come as you are

come doused in mud, soaked in bleach,

as i want you to be,

as a trend, as a friend,

as an old memoria

— Come as You Are, Nirvana

*

It wasn’t a real offer, Nat knows.

She’s not delusional. It had been late last year, during one of the team’s mandatory (heavily enforced by Jackie) sleepovers, when Nat had whistled, damn, nice house, Lot. And Lottie had shrugged, quiet and modest about her family’s excess: take it from me, if you want.

There’d been a lot going on that night. Movies and watered-down liquor and several mind numbing card games, all in the name of team bonding. Lottie had probably forgotten, but Nat hadn’t. Mostly because she’d never slept anywhere that fancy. She thought about it, occasionally, the fact that Lottie genuinely slept in a house with a grand foyer and a live-in maid. She thought more about her own home, and the way it was conveniently never included in Jackie’s psycho sleepover rotation.

She can’t blame Jackie for that little move, bitchy as it was. It’s best to keep the team separate from the rest of her shit. But still… Lottie had offered.

So, Nat knocks.

Regret hits her almost as soon as the door swings open. Lottie is eyeing her the way one might a stray cat, with concern and vague disgust. Nat tries not to flinch away from both. She knows what she looks like. Her clothes are tattered and soaked from the rain. Her breath reeks of whiskey. She’s got sickly white skin and a fresh bruise to mar it.

“You look…” Lottie begins, then stops. Maybe thinks better of it. 

”Aww, shucks.” She grins, just barely, before her eyes find the front steps. Her jaw locks. “I need a place to stay, Lot.”

Nat forces her chin up at the very last second and stares hard at Lottie, almost daring her to argue.

She doesn’t.

*

Nat’s plan had been to curl up on one of the couches (she’s counted three so far), pass out, and be gone by morning. Lottie isn’t having it.

”No way you’re sleeping here like that. Not when you smell like shit.” Lottie doesn’t pull her punches. “Come on. There’s a bath upstairs.”

And there is. It’s obnoxiously large, melded to the floor by four golden legs. Not a crack or stain in sight. There’s an array of bottles balanced on the edge. Soaps and bath salts. Pinks and purples. Lottie flicks through them all purposefully, as if there’s an art to it. Meanwhile the water runs and runs, steam building where words might’ve.

“We have lavender, if you want.” Lottie offers.

Nat shrugs.

Lottie gives her a rundown of the taps and towels, then leaves her to it. 

The lavender isn’t so bad, really. Neither is the bath. She slips far enough down that water pools around her shoulders, catching strips of her hair. Her muscles heave a sigh of relief. The bruise on her back pulses. The room itself seems to invite comfort - warm and now sweet smelling - but Nat fights it off. She holds herself taut, refuses to relax. She doesn’t want this to be a thing, gossip on Monday or a debt she has to pay. That’s why she came to Lottie in the first place. She doesn’t talk shit.

Nat rises gracelessly out of the bath, smattering water everywhere. She dries off, considers her wet clothes, and tentatively opts for a robe.

Across the hall, there’s a guest room with the bed done up and the door left open in silent invitation. She considers that, too, but only for a moment.

She falls asleep downstairs, two stories and five bedrooms apart from the only other girl in the house.

*

”Double knot those laces,” Nat says to her on Monday. They’re on the field. “Or you’ll end up eating shit.”

”Right.” Lottie nods. And that is all.

*

Nat sleeps over three more times after that.

*

There’s a fourth time and a fifth without her meaning there to be. Lottie never says anything, never asks questions. If she did, it’d be a lot easier for Nat to go.

Nat doesn’t want to talk. Her home is all noise, all shouts and screams and insults. She prefers Lottie’s house and its perpetual silence. Nights pass easier there. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder. She stops flinching. Stops shrinking away from the shadows. Gets sloppy.

When she wakes up, the room is bright. The sun is shining. Light leaks in and cuts across her face. She stretches, yawns, then slows to a dazed stop. It’s morning. It’s morning, and she’s still here on Lottie’s couch. Fuck.

Sounds of movement come from the other room. Footsteps, glasses clinking, a fridge being opened and closed. Lottie. Part of her wants to sneak out the door without a word. A larger part of her knows that’s chicken shit. Nat sighs and stands up resolutely.

Lottie’s in the kitchen, tinkering with a coffee maker. She pauses once she sees Nat come in. Nat stands in the doorway, arms folded. They look at each other.

“Is that coffee?” Nat asks, finally.

Lottie hums in affirmation. ”Want some?”

”Sure.”

”There’s eggs and some bacon left in the pan, too, if you want.” Lottie moves easily around the kitchen, collecting plates. She’s still in her pajamas - a tank top and a pair of cotton shorts, both soft pink. Cute.

Nat drops herself on one of the stools near the counter. She keeps her hands in her lap, feeling intrusive. “I thought you had a maid for this sort of thing.”

”I told her she could go home.”

Why, Nat wants to ask, but she’s wary of getting the ball rolling on questions. There are answers she’d rather keep close to her chest, things she’d prefer not to scrape out and spill over the kitchen table. She shifts, testing each dull throb of her skin. Her body holds its pain silently.

”Cream or sugar?” Lottie faces her, two mugs held in hand.

Nat shrugs. “Whatever’s fine.”

Lottie just keeps looking at her. Deal with the easy questions first, if you must.

”…cream, I guess.”