Six

Liv stared at him without saying anything, as she mentally ran through a quick list of reasons as to why she should not let this stranger in to the room with her. Where they would be trapped inside of the same four walls. Alone.

“Sure.”

She opens the door wider, stepping back for him to come inside. He moves in just enough to close the door behind him, before he stops, standing still.

Liv stands there awkwardly as well, not sure what to do. She does not want to sit on the bed and draw attention to the fact that there is a bed in the room with them, depite the fact that it is the only thing that she can focus on.

Should she offer him a seat? Should she stand too? She does not want to stare at him, so she looks at her feet. He stay silent. Is he waiting for her to look at him so that he knows that he has her attention before he speaks? Is she overthinking this?

“Are you okay? Should I go?”

“What?” Liv looks up quickly, meeting his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, um, it's just that you seem really uncomfortable with me being in here. I, uh, realize that I put you on the spot when I asked to come in and that was rude, so I can go..” Owen tells her sheepishly.

“Well, didn't you come here for a reason? Unless it was to stand in awkward silence wit me a like a bunch of statues, I don't think that you got what you came for.” Liv retort.

“That is true enough, I suppose. We can step outside and talk, if you want to. If that would make you more comfortable.” Owen offers but she shakes her head. She gets the feeling that he would be way more comfortable, but she does not want to draw this out any longer than it has to be.

“We can just talk right here, since we are already in here.” She takes a deep breath for courage before she plasters on a fake confident smile and tells him, “Why don't you go ahead and sit down. The door can hold itself up, it has had years of practice.”

Liv gestures to the chair by the desk and he nods, before moving forward and having a seat. Liv settles her body on the edge of the bed, turned towards him awaiting whatever it was that he came there to say. She does not know what to say is the only reason that she does not talk first. That is a new thing for her because usually she never stops talking.

When the silence draws out and he does not seem inclined to start a conversation, she finally gives him a speaking look and prompts him by drawing out the word “So...”

“So.” He repeats and she huffs.

“For the love of God! What did you come here to say?” She finally bursts out. Shit, she is tired of sitting here with him waiting for him to speak. Her nerves are raw and she is on edge, so dawdling with him is too much for her frayed temperment.

Owen smiles at her and she frowns. His eyes twinkle as he asks her, “Are you always this impatient?”

“Do you always drag your feet about everything you do?” She retorts quickly and he chuckles.

“Not always. Just when I know that I have to say something but I don't know how to say it. I was hoping once I got here, I would find a way to start talking and it would just come to me. That didn't happen.. hence the awkward silence. 'Can I come in?' is as far as I got before my brain shut down.” Owen confesses to her.

“Just say what you need to say..” Liv tells him, tired of all the waiting.

“I owe you an apology.” Owen begins. “I did not mean to offend you when I said that I disliked reporters and journalists. That was my personal opinion and I should have kept it to myself. I have had negative expriences with many people from that profession and it left me with some prejudices. But I should not have said anything to you. I am sorry if I offended or angered you.”

“You did anger me at the time but I realize now that it was an over reactment. You have dealt with press before and it left you better. I get that. Some news people are like vultures, you were right about that. But there are good ones, too.” She says.

“I didn't mean to imply that you weren't-”

“I wasn't talking about me. I was referring to my grandfather, Pop Tatum. Pops was a news paper journalist, then later editor, for over fifty years. He started in the business delivering newspapers at thirteen. Then he got to running the press, then writing for a little weekly column. He worked his way up until he was running the damn place. He had integrity and ethics. He triple checked each story to make sure all the facts were straight. He never slandered anyone, always remaining impartial. No puff pieces to stroke the ego of anyone. He told the news as it was happening, nothing more, nothing less.”

“He sounds like a great man.” Owen tells her and she smiles.

“He really was.” She confirms. “He is the reason that I got into it in the first place. He was so proud of me.”

“I'm sure that he was.” Owen tells her with a soft smile, that warms her all the way to her toes. But his smile fades as he tells her, “I am sorry for what I said, but that does not mean that I am going to give you an interview, so if that is why you came here, then you are bound to be disappointed.”

“Interview you?” She repeats, surprised. “I work at a paper in Chicago. We don't do little puff pieces on mall town heroes or whatever it was that got you your fifteen minutes of fame. Trust me, you might be a big deal around here, but you are not why I am here.”

The gall of this man, to think that I traveled twelve hours to check into his motel just to harrass him and ask him questions. He is acting like he's Terry Bradshaw. Wait, is he an athlete? She looks him over, but she doesn't see it.

Sure, he's got muscles and a great body, but he doesn't strike her as a professional athlete. A musician? Actor? But his face nor name sounds familiar to her. What was he and why does he think he is famous?

Is he a crack pot? She has heard of those reclusive people that think that they are famous or reincarnated famous people. In movies they are depicted as crazy old men and women, who wear tinfoil on their heads or talk to cats.

He is too good-looking and charming to be a loon, isn't he? Olivia really hopes that he is not crazy. She would hate to be attracted to someone that had lost their mind.

“Then what are you here for, if you don't mind me asking.” Owens voice breaks the silence that they had fallen into and she turns to face him.

“See for yourself.” She gestures behind him at the notebook and typewriter on the desk. “I am writing a thriller, mystery, crime book. I want to try my hand at being a writer like Agitha Christie or Ruth Rendell. Mostly Agitha Christie. My Pops and Grams used to read her books aloud to each other each night after dinner. I would lay on the couch and listen, falling in love with them just as much. Pops and I use to try to one up the other by guessing the killer first. But it was almost always Gram that was right.”

Owen chuckles, as he looks over the idea and rough book concept that she scribbled down. “So, you aren't working as a reporter right now?”

“I am taking a break for a while. I still love the job, but I think I love what used to be the job. I love my Pop's stories and memories, more than I love what it has become. Does that make any sense?”

“It does. You like the ideal that he painted of it, more than you actually like the job. I would imagine that thing were completely different back in his time than they are now. Everything is different from how it was then. Things were nice and simple back then, when told from someone's memories. You get to see it through rose colored glasses, you know? You don't see the flaws until you have to look at it with your own two eyes.”

“I think that's how it was for me. I went into the job thinking that I would get to be just like Pops and have his experiences. He is why I loved it so much. Once I lost him, I clung to the job because I felt like it was a tangible connection between us, but now I just can't bring myself to like the job, no matter how much I associate it with Pops. But then I feel guilty, like I am bretraying him or something.” Liv confesses to Owen and he nods, as if he understands it completely.

“Did your Pops push you to be a journalists, to follow in his footsteps?” Owen asks her and she immediately shakes her head.

“No, not at all. He said that the job had it's rough parts and that it might not be all it was cracked up to be. He said that it could sometimes be dangerous and he didn't want that for me. He wanted me to be a teacher or a nurse. Something like that. I used to want to be a librarian and he wanted that most of all for me, because he said I could put my love of books to good use, while also working on my own.”

“Then why did you go into journalism?”

“Because it seemed more exciting. At sixteen, I saw librarians as severe looking older womna with their hair pulled back into tight buns and various shades of brown dominating their wardrobe. I didn't want glasses with the chain on them and deep frown lines, spending my day shushing people.” Owen chuckles again and she scowls. “I wanted excitement and I thought that journalism would give it to me. I wanted to rush over to burning buildings, to get statements from residents. I wanted to stand in a crowd at a political press event and ask the politician a deep, meaningful question that he would become flustered by and try to avoid. That was a dream.”

“Did it come true?” Owen asks her.

“No. I am a woman. Men know more about politics, so Thomas Stinson got the political beat. Fires, shootings and high speed chases are too dangerous for a woman, so Ellis Bowen got the crime beat.” Liv tells him, letting all of her frustration and annoyance show in the bitter words.

“That left you stuck with..?”

“Obituaries, wedding announcements, birth announcements and all the other girly topics that they didn't want to do. My most exciting piece was an article on the expansion that they added on to the hospital and how they upgraded the maternity ward. Hardhitting stuff like that was just my way of living the dream.” Liv quips and Owen smiles sympathetically at her.

“That sucks, that you have to do that.” Owen tells her and she nods.

“I mean, journalism is dying anyones. Well, newpapers at least. It's all magazines now, which are gossip rags and who wore it best contests. Nowadays people would rather get their news from teens with a digital camera, making podcasts for MySpace or bloggers that write about it on a website. They don't care what the people that went to school for years have to say, because what do they know?”

This is a subject that really gets Liv fired up but she is trying to keep it calm in front of Owen. No need to get all riled up and act like a crazy person in front of him.

“Tell me about it. Bloggers and podcasters are the bane of my existance. I deal with kids with cameras all th time and it gets tiring.” Owen tells her and she asks him.

“How long have you lived here?” Meaning the town, but he tells her, “I have lived at this motel for all of my life, except for one year that I lived in Montana.”

So probably not a pro football player or anything like that. “Did you go away to college?”

“Nope.”

Well, then. How the hell does one get 'famous' or whatever he considers himself to be, living in a motel in the middle of nowhere outside of some small town in North Dakota?

“Okay then.” She says, averting her eyes. Alright, she's just going to assume that he is a loon and not actually famous. Everything must be in his mind.

“Well, I am going to go now. I have to run into town for a few things. I just wanted to apologise to you because I felt that it was owed.” Owen pushes up from the chair. “Enjoy your stay here and good luck with your book. I will look for your name on shelves.” He gives her a smile and moves over to the door.

Liv understands by his words, the unspoken meaning behind them, that he is telling her good bye. That he will not bother her any more. For some reason, the thought upsets her and spurns her into action. “Hey, um.. can I get a ride into town with you.. please?”

She can tell that she surprised him with her request. He stares at her for a minute before he smiles at her. “Sure.”