"I could definitely get this edited by end of week. I have the bandwidth," Mara says into her webcam, dialed into a company conference call. One of the greatest lies any dedicated worker could ever tell their manager is they have an abundance of non-existent time and energy to impressively complete a task ahead of schedule. She drums her fingers against a stack of papers of the manuscript. "The next Twilight," according to her bosses. A story about a brave young girl taking an excursion across the U.S. to find herself and in the process finds love. Well written, she thinks, and realistic dialogue. And though the writer has an interesting way with words, she finds it hard to concentrate on the meeting's discussion.
She adjusts the lapel of her navy blazer and smooths the creases of her white button up underneath with her hands. While her top half is all business, her bottom is covered by nothing more than a cheap pair of pin-striped men's boxers she loves to sleep in. They'll never know.
"That's why we love you, Mara! Our super star!" Her manager paces back and forth in the filled meeting room. "Does someone on the line have construction going on? If so, please mute yourself."
Mara is pleasantly ignorant to the clamor of her ancient dishwasher behind her. What kind of jackass mows their lawn during an 8 AM conference call? The humming builds. She rolls her eyes, still believing she's innocent, as dirty gray water seeps out the sides and bottom of the machine in her kitchen.
"Not me."
"Me neither."
"I'm in my office. Door is closed."
All the other remote workers chime in. The speaker icon of the conference line by Mara's name indicates the noise is coming from her. Her eyes widen as she's suddenly aware of the noise behind her in the kitchen. Glancing over her shoulder, steam billows above the counter followed by a foul odor.
"Um..." Mara fidgets with her top. "I think that might be me. I'm so sorry." She goes to stand and remembers her near-bare bottom half. "Shiii - sure wish I would have gotten that thing fixed before I moved in! I'm so sorry, everyone. I have to go and have to get this handled. I'm really really sorry."
With a bang of the vibrating dishwasher, Mara hangs up. They'll never take me seriously. At least they didn't see the boxers in my last meeting with them all.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck." She grabs a wad of paper towels and attempts to clean up the mess to no avail. A puddle of dirty water gathers on the floor. "Why me? WHY ME? Stop. Just stop," she yells at the dishwasher like a frustrated wizard whose spell is failing. Quickly turning off the machine, she puts on her combat boots - no time to tie them - and runs downstairs to face the super she's subconsciously been trying to avoid.
A myriad of sounds poke through the cracks around Harry's ajar door. Jingling bells and frustrated grunts. The most obvious sound of them all, however, is the playing of Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain."
"LISTEN TO THE WIND BLOW, watch the sun rise. Run in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies." Harry sings through the clamor and clank of his latest project. His voice is angelic and smooth. She closes her eyes for a moment to soak in his baritone vocals before knocking on the painted wood. Already unlocked, the door swings open.
She finds him standing shirtless, a ratty flannel swung over his shoulder. Grease streaks down his toned abdomen. He runs his fingers through his brunette curls in frustration, gripping tightly at the scalp before letting them loose on the top of his head. He stares at a KISS pinball machine, a new conquest of his, and steps forward to mess with a fan of frayed wires.
"You have got to be fucking kidding me," Harry curses at the machine, staring at a vintage manual. "Red to blue. Blue to green. Green to yellow. Why the fuck aren't you working?"
Mara clears her throat, already several steps into the super's apartment. The sound grabs Harry's attention. "I'm sorry to barge in. The door was unlocked."
"Mara," Harry turns down his boombox and swings the flannel off his shoulder, putting it on but leaving it unbuttoned. Sweat shimmers between his pecs, down to his belly button and back up across his glistening cheekbones. The sight is breathtaking. "Everything okay?" He wipes his forehead with his forearm.
"What?" She finds herself lost in the sight in front of her. "Oh... yeah. Everything is fine. My dishwasher broke down and is making all kinds of noise. Water is spilling everywhere. Not sure what to do. Seemed a little bit too urgent to put in a formal maintenance request."
Harry looks Mara up and down, from her loose, untied combat boots, to her snug men's boxer shorts, and up to her more formals blazer and white button-up. He smiles to himself. With anyone else, such a look would have been quizzical but with her it's appropriate.
"Of course. It's due for some work anyways. I'm sorry that happened." Harry pulls at the bottom hem of his flannel.
"What do you have here?" Mara intrudes. She walks over to the broken pinball machine. She remembers playing games like this when she was little. The glass removed from the top, Mara is mesmerized by the detailed art and metal intricacies of the obstacle course inside. "Wow," she whispers. Leaning against the frame, she's startled by the machine suddenly turning on.
LICK IT UP. LICK IT UP. OOOOH YEAH. IT'S ONLY RIGHT NOW.
LICK IT UP. LICK IT UP. OOOH YEAH.
"I guess all it needed was your touch," Harry scoffs, walking to the back of the machine to unplug it, halting the music. "I'll go take a look at the dishwasher." He puts his screwdriver into his toolbox and heads to the front door with his kit in hand.
"Wait!" She yells toward him, stopping him in his tracks. "Can I play it?"
"Sure." Harry's adorable accent hangs in the air for a moment. He grins, moving to plug it back in. He grabs the giant piece of glass and lays it on top. Mara pulls the lever, shooting the shiny ball into the ramps and lights ahead. The ball hits rubber bands and short pillars, shooting left to right, right to left, and down to the pocket where the two main levers sit at the front of machine. She panics and hits both the buttons on either side, holding the ball at the crook of the arms and eventually down the middle. A loss.
"You know you can tilt the machine, right?" Harry suggests with a giggle. "Here." He stands behind her. His delicate fingertips unintentionally tickle down her wrists and backs of her hands until his palms embrace her knuckles. "Like this." He brings her hand to the launching place and helps her pull back the spring, shooting the ball forward. The playing piece begins to move down to the far left of the machine when his body suddenly clenches around hers. He goes to buck the side of the machine, driving his hip into her. The balls shoots to a high-point area, but the paused shock in both of their skeletons cause the ball to fall straight down the middle once again.
"So... uh... that dishwasher." He steps back. She turns to face him, their bodies only mere centimeters apart. "I'm sorry..." His pupils dart down her face, her chest, and back up until they meet hers once again. They both stand there, waiting, thinking, wondering when the other will make a move. Her compulsive nature drives her forward.
"Don't," she breathes before pushing her lips against his. He freezes, not reciprocating her move. The taste of brown sugar is left on her lips as she pulls away. He stares. She stares back. Her hands grasped around the collar of his still-unbuttoned flannel, she looks deep into his wide eyes. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry." She gives him a moment to respond, but when he doesn't, she rushes out the door and back up to her crumbling apartment.
* * *
It's okay to be scared because fear is what makes us brave. You just to have to push through it. Fear doesn't own you, Eden. It never has.
Rain trickles down the pages of the manuscript on her lap titled The Brave Ones (by oceanlyfe). One. Two. Three four five, she counts. The pace of the droplets quickens. Mara sits on the couch on the rooftop, losing herself in the romantic words of the writer. She brings the white parchment to her chest, protecting the work from the elements, and lays her head back, eyes closed.
Her hair, perfectly straightened, begins to frizz amid the moisture of the atmosphere, but she doesn't care. Precipitation is the least of her worries right now. All she feels is scared and alone. Moving to her first place alone, this was never anything she expected. To be wrapped up in the shy spirit of a man who wanted nothing more than to fix her apartment's ailments. Betty and Harry were the closest thing to a family she's recognized in forever and now all she feels is that she's ruined that comforting environment. Why did she have to take it to such a place? She wants to jump into the pages of the book she's editing and live there forever. Live in a world where courage is recognized and admired.
She lets her skin soak in the rain, secretly hoping a bolt of lightning will eviscerate her existence. She doesn't even know if she's welcomed up here anymore.
"Mara?" A familiar voice rings through the heavy rain.
She opens her eyes, her head still tilted back on the couch. Harry stands above her but she has only a second to register this. Before she knows it, he bends down to kiss her. The cold centers of his hands snuggly embrace her warm, embarrassed cheeks. Her lips envelope his bottom, his upper lip softly massaging the underpart of her mouth. She loses herself in the feeling of his tender kiss. Oxygen escapes her lungs, her blood, her body. She props herself up, pushing herself more deeply into his kiss. She turns to face him, not removing her lips from his. Her hands make their way to his collar once again, and she brings him in tighter.
They both separate for a minute. Electricity sparks between their damp bodies. Lightning strikes in the background, a perfect metaphor for a moment.
"We should go inside," Harry warns, looking at the growing storm in the distance. He rubs his thumbs across her high cheekbones. Never has he seen someone so sweet and endearing. She was like a character from one of the many books he's read to Betty. A heroine and a romantic. A lover and a winner of all battles. A Jo March. An Elizabeth Bennett. A self-sufficient, adorable and intelligent woman, out to make it on her own. Living in the concave of her clavicle was a dream. Being there to fix even the tiniest of her issues would be an honor.
"Wait... where did this come from?" She looks at him, the rain getting heavier.
"You didn't let me explain earlier. You just caught me off guard is all. If you think I didn't want that though, you're even crazier than I thought you were." He laughs, beads of water dripping down his cupid's bow and into his mouth. Light bulbs of moisture rest on the tips of his long eyelashes, each dropping down his chiseled face with each blink.
She uses her hand to flatten the growing curls of her hair, embarrassed by his words.
"Stop." He puts his hands over hers, stopping her from flattening the quirks of her look. "I didn't know your hair was curly."
"A curse," she nervously laughs.
"A blessing," he says, twirling one of the curls around his index finger.
"It doesn't look terrible?"
"What are you talking about? You can do whatever makes you feel most comfortable, but this..." he runs his fingers through the ends of her hair before bringing them up to her jawline. "This is the real you. And I love it."
* * *
Author's Note
Thank you oceanlyfe for letting us reference your work in Mara's manuscript. Such a beautiful story. If you haven't already read The Brave Ones, we highly recommend you check it out.