A/N: Chapter 12 is here! I'm moving at a good pace lately, and I'm hoping that it will continue; I'd like to get the rest of this fic to you guys on a semi-regular basis! I've also got a sequel in the planning stages and some other RM projects in mine, so you won't be seeing the last of me!

"Fade Out" is a gorgeous song by Adam Pascal. It can be found on the fanmix for this fic; as I said last chapter, check out the download link in my profile if you're curious!


XII.

Fade Out

Monday, February 15th to Tuesday, February 16th

"We don't have to go, if you don't want to," Ryan tells her, stroking his fingers through her hair. She wonders at how his hand isn't tired by now, considering they've been in this position for hours. "We can just stay here, order in…"

"No, I want to go," she sighs, shifting and finally sitting up. "Might actually help, this week."

"Are you sure?"

"Can't hurt to try."

They've spent most of the day on the couch, Marissa lying with her head in his lap, her feet against one of the armrests. They'd sat quietly for an hour or two, until Marissa had realized that the quiet made her hear it again—Will telling her she didn't have any remorse, Katie saying it was her fault Isobel had died.

She'd turned on the TV, at that point. They'd spent hours watching telenovelas, even though neither of them knows Spanish. They'd picked at a Whitman's Sampler Marissa had gotten a few days before, because the increased supplies of chocolate at all the pharmacies was one of her favorite things about the holidays. She stared at the card Ryan had brought her the day before, so bright and cheery and utterly at odds with her feelings.

She goes into the bathroom to brush her hair and her teeth, but once she's inside she remembers that a few weeks before she'd finally taken Isobel's things and thrown them away. Those tangible reminders of her are gone. The memory of her presence isn't.

"Marissa?" She heard Isobel call out from the bathroom as she was reorganizing the freezer.

"Yeah, Iz?"

"Do you have any band-aids out there? I think we're out in here?"

"I got some when I was shopping; give me two seconds." She shut the freezer door and rummaged in one of the bags until she found the band-aids, going to the bathroom door and knocking before she opened. "What happened?"

Isobel was sitting in her robe on the closed lid of the toilet, the shower still running in the background. She dabbed at the blood near her knee on her half-shaved right leg with a piece of toilet paper, laughing a bit. "I am the biggest klutz imaginable when it comes to shaving; nothing huge."

"I used to be the same when I was younger. Still happens every once in a while. Here, just apply some pressure for a few minutes until it stops; it'll make it easier to put the band-aid on later." She wadded up some more toilet paper and handed it to her cousin, going to sit on the edge of the tub and turning off the water for the time being. "Getting ready for anything in particular?"

"Yeah. Um… some girls in my chem class actually asked me to come out with them, go shopping."

This was the first she'd heard of Isobel making friends, and she had to smile. "Iz, that's great! Are you excited?"

"Kind of, yeah. But a bit nervous."

"About what?"

"I… don't really know if I really fit in with them. I mean, I haven't lived here that long; I don't know the boys I'm supposed to be interested in or what I'm supposed to be wearing, or—"

"Hey, listen. As someone who's been there, let me give you some advice—it shouldn't matter what they think. What should matter is what you think. If your friends don't approve of the guy you want to date, or whatever, and you do, and you think he's good enough for you… then honestly, screw 'em. Of course, I have to approve and that's something else entirely."

Isobel laughed, and she looked up at Marissa for the first time, fiddling with the end of her robe's belt. "Do you think you could give me the names of some places around here we could go? I mean, they'll probably suggest a place, but if they ask me to pick I want to be able to name something…"

Marissa found herself smiling. She'd never thought Isobel would actually involve her in her efforts to build a social life. It made her happier than she wanted to admit. "Sure. I think I know a couple places; let me make a list for you."

After she turned the water back on, she got up to leave, and she heard Isobel call after her on her way out. "Marissa? Thanks for the band-aids…"

She heard it—just a bit more emphasis on the word "thanks." Maybe her cousin couldn't really say it yet, but she got the feeling she appreciated the help.

"You're welcome, Iz. Really."

She goes through the motions of getting ready mechanically, brushing her hair and teeth without much thought. She redoes her sloppy ponytail and tugs the hem of her sweatshirt down, stalling. She'd insisted on getting dressed earlier in the day, if only to make it look like she was doing okay, better than the night before, even if she really wasn't. Ryan had changed into some of the clothes he keeps at her place for the nights he stays over.

They'd both seemed to think that if they could get out of the clothes they'd slept in, the memories of the night before would come off with them. No such luck, not so far.

When she comes out of the bathroom and puts on her shoes, he wraps his arm around her waist and walks with her outside. The unspoken agreement seems to be that he'll drive. She stares out the window the whole time, as he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped in hers, resting on the folded-down cup holder between the seats. He must be really worried, she realizes, if he's not keeping both hands on the wheel. She's noticed how tense he can get about driving; this is a rare and notable relaxing of his usual standards. She should be touched, but all she feels is numb.

She joins him as they get out of the car, crossing around the front and going to take his hand. It really strikes her sometimes how far they've come from a few months before, when she'd found him just outside this building. They've both made the effort to trim down on their bad habits—cutting down on the smoking, for one; Ryan not going for drinks after the meetings, keeping more food in the house; Marissa cleaning out Isobel's things.

They've stopped grieving in the more unhealthy ways, but it's hitting her for real now that she is still grieving. With Ryan, it had been easier to ignore it. It had been less a presence in her daily life, kept at bay by laughter and comfort and, dare she say it, love.

As they go inside, she squeezes his hand tighter and ignores the concerned look he shoots her. Any reassurance she could give him would be hollow—a lie.

After everyone's gotten settled with coffee and refreshments, Jeff offers everyone a congenial smile. "Hope everyone's Valentine's Day went well?"

She looks around quickly, sees a few nods of assent, a few thin smiles from the widows or widowers who perhaps aren't romantically involved again just yet but appreciate that for others, the sentiment has meaning. Ryan used to be one of those people, she thinks. He's not, not anymore. He's in love with her. That's something, at least.

She helped fix Ryan, even if she can't fix herself.

"I thought we'd talk about family members today," Jeff says, not sitting, but pacing, as he usually does for the first ten minutes or so, to gauge everyone's feelings and figure out how to proceed. "I know I usually let you guys pick the topic, but it seemed like something we don't often discuss, and it's a tricky topic. Family members can be a valuable support system, but they can also be a hindrance. Anyone have any thoughts?"

The silence lasts for barely a few seconds, and Marissa's the one to break it, saying, "I do."

Jeff nods at her to continue, and even if she feels Ryan's hand squeezing hers, can see him out of the corner of her eye, silently pleading with her to remain calm, she can't—not tonight.

"The blame. That's what I hate." She wishes admitting it would get the memories to stop, but it doesn't. It just brings them back full force. It feels like that day in the pool house, the day or two before New Year's, when she'd sat there remembering the ambulance, remembering them putting Isobel into a body bag and taking her away.

She was sitting on the porch by the time they brought her body out on a gurney. Janet had come over from next door with a blanket to wrap her in—it might have been June, but Marissa was freezing, shaking from shock. She loved Janet, in that moment. Janet was the only one who'd actually come up to ask what was wrong, instead of just standing there gossiping.

"Miss?" A paramedic stood in front of her, waiting for her to look up. "After the autopsy, there's arrangements that need to be made… you're her legal guardian, yes?"

She nodded, somehow. She was still breathing—that felt like enough of a triumph, honestly, but somehow her body was doing all the things she swore she couldn't do anymore. Isobel couldn't do them, so how could she?

"If she has any other family, you might want to give them a call…"

She didn't hear the rest, because Janet was trying to tell the man that Marissa was in shock, that she couldn't take any more instructions or questions, and as soon as Janet helped her up, her legs folded, and she crashed to the porch in a faint.

"What happened was… it wasn't my fault. There wasn't anything I could have done, but some of my family has been insisting there was. And I want to ignore it, but all it does is start me thinking, and I know I'm not supposed to dwell on it, but I do."

"I get that," Beth, one of the quieter members, says softly. "I mean, with Mom, it was an aneurysm—kind of a ticking time bomb—and we didn't really know, but… my siblings make it seem like I should have known, taken her to the doctors more…"

"It's kind of like that," Marissa concedes. "But at the same time it just—it isn't. What Iz did was her own decision, and I don't think I could've done a damn thing, so I wish they'd just stop—"

She has to close her eyes against the tears, though it's obvious from her voice cracking that she's upset, and she suddenly realizes that she doesn't want support.

She just wants out.

Through her blurred vision, she gets up and leaves, taking her coat on the way out and pushing out the door. It only takes a second for her to think of a place to go. She's crossing the street before she realizes Ryan is rushing to catch up to her.

"Marissa—Marissa!" They've reached the sidewalk outside of the bar, and his hand wraps around her wrist before she can walk faster, try to avoid him. "You're not seriously going to the bar, are you?"

"Let go of me, Ryan."

"Marissa, come on, you know it's not good for you—you've told me yourself you don't drink like you used to, not anymore—"

"You're one to talk about not drinking!" She spins to face him, wrenching her wrist out of his grasp as she does. She sees the hurt flash across his face, and she knows deep down that she'll regret saying that tomorrow, but now she's having difficulty caring, difficulty thinking about anything but the overwhelming need to get away and get lost.

"Maybe I can't talk, but there are better ways than this, all right? I just want to—"

"Help? Fine, Ryan, you can help. Maybe you can tell me you love me again; see if that does a damn thing!"

She's crying now, breathing so hard in the cold air that her lungs are burning and her chest hurts, and she reaches out to shove him back. He nearly loses his balance, but he plants his feet firmly on the concrete and refuses to move.

"You don't get it, Ryan! Jenna and Cody—the McKeevers can't blame you for that! They don't blame you for just driving the damn car like you were supposed to! I was supposed to look after Iz, and now—"

"Now she's gone and you can't do anything about it. I can get that, and I'm sorry if it doesn't help, but do you really think drinking is going to do you one better?"

"If it can make me forget for more than twenty seconds at a time? Yeah, I'd consider that one hell of an improvement." She turns away, closing her eyes for a second to try and stop the tears. "Don't follow me."

She pushes open the door of the bar and disappears inside.


Tequila. It was the one drink she'd allowed herself in college. She'd mostly played designated driver at Pepperdine—it gave her more of an excuse for not drinking than "Well, you see, this one time I tried to kill myself in Tijuana…"—but every once in a while, she'd had a shot or two with her roommate, Belinda, in celebration of an aced test or an upcoming break.

Those had been good times. She could remember times like that and smile, remember Belinda cheering her and pulling her onto the dance floor of one of the local clubs, or begging with her to come out because she was always the responsible one and she could have fun every once in a while, right?

Now, staring at the shot in front of her, she wishes it were that simple—a celebration. If this is a celebration of anything, it's of how much she fucked up. She thinks of Katie's objection to the single glass of wine, finds it funny that she'd never so much as taken a sip of alcohol when Iz had been staying, but that she's doing it now that she's gone.

She wonders how Will and Katie would react now. She's drowning her sorrows in a bar; is that enough remorse for them?

She licks the side of her hand, pours the salt and licks it off in short order. She downs the shot and bites the lime, letting the juice kill some of the bitter taste. She signals for one more shot, because the lime might kill the taste, but the tequila hasn't killed the memories just yet.

Janet left her after two hours, because it was getting close to five AM and her boys were going to be getting up to go to school soon enough. She'd wanted to make sure Marissa was okay after she'd regained consciousness. She'd told Marissa she could come back later, but Marissa had lied and said she'd be making arrangements.

She'd already talked to Will and Katie, while she'd waited for the ambulance to come. Her ears were still ringing with Katie's screams, with the sound of Will slamming down the phone.

With Janet gone, she could break slightly, and her hands shook as she dialed her father's number, trying to keep her breathing steady.

"Marissa?" He sounded groggy and confused as he picked up the phone. "Sweetheart, it's nearly five in the morning over there; why are you—"

"Daddy?" she broke in, trying so hard not to cry, and he stopped talking for only a second, before he asked, based on her tone, what was wrong.

"I—I don't know if I'm supposed to tell you, because I don't think they've started calling people yet, but… Dad, Isobel… she took her pills and some vodka and she…"

She was crying so hard she couldn't speak, and for at least a minute she just sat there, listening to her father try and soothe her over the phone, even if his voice was breaking.

"Marissa… Christ… I can fly out there; if you need me, I'll—"

"N—no. Please, just… please go to the funeral; they don't—they don't want me there and I need someone to—"

"Shhh. Shhh, sweetheart, it'll be all right. I'll go out to Florida as soon as they've made the arrangements. After that, I'll come to New York, all right? You need someone else out there with you…"

"I had someone else," Marissa wanted to say. She closed her eyes and burrowed closer to her pillow, wanting to sleep, to forget. "And now she's gone."

She remembers that feeling, a grief so strong she couldn't breathe, and as she takes another shot, she realizes Ryan might be right, that drinking isn't going to do her any favors. After all, if she can remember, it must not be doing any good…

She can pretend, though. She got good at pretending, as a kid. She got used to pretending she didn't notice that Jimmy always seemed to love Kirsten more than Julie. She got used to pretending that her mother's occasional remarks about her appearance didn't hurt. She got used to pretending that riding Kaitlin's pony China on the weekends had taken her problems away.

She can get used to pretending nothing hurts.


Ryan goes back to his car and drives it to the bar's parking lot, where he sits for three hours. It's cold, but he gets some heat circulating every twenty minutes or so. He keeps looking out his side mirror, watching the bar's entrance.

It's almost midnight when he finally sees the barkeep, Jaime, walk Marissa out. He gets out of the car and stops Jaime from calling a taxi, telling him he can take her home, and Jaime nods and helps him walk her to the car. They carry her weight between them, and he's at least glad that Jaime knows him well enough to trust him with Marissa, because he doesn't want her alone.

She's just about unconscious, and Jaime confirms that she'd had a lot of tequila, though he'd cut her off after he'd judged by her weight and the obvious signs that she'd had enough. Ryan thanks Jaime for looking after her, makes sure he's done her seatbelt, then gets in the car himself to drive her home.


She won't remember much of the night. Indeed, waking up the next morning, one of the only things she does remember is regaining consciousness a few times and being sick when she had. She remembers spending the night on Ryan's bathroom floor—he'd been there with her, holding her hair back and keeping her steady.

When she wakes up for good, she's prepared for the light to hurt her eyes, but when she opens them, it's mercifully dim; the lights are off in the bathroom. She's lying on her side on the rug, and she realizes that he must've changed her into some of the clothes she keeps at his place. She pulls herself up off the floor, and though the room sways some, she braces herself against the sink counter until it stops. Her toothbrush is resting there, and she brushes her teeth to get the bad taste out of her mouth.

When she goes downstairs, she finds Ryan at the kitchen table. He looks exhausted, she realizes with a pang of regret; his eyes are closed and he's leaning back against the wall, almost dozing. Her footsteps on the threshold wake him up within seconds.

"You're awake," he says, and she bites her lip and realizes she can't come up with a better response than, "So are you, it looks like."

He points to a brown paper bag sitting on the table. "There's a muffin in there, some Tylenol. It'll help the hangover."

"You're acting like I've never had one before."

"Marissa." He runs his hand absently through his hair, sighing, and she feels that bit of regret again; she knows she shouldn't have snapped at him.

She gets a glass of water from the sink and swallows down the Tylenol, and she picks at the muffin before she pushes the plate away and looks up at him. "Can we just… talk?"

"I don't think there's much to talk about."

"Ryan, please, I'm trying to—" She doesn't have much of a right to beg, she realizes. She'd treated him horribly, said some awful things outside the bar, but he'd still stayed. He'd still taken care of her. Somehow that makes everything hurt worse.

"Would you mind if I went to lie down?" she says finally, lamely. "I just… the Tylenol isn't going to kick in just yet and my head is killing me."

He points in the general direction of the staircase, and she heads up to his bedroom, settling on her side of the bed and closing her eyes. The relief isn't much, but it's there.

She thinks she must be dreaming when she hears footsteps on the stairs, because she can't see him coming to her when he's still so frustrated, but no, the bed is shifting under his weight as he sits on the other side. She opens her eyes, sees him sitting there silently, and bites her lip.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "I know that doesn't even begin to cover it."

"Sorry for drinking, or for what you said?"

"Both. I don't even know which one feels worst, to be honest with you. I just—I shouldn't have said what I did, about you saying you love me. I'm… really going to regret that."

"Don't. It's pointless to dwell on it when it already happened."

"Guess you're right." She closes her eyes again and stretches one of her arms out, trying to relieve the soreness still lingering in her body from spending the night on the bathroom floor, and to her surprise, he takes her hand, plays with her fingers.

"You said last night I didn't get it. That the McKeevers can't blame me for driving the car."

"Ryan, I was… I was just so angry; I know I shouldn't have…"

"No. I'm not saying it to make you feel bad." He inhales, lets the breath out, takes a second before he speaks. "I'm saying it because you were right, but you were also wrong. The McKeevers don't blame me. But I've blamed myself."

"Why?"

The admission startles her so much that she opens her eyes again and almost goes to sit up, but the hangover makes her reconsider that motion, so she settles for squeezing his hand, a plea for an answer.

"It wasn't a collision. But for a while, after the accident, I wished it was, because then the fault would've been off of me. The other guy weaved into our lane. It wasn't his fault—he wasn't drunk or anything; it was just raining too hard and he lost control for barely two seconds. It happens. He'd probably corrected himself by the time I swerved. If I'd kept control, if I hadn't swerved when it was so wet… I spent so many nights replaying it in my head."

"Ryan, the fault was never on you. You did what anyone would have. If you hadn't swerved, if you're wrong about him correcting himself, he could've hit you. You had your wife and baby in the car with you; you did what you did to avoid an accident—"

"And one still happened." He squeezes her hand gently, brings it to his lips and kisses it softly. "You don't have to try and justify it to me; I've already done it. But do you see why I told you? You did the same thing, Marissa. You did what you could to help Isobel, and it didn't work, and she's gone. But you tried. Just like I did. You tried, and you can't blame yourself for how it turned out, all right? I don't want to hear you blaming yourself again."

She feels stupid, but she's nearly crying. "You're being too good about this, you know that? Ryan, I fucked up last night, and you still took care of me. Who does that? You should've just walked away—"

"Listen to me." He reaches out and gently cups her face, making her look at him. "I don't walk away. I won't—not from you. I watched my mom drink her life away and if I can stop you from repeating last night, I will. I meant it when I said it two nights ago—I love you, Marissa. Nothing you could do would make me leave. I'll be here if you screw up. I'll be here because you told me that night in the car that you needed me."

"Still do," Marissa says quietly. She might've made mistakes, but she's realizing that for once, someone's willing to stick around for her after she's made them. Ryan, who knows more than she'd thought—who understands.

She leans forward to kiss him, before wrapping her arms around him and holding on. "Hey, Ryan?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

She looks up at him with the ghost of a smile on her lips, and she's rewarded by the sound of him laughing softly, happily, as he kisses her forehead and whispers "thank you" in her ear.