She'll Be Alright (Rated T, Cairo Sweet/Jonathan Miller (Jairo), angst, fluff, for hurricane relief efforts in the South, 1300 word drabble)
The weather was as muggy as it had ever been, on and off, during their stay, but Jon surmised that the faint frown on her face that had weighted her bowed lips down during the times it was too hot to write wasn't there for the lack of inspiration or motivation.
Jon tried to quickly slide the glass door shut, but the faint smoke smell followed him in. Cairo was curled into herself on the small couch, scrolling through her apps.
“Cairo,” he leaned against the wall, staring at her ponytailed profile. “I thought we agreed —”
“That contract is void, Jon,” she snapped, more out of despair than irritance. “I can't —” she made a half-hearted effort to look up, but her neck was hurting from being held hostage by her compulsion towards worry. She sighed.
It wasn't him, but he wasn't helping.
She sighed again, the frustration having collapsed into defeat as her hand fell into her lap. “I just can't.”
Their little one bedroom apartment in Cergy-Pontoise was tiny, but she was tiny, “So it works out,” she had cooed upon her booking with her cheeky, dimpled grin. At the time, it was her romantic heart that just wanted to get away from all of the heartache that home had left them to suffer, Paris being the first stop on their year-long tour of living — and loving — in Europe.
The apartment was perfect for that, offering a cozy — perhaps slightly cramped — living space for them to begin their journey together, writing whenever and wherever they felt like it, whether it be on the queen bed or lounging in the small garden patio that reminded them of home. It was the color scheme of the listing that had drawn Cairo in, but once they arrived, it thrilled her even more; the blacks, greys, celadon and verdant greens of the paint and decor matched everything at Sweetland Manor, greatly lessening her anxiety and keeping her homesickness at bay in the slightly paler and more modern trade-up. The garden even had an ironwork table, albeit a small, round, white one whose surface was not equipped in either size or stability for the kinds of activity that the one back in Benson had seen. The only thing they hadn't quite counted on was the size of the (mini)fridge and the lack of a full stove, for as cute it was that the aesthetic fit Cairo's petite stature, it didn't cooperate well with either Cairo or Jon’s ravenous appetites for something other than sex and cigarettes. Still, it had become their home away from home, their writing and lovemaking something out of a quaint and boringly repetitive erotic novel that brought them the pleasure and bonding that she had only dreamt about when she planned her gap year around the man she was smitten with, and who was smitten with her. It had been a dream, these past two months ‘under the roofs of Paris’, until the nightmare back home invaded their tranquility.
He sat down, nudging his way against her side, his left arm coaxing her shoulders into an easy slump against his chest.
“I know, alright. You...aren't the only one scared to death about all this shit.”
She shifted, her knuckles idly sliding against his tee. “You worried about Bea?”
He blinked, his brow twitching before correcting itself. There wasn't a hint of venom in her voice at the mention of his soon-to-be ex-wife.
“She ain't even in the pathway. Neither is Benson, you know —”
“It's close enough! Knoxville —”
“Is two counties over! And even if the floods are bad, it's solid. It'll be fine —”
“How do you even know that —”
“It's Lovell Hill. Hill. You ever get floodin’ there?”
“It don't matter if I never got floodin' this bad before, Jon! People on top of fuckin’ mountains are gettin’ affected. There's dead bodies in the trees, kids, babies floatin’ down the floodwaters. A thousand year flood done washed Asheville away,” her voice cracked. “I hate it here.”
“You don't hate it here —”
“Yes I do! Right now I do! I can't do nuthin’ about anything!”
“And what exactly do you think you could be doin’ back home besides bein’ trapped in the house with nowhere to go except the second floor?”
“She'd find her way to that second floor,” he spoke softly but assertively, a hand patting the air as if to quickly stamp out a flame. He accidentally let a small tick of impatience slip through his throat, but immediately recovered, reaching for her hand. “Or the attic. She'll be okay —”
“There's no one to feed her! Boris n’ Black evacuated! Did they take the cat? No, they didn't!”
Jon recalled the text. It had been a flash flood warning, and they all needed to evacuate immediately. There was no time for anyone to drive all the way over to the Hill to get the cat.
“I'm just — I'm just — ” her hand bounced against his stomach as a video on her phone held a silent loop of the rushing, ochre-colored waters of the floods onscreen. “The Rainbow Bridge up in Lake Lure washed away. Peoples’ live pets are bein’ washed away. There was one lady who lost ten cats — ten of ‘em, and I can't — hey!”
Jon had snatched the phone out of her hand and kept an iron grip on her waist as he held her phone at his long arm’s length.
“Watchin’ those TikTok videos ain't helpin’, baby girl.”
He started to chuckle as she struggled but wasn’t truly putting any effort into getting it back. She only mildly hated it when he was like this, smacking at his arms until she hugged them to her chest in a caress, too drained from all of the blunt, realtime depictions of life and death at the hands of a very angry Earth. When she relaxed, he tossed her phone two feet away onto the bed and lay with her comfortably cradled in his arm.
“I know it's hard. It's hard feelin’ so — helpless. But there ain't nuthin’ either of us can do right now except live our lives.” He cupped her rounded jaw with his fingers, stroking his thumb against her pouty lip. “At least try to.”
She kissed the pad of his thumb, but then shook away from it. “I’m tryin’.”
“I know you are.” They lay in silence for a minute, listening to each other's heavy breaths in the damp evening air. “We can't go home now.”
“...I love you more,” she pouted.
“You just love more. Explains your pain over all of that —”, his hand squeezed her shoulder, “ — stuff back home.”
“And you ain't pained? You ain't bothered at all? You…heartless old codger.”
He laughed. “That what you really think of me?”
“No. But I hate that you're so calm n’ collected. It just makes me look crazier.”
“You're allowed to be crazier.”
“Ain't nuthin’ to do with that and you know it.”
“That's fine, I've only been packin’ for London for the past three days —”
“Funny, I thought I just heard a little crazy, farty little forest fairy tellin’ me that she loved me more than I love her.”
“I do,” she pressed her palms into his stomach as she lifted up, eliciting a sharp wince in his disbelieving, open-mouthed grin. She flashed a smug grin of her own and gave him a quick peck on the lips before pushing up and off, bouncing to the bed for her phone. “Imma call Daddy. I bet he can get someone out there to help.”
“...You do whatever you need to do, sweet pea.”
The region in which the Under Virgin Circumstances universe is set has seen unprecedented devastation to all life with Hurricane Helene and hurricane season is far from over. Here are a few links where you can help contribute funds to the rescue and relief efforts:
The International Fund for Animal Welfare donation pages for Helene and for Milton Efforts
The Humane Society of the United States Hurricane Rescue & Relief Efforts
Charity Navigator: Hurricane Helene & Milton Relief Efforts (includes links for pets and their humans)
