Past, Imperfect

ONE

The sun glanced off the shiny surfaces of glass display cases, sending prisms of light dancing off the pale cream walls. Angel O'Connor, immaculate in a Ralph Lauren linen suit despite the midday heat, stood restlessly in the store window, watching the noon hour crowds rush by in a steady stream of colour. Angel's normally focused mind was distracted by the sea of people, his eyes focusing and then dismissing the redheads and brunettes, constantly searching for a certain face, a certain blend of honey and sunlit hair.

Suddenly, a presence beside him. Angel's eyes remained trained on the street outside: knowing he wouldn't see her, afraid he might miss her.

"Angel?" Cordelia said, impatiently. She regarded her fiancé's distracted face and placed an immaculately manicured hand on his forearm. "Angel," she repeated.

"Mmmm," he said, without looking down at her.

Cordelia Chase crossed her arms and made a clucking sound in the back of her throat. This was supposed to be one of the most important moments of her life. More exciting than landing her first television sitcom, better than paying cash for the BMW, more incredible than being named to People Magazine's 50 Most Beautiful People List. She and Angel were here at Tiffany's choosing her engagement ring.

"Angel," Cordelia said, unable to keep the growing irritation from her voice. She shot the clerk a look of emphatic exasperation and clicked a red fingernail against the sparkling glass. "I'd like to see that one, please."

"A lovely choice," the man smiled, reaching into the case to extract a beautifully cut solitaire surrounded by sapphires and set in a gorgeous platinum band. Although a little large for her slender finger, Cordelia sighed at the ring's exquisite design. Holding her hand in front of Angel's face she said to the clerk, "This is lovely. But do you have anything with a bigger rock?" The man cocked a shapely brow and smiled.

"Why yes, Miss Chase, indeed we do. If yd jud just like to step over to the other display, I'd be happy to show you what we have."

Cordelia handed the ring to the clerk and he set it back on its purple velvet pedestal and locked the case. Without a word to Angel, she followed the man to another case and began her perusal of the gems.

It was only after he was sure that she was gone that Angel O'Connor snapped himself out of his self-imposed reverie. He slid his glance across the room and regarded his fiancée with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. Cordelia Chase was a woman of surprising talents: smart, funny, beautiful and single-minded. She had swept into his life completely unexpectedly and had, without hesitation, made him hers. He rubbed his large, square hand across his cheek and smiled tightly. Mere weeks ago, he'd been living a solitary life, dedicated to collecting and selling rare books, and socializing only when absolutely necessary. He'd bumped into Cordelia Chase at a fundraiser for some charity that his business-partner Wesley Wyndam-Pryce insisted he attend.

"Really, Angel," Wesley had said over drinks and dinner at their favourite restaurant. "You need to meet people. You need to get out and...."

"And what?" Angel had asked over the rim of his wineglass. "Date?"

"Well, that would be a start," Wesley had laughed, good-naturedly.

Angel shook his head and downed the last of his wine, a Cabernet Sauvignon and an extremely good year.

"Not interested," Angel had said.

"Please, "Wesley had, proceeded. "When was the last time you..."

Angel held up his hand. "You may be my business partner and you are certainly my friend, but do me a favour, Wes, and stay out of my personal life."

"Fine. Alright. But you can't go on like this forever, Angel," Wesley had said quietly. "Sooner or later...."

Angel lifted his opaque brown eyes to his dinner companion and Wesley had stopped talking without finishing his sentence.

But then, a few days later, Wes had called and begged Angel to come to the fundraiser with him. "Fred's going to be there, Angel. I need back up," Wes had pleaded and Angel hadn't the heart to put him off.

"I don't think my tux has been cleaned since 1997, Wes," Angel had laughed. "But, okay, I'll go with you. You owe me, though."

"Yes, and I'm quite certain you'll collect," Wesley had replied, cheerfully.

It had been hard to miss Cordelia Chase. Standing by the fountain in the museum's lobby, wearing a shimmering red sheath that rippled around her ankles and hugged her voluptuous curves, she'd immediately drawn Angel's eye. There was something self-possessed about her, something that exuded confidence and vulnerability simultaneously. Reticent by nature, Angel had hovered on the edge of the party, half- watching Cordelia and half-watching the clock. It was only after he'd signed a cheque for a generous donation to the charity and was making his way to the door, that she'd appeared before him, a glowing sliver of red light.

"Leaving already," she'd asked. "And without even saying good night?"

Angel's mouth quirked in a reluctant smile. They hadn't so much as said "hello." "I'm not really much of a party-doer," he'd said.

"Me either. Hate them. Want to go for coffee?"

And that was how it had begun.

***

Buffy Summers poured a second mug of tea and stepped out onto the dew-covered porch. Curling her legs beneath her, she settled into the wicker settee and regarded the front lawn with dismay. She really needed to pull the lawn mower out of the shed or hire someone to come cut the grass. She sipped the scalding liquid thoughtfully and considered the day that stretched out ahead of her. A movement down the street caught her eye: the paperboy, making slow and staggered progress up the street. Wap! The sound of the paper missing her neighbour's porch by a country mile.

"Good morning, Jason," she said, as the kid skidded to a stop in front of her path. "Do you think you could bring the paper to me instead of chucking it?"

"Are your legs broken?" he asked.

"No. My legs are not broken," Buffy replied, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice. "Are yours?"

Jason shrugged and stepped over his bike, letting it drop carelessly to the pavement. He walked up the path to Buffy's porch and climbed the stairs in two huge steps, stretching out his hand to pass her the paper.

"Thanks, Jason" she said.

"Yeah. Whatever," he mumbled, before leaping back down the steps and racing down the path to his bike.

Buffy leaned over and set her mug on the porch floor. Snapping the elastic off the paper she unrolled today's news and scanned the headlines. Depressing. Morbid. Buffy wasn't sure how much more human suffering she could stand. She discarded the front section and settled back with the Lifestyles section. There, in the bottom right hand corner, she saw the picture that made her skin grow cold. TV Star to Wed Philanthropist Book Seller was the caption underneath the colour photo of her old high school friend, Cordelia Chase, her slender hand hooked to Angel O'Connor's elbow. Buffy couldn't tear her gaze away from the picture. Cordy had certainly done well for herself; Buffy couldn't deny that. And she didn't begrudge Cordelia her success. She'd worked hard, parlaying minimal talent into an incredible career. What Buffy resented was the man standing at Cordelia's side. Angel O'Connor. Buffy felt the inevitable tug of a few precious memories, firm fingers drawing her back into a past she'd tried desperately hard to forget. Angel, apparently, hadn't had the same difficulty.

Standing, Buffy moved towards the front door, kicking over her forgotten tea as she went. "Damn," she said, bending over to straighten the cup. "Damn," she repeated, sitting back on the wicker seat and burying her face in her hands. The tears were inevitable; the only question was how long she would indulge them.

***

Angel and Cordelia stepped out into the bright afternoon. The ring Cordelia had finally chosen would remain in the store to be sized. She was hot and cross and immensely disappointed in Angel's lack of interest in this exceedingly important milestone in her life. She wasn't sure that even an Emmy nomination would top it, but since that hadn't happened yet, she wasn't sure it was a bet she wanted to make.

"Do you want to have lunch?" Cordelia asked.

"Pardon," Angel replied, obviously distracted.

"Never mind," Cordelia snapped, feeling the thin trickle of sweat collect at the hollow of her throat and begin its downward descent. "Go look at musty old books. I've had enough today." Turning on her Eiffel-tower heels, Cordy stomped indelicately over to the taxi stand and climbed into the first available air-conditioned vehicle.

Angel barely registered her departure. His mind was as distracted as if he had come across a pristine first edition of Dante's "Inferno." He watched as the taxi containing his bride-to-be eased away from the curb and merged with the rest of the southbound traffic.

Loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top couple of buttons of his silk shirt, Angel stood silently as the people brushed by him. In a matter of weeks, he would be permanently attached to Cordelia Chase, living a life of which he had never dreamed. In his heart of hearts, he knew that if he didn't find the courage to break off this engagement, he would regret it for the rest of his life. Ultimately, Cordelia would be all right, but Angel dreaded the thought of causing her any pain. He didn't love her, but he certainly cared for her. More importantly, he knew he was better off alone, safer. He should have learned his lesson.

That their relationship had traveled so far so fast was a complete mystery to Angel. Coffee was one thing, casual sex another; but this, this impending marriage was not how he was meant to have lived his life. And Cordelia was not the woman he should even be contemplating marrying.

Turning to his left, Angel began walking with the crowd, his head filled with excuses that might help him get out of this mess he'd made. Dying relative. Life threatening illness. Didn't want children. Gay. Potential possibilities flew through his mind and Angel examined and discarded each of them. He'd made a career out of concealing the facts; sooner or later an opportunity would present itself that would allow him to extricate himself from this engagement.

***

Cordelia Chase stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long time. Flawless skin, generous smile, if perhaps a little tight at the corners, wide deer-in-the-headlights eyes. She practiced her five stock expressions: pouty, sincere, smart, sexy and innocent. Mostly, she used innocent. She could manage just the right amount of dumbstruck awe and vulnerability without ever letting her intended target see the wheels briskly turning in her head. Cordelia leaned closer to the mirror, alarmed at the beginnings of a small blemish. Without turning her gaze away, she reached across the vanity and felt for her Oxy 5. "Cripes," she muttered. "I can't afford this now!" Uncapping the small tube, she applied a fingertip's worth of medicated cream to the barely visible pimple and smiled primly. "Gottcha," she said, humourlessly.

Clicking off the bathroom light, Cordelia padded across the bedroom floor and crawled into her king-sized bed. Clapping her hands sharply once, twice, the overhead lights went off. It was dorky, she knew, but her sound automated lights made her feel privileged. For as long as she could remember Cordelia Chase had wanted to be someone important. It wasn't enough to be the most popular girl at her suburban high school. It wasn't enough that she had never once gone without a date to the prom. It wasn't enough that her friends had looked to her to set the trends and to decide who was worthy of being in their clique. All that mattered to Cordelia was the deep-rooted insecurity that only she knew lay simmering beneath the surface of her perfect skin. When her father's business had gone belly-up, Cordy no longer had the mantle of wealth to hide behind. She'd lost it all: the cars, the money, the shopping trips to Paris and New York. Still, nothing mattered more to Cordelia Chase than appearances, and so she'd done her best to hold her head up high and walk through those bitter teenage years as though her life was nothing short of perfect.

Sinking down into the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, Cordy frowned. Angel O'Connor had been the icing on her carefully constructed cake. She loved him, but her desire to marry him had more to do with his legendary unattainability than it did with any sincere desire she had to be Mrs. Angel O'Connor. After all, she had daily marriage proposals. True, most of the offers came from love-struck fans that could barely stutter their own names in her presence, but sometimes the offers came from legitimate suitors.

And there were days when Cordy desperately wished she could turn back the clock and undo the damage she had done to her relationship with Xander Harris. While a part of her knew that high school sweethearts rarely made it, Xander hadn't been an ordinary high school boy. He was the boy from the proverbial wrong side of the tracks; the black sheep whom had gone on to make millions in the construction business. It wasn't his money, either, that kept him pinned to Cordelia's heart. She had plenty of money of her own. No. She'd loved Xander. He had tapped into something essential in her, something she'd thought sure she'd hidden away from the prying eyes of her classmates. And when he kissed her...well, all Cordelia Chase knew was that Angel had never kissed her even remotely as well as Xander Harris had. Truth be told, Cordy doubted Angel ever would. It wasn't technique that Angel lacked. It was more a feeling that he wasn't really there; his lips were pressed against hers, but his heart was absent.

It was a small thing, perhaps, but Cordy couldn't resist indulging in occasional doubt. They might be picking out the china, but Cordy often worried that Angel would rather be eating off it with someone else.

So, when she settled into sleep it was Xander Harris' face that she brought closer, not Angel O'Connor's.

***

Angel lounged in his armchair; sock feet propped on the matching ottoman, finger marking his place in the book of poems by Robert Moore. He glanced down at the spot where his fingertip touched the fine black print: "in the end/she will remain among the ones you knew/passing through an afternoon/disquieting sort of pretty self involved/someone else's friend...." The words struck a chord in Angel, though he wasn't sure why. He closed his eyes and there she was. He opened them and there she was. In bed with Cordelia, there she was. Angel closed the book and set it on the little table beside his chair. Already the table seemed ready to topple; it was piled so haphazardly with the efforts of Angel's attempt to distract himself.

Pushing off the chair, Angel walked through the cluttered study, peeling off his shirt as he went. His physique defied his profession; Angel O'Connor was in excellent physical condition, with broad shoulders, well-defined arms and a muscled wall of chest that sloped down to a flat stomach. Angel hardly looked like a man who spent his days in bookstores and at auctions. He was well-groomed, with thick dark hair he kept closely cropped and gelled, brown eyes that seemed at once serious and ironic, a wide, generous mouth and a pair of cheekbones the runway models of Milan would kill for. Angel had given little thought to his looks over the years. He'd been too busy studying and trying to figure out his place in the world to consider his appearance. But he knew, without question, that it was his looks that had drawn Cordelia to him that night at the charity ball; his looks and his reputation for being disinterested in the trappings of wealth and privilege. Angel had never needed a beautiful woman hanging off his arm to make him feel better about his life. He'd never needed any woman, period.

He was accustomed to being alone. He liked a solitary life. He spent his time scrounging through dusty second-hand book shops and seeking out limited editions and rare first-run copies of books. He felt like a detective. He followed clues and eventually found his quarry. Sometimes the books were for clients, sometimes he wanted them for himself. His personal library was bursting with books on botany and science and history; poetry by Walt Whitman and Ezra Pound, the collected works of Shakespeare and the Bronte sisters. Books comforted him. He loved the weight of them, their tangibility, their smell of time and knowledge. He loved the pencilled notes he often found in their smeared margins, "see page 14 for another example of this," or "Bill, 555-7867." He loved the inscriptions: "To Martha, with love from Sal, June 1944." New books had a place in his life, but they did not call to him like the old ones did. Old books had their own personal histories, had traveled continents and centuries. Until he'd met her, he'd loved his books most of all.

***

There were moments when she couldn't bear to look at her reflection. She had learned how to coil her hair into a complicated braid without the aid of the mirror; could apply lipstick, a perfect smear of pale pink, without her reflection, but she couldn't meet her own eyes. She was afraid of what her gaze would reveal about her life. She'd lift her eyes and be utterly dismayed to find hollow hazel staring back. How was it possible that she had grown so old?

Buffy fastened the silver cross around her neck and risked a quick look. No. Nothing had changed. Nothing, she feared, would ever change.

She left the room and headed down the staircase, her eyes traveling over the walls and familiar landmarks that assured her that this was the house she'd grown up in, the house her mother had willed to her. Buffy was sure that Joyce hadn't expected to die so young. Buffy certainly hadn't anticipated saying goodbye to her mother so unexpectedly. It was that moment, forever painfully etched across her heart, which marked the moment when Buffy's life had changed.

In the kitchen, Buffy poured herself a glass of water and drank it without stopping for air, welcoming the cool liquid as it bloomed through her parched throat, settled in her empty belly. She glanced at the wall clock. He was late. Again. Placing the empty glass on the counter, Buffy clicked on the little light over the stove so that the house wouldn't be totally dark when she returned from her evening out with William. Gathering up her little evening bag, she headed for the front door intending to sit on the porch in the waning sunlight and wait for her escort.

William Bluddy was notoriously clock-challenged, but he had many redeeming characteristics, not the least of which was the fact that he adored Buffy. The proprietor of several antiquarian bookstores, as well as the current owner of Sunnydale's one and only nightspot, The Bronze, William was handsome, smart, funny and devoted. Buffy couldn't fault William for much of anything, really. It had been no secret he'd been attracted to her from the moment they'd met. But Buffy had made it clear that, as his employee, she was not interested in pursuing a relationship with him.

The doorbell rang, followed by the sharp rapping that signaled William's impatience. Swinging open the door, Buffy remarked dryly, "It would make a whole lot more sense if you just organized your time and got here earlier so we wouldn't be late."

"Nice to see you, too, pet," William replied, leaning into the house to kiss Buffy lightly on the mouth.

Buffy shook her head and smiled. "Did they not teach you to tell time in the old country?"

"As a matter of fact," Spike said, laughing, "we were so poor that we couldn't afford clocks, although we did have a rather nice sundial in the garden. Let's go. We're going to be late."

"Late," Buffy smirked, "now, that's new."

Buffy stepped across the threshold and onto the porch. William reached in behind hnd pnd pulled the door closed. Holding out his hand, he helped Buffy down the porch steps, admiring, as always, the slim lines sketched beneath her pale lavender dress. "You look stunning, by the way," he whispered.

"Thank you, kind sir," Buffy replied, squeezing his firm hand slightly. "You look quite nice yourself." And he did. Although not particularly tall, Buffy knew that underneath his immaculate tuxedo, William Bluddy was hard and lean. He had the body of someone who took care with what he ate and exercised regularly.

The limousine was parked at the curb at the end of the walk. The driver flicked the cigarette he'd been smoking into the street and expelled the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Very classy, mate," William said, pointedly, standing back to let Buffy slide into the back of the elegant car.

Moments later, they were on the freeway heading for Los Angeles.

***

"Shall we meet for drinks beforehand," Wesley asked Angel, as he packed away the contracts and other assorted papers into a slim leather briefcase.

"Wes, I was ly hly hoping to beg off tonight," Angel replied. More than anything, he wanted to go home, pour himself a large scotch and settle in his study with a book, any book.

"Beg off? Oh, really, Angel. This is ridiculous!" Wesley said, snapping his satchel closed.

"I'm not in the mood for socializing," Angel said, quietly.

"So, don't socialize. Stand in a corner with that gorgeous fiancée of yours and plan your nuptials, but, seriously, Angel, you have to make an appear. Th. This is one of the biggest book-selling events on the calendar. You can't skip it because you're not in the mood."

Angel regarded the grim determination on Wesley's face. He also knew how annoyed Cordelia would be if he called her now and tried to wriggle out of yet another social engagement. If there was one thing Cordelia loved, it was being in the public eye. The event didn't matter. Angel was certain that Cordy could care less about being in a stuffy convention hall with a bunch of equally stuffy booksellers. All she would care about was the stir that she would create when she floated into the room: a television princess on the arm of her storybook prince.

"Fine," Angel acquiesced. "But let's just meet at the Plaza, okay? I'm..."

"I know, not up to drinks," Wesley finished for him. "I can drink just as well in my flat before I get to the hotel."

Angel smiled. "She's got you wound into knots, hasn't she?"

Wesley shook his head. "I don't know whether I'm coming or going. But..."

"But it's good, right?"

"It's good," Wesley agreed. "Although I would have thought that I was a little old for butterflies in my stomach."

"Apparently not," Angel said.

"So, see you later tonight, then," Wes said, stepping around a table piled high with books and heading for the door.

***

Cordelia took a deep breath and paused before stepping into dimly lit ballroom at the Plaza. This wasn't the main ballroom. A booksellers' convention (even if the books being sold were extremely rare and expensive) didn't merit the biggest or most opulent room the Plaza had to offer. Still, this room was lovely: gold brocade tapestries, marble floors, chandeliers and discreet waiters bringing silver trays with red or white wine.

Cordelia swept the room, looking for Angel. She hated having to make an entrance unaccompanied, but filming had run late and she'd had no choice but to come on her own. She was tired and not even the shot of tequila she'd downed before crawling into the cab had perked her up. Still, Cordelia knew she looked good. She could already feel the appreciative eyes travel the length of her toned body, which she knew looked fabulous in its little black dress. Perhaps "little" was overstating it. Cordy had wondered if she wasn't a little too "Pamela Lee" in the slip of a dress, but the sales person had made it clear that the dress was on the politically correct side of slutty and Cordy had purchased it immediately. Now as she sailed through the room, one hand holding her wineglass aloft like a beacon, Cordy knew she had made the right decision. Certainly the dress was one fiber short of revealing, but Cordy knew that she looked good enough to eat, and if she were very lucky, perhaps Angel would agree.

***

Angel stepped back into the shadows and watched Cordelia make her grand entrance. He'd arrived not ten minutes ago and had already finished his second glass of red wine. As a waiter passed him, he grabbed a third goblet off the tray and took a hasty swallow.

"Slow down," Wesley's voice said from behind him and Angel felt the firm clap of Wesley's hand on his shoulder.

Angel nodded and turned. Wesley Wyndam-Pryce always looked dashing in a tux. Perhaps it had something to do with his proper British upbringing. Angel swore that Wesley had gone to nursery school in formal wear, he looked so comfortable. On his arm, Fred looked charmingly unaffected.

"Hello, Angel," she said, the burr of her Texan accent barely discernable.

"Fred," he acknowledged. "Don't you look fetching." She did, too, although she was a little too slender for Angel's taste.

"Thank you," she smiled.

Wesley had been pursuing Fred for weeks. She was a book scholar whom he'd met briefly at a conference and hadn't been able to put out of his mind. She was smart, no-nonsense and quirky in a way Wes found totally beguiling. As the waiter circled the group, Wes grabbed two more glasses of wine, a white and a red, and handed the white to Fred. Angel watched as Fred deliberately dragged her fingers across Wes' knuckles before curling them around the stem of the glass. It was going to be a long night.

"Oh, there you are," Cordelia's voice cut across the group's quiet conversation like ripping fabric.

"Cordy," Angel said, "I was watching for you."

"A man of many talents, then," she said haughtily, "since your back was to the door."

Angel shrugged. "Cordy, you know Wes. Have you met Fred?"

Cordelia stifled a look of annoyance and chose her 'sincere' face. "Why, no, I don't think we've had the pleasure," she said, offering Fred her hand.

"It's very nice to meet you, Miss Chase," Fred said, clearly aware of Cordelia's profession.

"Cordy, please," Cordelia corrected. It wouldn't do to play the diva with Angel's friends, especially if she had any hope of having her itch scratched tonight.

"Angel, there's a very good table with Restoration Comedies. Have you seen it?" Fred asked.

"No. No, I haven't," Angel said. "I don't normally come to these to look for books. Sometimes it's just nice to see old faces and make new contacts."

"I know. I don't normally buy anything, either. I'm not sure how I even got on the guest list," Fred said, shooting Wesley an inquisitive look.

"Speaking of old faces. Isn't that Rupert Giles over there, Angel?" Wes said, pointing across the room.

Angel narrowed his eyes and peered across the room. "Yes, I think it is. Will you excuse me? I do have business with him."

Cordelia pressed her lips together to prevent herself from saying something she would regret. God! Angel's profession bored her to tears. The only thing that prevented her from shouting out loud how incredibly dull it was to be engaged to a man of letters was the knowledge that beneath the intellect lay a man simmering with passion: powerful, hungry and in complete control. Sometimes the dichotomy between the two was incredibly sexy. Add that to the handsome package and oodles of money and he was practically perfect.

***

Rupert Giles watched Angel O'Connor stride across the ballroom. He could almost see the demons nipping at Angel's heels and he only had to lean slightly to his right to see Cordelia Chase glaring at her boyfriend's retreating back. He smiled broadly as Angel came to a stop in front of him, holding out his large hand for Rupert's firm handshake.

"I thought you were still in Venice," Angel said, loud enough for those nearest the man to hear.

"Yes, well, I was. But I kept getting lost and so when I finally managed to find the airport I just decided to fly back to LA," Rupert said, laughing. "Well, not really. I never tire of that city, but I did have things waiting for me here."

Angel nodded. "We should talk," he said, quietly.

"Oh, indeed." Giles said, moving Angel toward a dark corner.

"Things are going forward?" Rupert said.

"Yes, on schedule. I hope to be..." Angel stopped, his eyes drawn to the couple who had just entered the ballroom.

Cordelia suddenly appeared beside him, following his gaze to the ballroom entrance. "Oh my God," she said, unable to keep the dismay from her voice. "Isn't that Buffy Summers?"

It was. Floating on William Bluddy's arm, she was a vision Angel had both prayed and dreaded he would see again. Angel raised his wineglass and swallowed the remaining liquid. The liquor burned a trail down his throat and did nothing to quell the jumble of nerves that had collected like a swarm of coiled snakes in his stomach. There was a reason he hated going out. There was a reason he found comfort in his books. There she was, smiling beautifully on the arm of one of Angel's least favourite men. There she was, head tilted sideways to look at William's angular face, an expression of rapt amusement on her perfect features. There she was, the woman he loved.

For a moment, Angel was sure he would vomit. Too much wine and too little food were now married unhappily in his belly.

"Angel," Giles said, close to his ear.

Angel couldn't speak without alerting Cordy, who was regarding Buffy as if at any moment she might be called upon to defend her territory.

The room tilted crazily. The moment of truth had come, it seemed. Angel O'Connor was mere feet away from it, yet instead of walking forward, he walked away.