[upper east side] pink moon, light the darkest room | charlie

Her fingers shook like leaves in winter Brooklyn air.  All the trees were regrowing and blooming around her, and that concept of newness refreshed her soul in a way even the most beautiful snowfall could not.

Her fingers… that looked decidedly naked. Kate only wore her wedding rings in the house now--to twirl them ‘round and reminisce when she felt especially distraught, and now, she was trying to reduce even that. Pictures of Charlie’s arm she’d seen in tabloids told her he hadn’t taken off his marriage vow--the one of her name--that was so visible for others to see. Even more than her gigantic rock and the ring that had been made, specially, for her.

Maybe if she hadn’t been so attached to the idea that he’d certainly come after her, she would have left her rings on the counter the way she had a few times before. Maybe it would have been more obvious what her intentions in leaving were; she’d rehashed the past over and over in her head to try and process what might have made him want to fight for her. But then, hadn’t they fought enough? Wasn’t it due to rest?

None of her introspecting and poring over what else had gone wrong had made anything make sense. She knew the woman he was being pictured with in the newspapers was probably nothing more than a distraction from whatever else was going on in his life (contact had been limited and through attorneys since final proceedings had begun, so she didn’t know), but that didn’t mean it didn’t stab into her heart like a bunch of tiny push pins at once to see him with somebody else.

And now, he was coming here. To New York, to her temporary apartment that she was temporarily sharing with her messy sister while they were both doing temporary work here in the city. Everything was temporary.

 Nevertheless, he was coming. To give her a box of valuables she’d left, she supposed. Letters, pictures, and tiny sentimental trinkets. Kate wasn’t sure whether or not it had helped not to have those things in the first couple of months following their “decision” to divorce. Kate itched her ear mindlessly as she sat, rigid, at the dining room table. She felt like such a joke, to feel tense and jittery around a person who had seen every single part of her soul and crevice of her humanity. None of that could ever be undone.

A tap at the door bolted her completely upright to her feet. “Come in,” She shouted a little too shrilly.

She had asked him to come early afternoon New York time, which meant leaving London around teatime. Charlie had booked himself the return portkey already to rule out any need to stay overnight (in a hotel), and paid a premium for needing all of this last minute -- up until this morning he’d still been unsure if he could do this, or wanted to.

Just over a week ago Charlie had moved from where he had been living in a short-stay hotel (stupid, expensive, but better than moving in with his parents or asking one of the many other people he had let down if he could crash) into a mews house, back in Maida Vale. His things had come out of storage and he’d unpacked -- and in doing so found a box of Kate’s that had somehow been mixed in with his. When he’d opened it Charlie had been winded; he thought it might be better to just throw it all out, but in with photographs of them and letters from him were owls from her family too, and other bits and pieces they had sent her while she had been living across the ocean -- and he had no right to those.

So he had written to her, brief and to the point, to ask where she wanted them posted to -- then she’d thrown him a curveball and explained the contents were too valuable to risk being lost, or (if they were being paranoid about the tabloids) intercepted. Much as he hated the prospect of having to deliver it himself, she was right. And maybe a very small part of him wanted to see her.

He turned down another of New York’s grid-system streets, trying to find the address where Kate was living with her sister. If he could manage it, he would be in and out and he could wait at the New York station for his departure time rather than be in her presence any longer than necessary -- it would only provide opportunity to make poor decisions.

Charlie stopped in the street when he saw the number he’d been looking for. He looked up at the building, closed his eyes and frowned. He’d come this far, only a little further to go. He jostled the box in his arms to be able to open the door, then headed up to her floor, stopping again outside the apartment number she’d given. Under any other circumstances he might’ve checked his reflection in something shiny (elevator?) or ran a hand through his hair (a little windswept from the spring breeze) to fix it, but if anything maybe it would be better if he didn’t look too put together. He didn’t want to look like shit either, because that presented its own risks, but somewhere in the middle: average. He had recently had a haircut, had foregone the hair gel, was in jeans and boots and a plain white t-shirt under a denim sherpa jacket. Average.

He knocked, had barely placed his hand back under the box he was cradling when he heard Come in shouted from inside -- from Kate. Charlie hesitated. Had she forgotten he was coming, expecting someone else? He shifted the box again to knock a second time, but before knuckles hit wood his fingers drifted down to the knob and he let himself in.

“Hello?” he called out, rather unnecessarily he realised when his eyes fell upon her. Charlie stood there dumbly for a moment before he regained his wits. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as the only betrayal of his thoughts and turned to close the door behind him before facing her again, not stepping any further into the apartment. It was light and airy and he wasn’t looking at any of it because he was stuck looking at her. He swallowed. “Hi,” he said, his voice a little gruff and low. He wet his lips. “Where d’you want this?”

Seeing him affected her most definitively, more than she’d thought. The way he looked to her was impossible to notice: product-free hair, no leather, no gel. He didn’t look particularly sallow (the way she probably did), but he appeared a little slimmer than she’d left him. Why was she angry that he wasn’t being properly nourished? Alcohol and TV dinners were not acceptable choices. Surely little miss famous wasn’t concerned with his wellbeing, apart, of course, from the only part of his health Charlie was routinely fixated upon. So fixated that it had torn them apart again.

“On the table is fine,” Kate said quietly, and had to clear her throat immediately after because of a frog that had randomly materialized in the one second she’d spoken. Making him do these small things: let himself in, draw closer to her to put the box down--she knew he wouldn’t really want to, but if he was going to come all the way over here to New York to drop it off instead of working it out some back-end way with the attorneys, she might as well try to get some kind of interaction out of it. Gauge where he was.

There were two wolves within her, and maybe a third smaller one. The third smaller one was content to let him go without another word. The other two were fighting: between wanting to passionately embrace him, and passionately lash out about what an idiot he’d been. Neither of these seemed to be composed or rational reactions, but this was the first time she’d laid her own two brown eyes upon him since packing her shit and leaving. For good, it was seeming. How could a person(either of them) start over, “clean slate” and all that--when she’d devoted nearly every waking moment to him in the last several years of her life--and in that, all of her adult life?

Plenty of people wanted to talk to Kate about what had happened with Charlie, but it never seemed like they wanted to listen. Even being associated with somebody famous and having money that resulted from that made it hard to make friends who weren’t interested in anything lasting apart from a weird status symbol. She missed being able to be herself, no strings, in vulnerable environments with people--her husband and her family--who would protect her and make her comfortable.

Of course she still loved him. That trickled down her back and through her fingertips like icy rain. What a harrowing and simultaneously refreshing emotion to feel in front of this person, after everything he had done. After everything he’d thrown away, seemingly at the drop of a hat. How was she supposed to act around him? Kate’s eyes filled with tears.

“I don’t know what I should say.” She began, eyes darting between two random spots on the floor, before they settled back on his face. He was still so handsome. “But what I’m going to say…. Is that I’m very. Very angry. With you.” Her fists balled at her sides and her shoulders trembled. Kate didn’t know how she felt about being visibly overcome with emotion in front of him, but here she was, being that. It was safe to say that she hadn’t expected such a strong, quick reaction, but on the other hand, she wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting. So much unfinished business to be brushed off amicably and for them to go their separate ways for the rest of forever?

On the table. Charlie looked around the apartment, only now noticing the view of the city beyond -- and his piano, over near the lounge. His lips pressed firmer together, the corners downturned. It wasn’t his anymore, of course, but it had been once, briefly. Kate had surprised him with it for Christmas -- the first in the townhouse and their second living together -- and he’d been bowled over by it. But it wouldn’t have been right to keep it, nor would he have had anywhere to put the bloody thing -- his new place was much smaller; sufficient for a bachelor, or a divorcee. Still, it was another reminder of where they had been, of what he had thrown away. He hadn’t honestly expected her to keep it, but then he hadn’t had very long to tarnish it, had he?

Charlie moved towards the dining table and, in doing so, closer to Kate, all the while avoiding looking her directly in the eye. They hadn’t seen each other in over a month -- he hadn’t thought he would see her again for much longer, and maybe that would have been better. She had always been petite, but she looked especially skinny now. Painful, almost. But Kate had her sister to look out for her, and it wasn’t his responsibility nor his concern if she was taking care of herself -- just as it was none of her business if he was doing so.

Charlie set the box down and pushed it in a little from the edge, then stood back and turned to look at Kate (because where else was he supposed to look?). Immediately, he regretted doing so; her eyes were wet and the urge to comfort her was almost powerful enough to test his resolve, but he wouldn’t be helping either of them if he gave in (and would she even want him to?). He found, the more he thought about it, that he didn’t want to. He wanted to leave, get back to London and how it had all been before. Get rid of having to feel like this: guilty.

He kept his eyes on her. He didn’t know what to say either, and he thought about suggesting they say nothing and that he just go-- then Kate’s eyes met his again and he was frozen to the spot. Charlie watched her warily; a moment ago she had been meek and unassuming, suddenly she was filled with an inexplicable (to him) rage. Obviously she was mad, he thought as his attention was drawn down to her little fists, but he got a feeling that this was for something other than the divorce and the events that had led up to it. “Why?” he asked, before he could help himself or think of a better way to ask.

“Because,” She exclaimed on her first exhale following the outburst, and she was embarrassed of her feelings. Kate’s therapist had been encouraging her to let the feelings make their appearance and then to dismiss them, not to let them consume her--but what else was more consuming than the sight of him, right in front of her? All of the heartbreak she’d worked tirelessly for weeks to banish came rushing back in an instant. It was more than infuriating that he could reduce her to tears in three seconds and unravel her without saying three words.

“I’m angry with you because you’ve been--gallivanting around with some random woman, haven’t made any effort to make yourself scarce, and haven’t thought to ask me how I am! Especially since now, I’m drowning in interrogations and people with cameras!” Kate’s shoulders heaved gently, and it was liberating that this was one of the only times they’d have an argument she didn’t have to punctuate with an apology for her tone or makeup sex. Was this what agency felt like? Or boundaries? She was sick of his actions affecting the way she saw herself. “I know it isn’t my business who you see, but couldn’t you have at least tried to keep that away from the paparazzi? It feels like. All of this. Just meant nothing to you.”

All of this meaning their relationship, their marriage, and how long it took them to get here. Her hands gestured circular motions in front of her as she spoke, trying to illustrate what she meant by all of this without having to go into too much detail. Melting into a nostalgic puddle on the floor was another switch rapidly threatening to flip itself and she wasn’t going to look it in the eye to convince it any further.

“How would you feel.” She swallowed, and hot tears spilled in rivulets down the pronounced apples of her cheeks, over and over. “If you saw pictures of me. With my tattoos about you all over my body just out for everybody to see--and another guy on my arm? This soon after the divorce?” Her lips smashed together. She could taste blood from the amount of force she was using to keep them shut and mask their quivering. “I know we aren’t together anymore. But I thought you thought more of me and my feelings than this.”

Charlie almost flinched at her sharp Because -- almost. He recovered quickly, his features drawn into a scowl as Kate flung accusations at him. He had intended to come here and not cause any more hurt, but the likelihood of that being the case was diminishing by the minute. Maybe it would be better if she saw him as the villain -- it would be easier to stay apart, wouldn’t it?

“Gallivanting?” he repeated, his tone somewhere between offended and amused. He didn’t know for certain who she was referring to, but he had a pretty good idea. He was confident enough to run with it, anyway; Charlie had seen Alannah Dupont a grand total of two times, and as far as he was aware they had managed to somehow fly completely under the radar the first time. The second, well, he’d gone to a Quidditch match with Sam, and Alannah just happened to be playing for the opposing team (what a coincidence). He might have ended up in Alannah’s apartment by the end of the night, but he doubted there would be any proof of that (apparating a county over would have slipped any tail), so the most scandalous thing he’d done was be seen outside the Griffins changing rooms, along with members of the public -- nothing for which he could be lynched. Kate wasn’t the first person he knew to have put two and two together, but -- like Kate -- they’d somehow ended up at a number other than four as well.

But she wasn’t done. “Why should I have to make myself scarce?” he bit back. “I’m meant to hole myself up and not see anyone?” She was being ridiculous. “If I wanted to do that I would have stayed--” He inhaled abruptly, aware he was taking his frustrations out on her again and that she didn’t deserve it. He could admit -- to himself, at least -- that he felt for Kate. She had known entering his world that she was subjecting herself to public interest, but she hadn’t bargained for being hounded about the other women he was seen with -- or the onslaught not lessening any when they were no longer together. Charlie had allowed himself to believe that in New York, away from the British media, it wouldn’t be so bad for her. Obviously, he was wrong.

He wanted to repeat that back to her -- that it wasn’t her business who he saw -- but he was distracted by the insinuation that he was unfazed by everything that had happened. He scoffed. “Right, because I call a press conference every time I leave the bloody house,” he snapped at her. “You think I like them writing all that shit about us?” he asked her, his ‘us’ easily applicable to his ‘relationships’ with both (and other) women.

His frown faltered briefly as he watched tears stream down her cheeks. It was with less ferocity than before that his anger returned, but it came back all the same; “She wasn’t--” he started, biting his lip to stop himself from saying anything incriminating -- but she hadn’t been on his arm. Not as far as anyone had seen. Charlie’s emotions bubbled over unwarranted, an unintended reaction to being confronted by Kate crying in front of him and knowing that he was the cause of it, again. “Is this why you wanted me to bring your shit here? So you could get all self-righteous?” He turned away from her and threaded his fingers together at the crown of his skull; frustrated.

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Ask me what you really want to ask me,” he dared her, dropping his hands to his sides and facing her again. “I’m not fucking her,” he answered before Kate got a chance to ask what he assumed was on her mind; he wasn’t fucking anyone, yet. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said, echoing her earlier sentiment.

It was true that in London, the paparazzi had been much worse and much more overwhelming when news of their divorce had made public. She wasn’t spending any more time there than she had to, but some of her work and events overlapped between locations. In New York, there were still people with cameras, though--the wizarding world was not as large a place as the no-maj, and thus, when a musician became famous in one part of the wizarding world, he was basically famous in all parts. Kate had grown up in this kind of environment her whole life, and her secluded home in the sunset cliffs had sheltered her some, but she was not a stranger to how things worked. The initial bombardment had not been as bad or as painful as the stories that were breaking now--of her very, very recent ex husband and his new slice.

Humans were complex, her therapist would tell her. Even if one didn’t want a relationship back or miss that person, they were bound to be affected by such a thing. Seeing someone else (even just in pictures) walking around in the shoes she used to wear made her feel displaced and a nasty wave of jealousy washed over her each time she considered the photos of them together. Kate didn’t even know her name. Did it matter?

“No, I didn’t ask you over here to be self-righteous,” Kate breathed, feeling more overwhelmed as the seconds passed. Her stomach turned violently and she felt anxiety creeping its way down her neck and spine, all the way to her fingertips and toes. God damn it, she was shaking. The situation wasn’t even close to the same severity as some of the other fights they’d had, but this time, he could walk out and not come back. Before, Kate had never really worried that such a thing would happen--idly, and because of her irrational fear that someone better would always exist, maybe--but not seriously. This was a legitimate possibility now. The tiny woman attempted some deep breaths from her gut to calm herself. That was her responsibility--no one else’s. Not to fix her, not to save her, not to teach her how to love herself. None of this was a process that could come full circle overnight, especially with such an enmeshed childhood, but god, she was trying. And Charlie was serving as a giant trigger.

“I wasn’t going to ask you that!” If she looked astounded, that was an honest emotion. And, on a second thought, if she were being honest with herself, she’d already completely assumed they were having sex. That wasn’t her concern. “Fucking somebody doesn’t mean you’ve moved on. Allowing your picture to be taken with her when you wouldn’t with me for months on end, even though we were living together, and looking like you’re dating--that kind of does.” Her slight chest heaved with the effort of disclosing those words. Kate felt shame, both for expressing how she felt with words, irrational and misplaced as it were, and for looking exactly how she felt. “It hurts to think you’ve moved on. It’s different to… watch your loved one move on alone than it is to see them find it in somebody else.”

Her lips pressed together again. Perhaps she’d revealed too much. Kate’s legs were concerningly wobbly, so she pulled a chair back from the table with an uncomfortable squeak to sit down.

“Are you sure? Because you’re doing a bloody good job of it.” He was mad and there was no softness in his tone, but he wasn’t shouting, wasn’t yet raising his voice at her the way he might have done before.

“You wanted to though, didn’t you?” he retorted bitterly. He didn’t know that for sure, but it was how he would have reacted if they were in each other’s position. He knew it was wrong, but he was secretly glad that Kate didn’t look even remotely close to being ready to see another man. The idea that someone, someday, would replace him made him feel sick. He wasn’t sure if he would prefer they be a better or worse man than he was -- but for Kate’s sake, he knew he wanted the former for her, as much as it would hurt to witness.

“I’m not standing there fucking posing for it, am I?” he snapped. The indignant part of Charlie wanted to discard Kate’s complaints as absurd but they weren’t -- well, mostly -- he had been reluctant to be seen with her in an official capacity, in the beginning, and he had tried to justify his reasons: she was their manager, it was unprofessional; she’d just finished school and eyebrows would be raised at when they’d gotten together; their relationship was their business, not anyone else’s. That last one had worked on Kate, for a time. It hadn’t flown once his sleeping with other women had come to light, of course, because up until then he’d been able to compartmentalise his life as it suited him.

“I--” haven’t, had been his instinctive response, but he couldn’t tell her that. Coming here at all had been a mistake. In what world could they be in the same room, this soon after everything, alone? It was too easy to get worked up and say exactly what he was thinking, and right now it was how much easier it might’ve been to just stay together, beg for her to forgive him and sweep it all under the rug until next time. But that was the problem -- there would always be a next time.

Of course Kate was jumping from a photograph to Charlie being ready to settle back down with someone new. If he stepped back and analysed his behaviour -- specifically with Kate -- he might see why that was a logical assumption for her to make. Charlie watched her sit out of the corner of his eye, anger radiating off of him and dissipating. “I’m not in love with her,” he practically scoffed, his voice lowered, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the skyscrapers beyond. This wasn’t where he pictured her -- New York. Kate was the Pacific Ocean and palm trees and pink sunsets, not concrete and grey and harsh neon lights.

He didn’t know why he felt the need to explain himself, or why he wasn’t just letting her think the worst. “She’s the only person who isn’t tiptoeing around me or trying to break my nose,” he admitted, still facing the window. Absently, he reached up and ran his fingers over said nose, the one Fflur had broken just a few weeks earlier (and then fixed, but he wasn’t sure that quite made up for it, then again, was quite sure he’d deserved it). “You’ve got Fran, I haven’t--” he turned to look at her and stopped sharply as their eyes met. “They might be my friends but doesn’t mean they aren’t more on your side than mine,” he finished quietly.

Not in love with her. Kate was ashamed to acknowledge that the pang in her chest was a mixture of curiosity and relief. Was there a deeper reason he wasn’t in love with this woman yet? Did it have to do with her? She supposed that his inner feelings weren’t really her business now either, but they almost were if they pertained to her, right? Despite the glimmer of wondering, Kate wasn’t sure he would tell her anything unless she asked and pulled it right out of him. “I don’t know what that information is supposed to do for me,” Kate responded instead. “I’m not even close to being in love with anyone else.”

And she wasn’t. That wasn’t how she did things. The thing with Tyler was different, of course, because it had been dead in the water before she’d even met Charlie for the second time--but with something as serious as this? Kate couldn’t even conceptualize visualizing someone else--naked, being in love with them, telling them her secrets--anything. Charlie was still firmly seated in that role, and probably would be in a physical sense too if he’d come after her or acted like he cared even an iota about her wellbeing.

Her chest heaved as she sighed. “Fran is barely present these days. She’s got a contract with a ballet company in the city, that’s part of the reason we’re here. Not just for my work,” She added. Kate was happy for her sister, but she was all over the place and permanently frazzled and hectic. Even though Francesca was older, she needed to be taken care of. Though she didn’t need it nearly to the same degree as Charlie had, it was still comforting to fill her spare time with nurturing familiarity that she’d had nowhere to put after the divorce.

“Besides that, be glad you have friends. Mine are few and far between and my family’s time quota is very demanding because now I’m alone and sad.” Why was she being so vulnerable with him? He didn’t deserve it. She should have stayed calm, cool and collected. Would that or warmth remind him more what he was missing? “I spent most of my time with you, and taking care of you, so I’m having to find other things to occupy my time. It’s been difficult for me to make sense of the whole thing.”

The cat meowed. Their--her--cat, Simon, who had really always preferred Charlie, strutted into the room at precisely that moment to brush obnoxiously up against his leg. Kate’s breathing stopped. This was awkward, wasn’t it? Should she pick her up? Redirect her to a brand new bowl of wet food? Her eyes flicked back up toward his face and she waited to gauge his reaction.

“Neither do I,” he bit, arms still folded defensively across his chest. He intentionally ignored the latter part of her response; it had been a month, neither of them should be, and it bothered him that Kate was acting as though Charlie had declared some grand feelings for Alannah simply by being pictured with her -- he barely knew the woman (not, clearly, that that had stopped him before). He wanted to see her again, was already working to figure out how and when and what (note to self: don’t get photographed), but that didn’t constitute anything more than wanting to inch closer to her bed.

Kate explained where Fran was -- and wasn’t -- and Charlie focused his attention at anywhere but his ex-wife. He frowned softly. “Why didn’t you stay in California, near the rest of your family? Surely your Dad--” He halted and pressed his lips together in a hard line. He supposed Kate hadn’t stayed in California for the same reason he hadn’t retreated to Sheffield in the immediate aftermath of everything: it was embarrassing. They’d not even made it a year, and as far as anyone else knew they’d made it six months.

Now it just sounded like she was looking for pity from him and he wasn’t in a position to give it. He was even less enthused by the way she had decided to blame him for taking up all of her time. “I’m not a fucking child, Kate, you didn’t have to spoon feed me,” he snapped. He knew she was referring to his low periods, but then how good a job had she really done if he’d managed to spiral so fantastically in the last few weeks of their marriage?

“You know this isn’t all--” he started hotly, found himself interrupted by a loud meow at his feet. Charlie looked down and saw the cat -- Kate’s cat -- winding herself between his ankles and rubbing up against him. His face contorted into a sort of awkward grimace -- not exactly disgusted, but not enthralled either; vaguely fond, perhaps. Charlie unfolded his arms finally and crouched to scratch under her chin. He hadn’t wanted a pet -- still didn’t -- but when Kate had left abruptly he’d been stuck with the kitten she had found in the shed only couple of months earlier, until she had come back to collect her things (cat included).

It took him a moment to remember where he was, what he was doing -- who he was with. Charlie’s eyes met Kate’s and he withdrew his hand quickly, standing back up to his full height and clearing his throat. He moved into the kitchen to wash his hands -- and to put some distance between himself, the cat, and Kate.

“I should...” he began as he dried his hands on a teatowel, unable to help himself from glancing over some mail on the bench. He did a double take when his eyes were drawn to Baker in the address line. His brow furrowed. “You should tell them to--” He stopped, hit by the sudden realisation that they hadn’t actually discussed-- “You’re going back to Duenas, right?”

No, she hadn’t had to spoonfeed him. But hadn’t she picked him up off the ground after he’d almost aspirated on his own vomit and so many other things? Sure, she’d gone off the rails a few times herself, but nearly every time she’d done that it had made sense. When Charlie lost himself, it was almost always unpredictable, and it was almost always connected to something within him. Not anything Kate had done.

In a more literal sense, Charlie had had a distinct penchant for eating TV dinners (or eating out) every single night, not sleeping well enough, and drinking far, far too much before Kate had moved in. All of these patterns were things she’d picked up on almost right away and attempted to gently change. She wondered if he’d retained any of the cooking skills she’d passed on to him, or retained any healthy habits, for that matter.

Not that she was one to talk. She was physically healthy (except for right now, honestly, she was a little underweight and it was embarrassing compared to how good she’d looked at the height of their relationship), but she had other bad habits and tendencies she’d brought into the relationship. Fear of failure. Lack of agency. Thinking codependency was the definition of true love, according to her therapist, who was a little bit too blunt sometimes. Have you noticed this is a pattern for you? Her steely voice echoed soundly in her head. Kate almost shuddered.

Damned if she did, Kate’s heart swelled gently, to and fro, like waves lapping against a dock, as she watched her ex-husband pet her kitten. They had named her together, and Simon was a boy name, but she thought it was cute. Kind of painful, too, because Simon Ferocious--her entire name--was associated to a band that Kate largely only associated to their relationship. Queen had played softly on every record player in their home (every single home) at one point or another--during sex, while she cleaned, while she cooked, while they slow-danced, slightly drunk, in their kitchen. At their wedding, too. Her throat closed as an invisible boa constrictor tightened around it.

“No, I’m not.” She answered, caught off guard. Perhaps she should’ve put a little more thought and care into her response, but she hadn’t expected him to see any of her mail. “I wasn’t planning on it, anyway.”

No, I’m not. Charlie stared at her, a little winded. He had assumed -- wrongly, now, it seemed -- that she would revert to Duenas. What did it mean that she wanted to remain as Kate -- Catherine, whatever -- Baker?

He knew, from his limited knowledge of divorces (which was a little more now having gone through his own), that women sometimes kept their married name when kids were involved -- rather than their children having to explain why their surnames didn’t match -- but they didn’t have any children (a cat didn’t -- and would never -- count), so he couldn't see any reason for her to want to keep it. She had left.

The cat chose this moment to rub up against his leg again (she had evidently followed him into the kitchen) and Charlie looked from her to Kate. “Why not?” he blurted out, bemused.

It didn’t make any sense. He had cheated on her -- and while it may have taken physically walking in on him with another woman to finally break the camel’s back, it wasn’t like he’d been subtle about spending time with women other than his wife. Had they been normal people with run-of-the-mill careers it would have been bad enough, but they weren’t, and his infidelity had been splashed across the pages of The Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly and no doubt countless other publications.

Did she really want to be the woman Charlie Baker had cheated on for the rest of her life? He was overselling himself a little, here, he knew. But the point stood: why be associated with him? He did nothing for her image, if anything he dragged her down where she didn't belong.

Also, if he were being honest with himself, he didn't particularly want Kate to keep his name. If she was going to continue to work in this business they would no doubt cross paths from time to time -- be at the same industry events -- and he didn't want to have to spend the rest of his career being reminded of what he had done.

His response didn’t seem measured, exactly, but that was how he normally acted. Charlie was a very reactive person, and only made his decisions based on impulse most of the time. Of course, it had been a surprise to people when they’d gone public with their marriage--nobody in the “real world” had expected him to have any kind of stamina when it came to commitment. But she’d gotten three years. More than anybody else, as far as she knew. Not that it mattered when he’d been half present for half the time.

“Because,” Kate said to him coolly, using a filler to think about how she was really going to respond. Responding instead of reacting was the way to go about things. These positive affirmations were difficult to believe sometimes: they seemed too good to be true, but the theory was that if one did them enough times, if one attempted to live them out wholeheartedly, the cheesiness would wear off when they actually did become true. It was also a good time to ask herself why she was keeping his name. There were a few reasons, she supposed. Now was the time to consider which ones he deserved to know about. He wasn’t entitled to the information, she reminded herself. He wasn’t entitled to anything.

She pressed her lips together and looked at the floor before she answered--for real, this time. “First of all, changing your name is a process. I’ve been busy with other things and the divorce--really isn’t. You know. It just became--final.” Kate was blustering a little. Be straightforward if you want to be. Create a boundary if you need to. Better that the invasive thoughts were from therapy and not the black pit from the great beyond.

“And also, I’m not changing my name right now because. It’s my name, and I’m choosing to take my time.” That sounded like a mature way of saying she wasn’t ready, right? There was another, more subconscious, much deeper reason that she was halfway concealing from even herself, but she was resolute right now. Who knew if that would change when he responded--reacted.

He could have said so many other things about Kate’s revelation, but why was the most pressing. His eyes didn’t leave her as he tried to fathom what possible reason she could have for wanting to keep his last name, other than spite. Kate averted her gaze and Charlie wondered if she even had a reason -- maybe it was spite. What else could she do to him to hurt him -- other than to replace him as quickly as he was (as far as it seemed) replacing her? She’d tried that once before and Charlie had almost drank himself to death in his despair. He didn’t think he would do that now, but he didn’t blame her if neither of them wanted to find out.

Even in all of his hostility towards this whole situation, Charlie could accept that the ink was barely dry on their divorce papers. Still, wasn’t this the kind of thing you got done all at once? It couldn’t be that hard, people separated all the time. They didn’t even have to worry about things like passports and drivers licences and whatever else muggles dealt with.

It’s my name. Charlie balked. “It’s not your name, it’s mine,” he said venomously, before he could even think about what he was saying. Choosing to take her time, what sort of bullshit was that? “You were the one that wanted the divorce,” he followed up, on a roll now and barely resisting pointing an accusing finger at her; his hands forms fists on the countertop as he leant on it. The vague concern he’d felt for her at the start of this conversation had been swept aside by righteous anger now, all the feeling he hadn’t let out suddenly bubbling over in the presence of the woman who had caused it.

“You don’t want me, so why do you want to keep my name?” he asked, incensed by her being intentionally obtuse.

Anger rose like rain evaporating from hot Los Angeles sidewalks under Kate’s bronze skin. She knew that Baker had originally belonged to him. Obviously, she was aware of that and had willingly changed it once they’d entered their union. Kate hadn’t hyphenated or anything like that because she had a zillion relatives to carry on the Duenas name and because she had intended on the sharing of her husband’s name to be a permanent deal. He was jumping her shit and she didn’t like it.

“I’m aware that it was your name first,” Kate amended his problematic statement for him. She could feel his energy jabbing her in the chest in frustration. Would she have been frustrated or endeared if the shoe was on the other foot? That was some food for thought. She thought it was more the latter, when she’d still been seeing her name tattooed on his arm in photos. “But you gave it to me.”

Kate set that down softly and stood her ground, gently and firmly, in a way she hadn’t done before in his presence. She was calmed by the sense of resolution she felt. Before, she’d just wanted to make him happy, and sacrificing her own boundaries and wants and needs to put his first had seemed almost natural. That wasn’t entirely his fault. Kate knew there was a difference between helping and enabling, and during their marriage she’d walked that line well and long.

This was different, though. She could tell him the real reasons she was keeping his name: sentiment. Still being his wife in a certain dark chamber of her heart that she kept hidden away from everyone else, including herself, sometimes. Still being in love. Her tattoos in his honor not really being visible to anybody except for maybe a future lover. That scenario sent an abrupt chill all the way down her spine, which felt strong for the first time in weeks instead of on the brink of cracking.

“Don’t put any words in my mouth. You’ve only spoken to my attorney since the divorce. You don’t know what’s going on with me or how I feel.” Kate wasn’t going to entertain his spearing at her heart. He hadn’t the time to protect it or cherish it, so she was doing that herself. “And I’ll be perfectly clear in that I don’t have to tell you, either. I’ve given you legitimate reasons I haven’t changed it already.”