She almost skips out on going, but... it's a Friday night. Everyone will be there. Plus, how better to deal with big heavy emotions than with a double-order of zucchini fritters? Gus gets it — the first basket is laden heavily. God. Gossip spreads fast in this town.

The farmer makes her way over to a dark corner right near some heavy-scented something or the other. The plants, the poutpouri, something from the kitchen... who knows. It was her old haunt, before she knew she was welcome at the side of the bar or over near the pool table...

She crunches her way through the basket in record time, burning her tongue in the process; it's not so much that she can't hear for the blood rushing through her ears — but her mind is so hazy. It's like a rattling guitar chord. She can't shake it. Every peal of thunder or flash of lightening through the woven curtains makes her quake.

It's seemed she's escaped notice for now, no pitying glances or worried stares. Pierre is soaking up most of the attention at the front of the bar anyway. She's happy to let him, and just take this second basket with Emily's gentle "Gus saw you were done."

"Thanks, Em. I eat my feelings," the farmer replies. For the usual over-explainer, this blunt little comment was like she hadn't said anything at all. Emily just gives her a soft sigh and a gentle shoulder-squeeze and then leaves her to the wolves of her mind.

At least, for a few moments. The door swings wide open and a crowd is tracking wet bootprints over the worn wooden floor. Friday night. Everyone will be there.

"Heya," Sam is sliding into her booth now, across from her, and those round green eyes are staring at her like she was the one who was hospitalized. Abigail to his right, Sebastian to her left, and the table is fuller than usual. "Abi told us what went down today — are you good?"

She glances over to the purple-haired girl, who practically reads her mind: "I was in my room the whole time, so I kinda just heard yelling. My mom clued me in."

..

"I don't even know what you see in a guy like that anyway." Sebastian finally lets it out with a clunk, beer bottle against the table. The farmer's vision starts to go blurry — anger as sudden as a coming migraine? Tiredness? Tears? She's not sure yet.

"So he relapses and loses it on Pierre," he dares to continue and now she knows she's seeing red: "Really, nice of him to do that to the only dude giving him any sort of job."

"Okay, you're morally superior. Do you want a cookie?" She hits him with a justified barb and a scalding glare. "I don't give a shit if you're glad or not."

Both Abigail and Sam look away from the two uncomfortably, but the farmer refuses to leave them out of the line of crossfire.

"I know you all think he's an idiot druggie. Congratu-the-fuck-lations, hold your superiority party, watch Dopesick in your spare time maybe," and with that she stands, shoving the half-eaten sticks in front of Sam and stepping awkwardly over Seb. She hoped she flashed him just to make him twitch and cringe and mope. "I'm just happy he's okay."

But oh — what timing to be leaving when right into her path walks the man of the hour. That motherfucker. That asshole. Shane fucking Nuñez. If she was mad before — what a mistake to be out when it's Friday night and everyone will be there. For a moment, there's a stalemate, silence in their little corner.

And then, Shane: "What are you doing trying to talk to me? Go check on Sterling."

"Don't even say his fucking name," it's not a command, it's a promise.

"He needs it," Shane continues anyway. "And I don't want to talk to you."

"Too guilty for what you did? Too scared to face me? I'm the Ghost of Jacob Marley, huh?" her words are more than hateful, they're venomous, and she regrets every one as they spill out: "Not that you get that reference, you illiterate drunkard fuck."

"Oh, so no one can talk shit about drug addicts but alcoholism is okay," Sebastian less-than-helpfully opines, allowing Shane to slink away to the bar and grab that much-needed drink. He was starting to have the shakes himself; or perhaps that was just the chains of guilt rattling within his ribcage.

He knows she's right... and, he knows she knows he's not mad at her. They both love him; they both hate the situation. He internalizes the pain; no one knew how much vitriol she would spew.

"Will you shut the absolute hell up? All you do is talk about him as if he burdens your life in any way. Quit — just fucking quit being mad I won't sleep with you," she snarls at Seb.

"You think I'm that immature?" He bats back, more weakly than he wanted to.

"It's that or you are absolutely heartless. I thought you were a better man than this honestly. But now I know my pussy is what you cared about, not me or my heart or the people that have it," her face grows hotter with every emotive word that is thrust out.

From her lips, to the whole bar's ears, now, though most are politely trying to pretend they can't hear — or see the hot glistening tears that are tattooing streaks down her face; lines tilled through her blush like a red clay field.

"I hate you so much, Sebastian. Only you could make this about you,"

"You hate me. Not the guy who relapsed."

"Only you would hate someone for relapsing!"

"Some of us have had real life experience, we don't need to have children with future deadbeats."

"The fact that's all you see him as —" finally, she realizes the futility of the moment, of how she is dangling off a cliff edge and has one chance to pull herself up: "I don't want to talk to you anymore."

She turns fast enough to make everyone else dizzy. Out the door she storms, into one, and forgetting her umbrella too.