Tamsin may not have done as much as she wanted to with her lives, but she's also not a moron. When some asshole breaks your heart, there are two things to do: leave town, and get blind-ass drunk. In that order.
She has a passport, and Kenzi taught her how to steal a credit card and book an international flight, and that's enough. She doesn't need anyone else to help her with that.
She books a first class ticket and falls asleep in the back of an internet cafe, dreaming of hot stewardesses and tiny bottles of whiskey.
She ends up in Cartagena. It's seven in the morning and she's hungry and a little tipsy and she smells like she hasn't showered since she left the clubhouse. But she knows where she's supposed to go - she has an email with an address in it, and even with her crappy Spanish and the haze of one two few Jack & Cokes she knows that she's almost there (not home, never home anymore, she should know better than to think she's allowed to have one of those).
She knocks on the door - well, no. She scales the wall and sneaks past the hedges around back and then knocks on the side door, the one closest to the guest wing. Some guy answers, and he's older and Spanish but absolutely not dreamy. It takes a while before Tamsin realizes that he's actually an honest-to-god butler. Behind him there's a foyer, and stairs and the open door to a room that looks like the kitchen, all marble and old wood.
"Hey," she says, trying to act like this is totally normal, like who doesn't show up here at the crack of the dawn looking drunk and heartbroken and vaguely homeless. "Is Kenzi around?"
The man does this thing with his upper lip, a sort of tastefully judgemental sniff. Tamsin does not punch him in the face, because she has grown as a person this year. "Tell her I'm -"
She doesn't get a chance to finish, before there are footsteps in the hallway and a voice that sounds like coming home. "Francisco, I thought I said no visitors unless -" she stops with a click-click of her heels against the marble. "Tamsin."
"Hi," she says, fighting down the urge to look at her shoes. She feels small, scared, exhausted from the effort of keeping it all in, being together enough to make it here. "Can I stay for a while?"
"Of course," Kenzi says. Something in her tone tells Francisco to let her in and make himself scarce, and Tamsin is grateful for the privacy.
"Thanks," she says. Well, tries to say, but it comes out in a whisper because her throat is all tight again, too full of her heart.
Kenzi walks nearer, puts her hand on Tamsin's arm. "Is everything okay?"
She tries to talk - tries to say she's fine, she just needs to lay low, it's nothing - but Kenzi is so nice and her hand is so warm and all Tamsin manages to choke out is an embarrassingly watery no before she's crying again, worse than before. She doesn't want to. She wants to keep it in, to be okay, to not have anybody see how awful she feels, ever.
Kenzi murmurs shhh, and Tam Tam, and doesn't say a single thing about how weird it is that she's showing up for no reason, like a disaster. She wraps her up with both arms, and it's - kind of awkward, as hugs go. Kenzi's heels aren't that high and Tamsin is sort of hunched over, leaning down so that her forehead can touch Kenzi's shoulder - but she needs it so badly that she doesn't mind.
Kenzi doesn't ask her to talk about it. She doesn't ask her to explain how everything was perfect until it wasn't and how she doesn't know what to do anymore. She just waits untl Tamsin is all cried out. She doesn't say anything about how Tamsin's face is blotchy and she's crying in that gross way, face full of snot and tears and maybe it's all over Kenzi's shirt, now. She just steers Tamsin onto the couch, sets her down, and tells her to take a nap.
When she wakes up again, the sun is lower in the sky.
It's afternoon, and her head hurts like probably it's the same day, not later. Someone - Francisco, maybe, or Kenzi - has put a blanket over her, and there's a glass of water and two pills on the coffee table in front of her.
The house is quiet, but from down the hall she can hear echoes of Kenzi's voice. She's speaking in Russian to somebody, tone quick and angry. Tamsin sits up, and her stomach tells her suddenly that sitting is a really bad idea. She manages to find the water, and what she really hopes is aspirin, and those stay down okay.
Snippets of conversation float to her down the hall - fae booty-call and dumbass and Bo, you've got to be kidding me. It makes her feel sort of warm (she's always wanted a sister she actually liked), and also a little sick (because Bo knows, must know, that she's sitting in Spain with a killer hangover because she fell in stupid love with stupid her). It's a long while before she hears footsteps down the hallway, and Kenzi at the door.
"Hey," she says.
Tamsin makes space for her on the couch, trying to pretend that she hasn't been eavesdropping on anything. Kenzi sits down next to her.
"Hey," Tamsin says back. Now that she's calmer and sort of sober, she feels like kind of an asshole for showing up here like this.
"So," Kenzi says, looking at Tamsin with eyebrows that say she knows things.
Kenzi sighs, and Tamsin can't tell if it's because of Bo or because of Tamsin, or because she had important non-Fae plans today. Maybe it doesn't matter. "I have ice cream, and I have vodka. Thoughts?"
Tamsin feels herself smile. "Both?" she says, and she's thinking about last year, about the night Kenzi taught her about ice cream floats and The X Files.
Kenzi runs one hand through the hair at Tamsin's temple, working out tangles with her fingers. "Both it is."
"Can I take a shower, first?"
Kenzi smiles - that kind one, Tamsin's favourite one - and gives Tamsin's shoulder a gentle shove. "Um, you are absolutely required to take a shower first, you smell like the floor of the Dal."
"Wait for me before ice cream?" she says. Everything's still pretty awful, if she thinks about it too hard, but for now, it feels like it might actually get better.
Kenzi nods, like she understands. "Promise."