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❛ ʟᴇᴀᴛʜᴇʀ & ʟᴀᴄᴇ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚   ▎❛ 𝐒𝐈𝐗 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴀ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ ᴇᴍᴇʀɢᴇɴᴄʏ ꒱


❝ YOU KNOW YOUR
MOM'S GOING TO
KILL ME, RIGHT?  ❞

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The event (and day) finally arrived that would bring Juliet back to the U.S.. She supposed her return home was inevitable— that's where the majority of her friends and family lived, after all— but she'd tried to convince herself otherwise. Now, looking back, she really should've seen it coming. But, that's why they always say hindsight is 20/20.

It had all started back in the early 2000s when she had first moved to England. Her father apparently had an early mid-life crisis and had bought a motorcycle on a whim, much to her mother's dismay. Juliet had then been subject to endless complaining about it from Daly but thought nothing of it in general, often forgetting it even existed during the in-between of those conversations. Whenever her mom brought it up, she'd remember Mr. Turner and how safe he'd always been on his bike. And, despite his spur-of-the-moment purchase, her father also exercised the usual precautions that came with driving responsibly.

Barron was just as proud of his bike as her old English teacher was of his. Unlike when she talked to her mother about it, Barron regaled her with the joy rides he'd gone on and even his attempts at learning car mechanics to tinker on it. He never talked on the phone while driving, always wore his helmet, drove carefully in the rain and made sure to slow down on turns. None of his cautious behavior diminished the pure delight he felt when he was out on the open road or maneuvering through Philadelphia traffic.

But, regardless of how vigilant someone was while driving, there were always factors beyond their control. How other drivers behave and respond to the road is the most impactful, especially when a motorcycle offers even less protection than the four metal sides of a car do. Having to stay late into the night to finish up paperwork, thus resulting in fatigue and lack of visibility is another. And, finally, the location.

That was how Juliet found herself on a nonstop flight from England to America early in the morning at the beginning of October. While she normally slept with her phone on silent, she had all of her family listed as emergency contacts so she could hear the phone ring at any time. Normally, this wasn't a problem as they were all conscious of the time difference. So, when her phone started blowing up at four in the morning, she knew something was wrong.

A part of her had debated whether she should go at all. Although the reasoning made her feel shitty, 'critical condition' wasn't 'dead.' Moreover, her father had been absent for the first decade and a half of her life; why should she go to special lengths to be there for him when he hadn't been there for some of her most important milestones? Surely he'd understand her reluctance to return to the country where she'd gotten her heart broken several times (and all by the same person!)

But, the larger part of her rebuked that small, selfish voice that argued to protect herself. This was her father. Although the way his absence had made her feel when she was younger was valid, she had forgiven him. And, more than that, she loved him. He was her family. Now that she knew what it was like to see her parents every day, she missed it. She had no justifiable reason not to be there with her mom and uncles to support them in their hour of need. Besides, this was Philadelphia, not New York. Shawn would be hours away and she didn't need to worry about the possibility of seeing him again; there was no need for him to know she'd been in the States at all. She'd just go for as long as her father was in intensive care, then fly back to England and he'd be none the wiser.

Because of the urgency of the situation, she didn't reach out to Stuart about using his private jet— it might not have even been in England depending on where he went with it last and she didn't want to make him feel bad that he couldn't help out. Plus, Juliet wasn't picky. Whatever got her to Philadelphia the fastest was what mattered. On the flight, she bought Wi-Fi so she could update Miya on the situation since she didn't think her mom or uncles had thought to do so. (Not because they neglected to on purpose, but they had more things to worry about than a granddaughter/niece they only saw once or twice a year.)

JULIET

Honey— I wish I could tell you this in person
or at least call, but texting is my only option
right now. Even more, I wish this was good
news that I needed to tell you so urgently.
I just found out about this myself, but my
dad— your grandfather— is in the hospital
in critical condition. He got into a motorcycle
accident. I'm flying home now to be with my
mom and uncles. I'll ask Stuart to drive you
here, but that might take a while depending
on his work schedule. I'll keep you updated
with what I know.
love you, mom
sent 7:12 a.m.

🌎🌎🌎

Nearly three hours later, Miya stared at her mother's text in disbelief. Since it was Saturday, she took advantage of one of her few days to sleep in and had silenced all of her notifications, especially her usual alarm. After waking up, she'd picked up her phone to check the time only to be greeted by her mom's text. It jarred her awake instantly, sending a tumult of emotions swirling within her. Worry for her grandfather and mom. Excitement at seeing her mom in person sooner than expected. Dread at the thought of waiting long hours until Stuart was able to get her up to Philadelphia. An overarching fear that came with just knowing someone she cared about was in the hospital.

There was more besides, but those were the main feelings she could identify. She lay there for a while, clutching her phone and staring at the message bubble that held those alarming words. When she finally was able to move again, she went to Safari and pressed the little microphone that allowed her to dictate her text (which made it a lot easier to type with her Dyslexia) and looked up how long a flight from London to Philadelphia was. She had, of course, flown from London to New York before, but she didn't exactly keep those numbers in her head all the time. About seven hours.

She tried to do the math in her head, counting from when her mom had sent the text. Depending on when in the flight she'd sent it, she could either be four to seven hours away or almost arrived (though that would have required Juliet to have left at midnight and Miya didn't think that was the case.) On a good day, the drive from New York to Philadelphia was about two hours. And, if she were to account for Stuart's work day (who, yes, worked seven days a week, though some were from home), she'd be there no earlier than eight or nine that night.

Miya decided that she couldn't wait that long. She threw off her Doraemon-themed comforter and dressed quickly, running through her morning routine as fast as possible. Once she felt presentable enough, she rushed out the door and crossed the few paces to where Farkle's room was. She knocked on the door loudly and called his name, knowing that he was a heavy sleeper.

At first, there was only silence. Miya knocked again, harder this time, her heart hammering as if sheer force might wake him. Finally, the doorknob turned, and the door cracked open to reveal Farkle, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes blinking against the bright light of the hallway.

Miya froze, her breath catching for the briefest moment. Despite the situation, she still had the wherewithal to notice how. . . cute he looked. Infuriatingly, impossibly cute in that just-woken-up way— rumpled, soft, entirely unguarded. It made her hesitate, though her chest still felt tight with the pressure of her mom's text.

Farkle blinked at her, registering the tension in her posture, the way she gripped her phone so tightly her knuckles were white. His drowsiness evaporated in an instant. He straightened, voice alert. "Hey. What's wrong?"

Her throat felt dry, but she forced the words out. "It's my mom. She-she texted. My grandfather. . . he's in the hospital. Critical condition. He—" She swallowed hard. "—he was in a motorcycle accident."

Farkle didn't waste a second. "Wait here." His tone was clipped and decisive. He closed the door firmly.

Miya stared at the wood grain, confused, adrenaline buzzing through her. It was barely a minute later when the door reopened and Farkle stepped out again, now fully dressed, hair smoothed down, expression sharp and purposeful. "Ready to go?"

She blinked at him. "Go? Where?"

He gave her a look that was almost exasperated. "To the hospital, of course."

She lowered her eyes back to her phone, thumb hovering over the message again like it might change if she stared long enough. "But my mom said Uncle Stuart would drive me." She held up the phone helplessly.

Farkle tilted his head, reading her the way only he could. "'Nacci, I know you don't want to wait around all day, and you shouldn't have to. If we leave now, you can be there hours before my dad even gets off work."

Her mind supplied the next excuse for why they couldn't go: "but— we can't drive."

That earned her a half-dry, half-amused look, the kind that reminded her just how different his world could be from hers. "You do remember rich people have drivers on call, right?"

The corner of her mouth twitched, though she didn't quite smile. Weak relief began to trickle in now that she was no longer dependent on an adult. "Right."

They headed downstairs together, her steps quick and uneven, his steady beside her. As they waited for the car to be brought around, Miya finally spoke again, her voice soft, almost apologetic: "you don't have to come with me. Really. I'll be fine—"

Farkle cut her off before she could spiral further. "Miya, of course I'm coming with you. Isn't that what a good boyfriend's supposed to do?" He stated this matter-of-factly, his expression calm and reassuring, grounding her. Then, after a beat, he added quietly, "even if we weren't dating, I'd still come. No one should have to go through this alone."

Miya reached for his hand and squeezed it appreciatively, the relief within her growing stronger as he figured out a plan, alleviating her of the uncertainty she'd felt since she'd read her mom's text. She had no idea what to do in this kind of situation. Neither of them had ever experienced something like this, but Farkle was a genius. While emotions weren't his strong suit, he could figure things out in ways she never could (which, apparently, included getting them to the hospital faster.) She had never been more grateful that he was by her side— her best friend— than she was now.

🌎🌎🌎

On the ride, Farkle messaged his dad to let him know what was going on while Miya texted her mother the same thing. After reassuring her mom that she and Farkle were getting there safely, Juliet told her she was proud of her for how she handled the situation. Miya made sure to give Farkle the credit, but her mom insisted she deserved some, too. Then, there was nothing to do but wait as they rushed along highways and wound through traffic. Miya held Farkle's hand the whole time, something she was sure (eventually) made him uncomfortable, but he didn't complain, even squeezing her hand back whenever a renewed wave of worry washed over her.

Several hours later, the car slid to a stop under the drop-off canopy. Farkle got out first and circled around to open Miya's door before she had the chance to fumble with the handle. She stepped out on legs that felt too heavy and too shaky at the same time, retaking his hand in hers, clutching it like a lifeline. Miya felt her chest squeeze at the sight of the towering building, making everything that much more real. They crossed threshold of the automatic sliding doors to step into the cool, sterile brightness of the lobby, filled with the hum of voices and the echo of footsteps.

They had to wait in a short line at the front desk but it didn't take them long to get to the front of it. Miya forced her voice steady. "Um— can you tell me what floor Barron Capelwood is on?"

The receptionist, a woman with neatly coiled braids and a clipboard at the ready, glanced up from her computer. "Relation?"

Miya swallowed. "He's my grandfather."

The woman's face softened as she typed. "ICU, seventh floor. Take the main elevators to your left." But then her eyes flicked to their interlocked hands. "Only family is allowed upstairs, sweetheart." She nodded toward Farkle apologetically. "He'll have to wait down here."

Miya's pulse spiked. The idea of walking into that unit, of facing her family's grief without him, made her want to turn tail and drive back to New York. She clutched his hand harder. "But— he is family," she insisted, desperation leaking into her voice.

Farkle cut her off gently, calm and composed in a way she couldn't be. "It's fine, Miya." He turned to the receptionist, his tone smooth but firm. "I'm Farkle Minkus."

The receptionist froze. Recognition flashed in her eyes, and then widened. "Oh. Oh— of course. Seventh floor, like I said. No restrictions." She waved them through hurriedly, her demeanor shifting in an instant.

Miya's head snapped toward him, utterly bewildered. She opened her mouth to demand an explanation, but Farkle only gave her that smug tilt of his lips as he steered her toward the elevators.

It wasn't until they were inside, the doors sliding closed with a muted ding, that he finally elaborated, sounding more than a little pleased with himself. "My dad funded most of this hospital. He grew up in Philadelphia, you know, and when he made it big, he wanted to give back. Between the new wings, the equipment, the scholarships for medical students—" He shrugged like it was nothing."—let's just say it'd be a pretty bad look for them to tell his son he couldn't be here with his girlfriend and her family."

He was always so humble that Miya often forgot how much influence his family actually had. Farkle could choose to be an obnoxious jerk like most rich kids, but instead he was the lost loyal, kind person he could be. It made the small moments when he did let the 'rich kid entitlement' shine through more endearing than annoying, rather than if he was that way all the time. Miya shook her head, still amazed, but relief chased away the panic that had threatened to overwhelm her. After they stepped inside the elevator and the doors closed so that it could smoothly slide up to their designated level, she leaned into his side, taking comfort in his presence.

The doors opened to the ICU waiting room, a hushed space except for the quiet rustle of magazines being turned and an occupant's occasional cough. There was a TV in one corner that played a muted reality show with the subtitles turned on. Miya's eyes scanned the rows of chairs, her heart leaping when she spotted familiar faces gathered together in a cluster near the windows.

Her grandmother, Daly, sat nearest, her red hair— still striking, even as the years passed— falling loose around her face, a mirror of what her mom might've looked like had she not dyed her hair black. She was dabbing her eyes with a tissue, trying to appear composed, though her trembling hands betrayed her. Beside her sat (Great) Uncle Greg, posture stiff and arms crossed as if nothing— not even the emotional world of the hospital— could touch him. His expression was as unreadable as always, cool and detached, as if he didn't care whether his brother lived or died. Some ways down sat Sam, his arm slung protectively around Taylor's shoulders. Taylor leaned in close, rubbing soothing circles on Sam's back. Their quiet presence together radiated warmth, the kind Miya had always admired.

Her throat tightened at the sight of them and before she knew it, her feet were moving, carrying her across the room. "Grandma!" Her voice cracked on the word as she rushed forward, nearly stumbling as she wrapped Daly in a fierce hug. Daly clung to her, tears spilling fresh, murmuring, "oh, sweetheart, you're here— you're here."

Miya pulled back just enough to look at her before moving quickly to Sam (her favorite uncle) and Taylor. She hugged Sam first, burying her face against his shoulder, then Taylor, who gave her an extra squeeze. They both whispered soft encouragements—"it's good to see you," and "we're glad you're here."

When she turned toward Greg, her steps faltered. His cool gaze met hers, unreadable as ever. A part of her wondered if he resented her for not sharing his blood— maybe not necessarily on a racist level (as he hated everyone equally), but the fact that they weren't biologically related. She suspected that he believed she didn't deserve to share his last name, and the distinct sense dislike she got from him always made her wary. She stayed a few feet away from him and offered a polite nod instead, and he gave her the barest incline of his head in return.

Behind her, Farkle lingered near the doorway, hands in his pockets, never comfortable in group settings with people he didn't know very well. He knew them, of course; he and his father had joined the Capelwoods for Christmas more often than not. But it wasn't like this was his family or that he had had more than a handful of conversations with them over the years. And, even worse, was the fact that he had to be around them in such an emotional space. Daly glanced over at him, her expression softening with recognition and appreciation as she waved a hand, inviting him to come closer. He hesitated but shuffled nearer, more for Miya's sake than anything else. He did feel better when Sam smiled as warmly at him as he could manage and Taylor gestured to the two empty seats next to him.

Daly reached for Miya's hand, gripping it tightly. "He's still in surgery, darling. They've been at it for hours now." Her voice wavered. "But this is where they'll bring him when it's over. He'll stay here until they can transfer him to a private room."

The words sank heavy in her mind. "Surgery," she repeated, almost to herself, as though testing out the word. "I know it's critical condition, but. . . how bad is it?"

Daly's eyes glistened. "It's bad. But the doctors are doing everything they can." Her lips trembled into a fragile smile. "Your grandfather's a fighter. If anyone can pull through this, it's him."

Miya took the empty seat next to her grandmother while Farkle sat down on her other side with Taylor on his left. No one talked much, all lost in their own thoughts and the emotional weight that hung heavy around them. Miya checked her phone constantly— despite having turned on the ringer— for any updates her mother might've sent, but nothing. She supposed her mom was busy with baggage claim and getting a taxi by now, so her silence was understandable.

It was only when, nearly an hour and a half later, the doors to the waiting room finally slid open again, that Miya was able to put her phone away. Her heart skipped when she saw her mom step inside, suitcase in tow. Juliet looked travel-worn but steady, her dark hair pulled back neatly and her coat was draped over one arm.

"Mom!" Miya shot to her feet before she could think, practically launching herself across the room. She collided with Juliet in a hug that knocked the breath out of both of them. Juliet dropped her suitcase and wrapped her arms around her daughter tightly, holding her as if she hadn't in years.

"Oh, sweetheart," Juliet murmured into her hair, kissing the top of her head. "It's so good to see you." She pulled back enough to cup Miya's face between her hands, her gaze searching. "How are you holding up? I know this is a lot. . . hospitals are overwhelming, even for grown-ups, let alone teenagers."

Miya swallowed, trying to muster reassurance. "I'm fine. Really." She meant it, mostly. She wasn't especially close to her grandfather, not like her mom or grandma was, but that didn't mean she didn't want him to be okay. The idea of losing him still knotted her stomach.

Her eyes lingered on Juliet's face, and what struck her most wasn't weariness from the flight but how dry her eyes were. No redness, no tears, no crack in her voice. "Are you okay?" Miya inquired cautiously.

Juliet's smile was swift and practiced. "Of course I am. Don't worry about me." Before Miya could press, Juliet turned to the others, moving gracefully from one relative to the next. She hugged Daly, shook Greg's hand, kissed Sam on the cheek and clasped Taylor warmly, thanking them all for being there and apologizing that she couldn't join them sooner. Within moments, she had slipped seamlessly into the role of supportive daughter and dependable niece.

Miya returned to her seat, disconcerted. She tried to believe her mom's words but the longer the hours stretched, the more she noticed. Juliet didn't sit still. She was always checking on Daly, gently pressing a water bottle into her hands. She asked the nurses for updates, translated medical jargon into simpler terms for everyone else, tracked down fresh coffee for Sam and Taylor, and even offered Greg a sandwich he flatly declined. Every detail, every small need, Juliet anticipated and filled without faltering.

On the surface, she looked unshakable, moving with purpose and poise. Miya found herself thinking of Greg, the way he sat with arms crossed and face unreadable, as though nothing touched him. Her mom wasn't cold like that, but she was. . . controlled. Controlled to the point that it was almost unsettling.

And Miya knew that tendency well. Her mom didn't like change, and being in a hospital, flying seven hours from London to Philadelphia, everything being out of her control. . . The only way she could keep herself together was to focus on everyone else but herself. She kept the storm inside because letting it out felt impossible when everyone else needed her to be strong. The suspicion grew heavy within her. Her mom wasn't fine. She was just burying it, locking it away so she could carry everyone else's weight. 

She nudged Farkle, keeping her voice low so Juliet wouldn't hear. "Do you see what I'm seeing? With my mom, I mean."

Farkle tilted his head, his eyes following the older woman as she checked in on her family members. "That she's. . . making the rounds? Being efficient?" His brows drew together. "You'll have to be more specific. You know I'm not great at. . . uh, this sort of thing."

Miya sighed, leaning closer. "She's not okay. She's pretending to be fine because she's busy taking care of everyone else. Look— Sam has Taylor. Grandma has her. I have you and Greg. . . well, he doesn't need anyone."

Farkle snorted quietly.

"But Mom?" Miya continued, her tone softening. "She doesn't have anyone here. And if we'd waited for Uncle Stuart like she told me to, she would've had him. But I was impatient and—" She looked down at their hands clasped together. "—I made us leave right away. I should've thought about her and not been so selfish."

Her insides twisted with guilt.

Farkle sat up straighter, his expression suddenly sharp. "Miya, no. That's not selfish. You were thinking about your family. You wanted to be here for them, and you should be here. That doesn't mean you took anything away from your mom." His thumb brushed lightly against her knuckles. "Don't beat yourself up for wanting to see your grandfather."

The knot in her chest loosened, just a bit. She managed a small, grateful smile.

"Besides," Farkle added, ever practical, "it's not like my dad can't come. I can still call him. It might take a while for him to get here, but he would come. Or—" he brightened—"we could call Mr. and Mrs. Matthews. They're her best friends. Having them here might help."

Miya regretfully shook her head at his second suggestion. "The Matthews went away for the weekend. Adirondacks, remember?"

Farkle winced. "Right. Forgot."

"Maybe. . ." Miya chewed her lip. "Maybe I should just talk to her."

She stood and crossed the room, approaching Juliet as she returned from another conversation with a nurse. "Mom?"

Juliet looked at her with that practiced calm. "Yes, sweetheart?"

Miya hesitated, then pressed forward. "I noticed something." She reiterated the pairings she just mentioned, ending with, "but you. . ." She bit her lip, then continued, "you don't. And that's not fair. Maybe Farkle could call his dad? So you'd have someone, too."

Juliet blinked at her, surprised. Then her expression softened, touched. "That's very thoughtful of you, Miya. But no, darling. Stuart's a busy man and we don't know how long we'll be here. It wouldn't be fair to pull him away for something so uncertain."

Miya frowned, then suggested (knowing full well that it was impossible), "then what about Cory and Topanga?"

"No." Juliet chided her sternly, "you and I both know they're on vacation. That would be even more of an inconvenience than having Stuart come here. I won't let you bother them with this."

If she were being honest, Miya hadn't even considered the person her mom warned her about next.

"And I forbid you from calling Shawn," Juliet added, her voice sharp now. "I know I've been a pretty lax, cool parent in the past— if I may say so myself— but this time I mean it. I will seriously ground you if you call him."

Miya jerked, caught off guard at the name, most of her shock being that her mom willingly mentioned him. Juliet smoothed her daughter's hair back once, softer again, before turning to rejoin Daly. Miya stood rooted in place for a moment, frustrated, before trudging back to her seat beside Farkle. She slumped into it, crossing her arms.

"She shot me down on every idea," Miya muttered, defeated. "Even the ones I didn't think of! She forbade me from calling Shawn. She's never forbidden me from anything! Even that day I skipped school she wasn't all that upset, but I know she meant it this time."

Farkle tilted his head toward her, lips twitching into a sympathetic grin. "I'm sorry. You tried, though. That's the best you can do."

The brunette fell into a moody silence, her concern for her mom growing. Now that her mom had specifically forbidden her from calling Shawn, that was all she could think about. Memories began to filter in, stories about him that Cory had told her to try and get her to like his best friend. She'd heard tale after tale of their hijinks, the way the three of them had braved high school, how good her mom and Shawn had been together (Cory's words, not hers.) But, the story that stuck out to her the most was the one about when Cory's younger brother, Josh, had been born too early.

Cory had told her about how worried he'd been for his brother, so small and weak— he'd had to be placed in the ICU, too. Shawn had been on a road trip when the news had broken, but Topanga had been there. Cory had pleaded with his then-girlfriend to just be present with him, to sit with him and try to stay positive. Topanga had refused, facing the harsh reality unflinchingly— something he hadn't wanted to do at the time. Just when he'd thought nothing could make the situation better, Shawn had arrived. He'd driven who knew how many hours just to be there with him. They'd laughed and joked about how they'd treat the kid, never thinking what if he didn't make it. It was exactly what he'd needed and, in the end, Josh had pulled through.

Cory had impressed upon her Shawn's power to apparently 'fix everything.' He'd insisted that his best friend wasn't a bad guy, just someone who hadn't always made the best decisions. Miya had snapped that those decisions had broken her mom's heart and made every effort to forget any good qualities Shawn may or may not have. But now. . . the more she thought about it, the more she realized that it— he— was the perfect solution. She knew he wasn't really 'all powerful' like Cory had tried to make her believe, but (as much as she hated to admit it) he was the only person who would do anything to make her mom happy— or, at least, try to comfort her.

"Shawn," Miya murmured, turning to Farkle. "I know my mom told me not to call him, but he is the best person to help right now."

Her boyfriend didn't look surprised, more amused than anything else. "You've been thinking about him more, haven't you?"

"Yeah," she admitted. "How'd you know?"

"It's the forbidden fruit effect," he explained. "It's when something becomes more attractive precisely because it was restricted."

She always admired how much he knew, no matter how obscure the topic was. But, even though he'd apparently expected this, it didn't change the fact— "but she forbade me. I can't go against that! And I know how. . . distressed seeing Shawn makes her. That would just add more strain to what she's feeling now. . ."

"Well, lucky for you, my talent at predicting plots isn't just limited to movies," Farkle announced proudly. "I did, in fact, anticipate this, and I've been thinking of a solution."

Miya perked up at that, her eyes brightening hopefully. "You were? Do you have one?"

"You're mom's exact words were 'I forbid you from calling Shawn,' right?" At Miya's nod, he continued, "the operative word in that sentence is you, meaning Miya. She didn't forbid anyone else from calling Shawn— i.e., me."

The Asian girl gasped at that and she lurched forward, flinging her arms around him, squealing, "Farkle, you're a genius!"

Although he could feel himself flush from her affectionate gesture, he simply chuckled and patted her arm fondly. "I knew you were going to say that."

🌎🌎🌎

Miya and Farkle excused themselves under the guise of going for a walk to stretch their legs. They went down a floor and found a quiet spot where they could make the call. It was only then that Miya saw the flaw in her plan.

"I don't have Shawn's number," she realized aloud.

"Just ask Riley for it," Farkle suggested, unbothered.

She was a bit apprehensive about reaching out to her friend, knowing that Riley would blow this way out of proportion. But what other choice did she have?

MIYA

Riley, can I have Shawn's number?
sent 7:23 p.m.

RILEY 🐣

[ attachment 1 contact ]
r u fnally on team Sahawn?!?!?!?!@?!
sent 7:24 p.m.

Looking over her shoulder, Farkle shook his head in apparent despair. "She really has atrocious texting skills."

"This, coming from they guy who mostly responds with a thumbs-up," Miya deadpanned as she opened the contact Riley had sent her. She handed her phone to Farkle. Truthfully, Riley's fast reply hadn't shocked her in the slightest despite the Matthews being in a place with patchy Wi-Fi at best— Riley somehow had the power to make things happen if she wanted it badly enough.

"At least I can't misspell an emoji. And besides, it's more efficient," he countered, selecting the number to call. He returned the phone to her. As he'd pointed out on their short walk, Juliet had only forbidden Miya from calling Shawn, not talking to him. So, as long as Farkle made the call, Miya could do all the talking— something he was grateful for since he'd only had one conversation with the man (almost) everyone was a fan of where he'd questioned Farkle on whether he was a real boy or not. That didn't exactly engender a desire to talk to him ever again.

Miya put the call on speaker phone so Farkle could hear what was going on. A part of her wondered if Shawn would even answer an unknown number but was surprised when he picked up on the first ring. "'Hey, kid. Everything okay?'"

The brunette stared at the screen for a second, utterly stunned by how he'd known it was her. Eventually, she managed to wonder, "how'd you know it was me?"

He sounded sheepish when he replied, "'uh, Riley gave it to me. In case there was an emergency.'" He paused. "'Is that what this is? It must be, if you're calling me.'"

Miya chalked up her her response to her lingering astonishment that he had her number, and thus wasn't able to think about how she phrased her words. "Um, yeah. My mom's in the hospital."

There was the screech of tires, followed by the angry blare of a car horn. "'WHAT?'"

Her eyes widened as she realized how that must've sounded. "No, no— my mom's fine!" she hastily reassured him (though if she were being honest, she was glad she'd said it like that— it helped her see exactly how much he cared about her mom, even if she still didn't fully believe him.) "It's my grandad. He's the one in the hospital and my mom's here to be with her family."

She heard Shawn's exhale through the speaker, a crackle of static passing through the microphone. "'Jeez, kid. Lead with that next time before I get into an accident. Or have a heart attack.'"

"Sorry," she apologized a bit guiltily. "But you shouldn't be driving and talking on the phone anyway."

"'If I see your name then I know it's an emergency, remember?'" he stated. "Anyway, why are you calling me about this? I'm sorry for your folks and all, but I don't know what I could do. . .'"

Miya reiterated her point about her family's pairings and how her mom was keeping everything bottled up inside. "She needs someone," the brunette finished. "And, although you're the last person I'd choose, you are literally the only choice."

"'Wow, kid. What a way to convince me to go see a woman who wants nothing to do with me,'" Shawn remarked dryly.

"Uncle Cory's told me all the stories about how great you are," she replied quietly. "He told me about how you drove across the country to be there for him when his baby brother was born too early and how you fixed everything. That's what my mom needs right now."

She heard him sigh again, but this time it was more regretful than out of relief. "'Look, kid, you know I'd do anything for your mom, and that's exactly what I'm trying to do. The last time she saw me, she told me she never wanted to see me again. I'm sure she told you that. I figured it's about time I start respecting what she wants.'"

"Well, you chose a really shitty time to start listening to her," Miya complained. Farkle looked a bit startled by her unusually harsh language— she wasn't normally one to curse at all. "What about that 'reckless spontaneity' Uncle Cory reminded you of? How you always live in the moment without regard for the consequences? What happened to that, Shawn?"

"'Well, first of all, I'm actually away on an assignment for work. And second of all, a guy can only get shot down so many times before—'"

"It was a motorcycle accident," the Asian girl blurted out, cutting him off. She also knew the story about how the ex-English-teacher-turned-Superintendent Mr. Turner wound up in the hospital during one of the (many) difficult times of Shawn's life. She hadn't wanted to use it as leverage, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

There was a pause, then, "'shit.'" He groaned. "'You know your mom's going to kill me, right?'"

"Well, at least then I'd never have to see you again," Miya answered indifferently.

"'Nice. Real nice, kid. Okay, okay, fine,'" he grumbled. "'Send me the address. It's gonna take me awhile to get there. I'm in Maine right now, you know.'"

She hadn't known and didn't really care. "See you soon." When she hung up the phone, she looked over at Farkle. Although he'd heard everything, she still announced, "well, he's coming."

Her boyfriend grimaced. "I just hope your mom doesn't kill us when she finds out."

A/n: PSA that I've (thankfully) never had family that went through something like this so I had to do some research to make it (somewhat) realistic. If there are any inaccuracies/exaggerations, well. . . it's fanfiction 🤷‍♀️

I have a good news sandwich for you guys. Good news: whenever I write og content, I always have a lot more to say than I originally plan, so this chapter is double the length I expected. The bad news: most of the Shawn/Juliet stuff I promised is in the second half. Good news again: I decided to split it up since it was so long, so that means next week's chapter is already written and an update is guaranteed!