Re: Log: Harry's House, Marta/Harry
Marta had never been to Harry's father's house, so she had no basis for comparison there, but she knew that the house laid out before her was more than she expected. She knew Harry's dad had money - that hadn't been a secret even back in school - but she she hadn't even realized there were houses like this in Repose. Vegas, yes. New York, sure. Repose? Not so much. But she was obviously wrong, because here one was, matching the address Harry'd sent her.
And upon seeing the house, she probably shouldn't have been surprised (or a little disappointed) that Harry wasn't the one to answer the door when she knocked. No, that duty went to a butler (of course...), who let her inside and guided her through the house to a study. Everything she passed looked expensive, and a different kind of expensive than she'd known at Seven's house. And she hadn't realized that there could be different kinds of expensive. But the shit around her obviously was, and in a way that screamed it (and where the fuck was that music coming from?). Her heels hit hard against over-shined floors as she walked through and every new room they passed through made her feel more and more out of place. She hadn't expected to feel so... small and dirty. She felt more like the girl that had lived in a trailer north of town than she'd felt in months. Visiting Harry wasn't supposed to make her feel like that.
The feeling didn't ease when the butler finally showed her into the study, the feeling in there the same as the rest of the house, and more. Not only was the study expensive, but it was also smart in a way she didn't know rooms could be. Marta took a breath, telling herself that she could fake her way through feeling confident, but then she saw Harry. And while it was obvious that the man who stood when she entered the room was Harry, it wasn't the one she'd expected. He'd mentioned a band to her, and that had started to form a picture in her mind of how he might have changed since she saw him last, but this wasn't a guy with a band. This was a guy with a bank account bigger than god and a path to early retirement, if he worked at all. This was a guy that would slum it in a downtown stripclub with five or six of his equally rich friends, each one entitled to the point of getting too handsy with each and every girl in the place.
But when he came around that desk (fucking huge - who needed a desk that big?), it was Harry's smile and Harry's eyes. And Harry's voice, familiar from memories. She was shorter than him, even with her in heels and him in his bare feet, and she couldn't quite stop her own smile up at him and the little gesture at what she wore (even though she was pretty sure that even with the jacket, her entire outfit cost less than the shirt he was wearing). "How could I not like it? It's a nice fucking jacket." She smiled as she said it, her voice a fraction rougher than it used to be, thanks to the way she'd lived the past year or so. She looked down at herself and smoothed a hand over the clothing in question, smiling again at it before looking back up at Harry. "You didn't need to get me anything, you know. But thanks."