WHO: Temperance Llancaster and Wes Atwood WHEN: Day one; afternoon. WHERE: Castaway Bar. SUMMARY: Temperance is avoiding people with feels. Wes is avoiding people in general. It's fate that they'd meet. WARNINGS: Light language. Mention of The Boatman. Temperance is reasonably nice to someone. Feels.
When Wes initially got the letter about the fountain dedication, everything inside of him had seized. Since the loss of some of his best friends, he’d felt adrift. Purposeless. His identity had been firmly rooted in the friendships that he had cultivated. The only ones that had lasted move after move, house after house, family after family.
Some part of him wondered if things would have been different if he’d been upfront with them. If he’d explained that he wanted what they had to offer. That he’d have been a perfect kid, happy to clean and do homework. Happy to share a room with someone. Happy to do chores that others balked at. If he had let Jude ask, his life would have been different. If he’d been honest with Jeremiah, things never would have happened the way that they did.
Instead, three years after their deaths, he was sitting in the dark at the end of his bed that rested parallel to Leila’s. Jude’s girlfriend. Jer’s kid sister. It hurt to be in such close proximity, but he couldn’t tell her no. Wouldn’t.
After a while, moving through the motions, the closeness, the quiet—it took its toll. He excused himself with a hushed whisper of apology and left the room, disappearing down the hallway. As he walked, he imagined being a few steps behind his friends and listening to them joke about some inane prank they’d pulled on another frat brother. There were times he could hear them laugh distinctly.
He climbed into the elevator and closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool metal. The panic in his chest was slowing. He took several steadying, deep breaths before he pushed the button for the lobby. He’d find his way through the hotel starting there.
As he felt the elevator slowly dropping floor by floor, he unzipped the top of his bag. He’d worked his way up through the ranks in Boston, going from server to manager, and did quite well for himself as a bartender. There was something peaceful about bartending. He gave advice and listened to stories. No one ever asked him for his.
The doors slowly opened and he stepped out onto the tile, taking in the incredible beauty of the hotel now that he was alone. He wondered if the others had appreciated it, too.
Wes followed the signs to reach Castaway Bar and started to shuffle through his bag again as he drew closer. He managed to pull out a stack of resumes and a gel pen before he solidly ran right into someone else.
“Oh shit,” he swore, shoving the papers haphazardly back into his bag before he reached a hand out to steady his victim. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”
Temperance didn't hate her family. Sometimes it was difficult to understand that, based on her tendency to avoid the Llancasters like the plague, but she didn't hate them. They were just a group of people who preferred making excuses and avoiding the truth to facing reality. That wasn't how Temperance chose to live her life. If they couldn't face anything head on, that was on them. Temperance didn't have to stick around and watch. It wasn't an adult decision either, one firmly established after she reached the legal voting age. It went all the way back to the house. The haunting. The way that horrible series of events came to define them all in very stark, very different ways. Temperance wanted to face it all. If there were monsters, she was going to stare them down. They only had power if she hid beneath her covers. She was more or less alone in that stance, and it seemed to stay that way in the years that followed. The Llancasters were a family too terrified of the truth to recognize the damage denying it did. But was it Temperance's job to point out how repression wasn't working for anybody? Was that really something she needed to say?
She didn't hate her family. It probably seemed like she did, but if she hated them, nothing her mother said could've persuaded her to participate in this trip. If Temperance hated her family, hated her mother, felt nothing for these people but disdain, there was no way she could've been guilted onto this island. She was there, wasn't she? That said it all. But being there didn't mean she was willing to sit in a room full of people nibbling on hors d'oeuvres while digging up a tragedy buried three years deep. That was what her mother would've done if she had been able to attend, but Temperance wasn't her mother. She couldn't talk to the surviving family members of kids stolen from this world too soon and pretend like her sister's death had shattered her entire existence. Temperance didn't hate her family. She didn't hate Hope. She never wished for her to die. But she was dead. She went on a luxury vacation because her poor life choices had left her feeling sad, and she died on that vacation, leaving behind a child without a mother, and a family one daughter down. Hope's death was tragic. But Temperance wasn't here to weep into a tumbler of whiskey over her.
Finding the bar was more of a happy accident spurred by a desire to avoid the cheese platters and organized grief in the Crystal Ballroom, but Temperance saw the signs and made the decision to follow them. She had no plans to weep, but the whiskey sounded good. She didn't see the collision coming, but then, if she had, it went without saying she would've sidestepped while every other Llancaster would've willfully dropped their gaze until the moment of impact.
"I'm fine," she was quick to say, righting herself so the hand he was offering wasn't necessary for more than a second. One look up at him and Temperance knew he was on the guest list for the same Meet and Greet she was avoiding. Whether he made an appearance or not didn't matter. He was a defector in that moment, which made him the best company she'd met thus far. "Were you heading in? Kind of looks like you could use a drink."
“Are you sure?” he asked, concern muddled with guilt as he looked her over, making sure she wasn’t terribly injured. But she looked fine. No worse for the wear.
At her question, he glanced back up, arching his eyebrows. A slow smile smoothed over his lips as he nodded. “I just wanted to see if the manager of the bar was around.” He looked past the woman in front of him and toward the decorations behind her. The cool tones of the room were soothing. Given the price of the hotel, he assumed that the inventory was premium stock. He could do so much with that.
“Let me buy you another drink since I so rudely knocked you over.”
If asked, Temperance wouldn't have been able to cite exactly why the question struck her. The sincerity of his face maybe, or the woeful honesty in his eyes. The reason didn't matter much. She looked at him with hints of curiosity edging into her expression, and as quickly as those hints appeared, they eased back towards neutrality. "I'm tougher than I look," she said. Though she never quite smiled, the suggestion was there. More often than not, her expressions arrived in that form. Blink and you'd miss them, implied for the sake of those paying close enough attention.
"Lodging a complaint with management already? I'm intrigued." As his gaze shifted, Temperance allowed herself to do the same. It was a nice bar. As they got closer to more socially acceptable drinking hours, she wasn't sure it would retain its favor, but for now, it was a nice bar. Quiet.
She looked back up at him once he offered to apologize for his clumsiness with alcohol. "I'll only say no if I'm drinking alone." This was probably when one of the other island guests would ask him who he'd lost. Offer a toast to their fallen loved ones. Temperance just thought he looked like he could use the escape.
It wouldn’t surprise him if she was. Tougher. He assumed she was tougher than most. There was something about grief and loss that did that to a person. It forged them in fire and turned them to steel. Given that the woman in front of him didn’t seem to be dressed in typical vacation attire, he assumed that she was part of the same group as he.
At her question, he laughed and shook his head. “Quite the opposite, actually. I’m going to see if they need any temporary assistance with the bar.” While they edged closer to the counter, he glanced around. He doubted the bartender doubled as the manager. He’d chat for a moment before tracking them down.
“What were you drinking?” he asked, nodding his head toward the bartender as he grabbed a stool and reached for a menu. He wasn’t wrong. Premium stuff. “I’m a lightweight, though,” he admitted with a wry smile. “I don’t think you want to peel me off the floor, so I’m going to stick with water, if you don’t mind.”
That surprised her. None of them had been on the island long, but it was still easy to accept that someone could already have reasons to gripe. It was human nature to lash out when emotional, and considering the very nature of this trip encouraged emotions to run high, it wasn’t a stretch to believe complaints were already in order. Maybe his drinks weren’t strong enough or his room didn’t have soft enough pillows. Temperance could’ve made a drinking game out of thinking up the trip’s earliest criticisms. One she might not have listed? A dearth of employment opportunities for guests.
She arched an eyebrow before giving a slow nod. “I’ve never heard that one before,” she said. “Most people try snorkeling on vacation, not island bartending.” If his sad eyes hadn’t already told her they were there for the same basic reason, his clear need to stay busy would’ve done the trick.
But that wasn’t really Temperance’s business. “Whiskey neat. I’ll let you off the hook if you stick around. I’m avoiding people. You’ll throw them off the scent.”
For one brief moment, Wes’ smile dropped. He glanced up and then down toward the counter again, putting the menu back before he refocused on the woman next to him. “I wouldn’t exactly call this a vacation,” he said, catching her gaze as he offered a polite, albeit pained, smile.
The bartender wandered over and he requested Blanton’s, neat. He eyed the utensils, checked the glasses for smudges, everything was absolutely pristine. It was unlikely that they ever ran out of garnishes or tequila. “I can stay for a while,” he said now. “We should probably do a proper introduction.” He offered his hand again. “I’m Wes. It’s nice to meet you.”
Temperance hadn’t intended for that reaction. As blunt as she could be, as jarring, it was usually intentional. But then, she wasn’t usually surrounded by damaged people. People nursing wounds that refused to heal. Bumping into her accidentally wasn’t reason enough for Temperance to be cruel. As his pained smile spread, an apologetic one of her own crossed her lips. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to call it.” The answer was honest. ‘Vacation’ wasn’t appropriate, even to her. Even considering her feelings about Hope, about this whole situation, she couldn’t quite forget why they were all there. Not long enough for this to truly be a relaxing island getaway.
She nodded as they moved on from the stumble. In truth, she really was glad when he agreed to stay. They both needed some unfamiliar company apparently.
“Temperance.” She took his hand, the shake firm. She didn’t even think about it, she was so used to making that first impression a strong one. “Okay Wes. We’re acquainted. So now I get to ask the deep, probing questions.” The bartender arrived with her drink. She asked for the water Wes forgot to order for himself, and then turned back to her companion, letting her previous statement linger in the air a moment longer as she paused for a sip.
“What did you think about the boatman?”
What a name. He arched his eyebrows in mild surprise, but said nothing. Everyone came from somewhere. He wondered briefly if it was a reminder for self-restraint or a commentary about her life. As she ordered his water, he flashed her another smile, turning and nodding in appreciation. Her question, however, made him laugh.
“We’ve had many meaningful and thorough conversations,” he offered. “In fact, just before I left, we swapped phone numbers. We’re text buddies now. He’s a big fan of emojis.”
Temperance tilted her head towards Wes as he replied, an eyebrow arched with this surprising revelation. “And I thought I’d accomplished some uncommon feat when I scored his number.” She sighed and paused to down a moment’s sorrow in her drink.
“He isn’t getting fresh with his emoji choices, is he? You never know when you look at a person.” For all she knew, the reason Wes had been distracted enough to bump into her earlier could’ve been an aggressive number of eggplant emojis blowing up his phone. And as his new acquaintance, well, how could she just let that stand?
“It’s very possible that his general demeanor is an act put on by the hotel to raise intrigue. It’s also possible that you and I somehow fit the criteria for becoming his new best friends.”
He shrugged and took a sip of water, turning again to catch her eye line. “Though I probably shouldn’t share his correspondence with me. It would be a betrayal of his trust, I’m sure.” As the bartender moved in their direction, Wes ordered another drink for Temperance. “What did you think of the lunch [...] thing?”
“I’m not sure they should really be angling for more intrigue,” she commented. Her tone remained perfectly neutral, though that same statement would’ve probably been loaded coming from a different hotel guest. Temperance didn’t give that another moment’s thought. “I think that’s far more likely. We’re excellent candidates.”
Temperance smiled softly at the notion of Wes protecting the confidential details of his new nautical friendship, but the expression shifted towards curiosity when he ordered her another drink. As though he had offered an invitation, she finished what remained in the glass before nudging the empty vessel towards the edge of the bar. He had offered to stay a while, but it seemed to maybe be a bit longer in reality than she’d anticipated. She wasn’t complaining.
“Can you keep a secret?” she asked, resting her elbow on the bar, cupping her chin in her palm. “I’m a delinquent. Didn’t attend the lunch, or mixer, or whatever they were calling it. I might get voted off the island for my truancy.”
It was true. The circumstances under which their friends and family had died were questionable. How did the island not know there was a storm that size? How did the guide fail to protect thirty people? It was a sobering thought, but he internalized it. Instead, he nodded at her words. There was likely something about each of them that could attract The Boatman, if the need should arise.
At her confession, Wes couldn’t help the laugh that tumbled out, soft, pained. “I think the meet and greet was in poor taste,” he said, after a moment’s reflection, over the rim of his glass. “I’m hiding from someone, though.” It was his turn to confess. “Everyone wants to know how you are after something catastrophic happens.” He paused in thought before taking another sip. “How do you put the answer into words?”
The truth was a feeling so deep and sharp, frigid and molten, hidden and painted in bold letters. After three years, Wes felt raw and numb at the same time. He forced another laugh, too loud, too thin. “Have you seen the pool yet?”
Temperance was always blunt. Sometimes that landed her in situations like this, where the person she was talking to started falling down a rabbit hole because she’d pushed a little too far past the boundaries of situational sensitivity. The bartender arrived with her second glass but Temperance was angled to face Wes, and she reached for the whiskey without looking away. She was listening to him, of course, but mostly she was watching. If she wasn’t so well trained at playing things close to the vest, she would’ve frowned. She hadn’t meant to tip him towards an emotional spiral.
“It helps to tell them it’s none of their business,” Temperance replied. “Doesn’t help with the catastrophe, but it helps with the space. If you need it, people should respect that. And if they don’t, well. Make them give it to you.” She hated this trip because it made it seem like grief and healing were shaped by the same cookie cutter no matter the person. That was never the case.
His laughter was a concern. Manic and too exaggerated to be believable. “The people I’m avoiding wouldn’t think to look for me by the pool.” Temperance didn’t think any of them would actively look for her anyway. “Would your people?”
The words she spoke made sense, but wouldn’t work on the persistence of people like Mrs. Kingman-Clermont, who saw right through him. His family had tried. His friends had tried. That question, over and over, how are you? or how are you doing? or how are you holding up? And he felt obligated to lie because he didn’t know how to speak the truth. It had been a long time since he’d looked into the eyes of people that knew how to force him to let go. Those people were gone forever. His grief would scratch and tear until there was nothing left of him.
“Hopefully your people are with my people,” Wes replied. “I left most of them in the ballroom. I doubt any of us are actually here to take advantage of the facilities.” If they did, more power to them. They were living in a way that he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
“I don’t doubt some of them are.” Temperance wasn’t going to be included in any Llancaster group text messages discussing their family itineraries on the island, but she had a feeling the hotel’s organized activities would be a draw for them. Why not? Who wouldn’t want to sit in a room with the friends and family members of the twenty-nine other dead kids? Surely these were the people to engage with, to relate to, to grieve alongside. How could that logic fail?
“If you need somewhere else to escape, it sounds like the pool might be a good bet.” The hotel amenities were probably an afterthought to her family members, if they were considered at all. It wouldn’t surprise her if Wes was right, and few people there planned on enjoying something as simple as a hotel swimming pool. “Change of scene, at the very least.”
“Well,” Wes said after a lingering moment of silence in the wake of her suggestion as the tide of thoughts crashed against his temples, roaring in his ears. “Yes, it’s a change of scene, I agree.” His expression softened as his smile brightening, a visible shifting taking place as he grabbed the hurt and tucked it deeper, another layer to get through, this time, before escape.
He reached for his bag, pulling a piece of paper from its depths. His resume. He slid it across the bar toward the man behind the counter. “If you wouldn’t mind seeing that this makes it to your manager, please?”
The bartender smiled and nodded, but said nothing, as he took the resume and put it in a safe place.
Then, taking a cocktail napkin and a pen, Wes meticulously wrote down his name and his number. “If you ever need anything, Temperance, this is my number.” He paid for both drinks, tipping well, and nodded his head in gratitude as the bartender looked his way. “I can’t promise my texts are as engaging as The Boatman’s, but I can promise a genuine lack of eggplant emojis.”
Temperance watched with curiosity as he passed his resume to the bartender, but it was the cocktail napkin that really amused her. She’d been handed her fair share of numbers on napkins before, but never like this. It made her smile. For a number exchange in a bar, there were a surprising lack of implications involved. But then, that wasn’t the point of this interaction. Not even close.
With a nod, she reached for another napkin, swiping the pen from him so she could finish off the exchange. Upon consideration, she added her room number as well. In case working at the bar or texting a stranger didn’t quite curb his urge for distractions.
Temperance tipped her glass in his direction before polishing off its contents. “If you need an outlet, don’t hesitate. Us avoidant types need to stick together.” With a final smile, Temperance moved off of the bar stool.