I love the reviews so far! They have been extremely helpful and I look forward to them! (A/N: The lyrics following throughout the story are "Safe As Houses" by The Weepies…it's an inspiring song, and I highly recommend it) For my story's sake, I added that Jinx got the prostitute part in 'Sweet Charity.' And I didn't think to leave out that Mary's family wouldn't know what it was she did. I thought they knew and maybe didn't 'care' in some way or other. Again, sorry for any factual or TV show errors. I write when I can…
Are
you somewhere safe as houses
Mother may I run and hide?
Don't
throw stones at other people
Hope your brother's on your side.
Mary didn't know how to feel. She had a small notion brewing in the back of her mind that her best friend was in love with her. Her head hurt. She went through their conversation over and over, staring up at the ceiling and knowing she could tell one distinctive emotion: guilt, sad and lonely and sickening guilt.
She'd done what she did best; not more than the blink of an eye later, she'd dropped his hand, said something to excuse herself, and hid. But hiding in someone else's house isn't as easy as it seems…especially, she thought grimly, since she was staying in his bedroom, in his clothes, and would eventually need to use his shower. And his toothbrush. Who only had one toothbrush? She had at least twenty; dentists gave them out like freaking candy! No pun intended.
She rolled over, eyes resting on more family photographs. All of the photos always held the same people; some varied slightly, younger version, older version, recent, maybe ten years back, old house, new house, married, kids…Mary's picture was the only one out of place, she realized. Her blonde hair in the sea of dark brown in that small silver frame sat conspicuously out of place. She was the only person Marshall had a picture of that wasn't somehow directly related to him, either by blood or marriage. She'd meant what she said, he was her only friend. Witnesses she gradually bonded with over the years didn't count so much; they grew up, settled down, and got their own lives—in a matter of speaking anyway.
But Mary thought Marshall had been kidding when he'd agreed that she was his only friend as well. He was smart and well-versed, relatively normal until he started spouting out facts at random, or tried to explain Back to the Future or The Lake house and all of their time-travel-but-not-really-time-"travel" complexities, just to tease her mercilessly. And confuse her more.
Eps' angry remark in the interrogation room brought even more indecision to her blurry mind.
"Male/female partners. Did you know that nine times out of ten, they end up screwing or killing each other? Or both!"
He'd been spot on with at least half his assumption. Her irrational anger had gotten Marshall shot. Not dead…but damn near close enough. Maybe that was what had her scared. Her bulletproof armor—her best friend, the person who would probably hide a body for her without question—hadn't been able to protect her from the world.
And where would she be without him? That was a scary idea. He was always on her side, whether it was the right side, the honest side, or if she'd just done the stupidest thing in her life or career (letting her mother live with her, admittedly, he could have talked her out of) he was there, a constant.
And he never asked for anything in return.
She felt a coiling inside that made her feel the need to call someone; to ask for a comfort she'd rarely been given, or asked for. She knew she'd regret it in the morning, but it had to be done. She grabbed for her cell phone; three rings later a bright, chirpy bird-like voice answered the receiving end. "Mary! We were worried!"
Or she would regret it now.
"Mom."
"Oh, Honey, guess what? I got the part! I told you I wasn't too old!" She cried, ecstatically. "You have to help me practice! Marshall said you and he were working out of town, but when you get back we'll have a small party, okay?"
A party for the part of a prostitute in a musical. Mary couldn't help the small smile that pulled at her lips. "Yeah, mom, you've still got it," she replied softly.
"Sweetie, are you okay?" Jinx asked, truly concerned.
"Mom…I think I hurt Marshall," she whispered, staring up at the ceiling again.
"I don't understand Mary, how do you mean? Was it something you said? Because you know how you—"
"It was more like…something I didn't say I guess," she answered quickly, cutting her off.
Jinx sighed. Her daughter was brilliant, hard headed, and quite stubborn, but she'd never known a good thing staring her in the eyes. Bad mother as she'd been, as Mary had even pointed out on more than one drunken occasion, she knew things the bright girl didn't. She'd seen how they acted around each other—so completely comfortable, equals, partners—and she could see how Marshall felt long before Mary had even noticed. Well, she assumed, until tonight her daughter probably had had no inkling of such a thing.
"I always liked Marshall, you know. He's a good person, a good man, and there aren't many of those left walking around Mary. I know you're upset with me right now, but take a little bit of my advice. Really look at him tomorrow, and ask yourself what you haven't let yourself see. Okay?"
For once, her mother made sense. Mary wondered idly if the apocalypse was near. "Okay," she answered.
"When you get home, I think you and your sister and I all need to talk. You've been jumping to a lot of conclusions lately Sweetie, and that may be part of your problem with us, and with Marshall. Just listen to him. Good night."
Jinx disconnected before her daughter had a chance to respond. Mary, for once, had no idea what was happening around her. Everything she thought she knew was falling apart and she suddenly felt how her witnesses must when they found out they had to leave and start over. And never see anyone else from their former life again. It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on. It also wasn't something she could wait for until morning.
Marshall was wide awake. The clocks glaring digital bars flipped slowly, deliberately mocking him, he thought. So this is what happened when you nearly admitted you were in love with your best friend? Time passed a little slower and you lost a little more sleep. That was perfect, just perfect.
What had possessed him to nearly admit it anyway? Because she danced with him? Because she was wearing his clothes? Because she was…just her? He'd been okay keeping her as a friend, keeping her that close all the time. Now he wouldn't even have that. He was a fool.
He stood, sick of the mocking clock, to get a glass of something containing alcohol. Maybe he could erase it from his memory. Doubtful.
He'd just finished pouring vodka into a glass, rooting around the freezer for some ice when he heard the wood floor creak behind him. The air was still and she barely made a sound, but he felt her presence all the same.
"Water?" she asked. He didn't turn around.
"Not unless it's vodka flavored—on the rocks."
"I'm sorry, about earlier."
He shook his head. "Mary, you're never sorry for anything."
She bit her lip, sad to hear his high opinion of her. He downed half the glass of vodka.
"Look, I'm not very good at this. Things haven't been going all that great lately. And I just lowered myself to resort to calling my mother for advice? Now I have to plan a party for her future role as a prostitute!"
Marshall looked into his glass of vodka, and hesitated, thinking he should be as relatively sober for this conversation as possible. He set it on the counter, and turned around. "You lost me at calling your mother," he said with a thin smile.
Her shoulders slumped, as if weight fell from them. "Well…I couldn't exactly call you to ask you advice about you…so I had to call…my mother." He raised an astoundingly surprised eyebrow at her admittance. "And don't think you're going to get out of planning a prostitute party for her either."
He laughed, but he was confused. Hadn't she understood what he'd meant? Instead of feeling awkward and nervous, he was irritated. Did she think he was kidding? That he'd forget the dance, that she'd just shrug it off and see it her way? He had to get through to her…a nearly impossible feat for just about anyone. Except him.
Mary had perched herself atop the kitchen counter, letting her feet dangle as if she were sitting at the edge of a pool. She held the picture of herself. "Marshall, how did you get this?" she asked.
He looked up. "It's just a picture Mary…wouldn't want you to read too much into it."
She gave him a sour look. "Cut the crap, who gave it to you? Or did you take it?"
"Brandi took the picture; she gave it to me because…"
"Because what? Marshall, seriously, I don't even own a picture of myself! And what is it Brandi's business taking pictures of me?" She was nearly as frustrated as he was.
"I didn't ask her for it! She just gave it to me. She said she'd never seen you that happy…at least, not in a long time," he finished.
"It was my birthday. I despise my birthday—especially surprise birthday parties. Who wants to celebrate the fact that you're one year closer to dead? And she thought I was happy? How did she come up with that?"
"Do you really want to know Mary?" Marshall asked.
She wanted to say no. She wanted to go back and pretend they hadn't started this conversation, or the conversations they'd had all day, as a matter of fact. But days and moments and words could not be taken back. The past was just that.
"Yea, I really want to know," she whispered, running her thumb over the thin glass pane of the frame and swinging her feet, allowing them to gently tap the cupboards below.
"Brandi said it was because you were looking at me."
Suddenly, Mary wished she'd never stepped foot in this house.