Hey everyone! Sorry I haven't updated in a really long time! Exams have been attacking me, so I've been trying to study for those! Well, here's my next chapter. I hope you enjoy it! As always, I own nothing, and I LOVE reviews! Thanks for being so patient with me!
Chapter 6
A week later found both Jennifer and Roger still moping around the house, each one waiting for the other to start looking at Mark's things. Neither had the courage to look at his numerous reels of film, go through his bureau drawers, or even disturb anything that he had left. To Roger, it was just a reminder that Mark was gone – forever – from his life. But he knew that, for Jennifer, it was much worse. She had always been attached to Mark, and now every little thing in the loft brought back memories of him. She would see his razor and remember all the times he put shaving cream on her nose. Or when she found Mark's favorite light blue shirt, she burst into hysterical tears.
But the worst thing of all was Jennifer's insomnia, or as Roger called it, "Filmmaker Syndrome." He knew that Mark was always plagued by insomnia, which made him turn to his films more and more. Roger remembered all the times Mark had pulled an all-nighter, editing and fixing his films until dawn finally broke. Now, his daughter was the exact same way. She was a night owl. She was never tired.
Mark had always known what to do: tell her a story and lie there until she fell asleep. But Roger was never patient enough to just wait until she was asleep. Usually, he would play songs for her: lullabies, Musetta's Waltz, his own single Your Eyes, but her favorite thing was hearing a story.
"Hey Dad?" she asked quietly one night, nearly three weeks after Mark had abandoned them.
"Yeah doll?" he asked, still attempting to tune his guitar for the usual nightly concert.
"Dad, tell me a story."
Roger looked at her blankly. "Tell you a story?" he repeated slowly, setting his guitar on the floor.
She nodded. "Please?"
"Oh honey, I'm not good at stories like Daddy was …"
"Well, it doesn't have to be pretend. It can be real."
Roger smiled wryly. "Is there a story you had in mind?" he asked, seeing through her subtle hint.
"I've been thinking about Daddy a lot."
"Me too." He had been. Just last night, he had dreamt of Mark … of the way they were. He had recalled all the strangest memories they had ever had together: the time Mark had taught him how to tango, the day Joanne had walked into the loft to find him and Mark on the counter together, the moment he knew that Mark was the one for him.
"Dad?" Jennifer asked, pulling him from his thoughts. "Dad, I want to hear how you and Daddy first met. Daddy always told me he was going to tell it, but … but he never did."
"The time we first met …" Roger said, closing his eyes.
"Um … excuse me?"
Roger looked up from lighting his cigarette. Standing in front of him was a guy who couldn't have hit the age of 19 yet. He was thin and pale, with messy gelled blond hair and black, square-rimmed glasses. He was also carrying a backpack and looked extremely frightened.
"Can I help you?" Roger asked, raising an eyebrow.
"I hope so," the boy responded.
Roger shook his head and blew a cloud of smoke at the newcomer, who winced and fanned it away from his face irritably.
"Listen, do you know about this apartment for rent?" the pale blond asked, shoving his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "It says 'top floor,' but it doesn't give an apartment number or anything …"
"That's because it's the loft," the rock star responded, taking another drag from his cigarette.
"Oh." The bespectacled guy looked around anxiously, as if hoping someone else, someone more helpful, would pop out of the street at that moment. Finally, he said, "Um … who do I talk to about the apartment?"
"You're looking at him. Or … er, one of them."
"I … I need a place to stay."
"No kidding. I figured." Roger ground out his cigarette and stuck out his hand. "Roger Davis."
"Mark Cohen."
"You look pretty damn young to be here. What are you … 18? 19?"
"I … I'm actually 20."
"Uh huh. You don't look it. But maybe that'll help once you're old." He grabbed Mark by the shoulder and steered him into the building. "But hey, it'll be nice for me not to be the baby of the group anymore. C'mon, let's go upstairs. You need to meet the others."
As they ascended up the rickety staircase, Mark commented, "You said that you were tired of being the baby. How old are you?"
Roger laughed. "I'm 22. Collins is the oldest … he's 25. Then Benny and Maureen are both 24 … actually Benny's a little older. Acts older too. Maureen's a little whiny brat at times, but she's not too bad I guess." They finally reached the loft entry. "Go on. Go in. Welcome."
Immediately upon entering, three people crowded around the filmmaker. The girl had wavy brown hair and big brown eyes, which she examined him with. She gave him a happy smile before throwing her arms around his neck, surprising the blond.
"Hi! I'm Maureen Johnson and welcome to the loft! You want to move in, don't you? You're so adorable … I wouldn't mind waking up to you every morning!" She said all of this in a rather breathless tone. "You've met Roger I see? What do you think of him? He's a nice guy, but if you move in, you'd better like music because he plays and I sing too … I'm a big protestor as well …"
"Er … um …" Mark stammered.
"Give him room to breathe Mo," a tall, African-American man chided. He extended his hand to Mark. "Thomas Collins … but don't call me Thomas. Call me Collins … it sounds cooler."
"Like the drink?"
"I like this kid," Collins commented with a sly wink. "And what's your name?"
"Mark. Mark Cohen."
"Mark. Well, this is home to us." Collins waved his hand absently behind him. "It's not much to be honest … only a little heat and all … but it suits us. Do you like art?"
"Huh?" Mark asked, extremely confused.
"Art … you know … doing art?"
"Like … like Renoir?"
"Er … no. Like Maureen just said, she's a singer." Maureen beamed excitedly. "And Roger is a musician," Collins continued.
"You are?" Mark asked.
Roger nodded. "Yeah … guitarist."
"I …" Mark flushed. "I … I'm attempting to create my own documentary."
"Hey, that's talent!" Collins told him. "Better than Benny … pompous ass that he is, wanting to create a damn cyber studio. And me … I'm an anarchist. And I teach … that's very interesting."
"I am not a pompous ass!" the other man protested.
Everyone chuckled. Finally, Roger said, "Well guys?"
"Listen," Mark rushed on, "I can get a job if I need to. I won't be any trouble really … I don't sleepwalk, or have weird habits or anything. I don't even have a pet. I just like to keep to myself …"
"Slow down there," Collins laughed. "Don't stress it. Welcome to the family."
Jennifer giggled sleepily. "Daddy sounded like a complete dork."
"He was," Roger admitted. He felt tears sting the back of his eyes and he shook his head quickly to drive them away. "You okay Jen?"
"Yeah. But I wanna hear more stories."
"Tomorrow," Roger promised. "I have so many about Daddy … but some of them, we'll need to watch on the projector. Films were a big part of Daddy's life … and I think they'll explain some things better than I can."
"Okay." Her green eyes started to slowly close. "Night Dad. Love you."
"Night Jen," he whispered.
How was it? Please please please please please please please review!
