The next afternoon: Seven/Marta
He's opted for the park where they used to take Sawyer, when she was still way too little for the playground but they just needed somewhere to go that wasn't the house. He's texted her, and he's asked Rafe to drop him off, instead of Tommy. For the sake of not getting killed, or at the very least not punched in the face - he doesn't need more reason for his head to throb between the temples after the gin stars working itself out of his body through his pores. Rafe gives him plenty of side-eye in the rear view mirror, but he's far too respectful of authority to commit actual murder.
Seven shows up at three, because he'd suggested the time in the first place, but he doesn't text her until quarter to four:
Bench by the pond. And he's been there, stretched out with his legs crossed at the ankle where his heels rest against the grass at an angle, for the better part of an hour. Sunglasses and jacketless in the relative warmth of the spring air, scrolling through his phone while he's leaned in a way that keeps the glare off his screen. Looking up every so often, towards the parking lot, and occasionally lighting a smoke. His hair is pulled back into a knot at the back of his head and he rubs at the back of his neck every now and then, pressing his thumb against the base of his skull where it feels tight with the weight of his hangover.