June 16, 1926

11 a.m.

I can say one thing for Indiana Jones: he knows how to show a girl a good time. Plus (ok, so maybe two things), he just keeps on giving me things to write about. Abner would be proud.

He slept all through yesterday, the poor kid, and as far as I can tell, all through last night too. There were a couple points when I wished for his sake that the guest bed was a little softer, but if he felt the same way, he never bothered complaining.

Fast forward to 9 o'clock this morning. By the time I forced myself out of bed and into the kitchen, Jones had already shaved (and what a difference it made! I'm not gonna lie, this is one attractive archaeologist. Not that I'd ever be interested in one of my dad's students or anything like that), dressed in khakis and a fresh linen shirt, and begun scrambling a pan full of eggs on the gas stove; two cups of coffee already sat on the wood table in the center of the room.

"Oh, Jones," I muttered, leaning against the doorframe, "you know this is totally unnecessary." He just smiled and turned off the burner.

"Don't expect too much of this whole 'cooking' deal, sweetheart," Indy chuckled, and I almost lost my balance when he looked up and smiled at me. "It's just… thanks for not kicking me to the curb the other night." It was my turn to laugh.

"Eh," I shrugged, taking a seat at the table and grinning idiotically as he put a plate of beautifully cooked eggs down on my place setting. "It helps that you're cute." A moment of awkwardness hung in the air, but a couple of dismissive smirks and the smell of fresh coffee quickly swept it away—nevertheless, something funny happened in my stomach when I realized that he wasn't responding, you know, awkward or rudely or anything like that. Maybe he'd forget the age difference and… no, stop it Ravenwood. And as if it's not bad enough that he's ten years my senior, he's friends/colleagues/whatever with my dad. Talk about awkward. In an attempt to keep the conversation moving, I continued, "So, what brings you and my father together?"

"Nothing spectacular. Actually, a couple tablets were found at a dig in Cyrene – you know, that Greek site in Libya – that may help us pinpoint the location of a set of very important scrolls. No one's sure yet, but," his face seemed to light up a little, "maybe… maybe even some of those lost in the fire at Alexandria." His excitement was almost infectious, and I found myself leaning forward slightly, almost as if trying to soak it up, brighten my own day. "Unfortunately," he added, his eyes losing some of their shine, they're inscribed in a weird dialect of ancient Greek, some blend of classical Greek and Middle Kingdom Egyptian, weird right? Anyways…"

"No, wait, let me guess." This sounded familiar, like a fairytale told one too many times that eventually transformed itself into a dull, throbbing nightmare. It was a story I'd heard countless times from every puzzled archaeologist that stepped through the doors of my father's classroom, or, in this case, our home. "One of my dad's pet languages, right?"

Indy nodded slowly, sensing my resentment. He ran a hand through freshly rinsed, light brown hair and kept his eyes lowered to the plate before him. Realizing that I really couldn't blame him for my father's choices, I softened my own tone a little.

"Just… do me a favor, Jones?" He looked up, and I felt the same blue-grey shock as the last time we'd both been in the kitchen. "Don't keep him away too long. It's not easy having a dad who spends more time in the past than in the present." The air in the room got somewhat heavier, and before Indy even said anything, I knew that a bond had been formed.

"Trust me, I understand having an absent dad. After my mom died," zap! Another bond, "my dad just buried himself in the Grail…" Henry Jones! The Grail expert from Princeton my dad was used to talk about. I hadn't even made the connection. "Here's to the Holy goddamn Grail," Indy concluded bitterly, lifting his mug above the table.

"To the Ark of the Covenant."

Clink.

Another bond.

The hot coffee burned my throat, but it didn't matter.

"So, Indiana Jones. How well do you know Chicago?"

June 16, 1926

10 p.m. (aka later that day)

Like I said, he knows how to show a girl a good time, especially on a cloudy day. Figuratively speaking, of course… it was actually great outside. Lots of sun, light breeze, a couple of those giant puffy clouds. Long story made relatively short, Indy and I took the grand tour of the city, each of us exploring and showing off our own little corners of the city.

I took him to Shiner Beach, this tiny alcove on Lake Michigan that Frankie Costa and I named after an unfortunate 7th grade baseball game involving inexperienced pitchers and resulting in several black eyes. Indy, in turn, gave me a tour of the shady area just north of the university; "Big Jim" Colosimo's Restaurant, where he'd worked his way through his first two years of school as a waiter, the lakeside warehouses where he and Elliot Ness had their first encounter with Al Capone's early crew, and even the downtown speakeasy where he'd played a set with famed jazz clarinetist Sidney Bichet.

Needless to say, I was blown out of the water by everything this guy had said and done in a mere 23 years, and this was only one city! I haven't asked yet, but Indy must have a thousand stories like nothing I've ever heard.

Love at first sight is impossible—I don't even know what love is, what it feels like, but what I felt today as we walked around the city for who knows how many hours seemed pretty close. It was as if just being near him made me feel more real, more alive, and more terribly confused than I've ever been. And when we'd touch… It was that feeling like when you finally let go of a rubber band that you've been stretching for hours and days and years, you feel the tension snap and the fibers collide and everything relaxes, and you know things are the way they should be. Remember those bonds I was talking about, those common threads? Every time we'd touch, accidentally or otherwise (I like to think that it was mostly otherwise), it was as if they suddenly became infinitely more tangible and complex.

My name is Marion-Claire Ravenwood, and about 36 hours ago, I became acquainted with Indiana Jones.

My name is Marion-Claire Ravenwood, and it's entirely possible that I'm falling in love with Indiana Jones.

Is that even possible? Help!

Love,

Marion