She thinks it might be Jamie, stopping by – so there’s surprise in her eyes when it’s Scarlet Langley that’s stood out on her porch, wrapped up to keep the cold from gnawing on her bones. It’s been a while, something bitter in her says. But Mar keeps her mouth shut – and then stays silent as Scarlet starts talking and doesn’t stop. Scarlet’s not a dripping faucet, when she gets like this – she’s a babbling brook that sings itself into a spring river.
( Best to let the river run free. )
Scarlet bites her lip; the flood runs out to sea, dammed for the moment. Mar’s mouth curls into a half-moon smile, gently amused and so goddamn soft. It’s a funny thing, the way affection wipes the slate clean, makes her forget all about that ugly comment her mind was whispering mere moments before. Instead, all she can think of is warmth and bracelets and Scarlet, barely 19, raised on love and safety, wanting so badly to give that to someone who only had scraps left of either. Scarlet, on her porch, Tupperware full of spicy chicken chili clutched between her bare hands. She might not have cooked it for Mar, but she still thought of her.
( Mar isn’t sure she can ever find the words to express it. What it meant, what it still means – the closest she can get is thank you, which feels too fucking formal, and doesn’t say enough. There are other words, but they’re too heavy. Too fragile. )
“It’s cold out,” she says, and she opens the door wider, moves to let her in, takes the Tupperware from her so Scarlet can take her shoes off. “C’mon.”
There’s a light on in the kitchen, sketchbooks – her own, not Dante’s – laid out. She clears the table, sets her little pile of pencils and paper on the counter instead. She remembers it – that last time in the Langley house, old record player humming with music, Gloria and Stevie singing along as Scarlet and Mar grinned to themselves, graphite and ink staining their fingers. By contrast, the Sandoval house is quiet, at least tonight. Until now.
“––Did you already eat?” Mar’s moving towards the cupboard, half-turned to Scarlet. She hopes she’ll stay. Tries to find a question to ask that doesn’t feel loaded, because it really has been a while, and she doesn’t want to scare Scarlet off again, not when she’s finally here. Not when Scarlet is the one reaching out. Mar smiles – mischievous in a way that’s reserved for Scarlet, still; teasing and familiar.
“… You keeping the rest of us literate, or are you still on those cryptid erotica books?”
Something collapses inside her, that tightly-wound ball of nerves she hadn’t been aware of until it was demolished by Mar’s simple invitation. The kindness of it crushes her, for Scarlet had half expected Mar to give a polite excuse and close the door in her face. Not because she thought Mar to be that cruel, but because Scarlet thought herself to be that unforgivable.
As she stumbles in, eyes wide and shiny, Scarlet reminds herself that Mar is more familiar with grief than she is. And that makes Scarlet feel even more guilty for abandoning her, but that also makes her wonder if that’s the reason why Mar invited her in. Was Mar ever consumed by it, the way she’d been, the way she sometimes still was? It’s a question she wants to know the answer to but doesn’t yet have the courage to ask.
“I can always eat more,” she responds a little too eagerly. It doesn’t seem like an offer made solely out of politeness. Scarlet feels overwhelmed with happiness and sadness — Mar is so willing to bring her in, and it’s Scarlet’s fault that this couldn’t have happened sooner.
It takes her a moment to realize that Mar is joking with her, that it’s possible for them to go back to the way it once was. Her face breaks out into a smile before she realizes that she’s being teased. Still, the joy doesn’t fade away easily.
“Who says I can’t do both?” Scarlet asked with a pout, defensive of her kitschy monster romances. “If you care to be enlightened, I’d be more than happy to loan you my collection. Or, you know, anything you want. A cup of sugar, art materials — I have it all.” Anything, I’ll give you anything. Just please don’t leave me, too.
“I— I’m sorry I didn’t make this offer sooner,” she says, her voice catching. “I wanted to— but I also didn’t, and I... but I’m here now. It’s been a long time, but I’m here and I don’t want to stay away from you anymore. I never should have.” She rubs at her watery eyes with her sweater sleeve. Damn November allergies. And cold Montana winds. And her contact lenses. And everything in the world that can be blamed aside from her emotions.
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