Sorry it's taken sooo long to update!! AP Exams have taken up all my waking
hours this week, but I'm finally free again! Reviews should come more
frequently from now on, at least a couple times a week. Thanks to all
those who have reviewed so far, please keep reviewing because it makes me
happy!
A phone call, a thirty-minute wait, and a taxicab later, Marah was at Mort Rainey's door. She looked up at the sky, half-expecting it to start pouring. It would fit the mood so well. Or maybe just a single stormy black cloud, right over her head. That would fit too... but the sky was clear and the air still smelled of late summer, fresh wet leaves, the perfect amount of chill in the breeze.
Mort had been working when the knock came. A new piece; he'd set aside the old one, with the cheating wife and the boyfriend and everyone getting murdered, for the time being. He'd just had this vision and had to start writing. He wasn't sure where the scary part was going to come in, but that was alright, sometimes it started like that, something would hit him...
At the knock he got up and went down the stairs, a little hesitantly. Marah wouldn't come to call this early; she had work. And he wouldn't put it past some of the townspeople to show up after the episode last night, to make it known just what they thought of him for corrupting one of their fine citizens.
But when he opened the door, it was Marah standing there, after all. He broke into an easy smile—the smiles had been coming easier, nowadays, and he felt the familiar set of his teeth, the slight part in his lips, higher on one side than the other. Amy used to love that... before... but he pushed Amy out of his mind at once.
"Hey! You're—" he was about to say, early, but he stopped. "Crying," he finished lamely.
She thought she'd hidden it better than that, so she wiped away her tears quickly, embarrassed, not worrying about being discreet. "No, I'm not," was all she could think of to say.
He raised his eyebrows, looking concerned. "Come on, come in."
She shook her head, no. "I can't. That cab—it's mine. I..." she trailed off.
"Where are you going?" he asked, confused.
There was a few seconds silence; Mort didn't try to fill it, let her try to regain some composure. But his heart was racing. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked at him. "I lost my job, Mort. And the room I'm renting, too, Mrs. Olmann..." she took a breath, "threw me out, basically, is what happened..."
"No," he whispered, barely believing it. "They didn't. They wouldn't dare."
"Yeah," she said, forming her mouth into the position to laugh, but not quite getting there, "yeah, they did."
"I'm so sorry," he said. "It's all my fault. It's completely my fault ..." He made as if to take her in his arms, to hold her, but suddenly he felt he had no right. He just stood there indecisively.
"Don't say that," she said. "I made the choice. It's just me. I couldn't have lasted here anyway, with my... history... I'm sorry. But I'm leaving now, so I hope—"
Whatever she hoped for him, she never got to say it, because he turned sharply around, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her a step closer to him. To hell with rights, to hell with propriety. "No. Look at me. No."
She did look at him, hopelessly. "Mort, I have nowhere to go, no job, no money, and do you really think anyone will hire me now? Give me a place to stay? It's best this way. I don't belong here, in this town..."
"No!" he shouted, frustrated. He saw how she started and he lowered his voice. "No, you do belong here. With me, remember? Remember me?"
She sighed. "What kind of question is that," she murmured.
"Then stay here with me."
"I told you, Mort, I don't have anywhere to—"
"No, I mean, here," he said firmly. "In this house. With me."
She looked sharply up at him, her eyes wide. She looked so innocent that Mort wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a warm hug. She welcomed the embrace, and held onto him for a long time without saying anything. Finally the cab honked. Turning around, they saw the driver gesturing pointedly at his watch.
Mort took Marah by the shoulders, too urgent to be gentle. He turned her to face him. "Listen to me. Go to the cab. Get your stuff. Walk through this door, and walk in for good. Please."
She looked away from him, but did not break his grip on her arms. "I can't ask you to do that for me."
"Does it sound like you're asking?" he cried. "I'm practically begging you!"
"I don't have money to pay rent."
"Don't be ridiculous."
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, like she was trying to remember something from a long time ago. How can I even be considering this? she thought, I met this man a few weeks ago, when I was obviously on the rebound, this is the most predictable stupid mistake I could make... then she saw him looking at her. She knew him, knew she could trust him. She didn't smile, but her words were the sweetest Mort could have hoped to hear:
"I could use some help getting the bags out of the cab."
They walked down to the street, where the cab driver was practically bursting with impatience. "You coming too?" he asked Mort, mentally figuring the cost of an extra passenger.
"Nah, she's getting out here," Mort answered, barely keeping stupid glee out of his voice. "How much does she owe you?"
The driver sighed. "eleven-fifty."
Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Keep the change. I'm in a good mood." And he flashed a big smile at the astonished driver before going to help Marah with the bags.
Marah walked in with the cardboard box and the smaller of the two duffels over her left shoulder. Home, she thought, looking around, testing the word on her tongue before she dared say it out loud. And to her surprise, she found that the word tasted good, tasted right, more than anything.
"Home," said Mort, shutting the door behind her, as if he could read her thoughts. He grinned at her. "You've already had the grand tour, pretty much... well, actually... have you been upstairs?"
She shook her head, and followed him up the narrow wooden steps.
"Over there's my quote-on-quote office" he said, indicating the table with the laptop that was visible from downstairs. "And over here," he pushed open a door, "is the bedroom. Where you'll stay."
"Where will you stay, then?" she asked.
"Couch downstairs." She started to protest, but he silenced her. "I sleep down there about 75 percent of the time anyway. No, I really do."
His words trailed off into silence. They stood there, looking at each other uncertainly, neither quite believing they were in this situation.
Mort strode across to where she was standing, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her.
A phone call, a thirty-minute wait, and a taxicab later, Marah was at Mort Rainey's door. She looked up at the sky, half-expecting it to start pouring. It would fit the mood so well. Or maybe just a single stormy black cloud, right over her head. That would fit too... but the sky was clear and the air still smelled of late summer, fresh wet leaves, the perfect amount of chill in the breeze.
Mort had been working when the knock came. A new piece; he'd set aside the old one, with the cheating wife and the boyfriend and everyone getting murdered, for the time being. He'd just had this vision and had to start writing. He wasn't sure where the scary part was going to come in, but that was alright, sometimes it started like that, something would hit him...
At the knock he got up and went down the stairs, a little hesitantly. Marah wouldn't come to call this early; she had work. And he wouldn't put it past some of the townspeople to show up after the episode last night, to make it known just what they thought of him for corrupting one of their fine citizens.
But when he opened the door, it was Marah standing there, after all. He broke into an easy smile—the smiles had been coming easier, nowadays, and he felt the familiar set of his teeth, the slight part in his lips, higher on one side than the other. Amy used to love that... before... but he pushed Amy out of his mind at once.
"Hey! You're—" he was about to say, early, but he stopped. "Crying," he finished lamely.
She thought she'd hidden it better than that, so she wiped away her tears quickly, embarrassed, not worrying about being discreet. "No, I'm not," was all she could think of to say.
He raised his eyebrows, looking concerned. "Come on, come in."
She shook her head, no. "I can't. That cab—it's mine. I..." she trailed off.
"Where are you going?" he asked, confused.
There was a few seconds silence; Mort didn't try to fill it, let her try to regain some composure. But his heart was racing. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked at him. "I lost my job, Mort. And the room I'm renting, too, Mrs. Olmann..." she took a breath, "threw me out, basically, is what happened..."
"No," he whispered, barely believing it. "They didn't. They wouldn't dare."
"Yeah," she said, forming her mouth into the position to laugh, but not quite getting there, "yeah, they did."
"I'm so sorry," he said. "It's all my fault. It's completely my fault ..." He made as if to take her in his arms, to hold her, but suddenly he felt he had no right. He just stood there indecisively.
"Don't say that," she said. "I made the choice. It's just me. I couldn't have lasted here anyway, with my... history... I'm sorry. But I'm leaving now, so I hope—"
Whatever she hoped for him, she never got to say it, because he turned sharply around, grabbed her wrists, and pulled her a step closer to him. To hell with rights, to hell with propriety. "No. Look at me. No."
She did look at him, hopelessly. "Mort, I have nowhere to go, no job, no money, and do you really think anyone will hire me now? Give me a place to stay? It's best this way. I don't belong here, in this town..."
"No!" he shouted, frustrated. He saw how she started and he lowered his voice. "No, you do belong here. With me, remember? Remember me?"
She sighed. "What kind of question is that," she murmured.
"Then stay here with me."
"I told you, Mort, I don't have anywhere to—"
"No, I mean, here," he said firmly. "In this house. With me."
She looked sharply up at him, her eyes wide. She looked so innocent that Mort wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a warm hug. She welcomed the embrace, and held onto him for a long time without saying anything. Finally the cab honked. Turning around, they saw the driver gesturing pointedly at his watch.
Mort took Marah by the shoulders, too urgent to be gentle. He turned her to face him. "Listen to me. Go to the cab. Get your stuff. Walk through this door, and walk in for good. Please."
She looked away from him, but did not break his grip on her arms. "I can't ask you to do that for me."
"Does it sound like you're asking?" he cried. "I'm practically begging you!"
"I don't have money to pay rent."
"Don't be ridiculous."
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed, like she was trying to remember something from a long time ago. How can I even be considering this? she thought, I met this man a few weeks ago, when I was obviously on the rebound, this is the most predictable stupid mistake I could make... then she saw him looking at her. She knew him, knew she could trust him. She didn't smile, but her words were the sweetest Mort could have hoped to hear:
"I could use some help getting the bags out of the cab."
They walked down to the street, where the cab driver was practically bursting with impatience. "You coming too?" he asked Mort, mentally figuring the cost of an extra passenger.
"Nah, she's getting out here," Mort answered, barely keeping stupid glee out of his voice. "How much does she owe you?"
The driver sighed. "eleven-fifty."
Mort reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty. "Keep the change. I'm in a good mood." And he flashed a big smile at the astonished driver before going to help Marah with the bags.
Marah walked in with the cardboard box and the smaller of the two duffels over her left shoulder. Home, she thought, looking around, testing the word on her tongue before she dared say it out loud. And to her surprise, she found that the word tasted good, tasted right, more than anything.
"Home," said Mort, shutting the door behind her, as if he could read her thoughts. He grinned at her. "You've already had the grand tour, pretty much... well, actually... have you been upstairs?"
She shook her head, and followed him up the narrow wooden steps.
"Over there's my quote-on-quote office" he said, indicating the table with the laptop that was visible from downstairs. "And over here," he pushed open a door, "is the bedroom. Where you'll stay."
"Where will you stay, then?" she asked.
"Couch downstairs." She started to protest, but he silenced her. "I sleep down there about 75 percent of the time anyway. No, I really do."
His words trailed off into silence. They stood there, looking at each other uncertainly, neither quite believing they were in this situation.
Mort strode across to where she was standing, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her.