Thanks to the rain, the frontage road the shop sits on is borderline washed-out, and not for the first time, Ashton wonders how economical being housed this far out of the way can possibly be for the Remingtons. While the siblings don’t seem remotely bothered by the clientele they might be missing, Ashton worries about his own income. Specifically, his ability to attract clients without impulse access or Whitaker’s name behind his work.
While Link seems to be under the impression thathisname will bring some form of clout to Soul Survivorand the Soul-arium, Ashton’s not nearly so sure. Perhaps that’s on him, though, and Ashton just needs to believe in himself a little more. Without question, Link makes him want to do exactly that.
As he squints against the buckets of water dumping relentlessly onto his windshield, wide rivulets obscure the glass and replenish faster than the wipers can clear a path. Ashton grumbles, flexing his fingers against the wheel and praying vehemently that one of his tires doesn’t get stuck in the mud. His old truck is reliable, but it’s also just that—old. Hitting an exceptionally jarring pothole, he wonders whether it would be prudent to phone today’s appointments and warn them about the traveling conditions.
Ultimately, he pulls over (well, he brakes in the middle of the sodden, gravel road underneath a tree) to do exactly that.
To Ashton’s immense relief, no one seems to mind. Each of his clients in turn reassures him that they aren’t deterred and still plan to make the trek. In fact, most of them seemthrilledto be headed to the Soul-arium, regardless of the barely-paved access road and weather situation. Until that moment, Ashton hadn’t realized how much of a reputation the place really carries, but the short conversations with his clients go a long way towards calming his fears about sustainable income, as well as reassuring him that partnering with the Remingtons is the right thing to do.
As he pulls into the puddle-studded and extremely muddy lot in the shadow of the old factory, Ashton suddenly has one, very intense regret.Whatwas he thinking, not accepting Link's offer to grant him access to the tunnel leading to the Soul-arium’s indoor garage? For a person who rarely stops worrying about the pitfalls that come with repeating past mistakes, he surely overlookedthatone.
It’s just before nine in the morning and therefore business hours, so the front door should be open. Unfortunately, to getintothat door Ashton will have to slosh through some pretty nasty terrain. To top things off, as he searches around, patting the seat next to him (and then behind him, and then underneath both seats, each shift with increasing panic) Ashton realizes that he’s left his umbrella at home, because of course, he did.
Great.
That’s just great. That’s precisely what he needs, to show up for his first day at his brand new job looking like a drowned rat. Not to mention, having to then spend therestof that day wearing half-dry clothing and wet-fucking-socks. Call it a Pavlovian response or perhaps PTSD, butwet sockshave been firmly branded into Ashton’s brain as an omen of bad tidings, a thing to be avoided at all costs.
He’s well aware that he’s overblowing things. That, technically, a damp piece of clothing isnota serious concern, but in his mind, it’s worse than breaking a mirror while deleting a chain letter after walking beneath a ladder on Friday the thirteenth and simultaneously opening an umbrella indoors.
With that perspective, it isn’t long before Ashton (still dry, since he hasn’t left the safety of his truck) and his broken brain have allowed this nothing issue to work him into a complete frenzy. Between the weather and the impending sock situation, he becomes convinced that the world is trying to tell him something, to the point where he’s seriously considering turning the truck around and driving home instead of heading inside at all.
The steaming cup of coffee with“Link”scrawled across the side, sitting innocuously beside his own in the carrier, does nothing to ease that building fear.
It’s just too familiar. It’s toomuch.
Ashton panics. His chest is tight, his pulse is loud in his ears, and if it wasn’t for the softdingof his phone from inside his trenchcoat pocket, that apprehension would have won. Would have seized the reins and taken control, leading him to shove his key back into the ignition, spin the wheel for a hard turn, and leave Link, the Soul-arium, and the Soul Survivor brand behind for good.
Anxiety isnotlogical. It isnotrational. It does notcarethat Ashton—the rational side of him—knowswithout a shadow of a doubt that sweet, wonderful Link Remington isnot Whitaker.
He doubts that Link could be so cruel if he tried.
Ashton—therealAshton, not the anxiety-ridden mess who’s entirely too fixated on socks—doesknow that, though. So when he lifts his phone and sees Link's name illuminated on the screen with the message that follows, his heart jumps for joy. Just like that, all thoughts of fleeing are stamped out like a match in the rain, snuffed by his all-encompassing desire to simply bask in Link's presence again.
It’s so easy.
Link
Mornin’ sweetheart. Get your ass in here before breakfast gets cold
Smiling somewhat stupidly down at his screen, Ashton attempts to reset. He takes a slow, deep breath, exhaling intentionally right as another message comes in.
Ding.
Link
Look up
That’s all this one says. Ashton obeys immediately, his eyes squinting to peer through the water-distorted glass of his passenger-side window before eventually finding Link. He’s standing in the arch of the Soul-arium’s entrance, holding the door wide and waving.
“Hi!” he yells, his greeting semi-drowned out by the rain and walls of the truck.
Paradoxically, Ashton’s mind is still telling him to run, while his heart demands the opposite—pushing him to dive in head-first. Just to complicate things, one look at Link wearing soft sweatpants, a worn t-shirt, and an open robe first thing in the morning has his body weighing in with some equally strong options and doing so with demands that are on acompletelydifferent wavelength than either his head or his heart. It’s distracting, confusing, and exactly what he needs.
The well-timed interruption breaks Ashton’s anxiety’s hold over him, the nerves dissipating into something less fraught. Seeing Link's smiling face, his excitement once again begins to outweigh his apprehension. Even as he pockets his phone, lifts the coffee carrier, and kicks open the truck’s door to a relentless, angry downpour, his spirits can’t be dampened.
He’s good. Hewon’tlet fear win.
Ashton’s resolved as he’s ever been—shoulders back, chin up, head held high. That is, until he takes four wide steps to round the truck and promptly slips in some mud. Stumbling and tripping, he tries hard to regain his footing before ultimately failing. When he goes down, he goes down hard, and face-first.
