When I finally broke down and called him, I was sitting in my piece-of-crap car on the side of the highway, crying. Well, crying isn't really the word for it. I was sobbing. Like a baby. Great big gulps of air, never-ending tears, and oh yes, lots of snot. Snot everywhere. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear-view mirror and wow, not pretty.
The letter came a few weeks ago, and I knew before I even touched the envelope that my mother had written it. I'd know that handwriting anywhere and it was postmarked Mississippi. When I opened the letter, the faint, familiar scent clinging to the pages was my mother's perfume.
My parents wrote that they'd hired a private investigator to find me. Almost immediately after I ran away. And since then, they've kept track of me as much as possible. They knew I was happy in Westchester. Knew from pictures taken by the P.I. that I have friends and family at the institute. The reason they contacted me, they wrote, was because they thought enough time has gone by, and that maybe I'm ready to come home. At least for a visit.
I showed the letter to Logan, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his head as he read it through twice. I prepared myself for a fight before he'd even said a word.
And then I crossed the border, drove past the sign welcoming me to the state I was born and raised in. Tears welled and before I knew it, I was on the side of the road, digging my phone out of my purse.
I let it ring and ring, wiping my nose with the back of my wrist, waiting for him to answer. When his voicemail finally picked up - no greeting, typical Logan, just an irritating beep - I didn't bother leaving him a message. Just fumbled blindly with the buttons until the call disconnected, vowing that I would not try again.
What would I have said, anyway? That I made it all the way to Mississippi before I realized he was right and that I might just need some moral support here? That I'm a moron who wouldn't listen?
Honestly, I told myself, I was relieved he hadn't answered. I would have felt beyond stupid, I knew it. Nobody likes hearing the words 'I told you so.' In my heart I knew him well enough to know he'd never say something like that, but I was such a shit to him that he'd have every right.
I mean, I was the one who told him, over and over, that I could do this on my own. That I *needed* to go alone. I actually said that bringing him along would only make a complicated situation that much tougher for everyone involved. I have to do this alone, thanks for the offer to come with me, blah blah blah. I remember rolling my eyes more than once throughout that last conversation.
Blowing him off after all he's done for me? If I were in his shoes, I'd have told me to go fuck myself and been done with it. Logan just looked at me, though, eyebrow arched as he took a slow drag off his cigar while he studied me.
"Take care of yourself, kid," he finally said, aiming the smoke away from my face. "And do me a favor, will ya? When you need me, you call me. Trouble seems to have a way of finding you."
"I will," I said, and stood up. I laid a gloved hand on his shoulder as I passed behind him, and he reached up and covered it with his own.
"Travelin' alone isn't easy, kid, and it sure as hell ain't fun," he said. "Remember that."
My vow not to call him again lasted. Long enough for me to take some deep, cleansing breaths, long enough to dig around in the glove box and find a packet of Kleenex, just barely long enough to pull myself together.
I was firm, resolute, I would not call him. I told myself this while I turned the key in the ignition, ready to rejoin traffic.
The engine had other ideas.
Fantastic.
The tow truck showed up much quicker than I thought it would, a little under thirty minutes after I called. I barely had enough time to get the car more or less cleaned out, everything stuffed inside the trash bag my father always told me to keep in the glove box, before Tommy's Towing showed up.
I wrote Tommy a check up front and after that it didn't take any time at all to get my car hitched to the truck. After squaring away which lucky garage would get my car, I climbed up into the passenger side of the cab. He called in my check number over the phone and then called the garage once it cleared, and then he turned to me.
"Where to?"
Huh? "Huh?"
He seemed kind of exasperated with that answer. Well, hell, who wouldn't be? It's a pretty simple question.
Sighing, he took another stab at it. "Where would you like me to drop you off, ma'am?"
Up until that point, I hadn't even thought about it. Where was I going to go? I haven't seen my parents in four years - arriving in the cab of a tow truck with a tear-stained face and a trash bag? Something told me that wasn't the best idea.
"Uh . . . I don't know," I finally said, weighing my options. First and foremost, how much money did I have left? "Are there any motels around? I mean, I know we're kind of in the middle of nowhere, but . . ."
He thought about it for a second or two, and then said, "There's a cheap motel about forty-five miles from here. You want, I'll drop you off there and just keep going on into Meridian."
"Sounds like a plan to me," I said, and he seemed relieved I managed to make up my mind.
As we merged into traffic, I had a thought. "Hey, how did you get out here so fast?"
"Was on my way back." Tommy wasn't one for conversation, that was clear. At my continued interest, he added, "Garage called me, asked if I felt like another pick-up job."
"Oh."
For a moment, I'd had a weird thought, a niggling suspicion . . . but no. I put that thought outta my head. Logan's many things, but psychic he's not.
I settled the trash bag on the floorboard between my feet and watched the Mississippi landscape go by outside my open window. I never thought I'd be here again. But in a few small ways, it felt as though I'd never left. It was late September the last time I was here, four years ago, and the air smells just as crisp and familiar, the sunlight just as warm.
And then a few strands of snow white hair tangle in the breeze and I remembered just how long four years can be.
"You all right, ma'am?"
I must have sniffled or wiped my eyes, something, I don't know. He kept glancing at me with this worried _expression on his face, like he thought I might just open the door and jump. Exactly how bad did I look?
"I'm fine, thanks," I told him, smiling as brightly as possible. He looked less than reassured.
Logan's always said I'm a crappy liar.
"Really?"
"No," I said. "If haven't noticed, I'm having kind of a bad day. Well, actually, it started a few weeks ago . . ."
And then I proceeded to tell him all about it.
The Lucky Strike isn't your normal, everyday, run-of-the-mill, cheapo motel. Sure, it might sit in the middle of nowhere, a gas station directly across the highway and nothing else for miles and miles. But what in the world beats an isolated motel with a full-fledged bowling alley attached to it?
"There's a bar and grill and everything," Tommy told me, when he pulled up in front, right beneath the sign with the missing T in 'motel.' Stereotypes begin somewhere, you know.
He reached across me, opened the door, and I hopped out, and I could practically feel his boot on my backside. I know I wasn't the best company he's probably had all day, but damn! A person could be friendlier. And besides, he asked. Twice.
Okay, so maybe my story sounded like convoluted nonsense, since I had to omit the mutant aspect for obvious reasons.
I turned to say thanks just in time to catch the trash bag, and then he was shutting the door. So I just waved and watched him pull out of the lot, dragging my poor, crappy car behind him. It was only when he was back out on the highway that I remembered the suitcase in the trunk. The suitcase full of all sorts of useful items I might need, like clothes, underwear, a toothbrush. A hairbrush. A bra devoid of evil underwires.
Well, fuck.
I thought it would take longer to check in, but it didn't. That might be because the bored-looking desk clerk took one look at my post-panic, make-up smeared face and the trash bag dragging from one hand and said, "Afternoon, sweetheart. We got several vacancies, but it'll be cash only, sorry. The, uh, the check reader's busted again."
Well, double fuck.
Can't exactly blame him, though, can I? I wouldn't take a check from something the cat dragged in, either. I didn't bother asking about credit cards. There was a hand-written sign posted clear as day on the wall behind him: No credit cards. No Visa, No Mastercard, No Nothing. No.
So now here I am, sitting cross-legged in the sun on top of a picnic table whose better days were many years ago. The table's set in the middle of a patch of grass beside the lot, with a clear view of the highway so I can count the cars go by until my brain shuts down.
I dug the bottle of water out of the Hefty Bag o' Earthly Possessions, and I've been nursing that along for about half an hour now while I figure out what to do.
My growling stomach knows what it wants me to do, but I only have about ten bucks in cash on me, and nearly half that's in change. And who knows what I'm going to end up needing that for? It would be practical to save it, but I know sooner or later I'm going to end up at that gas station over there, buying up all the Butterfingers I can.
Crap. I don't wanna call my parents. I want to show up on their porch poised and confident and self-assured, wearing clean clothes and not reeking of sweat and Tommy's cigarette smoke. The last thing I want is for them to come rescue me, when I don't even know if they'll bother listening without hanging up as soon as they recognize my voice.
I could call the school, but everyone and their brother said this wasn't the best plan in the world. Mississippi isn't exactly known for its tolerance. I know I shouldn't let pride get in the way when it looks like I truly need some help, and if this situation doesn't just scream 'help me, for God's sake, please,' I don't know what does.
So that leaves Logan. And he did say to call him when I need him.
When the phone rings in my hand, it nearly shocks the shit out of me. I don't even need to look at the display to know who's calling. The ringtone is different, for one thing, when Logan calls, it's louder and resonating, sure to get my attention. For another, it figures. It just figures.
And sure enough: Logan's Cell.
I take a deep breath, the phone rings again, and I flip it open. "Hey."
"What's wrong? You were crying."
Huh? He's managed to catch me at a rare, non-weepy moment - I'm not crying. "What?"
"The message you left."
He must have heard me sniffling or something after I got his voicemail, before I could get the call to disconnect.
That means he's already got adrenaline coursing through him.
And there will be no dancing around the panic attack on the side of the road and skipping straight to the brown-down car portion of the discussion.
"Oh. That." Hell. "Yeah."
"Marie."
Ooh, that's a fun tone. Okay. Okay.
"I drove past the big ol' 'Welcome to Mississippi' sign and then . . . things got a little . . . blurry from there."
There's a drawn-out pause and there's noise going on in the background but I can't quite make it out. "Blurry," he repeats, just to be sure his extra-sensitive hearing got it right.
"It was just . . . overwhelming," I tell him, toying absently with my shoestrings. I can hear him breathing, waiting for me to continue, and God, that alone is more comforting than he could ever know. "Being back in Mississippi. Knowing that in a few hours, I'd be seeing my parents. All of a sudden it just - I don't know. Got to me. So I called."
He takes a deep breath, could be a sigh, I don't know. "Damn. I'm sorry I didn't answer, darlin'. I was kind of tied up at the moment."
Visions of a tied-up Logan fill my head for a moment, and let me tell you, nothing perks a girl up faster. Seriously. Mmm.
"Aw, it's okay. You didn't miss much." I doubt even his enhanced senses could have made much of it out, anyway. "All I was going to tell you was how stupid I am for not letting you come with me, how sorry I am for treating you that way. I'm a silly little girl, and I should have listened. You know, that sort of thing."
"Yeah, I didn't need to hear all that," he answers, the tense edge to his voice disappearing, and he must be in a bar because someone just asked him if he wanted another. Whiskey, probably.
I can't help smiling. "I'm not saying it would have been anything you didn't already know, sugar."
"You all right now?"
"Well . . . actually, no. You know what you said about me and trouble?"
"Shit," he mutters, and I can easily picture the look on his face as he braces for it. "What happened?"
It doesn't take me long to spill it. He listens without interruption, and that alone isn't exactly the best sign. "And so here I am."
"With no money."
"Right. Well, no cash."
"And your suitcase, with all your clothes, is in the truck of your car. Which is probably still hitched to a tow truck."
"Yes."
He doesn't say anything for a moment or two. "Where are you?"
"The Lucky Strike Motel on I-59 South," I immediately answer. "About thirty miles outside of Meridian."
Thought what in the world he can do from New York, I don't know.
"Sit tight," he says. "I'll be there in about an hour."
"What?"
I couldn't have heard that right. There must be signal interference. The only way he could be here within an hour is if he used the Blackbird, and the price of jet fuel kind of makes me doubt that.
"I'm not that far past Alabama/Mississippi border, Marie." He lets that sink in for a moment, and then adds, "I'll be there in an hour."
He's been following me all this time? Huh. Part of me wants to be angry, but on the other hand, I'm sitting on top of a picnic bench outside a motel/bowling alley with no cash to my name.
"Logan, I . . . I mean - you've been . . . . you're . . ."
"Yeah." And he sounds damned amused, too. "Pick a sentence by the time I get there, darlin."
There's a clicking noise and by the time I find my voice, I'm talking to the dial tone.
I don't like the idea of having to be rescued, and I'm not too thrilled that he was so certain I'd need his help that he followed after me, but God. I do need rescuing. That's a humbling realization for someone in training to join the X-Men.
Facing my parents after so long isn't going to be easy, I never thought it would be. I should have listened to him from the get-go; who in the world knows me better than he does?
The main reason I didn't want him to go with me was shallow. My parents aren't going to know how to deal with him. They're going to look at him, and more importantly, look at the way he looks at me, and they're going to make assumptions and ask questions I don't have the answers to.
Since we've never really defined what we are, to anyone, to ourselves, I thought it would be awkward.
And it will be. But maybe it's time we got around to deciding a few things, instead of dancing around the issue.
I want to see my parents. In their letter, they wrote that they want to understand me and why I left, and they want to get to know me. Well, I'm an idiot, pushing Logan away, because he's such a big part of who I am. If they want to accept me, he's part of the deal.
He knew that, even if I didn't. That makes me smile, that makes my chest feel tight, that makes butterflies do their thing inside my stomach.
Heading for the gas station across the highway, which should have some kind of jerky next to the Butterfingers, I have to admit it.
I can't wait for him to get here.
*end*
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Story Notes:
Devil Doll and Diebin and Diane and everyone involved with the WRFA rock. You all do a fabulous job. Thank you for providing such a great archive. Also, thank you to each and every one of you I've been annoying with fic-related whining the past few days. Thanks to Chicklet25 and Diebin and Macha and especially Bethy for looking this over and proudly declaring it 'not crap.' Love you guys. And I'll shut up now. (;