothes at all.”

Helena’s smile widens, and they pick up their pace. 

When they return to the warmth of Mark’s home, Helena sheds her coat and cap, drapes them over the banister of the stairs, heads straight upstairs to remove even more layers until she’s left wearing none at all. Mark follows her as he peels off his sweater and jeans, a wide smile on his face.

“What’s so funny?”

“Haven't even been here a full day and you act like you live here.”

His breath is in her ear, his hands already wrapped around her waist. Helena smirks and kisses him, one hand in his hair and the other palming his half-hard cock over his boxers. He grows more erect at her touch, and she pulls her lips away from her mouth just to keep him guessing. 

Helena lowers herself to her knees and brings his boxers with her, encircles a hand around the base of his length and takes the head into her mouth. Mark moans sharply as she licks a long stripe against him and sucks on the tip. He gathers her loose hair and holds them away from her face as she works him. She peers up at him in hopes of meeting his eyes, but his eyelids are shut and his neck tilted back. She likes knowing she makes him feel this way, panting and lost in the moment. Her skin feels effervescent and her core warms up with every second Mark is in her mouth and along her tongue. 

 Her teeth graze lightly against his skin, and Mark jerks somewhat within her mouth.

“Ah —careful,” he chuffs, “’ts sensitive.”

She removes her lips with a pop and smiles up at him to offer condolences, but before she can wrap her lips around him once more, he directs her to stand up with a firm but gentle grip on her bare shoulders. “Don’t suck me dry. I gotta save that stuff up for you.”

Helena laughs at how blunt he is. Unlike yesterday, when Mark was tender and slow from months of pent up anticipation, he’s now direct and a little demanding. That’s fine with her; she doesn’t want to wait either. She’s already on the bed, rolling off her only pair of underwear and embracing him when he topples over her and crashes his mouth onto hers, cradling her head. This is what she’s wanted all along, ever since she was last in Baird Creek. Not just the sex—though that’s certainly a factor—but the intimacy, the unbridled certainty of being seen and chosen despite who she is. 

Helena’s not even sure how she ends up on her forearms and knees as he drives needfully into her from behind. His hands squeeze her hips, and she manages to reach with her hand and touch herself. With every thrust inside her and stroke against her apex, she tips closer to the edge. Sex has never been this good. 

The climax arrives suddenly, with little time to attempt to subside it, and Helena instinctively buries her face in the pillow to muffle out her cry. She feels Mark’s hips break their pace and go faster, fucking her as she comes down from their shared zenith. He slows down then comes to a halt, encircling her waist from the behind, his cheek pressed to her spine. 

Moisture dribbles down her thigh, and Helena attempts to break free of his embrace.

“Do you always rush away after finishing?” Mark asks playfully as he rolls onto his back.

“I need to clean myself up.”

“Do you really need to? Lie down with me for a bit.”

“Do you want stains over your bedspread?”

“It’s seen worse.” When Helena raises her brow, he jumps to his defense. “I spilled leftover spaghetti all over it once. I was really fucking drunk. Took at least three washes and a lot of OxyClean to get the sauce stains off. Alcoholism’s a real bastard.”

She kisses the bridge of his nose and gets up from the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

 When she returns from the bathroom, she curls into his side and rests her head on his chest. Mark traces indistinct patterns along her back. The bedroom smells salty, and their skin clings together from the thin layer of dried sweat they both accrued. Neither of them talk for a few minutes, but Helena can’t fall asleep either. Her mind wanders back to the eternal question— What happens next?

“Mark?” she whispers.

“Hmm?” he stirs. He must’ve been in the process of lulling to sleep.

“Can I stay just a little longer?”

Mark doesn’t respond at first. She moves away a little to read his expression, afraid she’s asked too much of him. 

But Mark reaches over to push her bangs out of her eyes and hold the side of her face in his palm, the pad of his thumb swiping delicately on her cheek.

“Stay forever.”

Mark heats up a frozen pizza in the oven, and they’re halfway through watching Shaun of the Dead —Helena insists on keeping the comedy streak going—when the doorbell rings. 

“Don’t answer it,” Helena spurts out. 

Mark obliges at first, but then comes the rapt knocking. 

“Hey asshole! Open up!”

Mark sighs, but she isn’t sure if it’s an exhale of exasperation or relief. “It’s Devon.” 

Helena pleads with her eyes. “Don’t answer,” she repeats, hoping it will be enough.

“My car is out front, she knows I’m here. It’s okay, it’s just Devon.” 

Their perfect snowglobe is now cracked, even if it is ‘just’ his sister. Helena releases a shaky breath and collapses against the back of the couch, remaining in the living room to listen to the scene unfold. Mark walks to the front door and opens it, but before he says anything, Devon’s voice booms loud and clear.

“So you’re not incapacitated, so why the fuck aren’t you answering any of my texts or calls?”

“Hello to you, too, Dev,” Mark snarks back. The sound of the door swishes shut.

“I’m fucking serious here, okay? I’ve been trying to reach you for the last six hours!”

“I turned my phone off.”

They’re still in the entrance by the front door. 

“Great, one mystery solved. But you need to tell me what the hell is going on.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You can cut the bullshit. I know Helena is back in town.”

Helena’s heart sinks. She holds her legs to her chest, minimizing herself as much as possible in case Devon moves further into the house and catches a glimpse of her. But if Devon knows Helena is in Baird Creek, then that means—

“How do you—”

“Do you know what people are saying online about you right now? Oh wait, of course you don’t, because your fucking phone is off and haven’t seen any of the goddamn links I sent.”

A lump forms in the back of Helena’s throat. The sharp reality of the outside world shatters her perfect snowglobe into millions of tiny shards. People not only know that Helena is in Baird Creek again, but they know about Mark.

Plodding footsteps approach the living room, no doubt Devon. “Wait a second,” Mark's voice calls out, probably to stop Devon from seeing Helena, but she doesn’t bother trying to hide at this point. They make eye contact, and Devon freezes, mouth agape.

“Hello,” Helena greets meekly.

“What the fucking hell,” Devon mutters, then adds, “Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken,” Helena replies.

Devon turns back to Mark. “You said you hadn't heard anything—”

“Yeah, on Sunday. Helly showed up yesterday.”

“Excuse me,” Helena chimes in, “may I use your phone?”

Devon pauses, then sighs in resignation before unlocking her phone with her thumb and handing it off to Helena. “You can see the highlights I sent to Mark if you go to my messages,” she suggests. “Mark, you might wanna look at them, too.”

Helena finds the barrage of links interspersed between texts like answer your fucking phone! and i need some fucking answers here! She selects all the links and sifts through them. Almost all of them reference one photo, a clear image of them on their walk earlier that day, smiling, her hand in his.

sparklemerkin: HELENA EAGAN IS BACK IN BAIRD CREEK AND GUESS FUCKING WHAT SHE’S WITH A MAN  

helena-eager2004: OH MY GOD this has to be the same guy from a few months ago right?

jenniferkissme25: pics or it didn't happen

sparklemerkin: @jenniferkissme25 here you fucking gooooo i took a few when i saw them walking around my NEIGHBORHOOD

eggy.spaghetti:  @sparklemerkin WTF HE’S MY PROFESSOR I HAD HIM FOR HISTORY PRACTICUM LAST SEMESTER AT GANZ 

helena-eager2004: @eggy.spaghetti omg no are you fucking serious rn?

eggy.spaghetti: @helena-eager2004 YES look up dr. mark scout at ganz college

helena-eager2004: @eggy.spaghetti HOLY SHIT THANK YOU

HelenaEaganUpdates: Returning on hiatus but this is a reminder for everyone to not make any speculations about identities.

srmintsjr : the eagans literally sold private medical data and this guy willingly chooses to associate with her, but sure let’s not make speculations about identities 

emilys-farts : girlie’s family and company is under fire but she’s busy getting some dick, i mean i would too

IconWatchNews: While Lumon Industries remains under fire for allegedly selling private medical data, Helena Eagan was spotted in Baird Creek, NY with history professor Dr. Mark Scout, who teaches at the local Ganz College and specializes in WWI military history

captain-allears: brb trying to transfer to ganz now

laura.arnold.palmer: I’d also date a hot history professor if my empire was crumbling

DeadGeneralsClub: this the best thing to happen to the profession of history

xxgillybxssxy: she’s kissing a man who definitely still grades in red pen

xpepper-onix: this is the most wild PR stunt possible i hope this guy is getting compensated well

jenniferkissme25: this is like when lana del rey started dating an alligator airboat tour guide except make it upstate ny light academia

 

dgribble6: helena eagan “accidentally” softlaunching her relationship right after the lumon expose is the most billionaire bullshit imaginable, you can't make this shit up yourself

nightcrawler_87: the helena eagan cinematic universe is getting out of control. i need backstory on how a fucking EAGAN starts dating a history professor

DanAppleton: I always wondered who that guy was that showed up after our interview…

helena-eager2004: @DanAppleton WHAT DO YOU KNOW

softcyborg: nothing says “irony” like your boyfriend lecturing about the horrors of mechanized war while your company builds supersoldiers from civilian health data or whatever

helena-eager2004: omg WAIT i’m like 99% certain Mark Scout’s sister is Devon Scout-Hale, and she wrote an entire thinkpiece about Helena back in June???? They are LITERALLY red string of fate

HelenaEagansCloset: While out in Baird Creek, NY, Helena was spotted wearing the Burberry Long Cashmere Kensington Trench Coat ($4450) and the Nike LD-1000 Women's Shoes ($105). Jeans and cap are currently unidentified. 

Seems like Helena was trying to go incognito for this fit, but the luxe trench gives her away. What’s interesting is that this outing occurred just days after the Lumon Industries data scandal broke, AND she’s rumored to be seeing Dr. Mark Scout, a professor of WWI history at Ganz College in Baird Creek, NY.

ibrakeforcemeteries: When your man teaches about the Somme but you’re on your way to an oat milk latte in $4450 warcore outerwear

helena-eager2004: he teaches trench warfare and she’s wearing a trench coat? she’s so funny i can’t

 

Mark has returned to the couch, himself now engrossed with his phone, scrolling through the same links. Helena hands the phone back to Devon and stands up. “Thank you,” she says, and searches for her shoes and trench coat. Her phone and her wallet are still in its pockets.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Mark asks.

“I have to leave.” She turns the phone on for the first time since getting off the train in Lenora Lake and is instantly flooded with missed calls and text messages from Natalie, but reads none of them. She dials Natalie’s contact, and doesn't have to wait long.

“Thank God you called—”

“Where are you?”

A beat passes between them before Natalie answers. “I checked into the Grand Kier about an hour and a half ago. Took the midday train to Lenora Lake.”

Helena isn’t surprised. Natalie's a bloodhound. She should consider a different line of work, like private investigation or something more useful instead of corporate PR and whatever she does for Helena these days.

“I'm on my way.” Helena hangs up on Natalie and switches to a rideshare app. No use crying about it now. Their time together is up, publicized for the world to see and scrutinize, and Helena must now move forward.

“Hang on.” Mark waves his hand over her screen to grab her attention. “You don't need to rush out. We can talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” Helena snaps. The words are barbed and edged, and she doesn't mean to sound so exasperated, but she is frustrated. She can't even go outside on a walk without someone photographing her, making up stories and humorless jokes about her and her family. Her safest space is now compromised, so what the hell is there for her to talk about?

Devon squeezes by them as she heads for the front door. Helena almost forgot about her. “I'm gonna go…” she mumbles.

“Wait, can you give me a ride to the Grand Kier? Please?”

Devon pauses, then nods. “Okay. I'll wait in my car outside. Whenever you're ready.” 

They wait for Devon to exit, though Helena would love to follow her out. Coming here was a terrible mistake. She would’ve been better off alone in Gramercy Park as this story blows over, but now she’s only made it worse. Helena crosses her arms over her chest. 

“Don’t go just yet, okay?” Mark begs. “Come sit, we can sort this out.”

“There’s nothing to sort out!” She raises her voice because how does he not understand? “I came here to escape everything and it only followed me here. Now everyone knows who you are and everyone thinks I’m an even bigger joke than I already am.”

“No one thinks you’re a joke—”

“Ha!” A humorless laugh tinged with bitterness escapes her throat. “My own father thinks I’m a failure, so what does that say for the rest of the world?”

“Okay, calm down—”

She rolls her eyes and feels her blood boil. “Just shut up!” she yells. Calm down is just another way of saying tame your tempers. She refuses to accept this patronizing tone from him. He might be older than her, but she’s dealt with men more important than him her entire life. 

“I’m trying to help you—”

“Are you?” Few people have ever wanted to help Helena in her life. She’s learned that the hard way.

Mark glowers at her. “I’m trying and you’re not letting me.” He covers his forehead with his palm and sighs. “Let’s sit down and put this into perspective—”

“Perspective?”

“Yeah. I mean, so what if people know about us? There are worse things in the world to worry about.”

Helena chews on the inner side of her bottom lip. There’s that old argument. Worldwide hunger and poverty. A dying planet. War and violence. What does she know? She’s a rich girl with a limited worldview. 

“Like clinical trial data being sold to defense contractors?” she spits. 

Mark shrugs. “Well, yeah.”

“Fine. My perspective is that for almost a year now, every detail of my life gets shared and picked apart online, and now it’s getting tied up in something that I had no involvement in, but it doesn’t fucking matter because perception is reality for these vultures.”

“But they’re going to forget about us, right? They have to.”

“You don’t get it. They might stop talking about it, but they’ll never forget. Any time anything is ever written about me, this will be dredged back up and how I’m pathetic and ignorant. Meanwhile, everyone you know will get to congratulate you for fucking Helena Eagan. Who knows, maybe some academic press will even award you with a book deal on some bullshit about mustard gas and army rations.”

“That’s not fucking fair!” Mark retreats away from her with narrowed eyes and a rigid posture. “And don’t act like you’re totally innocent in all of this—”

“Excuse me?”

“Things get tough at home, so you run off and go slumming it up with the mid-tier academic you met on vacation? What’d you think was going to happen?”

Helena frowns. He’s right. What did she think was going to happen? She’s been telling herself since arriving in Baird Creek that she should enjoy this time and let everything else melt away, but that was never a feasible option for either of them. They can’t stay locked up in his house forever. 

But what hurts her more is how he describes their time as her “slumming it up.” It reveals everything he thinks about what courses between them. She is a pretty distraction and a good lay, but not a partner, not a person he could ever truly respect. He thinks that she thinks he is a detour from her ivory tower. The words stick to her skin like thick oil as it replays in her head on a relentless loop. Slumming it up. As if love—or whatever it was they shared—is nothing but a grimy little adventure that she’ll forget about.

Helena looks around what she can of his house. The bookshelf in the living room stacked with a mix of fiction and scholarly history books. The brown waffle-knit blanket they curled underneath when they watched television together. The glass-top table where they ate their meals in comfortable silence that fooled her into thinking they could do this forever. She hasn’t even been here for forty-eight hours, but these things were starting to feel like hers.

“Well now, we know the answer, don’t we?” She stifles back the tears as she exits Mark’s house and storms to his sister’s car parked just behind his car. Mark doesn’t chase after her.

The drive to the Grand Kier in Devon’s car is quiet, but thankfully not too long. 

“Thank you for the ride,” she says once they pull up to the front of the hotel. The parking lot is almost empty in the snowy landscape, mounds of dirty snow occupying more spaces instead of cars.

“Sure. It was nice seeing you, despite the circumstances.” Devon shares a pitying smile. “I’m sorry for being the messenger—”

“Don’t be. You were probably the best person to hear it from.”

Before Helena fully exits the car, Devon says, “Look, I know what’s between you and my brother is none of my business, but I promise that we—that he’ll be discreet, okay?”

Helena merely nods, then closes the passenger door. Inside the lobby, she realizes she forgot her trusty blue cap at Mark’s place. At least the lobby is dead, and the receptionist behind the desk is busy on the phone as she looks at her computer. Helena texts Natalie about her arrival and awaits in the lobby until she receives a room number. 313. 

As she walks to Natalie’s room, Helena braces herself for a bombardment of questions and ideas to spin it all, with updates about what everyone says about her online and in the media. But she’s gone through enough in these last few days—hell, her entire damn life. With every step, her father’s words echo in the back of her mind: tame your tempers.

Fuck that.

Chapter Text

Helly slams the front door behind her, and the emptiness returns. Mark brings his hands to his face and groans, then opens the blinds of the window to watch as Devon’s car pulls out of his driveway with Helena in tow. 

Has this been the most insane forty-eight hours of his life? 

Certainly the most insane way to start off a new year. 

Helly’s trusty blue cap hangs off the bottom post of his stairwell. It doesn’t belong there, just like she doesn’t belong here, but Mark doesn’t know what to do with it, so he leaves it untouched. Shaun of the Dead is still paused on his TV. Mark turns it off and tosses the rest of the frozen pizza in the trash. He’s lost his appetite. 

Then his phone buzzes—over and over and over again. Messages from Dylan, from Petey, from Lorne, all shocked.

Dylan: what the FUCK dude??? is she why you didn’t come to bowling yesterday?

Petey: WTF! I didn’t know you were still in touch?

Lorne: You have a lot of explaining to do

Then there are the messages from colleagues at Ganz with whom Mark is friendly, but he wouldn’t exactly call his ‘friends.’ Mark doesn’t bother reading those because he can’t be bothered to explain how he knows Helena Eagan or why he’s holding hands with her out on a neighborhood walk. So much for having fun—but he and Helly both knew whatever this was between them wouldn’t last. He indulged too much in a fantasy, and Helena…well, she was blowing off some steam. What else could it be? 

Mark lays low for the remainder of the week, pouring himself into working from home and never leaving the house unless absolutely necessary. He watches the news to stay informed—no other reason. Lumon’s controversy takes a backseat for new pressing matters, but it always finds its way back onto his screen. 

Actual news sites never mention him when Helly is mentioned, but online, strangers mine the Internet for any and all crumbs of his life to share with the masses. His entire educational background, Gemma’s obituary, his Rate My Professor page. The information might be public, but that doesn’t mean he wants it spread around for anyone to see.

SamNotSorry: I had dr. scout for undergrad a few years ago. he’s a harsh grader but i definitely remember once the biggest argument we had in class was whether funions count as chips

helena-eager2004: i don’t think y’all understand how important mark scout and helena eagan are to me. they are endgame. we have never seen helena look so HAPPY before? we NEED these two to break their silence???  

lenaxoxo21: @helena-eager2004 you just know her ass made him sign an NDA they’re not saying SHIT

Friday afternoon, Mark receives the following automated email from Ganz’s registrar:

Professor Scout,

Your upcoming course HIST 300L – The American Way of War has reached maximum enrollment. A waitlist has now been activated.

No further registration will be allowed unless a seat opens. Waitlisted students will be added in order as space becomes available.

If you would like to adjust the enrollment cap, contact the Registrar’s Office.

Last time Mark checked, only eight students had registered, and thirty is the maximum. When he logs in to his faculty portal to examine the roster, he sees the number of students on the waitlist: 136.  

Mark ignores everyone’s calls throughout the week, even Devon’s, but he calls her early Sunday morning to tell her he will not be attending their weekly dinner that evening. He’s not ready for the semester ahead, with a majority of students who are only interested in taking his class because he was spotted with Helena Eagan on the street. 

He’s never been so grateful for Eustice Huang.

Helena and Natalie work out all the details on the entire ride back to Holmdel the next day. 

“Are you sure about this?” Natalie asks when Judd picks them up from the train station. 

Helena nods, but her hands tremble and she breaks into a cold sweat. But when Judd arrives at the Eagan estate, she strides up to her room and packs what she can into two large suitcases. Natalie packs other personal effects into boxes in between phone calls to organize movers. 

Every second, Helena expects her father to poke his head into her bedroom and interrogate her. When she steps into the hallway to use the bathroom, she fears she’ll run into him in the hallway, and she’ll need to explain herself. She runs through every possible scenario in her head, but after three hours of packing, Helena ends up tracking him down in his study. 

“Helena, I see you’ve returned.” He doesn’t look up from the stack of papers on his desk. 

“Yes, but I’m leaving again.”

Now he sits up to examine her. His eyes are steely, but curious. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I’m moving into the Gramercy Park apartment permanently. Natalie is helping me pack up some things, and later this week, a few movers will stop by to pick up a few other things,” Helena replies, mustering any courage she possibly can. She’s not used to looking at her father directly in the eye—not for declaring her intentions to him. She’s always had to seek his permission out, but she’s an adult. It’s time for her to start acting like one.

“I see,” her father murmurs. “What does this mean?”

“Excuse me?”

“Moving to Manhattan full-time, surely that means you are forfeiting your duties to Lumon, unless you intend to commute daily to Holmdel?”

Helena gulps, pauses to collect herself and think back to the strategy she and Natalie developed on the train. “I’m not forfeiting anything, but I won’t be commuting. I’ll work out of the Manhattan office and commute to Holmdel when necessary.”

The corner of her father’s mouth twitch upwards ever so slightly before falling back down. “Does the Manhattan office know about this?”

“Yes,” Helena half-lies. Natalie called the Manhattan office to inform them Helena Eagan would be joining them tomorrow, but not for how long or in what capacity. Helena isn’t entirely sure of that herself. If she’s never been certain about her role at Lumon, she’s definitely unclear with what it is now in the wake of a controversy. All she knows is that right now, her father and Lumon need her.

And she’s leveraging that. 

“I’ll do everything you ask of me,” she says. “Any public event where you need to save face—I’ll be there. Any gala appearance, done. Every board meeting. I will do it all, on one condition.”

Her father doesn’t respond, but he’s only waiting for her to continue.

“I want you to step down as CEO after the second quarter, and insist to the board that I be your successor.”

His scoff becomes a full cough. “And if I don’t? You have not proven yourself very worthy of the title. Any time something wrong happens, are you going to run off and open your legs for that upstate academic?” 

Helena bristles, bites her lip. So, Seth Milchick decided not to spare her father the details of Mark Scout. 

She brushes off his words, but their sting lingers when she replies acidly, “If you don’t, then I will release even more information about the Veridian deal that the whistleblower didn’t have access to.” 

Her father’s self-satisfied smirk drops. 

“You’re bluffing,” he mutters.

“I don’t think you’re willing to risk whether I am or not,” Helena bites right back. “Lumon needs me right now. I am the company’s best bet in smoothing over this entire scandal, assuming we don’t end up in court. How would it look if I come out as a whistleblower myself?”

The several seconds of terse silence seems like they will never end. Helena clenches her jaw. Thirty years of anger boils underneath her skin, ready to tip over.

“Maybe I was wrong about you, my dear Helly,” he says finally. “Maybe you do have that fire within you.”

That’s as close to an agreement she’s going to get, so Helena turns around and walks out of her father’s study. Strange—coming in, she thought she’d be a nervous wreck with tears in her eyes. As she leaves, she’s indifferent. Neutral. 

She also doesn’t know it, but this is the last time she and him will ever be alone together. 

So Helena moves into Gramercy Park permanently. She braves even more cameras on her as she walks Manhattan streets, sees her face on bigger screens and news reports as she becomes the face of Lumon Industries more than ever before. Natalie turns down all interview requests, carefully curates Helena’s public appearances and press conferences, shuts down any question that gets directed at Helena about her personal life. All at Helena’s request.

Helena always did her best to remain offline even before The Photo changed her life. She leaves the online world to Natalie to sift through, especially now. But once in a while, when her apartment is too empty and her heart too hollow, she opens her phone to look up one specific photo—the one of her and Mark, holding hands, walking along the neighborhood sidewalk. 

MarkScoutUpdates: I have it on good authority Dr. Scout likes to frequent Bailiff Books and Records in downtown Baird Creek

helena-eager2004: omg i bet this is where he and helena met    

sparklemerkin:  it’s a pretty cool place and there is a SHOP DOG! support your local bookstores

DevScoutHale: Breaking a rule of mine to ask: Can everyone please respect my brother’s privacy? He’s not a public person, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does, really

Mark celebrates one year of sobriety, first with his twelve-step group, then with his friends and family. 

Well, actually, the latter is Eleanor’s first birthday, it just happens that the party Devon and Ricken host for their daughter falls on the same day that Mark officially started his sobriety journey. He doesn’t mention that fact out loud because he doesn’t want to make his niece’s first birthday about him. What kind of loser uncle does that?

But as the celebration winds down and most everyone else has left, Devon hands him an extra slice of strawberry cake. “Congratulations for being sober for one year,” she smiles. 

“Thanks.” Mark takes the plate, but he’s not in the mood for extra sugar before dinner. 

“Mom would be really proud of you.”

“And dad?” 

Devon laughs. “Actually, I think he would’ve been even more proud. You know, ‘Do as I say, not as I do?’ You did something he didn’t.”

“Yeah well, it’s never too late to break the generational curse.”

“How are you holding up?” 

Mark sighs. “Doing fine, I guess. Life’s…normal.”

As back to normal as it can be. Sunday dinners with Devon and Ricken. Monday bowling nights with Irving, Dylan, and Petey. Tuesday AA meetings. Students don’t gawk at him when he walks around campus like they did at the start of the semester—not as much, at least. Ten of the students dropped out of his American military history class within the no-penalty window, but his class is still double the roster that he first anticipated. At least the students that stuck around seem interested enough, and none of them are documenting his every move on social media like others were in those first couple of weeks. 

Everyone knows not to mention Helena or Lumon, although she seems to be more present and public than before—damage control, likely. Smiling for cameras, providing canned answers about taking accountability and adopting better transparency. Public relations, just like she said on their first date.

Every night, Mark considers deleting her contact information out of his phone, his finger hovering over the little trash can icon. Every night, he holds off. 

After a full quarter of playing the part of dutiful daughter and paying as close attention to company projections and stocks as possible, Helena learns something she never did at Princeton: economics is as close to magic that society will ever come. All of it is nonsense, and every economist is a fucking moron.

But she can’t say that in the board meetings or on cameras, so she dresses up, smiles, and says things like, “We had a tough start to the year, but our commitment to transparency and accountability is paying off in the long run.”

The controversy slowly slips to the back of the public’s mind as the spring takes hold. Some still call for Lumon assets to be seized and for the arrest of Jame Eagan and other Lumon bigwigs. To save face for both companies, the deal is officially broken. Lumon has suspended all clinical trials, and the Board agreed to send decent settlement checks to individuals whose medical data was compromised. When she can, Helena tries digging more into the Veridian deal. There’s always more to uncover, more that is unsaid.

But her connection in the State Department confirms what she’d been dreading.

“The federal government’s not going to prosecute Lumon or Veridian,” Wesley Hannelly tells her the day before Jame Eagan testifies before Congress in early April. 

“Why not?” Helena frowns. 

“Because it will mean admitting that they allowed it to happen. I don’t know exactly what Veridian was doing with all that medical data, but they’re a defense contractor. Whatever they had planned was something the Department of Defense already knew about and probably even funded themselves. Your father’s testimony tomorrow is a slap on the wrist at most.”

So her…twisting her father’s arm at the start of the year was just an empty threat? Even if she came forward with more information, it wouldn’t matter because there would be no repercussions for them? 

Why does it feel like her father already knew that?

And what does it mean for the end of the second quarter? Is he going to step down at all? 

She tries not to dwell on it too much as she tries to go incognito around the Georgetown area. It's unseasonably warm for an early evening in April as she eats an ice cream cone next to The Exorcist staircase. She wonders if Mark ever walked up and down the steep incline.

magnussy.carlsen: helena eagan spotted eating ice cream by the exorcist steps lol

helena-eager2004: you know who got his phd at georgetown? mark scout

xtraindaddyx: this reads like a mad lib and yet you have a photo

HelenaEagansCloset: While escorting her father as he arrives at the U.S. Capitol to testify before Congress today, Helena wears the Celia Wool Double-Pleated Pants ($850) and Amedeo Virgin Wool Double-Breasted Blazer ($1950), both from Armarium, and the Classic Pumps from Marion Parke ($595). 

The silhouette is classic Helena, but the monochromatic brown pairs well with her red hair and, in a way, feels very daring for someone whom we almost always see in different shades of black, white, and gray. The shoes are a bit of a disappointment, the black clashes with the brown suit, but otherwise, this is one of her best looks this year.

“Your girlfriend’s on C-SPAN right now,” Petey teases as he waltzes into Mark’s office.

Mark sighs. Petey knows well enough by now—Mark hasn’t spoken to Helly since they last saw each other at the start of the year. 

And it’s technically not true. Mark’s had the C-SPAN website up on his work laptop since he first arrived at work this morning. Helena Eagan occasionally appears on the screen, but she’s not testifying before Congress. She’s there for her father, who looks even more sickly and vampiric—C-SPAN cameras and lighting do him no favors. Even Helly looks a little sallow, but that’s not her fault. She’s still stunning. 

It’s well into a rainy April when he accidentally bumps into a woman at the grocery store as they both reach for the last head of broccoli in the produce section.

“Sorry, but I need it. I finally got my daughter into eating fresh green vegetables and broccoli is her favorite,” the woman says.

“Yeah but I’m finally trying to cook something that doesn’t come from a microwave or a take-out box.” Not a total lie. Mark knows how to cook, but the words slip out of him easily. 

He’s not entirely sure why, but that seems to charm her. He ends up leaving with her phone number and a date scheduled for Thursday evening. Not mediocre Mexican and mini-golf, not Chinese and a movie—just dinner at a standard Italian place. Mark doesn’t tell anyone about it because he can’t handle the barrage of questions, and he doesn't want another repeat of what it was like when he first went on those dates with Helena.

Turns out, he has nothing to worry about because the date is dull as hell. Whatever spark they had in the grocery store is absent here. She’s a single mother, recently divorced and just moved to Baird Creek, and she spends a majority of their dinner talking endlessly about her ex-husband and everything that went wrong in their marriage. Mark pays for the check as soon as it hits the table and dismisses himself. 

It can’t be a total loss, though. It means he can try to date again, right?

HelenaEaganUpdates: Happy 1 year anniversary to this photo, the one that started it all

officer.blunt.78: so much has happened since then omg

helena-eager204 : whoever took this had no idea they changed the course of history

captain_allears13: kinda wild how after the lumon controversy at the start of the year we’ve only gotten MORE of helena eagan. she’s saving and serving face

Is Helena a socialite? Does that role even exist anymore, in an age when anyone can do it? Regardless, Helena throws herself into playing the part, and she plays it well. She has an education, but she has few skills. She can swim. She can draw. That’s about it. Lumon is her life, as depressing as it sounds, so she dedicates herself to it now because she has nothing left. Charity events, press conferences, travelling across the country to broker deals. Name it, Helena is on it. 

She’d like to burn the entire corporation down, let the Eagan name get buried under the rubble. But her original plan to do so—force her father to step down and hand the reins over to her—proves less likely by the day. The more she digs, the less she finds, and Wesley Hannelly was right: her father testifying before Congress was nothing more than a slap on the wrist. No matter what she has to share, it will only repeat the cycle. 

Helena arrives to Holmdel early for the June board meeting, unable to keep still as she waits for her father to arrive. She bounces her leg in her seat, fidgets with her hands in her lap, clicks a pen over and over again because no phones are allowed in the board meeting. It was supposed to begin ten minutes ago, but Jame Eagan has yet to arrive—and he is never late to a board meeting. 

Another ten minutes pass when Seth Milchick steps in. “My apologies to the Board, but there has been a complication regarding Mr. Eagan’s health.”

Helena sits upright but says nothing. 

“About an hour ago, Mr. Eagan suffered another stroke. He is currently in the hospital, but he wishes for the Board meeting to continue. He asked me to read this statement.” He reads from a slip of paper: “‘After a difficult two quarters and in the wake of my declining health, I am stepping down from my position as CEO of Lumon Industries. In my place, I request my daughter, Helena Eagan, assume the role of Acting CEO until the Board can appoint a worthy successor.’”

Until the Board can appoint a worthy successor.

Helena bites her tongue. So, he fulfilled his end of their agreement, to a degree. 

After the Board meeting, she has Judd drive her to the hospital. She’s ready to lay it on her father, to finally spew the building outburst that she’s kept bottled up for all these years. She will find a way to ruin this company and her family legacy. She can do enough damage before the Board finds their ‘worthy successor.’

But when she arrives to his room, a flurry of nurses surround his bed, shouting to each other and frantically adjusting monitors. The sharp beeping of the heart monitor spikes, then flatlines.

“No pulse!” someone yells.

Helena freezes at the doorway, watching as one nurse calls for the crash cart while another begins chest compressions. 

“Are you the daughter?” a nurse asks when she finally notices Helena. 

Helena nods, speechless, and the nurse escorts her to a waiting room down the hall. “We’re doing what we can for him. He was stable about an hour ago, but maybe five minutes before you arrived, his heart rate was going too fast.”

Helena’s hands fumble in front of her, then her arms wrap around herself. It’s the chilly waiting room. What else could it be? 

“Why don’t you take a seat?” the nurse suggests, but she has to direct Helena to do so. “Stay here and try to think of some positive memories,” the nurse says before disappearing out of the room.

Except Helena has no positive memories. She stares at the beige walls in hopes of conjuring up something—anything. The closest she gets is thinking of when they went to that terrible play last year and joked about it on the way home. 

A doctor and a nurse step inside twenty minutes later to inform her that Jame Eagan passed away, then bring her into his room as a final goodbye. His corpse looks up at her blankly. It’s not that different from how he looked at her when she was alive.

She calls Seth to inform him of Jame’s passing, and that it should not be made public until the morning. In the shower that evening, Helena considers calling Mark just to hear his voice, to let her know everything is alright, that she’ll be okay. But Mark doesn’t want to hear from her, so she watches episodes of House Hunters to numb what little emotion she has left to offer.

NYTimes: BREAKING: Jame Eagan, CEO of Lumon Industries, passes away; daughter Helena Eagan named as Lumon’s acting CEO

gumbo-jim: close enough, welcome back elizabeth holmes

HelenaEaganUpdates: is this the only stan account for a CEO? 

GwynethPaltrowUpdates: do i mean nothing to you

helena-eager2004: what does mark scout think about all of this

MarkScoutUpdates: the way this announcement singlehandedly revived the mark scout helena eagan rpf economy

helena-eager2004: forreal it was DEAD for months

Mark typically takes the summer off to avoid working as much as possible. When Gemma was still alive, they’d use that time to travel and go on camping trips. After she died and before his sobriety, he liked collecting his check and rotting on the couch with a bottle of whiskey. Last summer, in the throes of early sobriety, he assisted Devon and Ricken with Eleanor. 

The recent news of Jame Eagan’s passing and the renewed media interest in Helena forces Mark to take on teaching summer courses. They’re online general education surveys meant for students who want to fulfill requirements and graduate early, but at least for six weeks, he’s too preoccupied with lecturing over zoom twice a week and grading papers to think much about what Helena Eagan is up to at the moment.

Not that Helena Eagan ever crosses his mind anymore. 

He’s dating again. Trying to, at least. Few of the dates pan out for more than three. He even goes on another date with Alexa because he’s in a better place than he was before. It certainly goes better than their previous one over a year ago because she ends up coming home with him. The sex is perfunctory, but mediocre sex is like mediocre pizza: familiar enough to satisfy a basic craving. But it only lasts for the month of July before Alexa requests they just remain on friendly terms. 

The fall semester starts too soon, and Mark returns to Ganz to teach a history course about the interwar period. Eustice Huang is in his class once more, voicing concerns over the syllabus and keeping the class discussion afloat. On the Friday before the three-day weekend, she comes into his office.

“I am declaring a history major, and I would like you to be my advisor.” Before he can even ask why she’s chosen him, she answers quickly, “You are the faculty’s only military historian, and I know female military historians are in demand, which will provide me with better employment opportunities in academia or public history down the line.”

Well, he can’t argue with that. 

At Devon and Ricken’s Labor Day cookout, he jealously studies the couples as they interact with one another. Gretchen and Dylan, high school sweethearts who were always meant for each other—it’s sickening, really, how perfect they fit together. Then there’s Devon and Ricken, a couple that Mark has never fully understood, but Devon has always insisted Ricken makes her happy. 

“Mind if I stand and brood with you?” Lorne asks.

“Not at all. Brood away.”

As he and Lorne chat, he keeps one eye on his sister and brother-in-law as they smile at one another, rub each other’s backs, play with Eleanor in the grass. Once upon a time, not too long ago, he and Gemma were like them. And in an alternate universe, it might have been him and—

“Do you ever think about if you and Devon had worked out?” he blurts. He’d enjoy having Lorne as a sister-in-law, and sometimes—when Ricken is especially on his nerves—he wishes she was.

“Sometimes,” Lorne says with a knowing smile. “But you Scouts are some of the most stubborn assholes.” 

Adjusting to life as acting CEO is not so difficult, but more is expected of Helena than ever before. More meetings, more appearances. She divides her time between the Holmdel and Manhattan offices, the Eagan estate and the Gramercy Park apartment. She’s more overexposed than ever before, and yet no one has heard her speak just for herself, not on the behalf of Lumon. 

She attends New York Fashion Week when Natalie contacts her after a Ralph Lauren show: “New York Magazine wants to run a profile about you. I was about to decline, as always, but they suggested that you can select who you want to interview you.”

“I get a final say in that?”

“That’s what the email says. Anyone you want gets to write the interview, whether they’re on the staff or not. New York Mag gets the rights to publish it.”

Helena mulls over the idea of a proper, personal interview. She avoided them for so long because Eagans were never meant to be public figures, but she is one now. 

“Can you get me in touch with Devon Scout-Hale?”

Helena ignored Natalie's silence, and fortunately, Natalie knows not to question her. She really is the best at her job because a few hours later, when Helena is in her apartment getting ready for bed, she receives a phone call with an area code from upstate.

“This is Helena Eagan.”

“Okay so this isn’t some practical joke.”

“Hello. I take it Natalie shared all the details with you?”

“Yeah. And I'm flattered you thought of me, but I can't do this.”

Helena frowns as if Devon can see her. “Why not? You're an excellent writer, and this is a great opportunity for you—”

“Yeah, but there's a conflict of interest. You dated my brother.”

The mention of Mark makes Helena's heart skip a beat. “How is he?” she asks.

Devon doesn't respond right away, long enough for Helena to think she's hung up. “He's…okay,” Devon finally replies. “He's still teaching at Ganz, and he's a year and a half sober now.”

“Good,” Helena murmurs. She stifles the urge to say, Tell him I say hello. 

The quiet passes over them once more, and Helena is about to hang up when Devon pipes up, “I can email your assistant a list of colleagues whose work I admire, see if you want to approach them about this.”

“Okay,” Helena agrees.

NYMag: Helena Eagan Doesn’t Know Why We’re Obsessed With Her, but @ErinWeber tries to explain in the new Lumon CEO’s first-ever profile. Read here.

helena-eager2004: what do you MEAN “he’s no one” and you “haven’t seen him since” 

HelenaEaganUpdates: wtf? Mark and Helena over before it ever really began?

Yeah, Mark read the profile.

Funny to think it’s been over a year since he and Helena first met in Irving’s bookstore, and eleven months since he last saw Helena stomp out of his house. It seems both like yesterday and a million years ago. As Mark grows older, the more he learns time is meaningless and relative, and never has that been more apparent than now. He’s long since stopped thinking of her as Helly because “Helena Eagan” is a brand unto herself. Her cap still sits untouched in his house, though. 

He found the article on his own, maybe as soon as it went live, but only unintentionally. He regularly visits the New York Magazine website, and there she was: Martin Schoeller portrait and all, up close and brightly lit, but not unflatteringly so.

Helena Eagan Doesn’t Know Why We’re Obsessed With Her.

He reads it intently that early November morning. It’s probably the most candid Helena has ever been with anyone, save for maybe him. She mentions a cold upbringing, a terse relationship with her father, the struggles of directing the company in the wake of his death. The writer is sympathetic, if not entirely forgiving. 

And then comes the talk about him:

Days after the exposé’s publication, another viral photograph circulated online—Helena Eagan walking and holding hands with someone else, presumably a romantic partner. Though she has never named him, eagle-eyed Internet sleuths deduced his identity as Dr. Mark Scout, a history professor at Ganz College in Baird Creek, NY. Detractors considered it a strange attempt at smoothing out Lumon’s image in the wake of the Veridian controversy. Fans immediately found the photograph endearing, and it’s easy to see why. Of all the photographs that have been taken of Helena since her initial rise to Internet infamy, it’s the only one to show her with a genuine smile. 

But most interestingly, Helena has not been seen with him since. When I ask about her possible romantic partner, Helena’s assistant, Natalie Kalen, butts in. “That question is off limits,” she says, understandably. I am ready to move onto a different question, but Helena dismisses Kalen and agrees to answer me.

“He’s no one, and I haven’t seen him since,” she replies casually. 

She’s not wrong. He is no one important, and they haven’t been in contact since early January. 

So why do the words sting as he reads over and over them?

Then comes the flood of questions from his friends, asking if he’s read it. He leaves them all with a simple confirmation that yes, he has, and no, there’s nothing else to say. Helena already said all there is.

But he does ask Devon about it at Sunday dinner.

“Isn’t Erin one of your friends? Did you know about this?”

“Yeah, uh, Helena actually wanted me to write it.” Devon sounds so sheepish, like she’s afraid to admit to it.

Mark’s head feels fuzzy. “What the fuck? She contacted you?”

“Back in September. I told her I couldn’t because of…you know, you . But I gave her a few names.”

At least by the middle of November, the Internet forgets about the New York Magazine profile, and Mark does, too. Mostly. November is always a busy month for him at Ganz, with the influx of  projects and papers as the promise of Winter Break dangles in the near future. He returns home later and later every evening, sometimes even needing to forgo Monday night bowling. 

“Mark! I haven’t seen you in some time!” Ms. Cobel greets him when he parks his car in the driveway on Wednesday evening.

“Yeah, I’ve been busy. How’re you doing?”

“Oh well, you know, same ol’ same ol’. I would be doing much better if that damned Lumon branch wasn’t opening this week, but I already tried my case in front of City Council.”

“That’s opening this week?” Mark asks. It was easy to forget about the new Lumon branch because he never drove by it. He almost thought it wouldn’t even happen after the controversy earlier that year, but that’s very naive of him to think. 

Ms. Cobel sighs. “Unfortunately. We’ll see what it does to this town within a year. Expect traffic to get ten times worse on the beltway.”

Well, at least Ms. Cobel is the least online person Mark knows. She has no reason to mention Helena to him.

The following day is chilly despite the deceptive sun and clear sky. An email from Eustice Huang waits for him as soon as he opens his inbox that morning, requesting to meet later in the afternoon. He agrees, then goes about his day: reading and deleting emails, grading papers, lunch with Petey in the faculty dining room, and more grading papers. He’s busy reading a new book about the 1918 influenza pandemic because he has to write a review on it for a journal when a knock rapts on his door.

“Hey, Eustice, come on in,” he calls out.

A gentle, familiar laugh chills his blood. 

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not Eustice.”

Mark’s entire body ceases to function, if only for a split second. When he looks up from his book, the person standing at the threshold is not Eustice Huang.

She’s Helena Eagan.

Chapter Text

“Did you always know you would be taking over Lumon?” asks Erin Weber, the journalist Devon recommended. Helena was unfamiliar with her work, but she wrote a few good profile pieces on other high-profile women. So now they sit in Helena’s Gramercy Park apartment, not too different from the last time Helena was ever interviewed. At least this time she doesn’t have to memorize the bullet points Seth Milchick sent to her, and she actually gets to talk about herself, not bioprinting. 

“It was expected of me,” Helena replies, “but it was never a guarantee. My father wanted me to prove myself as an Eagan.”

Erin nods and jots in her notepad. “Do you think you have?”

Helena flicks her eyes over to Natalie, who sits on the sofa pretending to sift through emails on her tablet but obviously has one eye and ear on the interview taking place. Helena is beholden to no one now, and yet occasionally falls back into the habit of seeking confirmation from others before speaking. 

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I ever did. Growing up, our relationship felt transactional.”

Helena doesn’t mean for this interview to come across like a public therapy session, but for once, it feels so good to finally say all of this stuff for the world to hear. And if the Lumon Board of Directors doesn’t like what she has to say, then they can just fire her once and for all. 

They won’t, though. She is almost singlehandedly keeping Lumon’s image out of the gutter after an unsteady and scandalous year. 

So Helena talks, and Erin asks thoughtful questions. Natalie never interrupts, until—

“What about Dr. Mark Scout? Is that an ongoing relationship?”

“That question is off limits,” Natalie remarks, already on her feet and at the edge of the table. 

“No, it’s okay,” Helena says. Natalie eyes her—-a telepathic What are you doing?— but Helena remains steadfast. She hasn’t spoken about Mark in a while. Come to think of it, has she ever spoken about him to anyone? Her friends in Manhattan were smart enough to never ask. No one at Lumon dares to. The therapist she’s been seeing for a month is more interested in unpacking her childhood than recent romantic trysts. 

The people want to know, but this is an interview for a published profile that anyone can read. She’s adjusted to life as a public figure—barely, but she’s managed—but Mark is not one at all. He sometimes researches and publishes work, but he is not equipped for this level of scrutiny. 

Nor does he want it. If he really wanted to, he could speak out and share all the nitty gritty details about Helena that the world desperately wants to know. But to the best of Helena’s knowledge, he’s never said a word. 

Maybe he’s consciously protecting her. Maybe he isn’t. But he deserves the same courtesy.

“He’s no one,” Helena tells Erin, “and I haven’t seen him since.”

Later on, after Erin leaves the apartment, Natalie glowers at her. “I made it clear to her not to ask about Mark—”

“I said it’s fine,” Helena interrupts. 

Natalie wants to protest, Helena can see it in her eyes and her pursed lips, but she holds back. “Martin Schoeller wants to know when you can meet him at his studio for the photo shoot,” she says, defeated.

Jame Eagan has been dead for four months now, and the Board still has not selected a successor. Helena suspects they’ll just keep her as ‘acting CEO’ forever until she herself drops dead fifty years from now. 

Or twenty minutes from now, because this quarterly projections meeting makes Helena more brain dead by the minute. How did her father stomach all of this and not die of boredom? 

“And finally, three new branches are opening this quarter—Gaffney, SC; Preston, ID; and Baird Creek, NY.”

Helena’s ears perk up and pull her out of her daze. She’d almost forgotten about the new branch in Baird Creek that she had to schmooze about to the City Council. That was just over a year ago. 

“When are they supposed to open officially?” she asks.

“Gaffney and Preston are both slated for grand openings at the end of the month. Baird Creek will be in the middle of November. Still finalizing the interior, I believe.”

Helena files away that information, unsure what to do with it. It gnaws away in her brain for the next couple of weeks. Lumon likes to host grand openings for each new branch, all pomp and circumstance, and surely the new Baird Creek branch is no exception. She could attend. It could be a good reason to go upstate.  

Or she can stay behind. No reason in digging up any graves.

It’s for the best.

That’s what she tells herself until she walks through the aisles of the Strand Book Store on a sleepy Sunday evening before it is set to close. She’s not incognito, there hasn’t been much point to it these days. She wanders looking for a new book to read when she rounds the corner and finds herself in the used science fiction section and sees a bookshelf filled displaying book covers with a handwritten banner— Staff Picks.  

And right at eye-level: The Sparrow by Mary Doria Russell.

“It’ll wreck you.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is, but in a good kind of way.”

Helena rushes out of the Strand and pulls out her phone to call Natalie.

This was a mistake.

Helena stands outside the large colonial revival building on the Ganz campus, stares right at the second floor of windows. One of them must be Mark’s office. Can he see her right now, wrapped in a plaid wool coat, debating whether to go in or not? Is he even in his office? She’s not wearing a hat to conceal her hair; the red waves flow over her shoulders and tousle in the autumn breeze. There aren’t many students milling about, but the semester is still on. Helena checked the academic calendar, checked Mark’s faculty page to confirm the office number.  

This was a big fucking mistake.

Judd is parked in the visitor’s parking lot. She can turn around right now, go back to the Grand Kier to prepare for the branch opening tomorrow, and no one would know she was here. 

Well, that’s not true. Surely some passing-by student has taken a photo of her on their phone and plastered it all over the Internet. Then Mark will find out somehow, and he’ll wonder why she was there, and she’ll wonder why she didn’t go inside.

Helena heaves a sigh and enters the building. 

It takes a few minutes to actually find the history department, tucked away in the far corner of the second floor facing the back of the building. So if Mark is in his office, he couldn’t have seen her outside. Not that it does much to still her heartbeat or soothe her dry mouth. 

MARK SCOUT – 210

Helena pokes her head into the empty corridor of offices. Nearly all of the doors are closed save for one. She holds her breath in anticipation as she approaches, but she already knows.

Mark sits at the desk, engrossed in a doorstopper of a book with no jacket, reading glasses perched over the bridge of his nose. She pauses at the doorway to study him while he still hasn’t noticed her. He looks a little better than he did when she last saw him, haircut and light five o’clock shadow along his jaw, crisp pale pink collar and cuffs poking out under an earthy green sweater. She’s never seen him in his element—the accidental reunion at the campus gallery does not count. Her heart inflates and spans over her chest. 

Then she lightly knocks on the door.

“Hey, Eustice, come on in.” 

He still doesn’t look up from the book. Helena chuffs at the thought of him expecting a student.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not Eustice.”

Mark looks up from his book, pale-faced and slack-jawed, jumping up to his feet and snatches the reading glasses off his face. They hold each other’s gaze, and Helena could melt into a puddle on the hardwood floor right now.

“Hello,” she finally says.

“Uh, hey,” he replies.

 She eyes the chair in front of his desk. “May I sit?”

“Sure, yeah, go ahead.” 

Helena unbuttons her coat and slides out of it. Somehow, even in jeans, sneakers, and her matching cerulean blue top and cardigan, she feels more vulnerable than when she was actually naked in front of him.  

“Is there somewhere I can hang this up?” she asks, motioning to her coat.

“Yeah, uh…behind the door is a coat rack.”

Helena slings the coat over a spare hook. She can feel his cautious eyes all over her as she moves around his office from door to chair.  Once she settles in, Helena offers her kindest smile as an olive branch. 

“How have you been?” she asks in hopes it will break the ice, but it might’ve chilled it even more.

Mark sits back down to meet her at eye level, but he sits on the edge of the seat rather than leisurely sinking into it. He remains guarded, has every reason to be. 

“Good,” he responds curtly. “Semester’s crawling to the end, but I’m getting by. All my students have stopped sleeping and now run on coffee and Adderall. Allegedly.”

Helena hums in amusement. “I remember something similar. Don’t miss those days.”

“Are you admitting to abusing Adderall?” Mark teases with an arched eyebrow.

Helena sits up straight with her hands in her lap, puts on her best camera-ready face. “I would never use a non-Lumon medication for its unintended use.”

“But you’ve used a Lumon-branded one?”

That’s an entire can of worms that Helena doesn’t have time to unpack with him right now, but she shrugs playfully. It’s too easy, like no time has passed at all. This is going better than she thought, not that she had much expectation for how it would. They’ve already fallen back into this familiar pattern of banter and flirtation, so maybe—

“You’re in town for the branch opening, right?” Mark pipes up. His demeanor cools down, returns to cordial apprehension.

Helena’s smile falters. “Yes, that’s right. Tomorrow.”

Helena takes a moment to observe his office. A large map of the Battle of Verdun campaign hangs behind him, and three shelves stacked occupy the wall to her right. On her left, a window overlooking the main campus walkway, with two framed degrees next to it. His desk is littered with a few loose papers and pens, the book he’d been reading an overexaggerated paperweight.

“So…” he begins, but then trails off.

“Why am I here, in your office?” 

“Well, yeah.”

Impulsiveness. Her most defining trait, no matter how much her father wanted her to tame it, no matter how much she chastised herself for it. Helena has no plan, not for this. 

“I wanted to see you. To apologize for how we left things off the last time we saw each other,” she admits. “I was cruel and too caught up in what was happening to think clearly. I’m sorry. Truly.”

Mark’s attention turns to the door, another look of surprise on his face. Helena glances over her shoulder to a teenaged girl with dark straight hair standing at the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder. Helena holds her breath.

“Eustice!” Mark exclaims, his voice at a higher pitch than she’s ever heard it before. “Hey, uh…why don’t you wait outside by the chairs? This won’t take too long.”

“But I—” 

“Just a few minutes, okay?”

She hesitates before retreating down the hallway. Mark springs up to close the door behind her. Helena’s head reels. 

This won’t take too long. How does he know that?

“So, uh…where were we?”

“I was apologizing.”

“Right,” Mark says as he plops back into his chair. “Um, thank you. I’m sorry, too. I got nasty then and said one or two things I shouldn’t have.”

Yeah, he did. Slumming it up. The words sometimes echo in Helena’s mind late at night when she cannot sleep and she misses the warmth of his body. 

“Thank you,” she accepts. 

Mark stays silent.

So, that’s it. Helena will stand up and walk away, and they will never see each other again, simple as that. He’ll continue to teach stressed undergrads about history, and she’ll run Lumon until the Board stops dragging their feet and appoint a new CEO. And after that, she’ll find something else to do, something that banks on her name and image for a few more years before everyone inevitably forgets her, including Mark. A blessing and a curse rolled into one.

“How is everyone else doing?” she asks. “How is Irving?”

“Uh, Irving’s fine. Still running the bookstore.”

“Is Radar still there?”

“Yeah, he still naps in the window.” 

The image of the dog curled up in the sun springs to mind and calms Helena for a few seconds. It gives her enough confidence to continue stalling, to keep talking with him. 

“And your sister and niece?” 

Mark exhales sharply. “Eleanor’s good. She’s walking and talking like crazy now. Definitely a handful for Devon, but nothing that she can’t handle.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Yeah, uh, she told me you reached out to her?”

“I did,” she says. “When New York Magazine approached me about a feature, I was told I could provide my own interviewer. I thought of Devon first, but she declined. Conflict of interest.”

Mark nods in consideration, casts his eyes off to the side. He’s already slipping away from her. She should leave now, forever. But Mark is here, now. 

“What time do you finish work today?” she murmurs.

He snaps his attention back to her. His brown eyes crinkle in confusion.  

“What?”

“I’m checked in at the Grand Kier.” She wades through the waters. “The Dieter Suite, again. I’m staying for tonight and tomorrow before I return to the city for a gala.” Her voice quivers. “And maybe you can join me then, too?”

Mark’s jaw clenches ever so slightly. 

“That’s funny, I thought you said I was no one.”

The floor bottoms out underneath Helena, and she drops deep into the hole she dug herself. She should’ve expected this, but the crash lands just the same. Mark’s voice is dry and acerbic, and she cringes at her own words being used against her. 

She immediately jumps into defense mode because defense is familiar after months—years, really—of doing it. “I said that to protect you. You’ve already seen enough of how… parasitic people online can be. I didn’t want any more speculation.”

“Okay,” Mark shoots back. “I believe you.” He speaks like someone who is absolutely not convinced, dismissive and hurt. And she understands, really, but Helena wants her coat back on, so she can burrow underneath it and hide.

“Do you?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t think it changes anything.”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Helena, c’mon…” 

Helena bristles. He didn't call her Helly, and that’s all she needs to know. But she listens to him speak anyway. 

“This was never going to work out. I’m a middling academic widower still trying to piece my life back together and you’re… well, you’re the CEO of a biotech company worth billions. You are worth billions.”

“Acting CEO,” she corrects softly. 

Mark sighs. “Okay, but my point stands, doesn't it? We don’t exist on the same plane. I live in Baird Creek. You’re in and out of board rooms. Everyone knows your name. Students barely remember mine after they've taken my class. What we had was fun, but I think we should leave it at that.” 

No. He’s saying no.

Helena swallows the lump lodged in her throat, bites her bottom lip to prevent it from trembling, fiddles with her hands in her lap. She blinks away any tears forming in her eyes, and thankfully, none spill over her cheeks.

“Okay,” she mumbles, mostly for herself. “I…I understand.”

She stands up and turns to the door to retrieve her coat. Time to get the hell out of here, retreat into the safety of her hotel suite before she has to put on her act tomorrow. At least she has an answer, and she’ll never ask herself ‘what if’ again.

“You know, I’m not actually a billionaire,” she says. Now is not the time to crunch the numbers, but that’s a detail everyone gets wrong about her. “But I’ve lived under scrutiny my entire life, long before the media got involved. I understand how much pressure there is. I know I only invite trouble.”

Her voice shakes, but Helena isn’t done, not yet. “But I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” she continues. “I just…I wanted to see if you’d still look at me the way you used to.”

Mark looks at her, taken aback. “Looked at you… how?”

“Like a normal person who can be loved.”

She puts her coat back on and smiles at him for one last bittersweet time. “Goodbye,” she says, then strides out of his office. 

The teenager from before sits in a chair down the hallway. “Dr. Scout is ready for you now,” Helena mutters, tongue-in-cheek because she needs humor right now to keep herself together. She doesn’t stick around to see the girl’s reaction.

quinn-fabreeze: @HelenaEaganUpdates i am like 99% certain i saw helena eagan walking around ganz this afternoon

HelenaEaganUpdates: if you have photos, DM me

quinn-fabreeze: @HelenaEaganUpdates i don’t! didn’t want to be obvious

helena-eager2004: !!!!! if this true then maybe god is real