I hear you call my name and it feels like home
It's 5:04 am when Meg is awakened from a less-than-sound sleep by someone knocking on the apartment door.
And knocking.
And knocking.
Carrie steps out into the hallway, softball bat in hand, just as Meg reaches the front door. A bleary-eyed Olivia appears a second later, holding the cordless phone.
Meg stands up on her tiptoes to look though the peephole in the door, and then turns back to her roommates, surprised. "It's Alain."
At five o'clock on Saturday morning. Knocking on the door. Again.
"Better let him in before he wakes up half the building," Olivia says.
"Do you want us to stay?" Carrie adds, though she has lowered the bat. Meg has suspected it has not gone unnoticed by her roommates that Alain hasn't been around in a week.
"No, it's okay. Go back to bed. Thanks, though."
Meg undoes the various locks on the front door. "Alain? What are you--?"
It's as far as she gets before he kisses her, his hands on either side of her face, her back against the door frame.
Which, she supposes, means that he's probably not here to break up with her.
"I had to see you," he says.
"At five in the morning? Wait, do your parents know where you are?" Because it's not exactly a normal time to be out visiting.
He waves a hand, dismissively. "They think I'm staying over with Luc."
"And does Luc know where you are?"
"He's asleep," Alain says. And when Meg opens her mouth to protest further, he lays one finger across her lips. "And I left him a note."
"All right," Meg says. "I just . . . didn't want anyone to worry. Do you want to come in?"
The good news, she supposes, is that she's been dating him long enough (and woken up with him often enough) that she's not too terribly self-conscious about the fact that she's in pajamas, with her hair escaping from its tangle-preventing braids, and unbrushed teeth.
The bad news is that there's a lot of self-conscious before you hit too terribly. And that things have gotten awkward enough for her to feel self-conscious around Alain at all.
Meg sits down on the couch, but Alain is just-short-of-pacing.
"So," he says, and then there's a long pause.
"Yes?" she says, finally.
"I've been thinking. About everything you told me. And . . ."
"And?"
"I had all this planned," he says. "What I was going to say. How. I've been up all night planning this. I couldn't even wait until it was really morning. And now I can't remember, or it doesn't sound right anymore. The thing is . . ." Alain stops walking. "It's kind of hard to believe those stories."
"Oh. I see."
Maybe he is here to break up with her, after all.
"I'm not done. It's hard to believe the stories, Meg. But it's easy to believe you."
Meg blinks. It's five in the morning and she hasn't exactly slept well in something like a month. "I . . . I'm not sure that makes sense."
Alain looks at her, and then starts to laugh. "Ma belle, there's a magical bar that follows you around Montreal, and I'm the one not making sense?"
"Sorry, I . . ."
He sits down next to her on the couch. "It makes sense," he says. "Anyone else -- almost anyone else -- and I wouldn't have been able to believe it, but I believe you. I've been thinking, a lot, about what you said, and when you said things had happened, and what you were like when they did. Days you'd been upset and I didn't know why, why your friends were only in Montreal for the day last spring, the reason you were so sure that Robert was not going to bother you again, even why you came when you did last summer while your sister was visiting . . . it all makes more sense when I add this bar of yours in.
"So, either you've been delusional the whole time I've known you, or it really happens. And maybe I don't know enough about crazy people to know, but I think I would have noticed. And you don't lie, Meg. You keep secrets, sometimes, but I can see why you do, with something like this."
He smiles, a little. "And then I thought, well, if I was some all powerful thing picking people from across time and space, I'd start with Meg. So, if there is something out there doing just that, it makes a certain sense to me that it would pick you.
"Anyway, whatever is happening . . . it's part of who you are, right? And I really like who you are. I love who you are. And I want to know about things that make you happy or sad or scared . . . where ever they happen.
"So . . . I love you. And I trust you. And if you say there's a magical bar that follows you around Montreal and where you go to talk to angels and vampires and whatever . . . then I believe you."
"You believe me?"
"Yes."
"You believe me."
"Yes," Alain says again. And then looks at her. "Meg . . . are you crying?"
Meg brings her hand up to her face to check, and then nods. "I seem to be, yes."
"Was it . . . I've never seen you crying before. Did I say something wrong?"
She shakes her head. "No. You said everything right."
"Then why are you crying?"
"I don't know," Meg says. It just seemed the thing to do, somehow.
"But it's good, right?"
"It's very good, yes."
"And we -- you and me -- we're all right, yes?"
"We're better than all right."
"Good," Alain says. And then, "Good," again, before pulling her over so that she's curled up against him instead of the corner of the couch.
"I really have no idea what I did to deserve you, Alain."
"That one is easy."
"Is it?"
"Yes. First, you made yourself into an intelligent, kind, funny, beautiful, wonderful girl. And then you gave me a ticket to a play."
"And that's all it took?"
"Yes."
"You, love, are an easy sell. And the best boyfriend anyone, anywhere has ever had."
And knocking.
And knocking.
Carrie steps out into the hallway, softball bat in hand, just as Meg reaches the front door. A bleary-eyed Olivia appears a second later, holding the cordless phone.
Meg stands up on her tiptoes to look though the peephole in the door, and then turns back to her roommates, surprised. "It's Alain."
At five o'clock on Saturday morning. Knocking on the door. Again.
"Better let him in before he wakes up half the building," Olivia says.
"Do you want us to stay?" Carrie adds, though she has lowered the bat. Meg has suspected it has not gone unnoticed by her roommates that Alain hasn't been around in a week.
"No, it's okay. Go back to bed. Thanks, though."
Meg undoes the various locks on the front door. "Alain? What are you--?"
It's as far as she gets before he kisses her, his hands on either side of her face, her back against the door frame.
Which, she supposes, means that he's probably not here to break up with her.
"I had to see you," he says.
"At five in the morning? Wait, do your parents know where you are?" Because it's not exactly a normal time to be out visiting.
He waves a hand, dismissively. "They think I'm staying over with Luc."
"And does Luc know where you are?"
"He's asleep," Alain says. And when Meg opens her mouth to protest further, he lays one finger across her lips. "And I left him a note."
"All right," Meg says. "I just . . . didn't want anyone to worry. Do you want to come in?"
The good news, she supposes, is that she's been dating him long enough (and woken up with him often enough) that she's not too terribly self-conscious about the fact that she's in pajamas, with her hair escaping from its tangle-preventing braids, and unbrushed teeth.
The bad news is that there's a lot of self-conscious before you hit too terribly. And that things have gotten awkward enough for her to feel self-conscious around Alain at all.
Meg sits down on the couch, but Alain is just-short-of-pacing.
"So," he says, and then there's a long pause.
"Yes?" she says, finally.
"I've been thinking. About everything you told me. And . . ."
"And?"
"I had all this planned," he says. "What I was going to say. How. I've been up all night planning this. I couldn't even wait until it was really morning. And now I can't remember, or it doesn't sound right anymore. The thing is . . ." Alain stops walking. "It's kind of hard to believe those stories."
"Oh. I see."
Maybe he is here to break up with her, after all.
"I'm not done. It's hard to believe the stories, Meg. But it's easy to believe you."
Meg blinks. It's five in the morning and she hasn't exactly slept well in something like a month. "I . . . I'm not sure that makes sense."
Alain looks at her, and then starts to laugh. "Ma belle, there's a magical bar that follows you around Montreal, and I'm the one not making sense?"
"Sorry, I . . ."
He sits down next to her on the couch. "It makes sense," he says. "Anyone else -- almost anyone else -- and I wouldn't have been able to believe it, but I believe you. I've been thinking, a lot, about what you said, and when you said things had happened, and what you were like when they did. Days you'd been upset and I didn't know why, why your friends were only in Montreal for the day last spring, the reason you were so sure that Robert was not going to bother you again, even why you came when you did last summer while your sister was visiting . . . it all makes more sense when I add this bar of yours in.
"So, either you've been delusional the whole time I've known you, or it really happens. And maybe I don't know enough about crazy people to know, but I think I would have noticed. And you don't lie, Meg. You keep secrets, sometimes, but I can see why you do, with something like this."
He smiles, a little. "And then I thought, well, if I was some all powerful thing picking people from across time and space, I'd start with Meg. So, if there is something out there doing just that, it makes a certain sense to me that it would pick you.
"Anyway, whatever is happening . . . it's part of who you are, right? And I really like who you are. I love who you are. And I want to know about things that make you happy or sad or scared . . . where ever they happen.
"So . . . I love you. And I trust you. And if you say there's a magical bar that follows you around Montreal and where you go to talk to angels and vampires and whatever . . . then I believe you."
"You believe me?"
"Yes."
"You believe me."
"Yes," Alain says again. And then looks at her. "Meg . . . are you crying?"
Meg brings her hand up to her face to check, and then nods. "I seem to be, yes."
"Was it . . . I've never seen you crying before. Did I say something wrong?"
She shakes her head. "No. You said everything right."
"Then why are you crying?"
"I don't know," Meg says. It just seemed the thing to do, somehow.
"But it's good, right?"
"It's very good, yes."
"And we -- you and me -- we're all right, yes?"
"We're better than all right."
"Good," Alain says. And then, "Good," again, before pulling her over so that she's curled up against him instead of the corner of the couch.
"I really have no idea what I did to deserve you, Alain."
"That one is easy."
"Is it?"
"Yes. First, you made yourself into an intelligent, kind, funny, beautiful, wonderful girl. And then you gave me a ticket to a play."
"And that's all it took?"
"Yes."
"You, love, are an easy sell. And the best boyfriend anyone, anywhere has ever had."