The following story is complete...I wrote it awhile ago while experimenting with ways to get Daria and Trent together in a credible way. You'll note some common threads that run through my other works, but in general you might be best off to consider all these stories as existing in alternate universes. It's a little overdone in places, but what the hell, you might enjoy it. I don't wanna work on it anymore.

The usual disclaimers apply... I don't own the main characters. Daria and associated characters are owned by MTV. Minor characters were created to support the story line. This is fan fiction written for fun and entertainment only. No money or other negotiable currency or goods have been exchanged.

I The Wanderer Returns

The November afternoon in Boston was cold, but at least it was dry and actually threating to be sunny every so often. The Thanksgiving break had started, and there was no problem finding parking as Daria pulled into the parking structure at Boston Fine Arts College. At least she was able to use one of the faculty spaces, closer to the elevators. Jane's job as the printmaking lab manager was at least generous enough to include a parking permit, especially as it was customary for the student workers to run supply errands.

She glanced at the gages before shutting the engine off- great. Low on gas again. Jane had a habit of running the tank nearly dry, as if it made any difference at all; she still drove the same number of miles to school, burning the same amount of gas weather or not she filled the tank early.

Damn Lanes. In some ways, Jane was just like her brother.

And now, she was going to see that bastard again.

They were meeting at the main quad of BFAC. It was somewhat neutral territory; she didn't want to meet him at the apartment. She just had to see him after all this time, to see for herself that he was really here. That was all, she told herself; that, and maybe to find out why things had happened the way they did. Or not.

She really just needed to know that she had not broken him. Forgiveness, peace, whatever, wasn't the goal; she needed closure. What happened after that didn't matter. She would kick his ass out of her life, and he could go straight to fucking hell.

Almost three years ago the young writer and the older musician had begun a turbulent relationship. Upon her graduation from high school, the two of them had finally admitted to an attraction that had turned out to be mutual, far more intense than the friendship they had openly shared over the few years before. The summer was an idyll, a period of discovery and joy, until she had to leave for college in Boston.

The separation was hard; Trent had planned on moving to be with Daria when his sister Jane started midterm in the spring at Boston Fine Arts College. The couple tried to keep the relationship going, but deep fissures had opened. Daria had come into full flowering in college, and Trent found it increasingly difficult to see how he could fit their lives together.

Even as they tried to spend time together when they could, his self-doubts grew. He could only see her brilliance, and his own shortcomings.

She knew that he was not a failure, he was not untalented, and he was not someone who would hold her back. He was an exceptionally intuitive and perceptive musician, she was a writer; they were fated to follow separate but complimentary paths. They did not compete; each balanced the other. Together, they could be an expanded consciousness.

But no matter what she did or said, he would self-destruct every time.

She had been his muse; she had loved and trusted him enough to have slept with him. She was not one to easily attach to people; true friendships were sacred to her, and she valued her lover immensely. She saw his strengths clearly, and it was frustrating and painful to her that he could not seem to express them.

At Christmas, Daria had given him what he needed to push his music career forward. She had entrusted him with something deeply intimate, a hard copy of her personal journal. It was the last thing she had given him. Take it, she had told him; work with some of these ideas. Do this on your own; you have it within you and you don't need me to do it for you.

She had turned away from him, and it was up to him. No amount of talking, no amount of showing him how she felt about him had convinced him of what she truly believed he was capable of.

In the end, the force that was meant to create had instead turned inward and had seemingly crushed him.

He helped Jane with her packing and drove her all the way up to Boston. He carried his sister's things into the small apartment she and Daria were sharing.

She was nowhere to be seen; she was at Raft trying to adjust her schedule of classes. He had stood in the doorway of Daria's bedroom, most of her things still packed away in boxes when she had moved out of the dorm. There was a cheap air mattress on the floor. Next to it was a battered desk and folding chair that looked like it had been dragged in off a random sidewalk. The only things out were her newly purchase textbooks, a few yellow postit notes stuck to the wall behind the desk, and a notepad. There were no photos or other personal items about, no hint of what she was thinking of aside from school. If she still had a photo of him, it was still in a box somewhere.

He thought back to the day she had given him her journal. She was frustrated with him, that much was clear. Beyond that, he couldn't read her state of mind; she hadn't stopped by before returning to Boston. He wasn't sure what to expect to see in her room. It disclosed nothing to him, nothing of her connection with him. A noncommittal sleeping surface. No clues. If there was a place in her head or heart for him here, there was no evidence of it.

There was a paper bag next to her air mattress that apparently was being used as a trash can. He wondered what was inside.

He turned and walked down the short hallway.

He found Janey sleeping on her foldup foam mattress, so he wrote her a note and locked the door behind him.

He drove back to Lawndale, lost in thought, replaying that last exchange with her in his head.

Daria returned to the apartment and found Jane already there, yawning, squinting at a note Trent had left that explained nothing. She was crushed. Why hadn't he waited for her to come back?

Sitting in the silent house back in Lawndale where he had cared for Jane and where he had found himself falling for her remarkable friend, he felt his spirit sublimate into the silent air of the now nearly empty house. He walked away from what had been his home a few days later, and disappeared.

Gone. Trent had left them both. He left another lousy note that told them nothing, only that he was going on a walkabout to clear his head.

Try as she might, Daria couldn't find him, to talk to him, to find out what the hell he thought he was doing.

She had done the only thing possible for her; she closed her heart to him and set about picking up the pieces and trying to make herself whole again. And part of the collateral damage was her relationship with his sister, her best friend. It hurt to look at Jane; she and Trent both shared the same deep sapphire eyes and jet black hair. It was something she couldn't separate; the brother and sister were so much alike that she began to unconsciously distance herself from her truest friend. Daria was overcome by guilt, for by falling in love with Trent it seemed that she had somehow broken him. By the end of their first year in Boston, she and Jane were still sharing an apartment but sometimes keeping to themselves for days at a time.

But they stayed together.

With Trent gone, the only family Jane really had was Daria. She was the one that truly cared for her, more than her own biological siblings. The rest of the Lanes were now scattered to the winds, leaving her to survive on her own. She and Trent pretty much raised each other, while their parents pursued their muses and arts on the road. The only parenting they had done had ended the day Trent turned eighteen; from then on, the most she would see of them were a few weeks out of the year.

At least they had set aside a small account for Trent's college, which he never used. They hadn't set one up for Jane, so he had given it to her. Daria had worked her ass off digging for grants and scholarships for her, gotten Jane off her lazy butt and kicked her head first into the deep end of the talent pool. It was because of Daria that she had finally submitted her portfolio to the highly regarded Boston Fine Arts College, and was shocked when she was accepted.

Her best friend knew she had what it took. Daria, not her own family, was the one that pushed her, and Jane found herself in a world far different than the suburban Lawndale. She was toe to toe with the best young artists in the country, and she was pleased to find that she could hold her own. Even there, she found herself in the small core of the truly talented among the merely excellent posers.

Jane did what she could. She managed to score a paid tech position with the printmaking lab, which also forgave a small part of her tuition. She had avoided taking on student loans, knowing that it would be difficult to not default on them later.

She was lucky enough to trade design work for a shitty but functional pickup truck, a little Toyota with a camper shell. It looked like hell, with doors and fenders salvaged from junkyards, but it gave her the ability to scavenge for art materials. A few select snarky bumper stickers made it clear that the truck belonged to an artist and wasn't abandoned..

A few small gallery sales helped; and there was a big financial and ego boost when BFAC acquired her large steel sculpture, earning her a whole semester of tuition credit. But now, with the grants and scholarships running out a little more than halfway through an expensive program, she was running on financial fumes.

And because she could, Daria was carrying more than her fair share of the living expenses. True, her parents had done a good job of providing her with tuition expenses and even a small living allowance, but she too worked when she could to make ends meet. Rent in Boston was ridiculously high; and they would find themselves looking through jacket pockets and under the sofa cushions for food money after paying the rent. Thank God for those cheap cases of instant noodles.

Jane did not blame her for Trent's running away. That was the result of his nature; his inability to accept that the woman he had fallen for had accepted and loved the person that he himself had judged so harshly. Daria had not betrayed him; she was guilty only of honesty. Jane could easily accept her moving on with her life. If she found someone else, that was Trent's own fault. She would not begrudge Daria her right to be happy.

But it was clear that the woman had not healed. Over time, she learned to synthesize interaction and civility, enough to function in her academic society. She made no real attempt to expand her interpersonal horizons; she simply subsumed her own social needs and expressed them in her writing. True, she had made a few half-hearted attempts that she had deemed necessary to sustain her humanity, but each had been one-sided; her pathetically few considerations of physical intimacy had gone badly, haunted by the still-vivid timbre of a gravelly voice and the faintest whiff of patchouli.

Jane watched her friend channel her pain into her academics and her writing. She collected her published work, proudly showing them to her classmates, in awe of the intellect and angst that drove her.

It was stupid to think that her best friend would get over this soon, but it had been two years. Still, Jane knew how she had been one of the very few that had somehow breached Daria's thick protective walls; she had finally let Trent in too, and this was the result.

She emerged from the breezeway into the hazy afternoon sun. She saw him, sitting on a bench facing Jane's steel sculpture, reading the metal plate. He looked up as he sensed her tentative approach, and slowly began to stand.

Oh God, she's even more beautiful than before.

A small slender woman with bobbed auburn hair, framing an oval face, delicately featured, small mouth with full, rosy lips stood before him. The shorter hair, combined with smaller and more contemporary glasses revealed far more of her face than before; those deep brown eyes that had always melted him before now glittered and bore into him accusingly. She was still dressed inconspicuously, a comfortable cashmere sweater and jeans.

And of course, those ubiquitous steel-toed ball busters.

He had been taken with her when he first began to look past her appearance. She was his kid sister's new friend, only fifteen, but with an intellect that stunned him. She was without a doubt the smartest person that he had ever known. He would hear the two talking when he kept his bedroom door open. It was sometimes hard to keep from laughing out loud when she came up with one of her verbal stinkbombs; he kept a section in his lyric book where he sometimes jotted down what he overheard.

He kept away from her, not wanting to get in between the two friends; Janey had never had any close friends, and this girl was something unique. Besides, she was awkwardly silent around him, her nonstop wit suddenly reduced to monosyllabic utterances.

Like him, Janey was not what anyone would call academically inclined, focusing instead on her passion, art. She was pretty much a C student, getting by on minimal effort in all of her schoolwork, except for art. In that realm, she was without peer. As the designated "weird art chick" she was a social outcast at school.

This girl Daria was an enigma. He saw how she dressed to hide herself, always wearing the same black skirt, mustard top and green blazer that effectively hid her figure. The only hint was her excellent legs, but even those were barely visible. She always wore heavy black combat boots, making her already diminutive five foot two inch frame seem even smaller. On the other hand, she did look like she wouldn't hesitate to kick some moron's nuts out through his nose.

She never wore any makeup, but to him she didn't need any. Her skin was nearly perfect. In truth, you had to kind of steal looks at her, as she seemed to be so shy. She hid her face behind large round glasses and her thick bangs, but he knew that she was in fact a very pretty girl.

A tough, cynical, sardonic exterior protected a sensitive, fragile heart. Her intellect and merciless wit assured her of outcast status, something she shared proudly with Jane. So different, those two, and somehow kindred sprits. She protected herself by keeping all others at a distance, not letting anyone behind those walls so that she would never be hurt.

And she had been right.

Three years later, when she turned eighteen, she confronted him about his feelings for her. She had fallen for him long ago; at fifteen she had described her feelings to herself as a crush. In retrospect, though, it had been love at first sight.

She had let him in, and he had nearly destroyed her.

How was it possible that he looked better than she remembered him? Was it really the case, or did she simply want to see that? He was wearing a dark wool sweater against the New England chill. His hair was still black, spiky and wild, but he was clean-shaven. The little soul patch above his chin was gone, and he had filled out a little. He had always been so skinny, and the bit of extra weight looked good on him.

She slowly moved closer to him. His eyes sparkled, still that impossibly deep shade of blue. Physically, he looked okay. One thing was certain, though, he was uncomfortable. His arms were held stiffly and awkwardly at his side, as though he were about to be led to the gallows. At least he got that right, she thought.

The immensity of her relief had surfaced a couple of days ago, when Jane had told her that he was alive and well, at least in body. What was left now was a bitter mix of attraction and raw fury at this man who had walked away from their relationship, breaking her heart and straining her friendship with his sister. But even this was clouded with her own guilt at pushing him away in the first place, letting her frustration and anger drive him away. Why had she agreed to meet him? It should have been enough to know that he wasn't dead, that he had survived and moved on with his life, just as she supposedly tried to do herself.

And now, he was there in front of her, hesitant, awkward, and ashamed. She found herself looking into those ocean eyes, unable to speak, trying to get out one word and failing miserably.

Why?

Even if it didn't matter anymore, she wanted to hear it from him.

"Daria, I…" he said softly, wrapping his husky voice around the shape of her name.

She felt the ground tilt slightly under her as she remembered how she had once loved the sound of his voice. She closed her eyes for the slimmest of moments as she felt it pulling her apart. She felt something tiny inside shift almost imperceptibly, teetering and then sliding past the hardened knife edge of restraint.

Suddenly she lunged at him in a white-hot rage. Her shoulder slammed into his rib cage, knocking the wind out of him as he staggered back. He reached out to grab her by the shoulders, but she shook him off and began raining blows on him as hard as she could. He felt her steel toe boot narrowly miss his shin, throwing her off balance. He had to remain standing, or she would be on him, kicking the crap out of him. "You FUCKING ASSHOLE!" She screamed at him. "I've been in HELL for the last TWO FUCKING YEARS! JANE'S BEEN GODDAMN MISERABLE, WORRIED SICK OVER YOUR STUPID ASS! What the HELL were you THINKING?" She began to sob, slowly falling to her knees.

"I don't know why I'm so happy to see somebody I hate so damn much," she choked out hoarsely. "I was so relieved to find out you were still alive, but I think it was so I could get my hands on you and kill you myself."

He reached down to offer her a hand up. She slapped him away and pulled herself up to the bench. "Don't touch me. I haven't let anyone touch me for two years and I'm not about to start now, especially not with you." She wiped tears off her face with her fingertips, and sniffed to clear her nose. For a moment she wished she carried a bag or something that she would have had tissues in.

Trent probed his side gingerly, wondering what a broken rib felt like.

Remembering, he dug in a pocket and pulled out some paper napkins left over from some airport meal. He offered them to her, and after a moment, she snatched them from his fingers.

"Fuck you," she spat.

"I deserve at least that."

"You wanted to talk. So talk."

II Journey

It had been a month since they had fought. She would move on, find someone who deserved someone like her. Not him. She had left him with an embarrassment of riches, her own journal. Pages upon pages of material that she had challenged him with doing something with. Succeed or fail, but try.

She had given him a piece of her soul wrapped in these pages.

So he had taken to the road, following the Lane predisposition to wander the earth like a lost spirit. All he took with him was the journal that Daria had given him, his lyric book, a change of clothes and a few bucks. He was sure that Daria had given up on him, and that she would emerge stronger and greater without him around to mess her up. And he would get out of Janey's way. She was stronger and smarter than he was; she had the drive to get into a top Art College and to succeed on her own terms.

Janey and Daria had each other. They would be okay.

For a little over a year he had wandered, at first taking any cash job that he happened upon, sleeping where he could. He blended in with the rest of the homeless, learning their sad stories, sharing his, writing songs, reading Daria's notes again and again until he had almost committed them to memory.

He would pull them out before he went to sleep, read an entry and then close his eyes. In his mind it was like those conversations he remembered with her, the ones that would sometimes happen after a long day, holding each other as sleep overcame them both. Curious, surreal conversations that drifted between the lucid and the subconscious; often leaving the fading, dreamlike taste of fundamental truths scratching at the back of the mind. Eyes closed, he would turn her words over in his head, remembering the warmth of her skin, his cheek on the top of her head, breathing her in.

Slowly, he distilled all this into songs, at first writing the lyrics in his journal, honing the music in his head. Eventually, he felt the need for a guitar. He had chosen to leave home with as little as possible, not wanting to worry about protecting a delicate and tempting musical instrument from thieves and a life on the road. For five bucks at a yard sale he acquired a battered but playable instrument, its cracked sides and back held together by duct tape and skate stickers. Still, it made music, and he found that it forced him to work hard at overcoming its faults. He settled under a tree in a park somewhere in Phoenix, Arizona and began working out some of the songs that he had written in his head.

Closing his eyes, he sang the first version of Daria to himself. He could see her face, found himself drowning again in those deep brown eyes yet again. He could feel the touch of her lips against his skin, the tip of that tongue tickling with a feather's touch and yet capable of deadly force when you riled her.

In that once mousy, shy woman he had found the true nature of beauty.

He segued into Getting Out of Your Way, and then I Hope You Find Him. Had she? Did she finally find someone who deserved her, that made her happy, someone that could really appreciate what a wonder she was?

Thinking about the sound of Daria, he reprised it with some chord changes that eased the melancholy bitterness and gave it just a touch of the sweetness of good memories she had given him.

He hugged the guitar to his chest, and opened his eyes to find a small group of people that had gathered to listen. Rather than walking by and tossing a dollar to him, they had been caught by the raw emotion in his voice and had listened quietly, unmoving. They began to applaud, tentatively at first, and then with real enthusiasm. A young girl stepped forward and dropped a few dollar bills into the open pocket of his backpack, her eyes wet. "Will you be back tomorrow?" she asked.

Trent nodded, having nothing else to do anyway. Other people walked up and dropped more bills into his backpack, young and old alike. Many had encouraging comments, others commiserated silently. By the time the crowd had dispersed, he found that he had made a surprising amount.

He returned to the tree each day for the rest of the week. By Friday, his regular crowd had grown to the point that it was attracting the attention of the police. Trent didn't notice the officer at first, but as he was packing up he noticed him heading in his direction. To his surprise, a couple of the older regulars moved in to talk to the cop. The raised voices carried enough for Trent to follow the conversation.

"Hey, Zeke, leave the guy alone."

"You listen to any of this? He's a decent kid, give him a break."

"Listen, Maggie, Vince, he can't do this without a permit, you know that. Crowd's getting too big to ignore. I don't wanna bust his chops either, but he's got to find another venue."

"What about your cousin's place, that pizza restaurant? Maybe he can play there. It'd be okay if he was on private property, right?

The crowd, hearing what was going on, had begun to gather around. Zeke looked over at Trent. He pulled a cellphone out and began talking to someone. After a minute, he waved him over.

"Kid, what's your name?"

"Trent. Trent Lane."

He repeated Trent's name into the phone, and with a few parting words, hung up.

"Trent, I'm Zeke Robertson, and I don't want to see you around this park anymore. It's gonna cause you a lot of trouble with the city. But if you want, you can go play at Mike's Mesquite Pizza Oven over on First and Morrison. Here's the address and phone number, owner's my cousin, Mike Powell. I told him about you, and he wants you to play at one-thirty, after the lunch rush. You play for tips, he feeds you. You okay with that?"

"Sure, thanks, officer Robertson, that'll be great!"

"Okay, everybody, change of scene. Trent's playing at Mike's Mesquite Pizza Oven, one-thirty in the afternoon. Pass the word." Zeke clapped his hand on Trent's shoulder. "You got a following, kid. Good luck."

As the crowd dispersed, Trent noticed a familiar elderly woman, this time with an old, road-worn but sturdy guitar case. Smiling, she waved him over.

"Young man, I'm glad I caught you. That guitar of yours is a piece of junk. I'll trade you for this one." She pushed the guitar case into his hands. "This belonged to my late husband Morris, and I'm sure he would be pleased to see you have it. He loved music, and you've brought back many good memories of him with your playing. It's a fine instrument, and it deserves to make music instead of sitting in my closet. I'm going to come and hear you play with a proper instrument."

"Ma'am, I don't know what to say. Are you sure about this?"

She reached over and gently took Trent's battered guitar. "This is like the one that Morris had when we were kids and had nothing," she said, looking wistfully at the instrument. "Besides, Trent Lane, you've scratched your name into it, so when you become famous I can sell it for a fortune on Ebay." She laughed at that. "It's a fair enough trade."

"Thank you, Ma'am; if you change your mind, I'll give it back to you. Just come over to Mike's restaurant; I should be able to buy something better in a little while if the tips are any good," Trent offered, gratefully. "Anything is better than that one."

"You can call me Susie. Don't worry about it, a deal's a deal; you need it more than I do. Listen, Trent, I can tell that you still love this Daria. Don't be a yutz. You're a fine musician, and a good person to do what you did for her, even if you're wrong. You go play for her, and even if she won't take you back, she should hear your songs. You have a gift. You are a gift. You're a moron, too." She turned and walked away, shaking her head with a smile as she regarded the sad instrument in her hands.

Trent watched her go, turning her words over in his head. Realizing that he was holding Suzie's guitar case, he picked it up and brought it over to a picnic table. It was an old style case, well made, the thin plywood shell showing in places under the worn leatherette. Opening it, his breath caught. His hands were shaking as he lifted a vintage Martin D-28 out of the tattered plush lining, the abalone shell inlay around the soundhole shimmering in the afternoon sunlight.

Shocked, he sat on the bench and found that the old dreadnought was in perfect tune, and that the strings were brand new, with no signs of oxidation. He opened the little compartment in the case that supported the instrument's neck and found another set of new strings, a modern electronic tuner, a little packet of assorted picks, and a capo.

He marveled at the projection and the sweetness of the tone; he savored the near flawless intonation as he played up the neck. She had clearly taken it in to a music shop and had it professionally set up. He played it until he began to attract another audience. Not wanting to have another meeting with Zeke, he put the guitar away.

Now what? He had a guitar that was worth probably well over two thousand dollars, probably a lot more, and he couldn't keep it anywhere safe. Walking quickly to where he saw Suzie last, he realized that there was no way he could find her. There was no tag on the case, no address. Maybe he could get Mike, the owner of the pizza restaurant, to lock it in his office for him until tomorrow.

It wasn't hard to find the place. Mike was friendly enough, and agreed. "Zeke says you're a good guy, so what the hell. Listen, I'm short staffed tonight. I could use your help. If you're any good I'll pay you ten bucks an hour, cash. Just bus tables, help out in the kitchen where you can."

"That would be great, Mike, thanks."

Trent couldn't believe his luck. The afternoon gig was soon drawing a real crowd, and Mike couldn't be happier. Word had spread and the place was packed before the dinner shift every night. Trent was making good money on tips, and Mike even offered him a steady evening gig. He had to include some lighter covers to balance his original songs, which tended to be kind of sad, but it was worth a hundred bucks a night in straight pay, plus tips and meals. He asked Mike to keep his money in his safe.

"Hey Mike, how can I send some money to my kid sister's school?"

"You need to open a bank account, you know. I've been meaning to talk to you about that. Your cash is kind of taking up a lot of space in my safe. How much do you want to send?"

"Pretty much all of it, less some for food and the room I'm renting."

"That's at least three thousand by now, I'm guessing. This school expensive?"

"Yeah, and I'm sure she's having a hard time by now. Thing is I don't want her to know where the money is from; I don't want her to mention me to Daria. I want her to forget about me."

"Well, you could talk to the school's finance office. Just have them apply the amount to her tuition. Tell them it's from her parents or something. You could send it by Western Union, but that's kind of expensive. A bank wire transfer is the safest and cheapest, but you'll have to get their routing and account information, and you'll need a bank account."

"Thanks, I'll do that."

"You can use my phone. Hey, I'll be heading down to the bank in the morning at 9:00. If you come with me we can get you all set up."

Trent smiled. "If Janey heard about me getting up before noon she would have a heart attack. Sure, see you in the morning."

When Mike arrived he found Trent already there and moving boxes into the walk in refrigerator. "Thanks, but you don't have to do that. Sam and Rob'll be in soon, they can handle it."

"No problem, just that it's kind of warm already, and I wanted to make sure these milk products were taken care of."

Trent settled back in the passenger seat and regarded the paper bag on his lap. He hadn't realized how much cash had accumulated. Mike glanced over with a grin. "Glad you trust me, kid. Do you even know how much money you have there?"

"Nah, I have a good feel for people, and I know you're an honest guy." The truth was he had no idea that his cash was taking up so much room in the safe. He usually handed Mike whatever tips he made, and trusted him to put it in the safe for him. Looking in the bag, Trent saw that he had exchanged the bulk of the singles for tens and twenties to keep the bag small. Mike explained that the coins were run through an automatic counter and roller and he had converted most of that to paper currency for Trent.

"I've been meaning to ask you about how long you plan to hang here. You know you're good for business, so you're welcome to stay as long as you want."

"Not sure, I'm really just trying to get my songs into shape so I can record them. Remember Suzie, the lady I told you about who gave me my guitar? She told me I was a yutz and that I should let Daria hear all the music she's inspired. Maybe, but I won't do it until I succeed and do something worthwhile. I guess I should let her hear it first if it ever makes it onto an album."

"I don't get it, Trent. I know she's like a special girl and all that, but why do you think you don't deserve a chance with her? I mean, you're a good guy; you work your ass off. You got real talent."

"Nothing like her, Mike. She's going places, she's gonna reach millions of people with her writing; she's gonna change people's lives and their minds." Trent looked out the window, thinking about the hurt in her liquid brown eyes. "Oh, man, Daria, I'm sorry I ever messed with you," he whispered to himself.

Mike looked over and saw the sag in Trent's shoulders as he looked out at the dry, unfamiliar landscape and high desert light.

"Kid, have you ever really looked at the faces of the people that come to hear you play?"

It was a good set that afternoon. Must be the heat, Trent thought, folks just want to get into air conditioning.

He finished Daria with the newer diminished chords he had been experimenting with. As the notes died, he opened his eyes, his heart dropping just a bit as her half-smile faded from his memory. Mike was right, in a way; he never really noticed the faces in the crowd. It was just his way of keeping his nerves and stage fright under control. This time though, he realized that a lot of the couples in the audience, old and young alike, had been holding hands during the performance. What a strange mix, he thought, as he saw some of them standing to leave. Lots of old retired folks, teens, twenty and thirty somethings. Not the usual kind of crowd he played to.

He stood and stretched a bit, and then realized that people weren't leaving.

They were giving him a standing ovation.

A week later, after the evening set, he noticed Suzie sitting at a table off to the side. She waved, and broke into a big smile. Carefully setting the old Martin onto its stand, he stepped off the little stage and walked over to give the old woman a warm hug. "You're doing good, Trent," she beamed. "You sound fantastic. Morris would have been so pleased to hear you play."

A younger gentleman stood and extended his hand. "Oh dear, where are my manners?" Suzie apologized. "This is Bob Richter; he was Morris's agent and manager. Despite the fact that he's in the music business, he's an honest man!"

He had a firm but not overbearing handshake. "From her, that's a ringing endorsement. Suzie's told me a lot about you." Trent looked at him a bit more carefully. He was about his dad's age, maybe fifty. He had an open, easy quality about him, and reminded him a bit of Jake, Daria's father; the same brown hair and eyes, but infinitely more relaxed. He was comfortably dressed for the Arizona heat in a pair of cargo shorts and an understated Hawaiian shirt. No fancy jewelry, just a simple drugstore watch and a wedding band. Trent decided that he was okay.

They all sat, and a waitress came over to see if she could get Trent anything. "Just the usual, thanks, Kim!" Bob motioned to her that he would pick up the tab, but Kim just smiled. "This table's on the house, if you're with Trent. Mike would kill me if I made you pay." She turned to get the order in.

"They think pretty highly of you, I'd say. They should, I can see that you're packing the crowd in." Bob took a sip of water, leaving his beer untouched until Trent's food arrived. "Suzie's right about you, I like what I heard. Don't know if you realize it, but I saw a lot of kids from UA Tucson in the audience. Apparently the college kids have heard about you and are checking you out. You should take that as a compliment; that's over a two hour drive away."

"Kind of a mixed audience," Trent mused. I'm not used to having this broad a range of ages listening."

"I'd say that it's because a lot of people have had a heartbreak or two in their lifetime," Suzie said softly. "You're not alone, you know."

III Arrival

"…And that's how it all came together. Bob was straight with me, and he figured that he wasn't the one to handle me. His thing was country and folk music; he put me in contact with his son who had deeper contacts in the contemporary folk and alternative scene. By then I had sixteen solid songs; we laid them down in the studio and then edited down to fourteen. I got signed to a small label, but it was a good deal and they're treating me well."

He reached under the bench and pulled up a backpack. From an outside pocket he pulled out an unmarked CD. "Suzie told me that I should let you listen to these songs if you want to. I'm asking your permission to release these, and I'm sorry if you're not happy with your name in the lyrics. It's kind of pivotal, you know? I know it may not matter to you anymore, but I'd like to please keep your name in these songs. If it's okay with you, I'll call the company and give them the okay to release the album."

She reached out and took the disk. She stared at its blank silver surface, turning it over and over in her hands. He had placed the power to grant or hobble his dream in her hands. Finally, she stopped and put it in the black leather folio she carried as a purse. "So you never called either Jane or me. Not once."

"I wanted you to forget about me and move on with your life. I figured that I couldn't talk to Jane and then ask her not to talk to you about it. I figured that you had each other, and that you didn't need me messing shit up. Thing is, I finally did what you thought I could do, and then I realized that no matter what you should hear it. I wanted you to hear it first. I'm really sorry that I'm messing with your life again, but I had to see you again and give that to you. Just so you know, I wanted to contact you first, but I figured that I should ask Janey about you before I did something else even stupider."

She said nothing, wondering if she would have the nerve to actually play the CD.

He opened the backpack again, and this time pulled out a zippered leather case. He held it close, running his fingers along its edges carefully, before handing it to her. "Your journal. I carried it with me always, and I haven't violated your trust. No one else has seen it, nor will anyone hear it directly in those songs. It was my portable muse; it kept me going forward. This is the most valuable thing I have ever carried, and it's not something that I deserve to keep."

"So what happens now?" Jane asked as she handed the CD back to Daria. "Trent is such a fucking asshole!"

"We need some new insults," mused Daria. "That's what I greeted him with. First words out of my mouth were 'you fucking asshole.' And then I kinda tried to kill him. No wonder he still loves me; I'm such a sweet girlfriend."

"Damnit, don't tell me you're taking him back. How could you after what he pulled on you? After what he pulled on us?"

"Hey, he paid for your next semester," Daria offered. "He's your brother. You should be used to him doing stuff like this; didn't you say he lived in a tent in the back yard for six months waiting for someone to invite him back in the house?"

"Yeah, well, we were kids. Mom figured he would come in when he got hungry, but I kept feeling sorry for him and bringing him peanut butter sandwiches."

"That makes you an enabler. So it's partially your fault he's so fucked up," Daria delivered with a half smile.

"I still don't know how you can forgive him."

"There was no way in hell I was going to let this go, and then I listened to that CD. When it was over, I was just a little bit less furious with him. So I listened to it again and again, all night long. Every time I listened to it I felt that big knot inside me loosen just a little bit. Before I finally fell asleep, I realized that I was beginning to forgive him. I don't know that it'll happen quickly; I mean I know I still love him deep inside, but sometimes I still want to strangle him.

"It's actually the best stuff I've ever heard him do."

"Jane, it's brilliant. I knew he had it in him. I just wish that… yutz would have figured that out earlier and spared us both the grief." The two women shared a smile. "And now, he tours for the next five months."

"You're not kidding." Jane was crestfallen.

"He needs to do this if he's going to make much of an impact. It's his first album release, so he needs to gain visibility in a big way." Daria wasn't exactly overjoyed, but she sounded determined to make the best of the situation. "The last couple of years were horrible, but this is different. This is what it was all for. For whatever twisted reasons he may have in his head, this is how he'll give himself permission to accept our relationship for what it really is, between two different but equal partners. I can live with this. I'm not happy to have to wait even longer, but at least I know. Maybe I can lose this bitter taste in my mouth with him not around."

"I guess you're right. At least we have some time off to spend with him."

"I need to get started on Thanksgiving dinner. We have a guest."

"Um…is he staying the night?"

"If it's okay with you, until he has to leave to get ready for his tour." Pulling a large foil pan from a low cabinet, she looked up and saw Jane's expression.

"He's on the sofa."

"Daria," Jane snickered, "You know that thing is a medieval torture device. That broken spring is a killer if you lay down on it. That's why it was free, remember?"

"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I should jump up and down on it."

"That might push the spring back into place, I guess."

"Or maybe break it some more."

Thanksgiving dinner was a subdued occasion. The situation was still too new for everyone to be comfortable with it, but there was still joy at the table. He was safe, and he was here sharing a meal with them. Daria's rusty domestic streak made a rare appearance, as she brought out a golden roast turkey on its platter, sitting it on the middle of the folding card table. Two more pairs of hands helped and soon the meal was ready. They were all still standing while Trent poured the wine. Saying grace was not something any of them had been raised with, but still it seemed like something was appropriate. They all looked at each other, and then they took each other's hands for a long moment before sitting down.

As they ate, the conversation shifted to the release of his album. The artwork on the cover had been shifted at the very last minute, when Trent saw some of Jane's paintings that had been done not long after he had disappeared. Since the CD production was being held up prior to Daria's approval, they had barely managed to email a photo of the painting that Trent chose to the packaging house in time.

The publicity had kicked into high gear, and the promotional copies were hand delivered to the stations in the Phoenix and Tucson area. Buzz began building quickly, since he was already well known in the area, and a carefully designed viral campaign began to hit its stride. Favors were called in, and contacts were set to make the opening concert.

"So what would have happened if I had tossed you out on your ass?" Daria asked. "You'd have to re-record the whole album."

"As it was, I had already recorded a safety vocal track without your name anywhere in it. But it would have sucked to have to use it. We'd have had to call it the Beautiful and Brilliant Sardonic Woman Who Owns My Heart Tour."

"Just kinda rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?" Jane smirked.

"Can you guys come back with me to Phoenix?" Trent asked quietly. "The label's offered to pick up your travel. I'd really appreciate it if you guys were there for the first concert."

She had gone into the kitchen for a glass of water and saw him laid out on the floor. What was she doing? What was the point of being mean to him like this? Sighing, she shook him awake and pulled him up off the floor.

It had been so long since she had him so close; her cheap mattress pushed her next to him as it sagged under his weight. She couldn't sleep with him next to her. She felt herself shiver, but not because she was cold. He was warm next to her, and despite her misgivings she felt herself slowly relax. She settled herself into the curve of his body, spooning him. Not a good idea, she thought; he'll be snoring in her ear soon.

But the snoring never started. He should have been slipping back into a tryptophan-induced coma after the turkey dinner, but he was awake; and so was she. After awhile, she felt him put his arm around her.

He simply held her sweetly in his arms, waiting for her to fall asleep. She knew that he was breathing her in, an old habit of his. It was, he had once told her, his way of savoring her very existence.

As she lay there, she began to feel her heart, the pieces gathered together again, begin to heal. The cracks and fissures began to close slowly, with each breath she took; laced with the faintest trace of patchouli, sandalwood, and the familiar, cherished touch of her once lost lover.

"Daria, take a look at that sign." Jane grinned and pointed at an electronic billboard over the roadway exiting the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport.

Daria managed to glimpse the message DARIA! Trent Lane tomorrow night at the Crescent Ballroom just as the cab made the exit ramp. "We're staying in Scottsdale, at the Phoenician resort," Trent smiled. Tonight, we have reservations at a little pizza joint in Phoenix. Tomorrow night, we play the Crescent."

After they settled into the suite at the resort, the three took a few hours to rest after the long flight from Boston. Jane took advantage of the Jacuzzi in her bathroom, while Daria and Trent hid for a bit of private time.

What happened? thought Daria. Just a couple of weeks ago I had no idea if he was dead or alive. And then just like that he shows up, and I don't know whether or not to kiss him or kill him. A year ago he's homeless, broke, sleeping on the street. Tonight we're back together, flying first class across the country, in a luxury resort, and he's about to make his dream real. We could have our pick of the best restaurants in this town, but he wants to go to some little pizza place where he wants Jane and I to meet some friends of his. Not high power music suits, but friends, regular people that helped him put his life back together.

She debated whether or not to go find her glasses, but then she just rolled over and moved her face in closer. Of course, he's asleep. I haven't seen him in so long; I can't help but to stare at him. She studied the untidy shock of black hair, the familiar three rings in his ear, the tattoos on his arms and shoulder. She kind of missed the little patch of beard below his lip, but he was still so good looking.

She noticed the ugly but fading bruises on his shoulders and chest where she had vented her rage. In retrospect she must not have really wanted to hurt him, or she wouldn't have failed to take his knee out and have him on the ground. Once down, she would have broken his jaw and probably ruptured his spleen with her boots. At least all she had managed to do was to knock the wind out of him and fall back on angry pounding with her fists. She must still love him, she mused; otherwise the moment he tried to restrain her by grabbing her shoulders she would have kneed him hard in the groin, then swept his legs out from under him. Men instinctively used their hands to protect their privates; a well-placed kick would have broken at least some of the fingers.

She shuddered.

Mike's Mesquite Pizza Oven was packed. Just about every table was taken, but when Trent stepped up to the hostess station, the young woman looked up and let out a little gasp.

"He's here! Trent's back, everybody!"

The patrons let out a collective cheer as he stepped into the restaurant. Trent smiled at his friends, and led the women forward. Suddenly, the noise died away as the crowd began to process what they were seeing. Two women stood with Trent, one dressed in a red blouse and black jeans, with his black hair and blue eyes. The other, a small auburn haired woman with glasses, in a cream colored top and black jeans.

Jane poked her brother. "Trent, are they gonna lynch Daria?" Hearing this, Daria blushed bright red. "Oh God," she groaned.

"Oh, hey," Trent spoke up, "Everyone, this is my sister Jane, and this is Daria."

The entire restaurant began applauding. A woman's voice whooped out "kick his ass, girlfriend!" Jane looked over and laughed, pushing Daria back out in the open when she tried hiding behind Trent. Catching the eye of a waiter, Jane motioned him over. "I think my friend here could use a beer."

Before they could make their way to the reserved table, they were intercepted by well-wishers and fans. Eventually, they were seated at a table along with five others. Trent introduced everyone. "Jane, Daria, this is Mike, my boss and owner of the restaurant; his cousin Zeke, who was nice enough not to throw my ass in jail; my guardian angel Suzie; Bob and his son Rick, my agent and manager."

Suzie was the first to speak. "Daria, I am very pleased to finally meet you. I'm sure you're as smart as Trent says you are, but you must also have a heart as big as your brain since you took this yutz back." Daria couldn't restrain a laugh.

"Hi Suzie, you must be the one that expanded his vocabulary. I had another colorful name for him when he first showed up, but yutz is much more elegant."

"You're a writer, no? I got more words for him if you want them," Suzie chuckled as she pointed at Trent.

Jane leaned over to Trent. "I think your friend likes Daria," she whispered. Daria was busy writing in her small notebook as the old woman recited a string of Yiddish bad words and phrases.

"I wasn't kidding when I said that she's my guardian angel," Trent smiled. "She just seemed to show up with changes that were pivotal. She showed up with a real guitar when I needed it; she connected me with a manager and agent. Look how Daria can't help but smile talking to her."

Jane pulled out a little pad from her bag and quickly sketched the two in animated conversation. Noticing, Daria reached over and plucked the sketchpad out of Jane's fingers and showed it to Suzie. "See?" said Daria proudly. The pad was handed around the table, to everyone's astonishment. While waiting to get her property back, Jane turned to Suzie.

"So what did you do before you retired to Phoenix?"

"I was a stripper," Suzie deadpanned, "but why do you think I'm retired?" Everyone at the table cracked up. "What? It's easy work and it paid real good!"

"She taught piano and was a librarian," chuckled Bob. "Aw Jeez, she coulda been, though!"

The evening passed quickly, and soon it was time for the slightly jetlagged trio to leave. "Wait," slurred Daria, as they stood and gathered their things.

She wove over to the little stage with her second glass of beer and checked to see if the microphone was on. "Folks, we've got to call it a night, but before we go, I wanted to offer a toast. Now I don't know how much you know about me, beyond what you may have gotten out of Trent's songs; but I'm usually kind of a serious person. I would say that I tend to be a cynic; I read a lot, stay on top of the news, and follow the issues. And I'd have to admit that it's usually hard to have a positive takeaway on the human condition and the fundamental nature of humanity when you do stuff like that. That's why I needed Trent, because he has a way of keeping me centered. He reminds me in a lot of different ways that we are all responsible for the good in our own lives. Even if you don't seek it out in others, it often finds you anyway because good has a habit of recognizing itself. He does that in his music, and by just being who he is. I'll say this much, when I start to feel myself get down, I'll just think about tonight, when I met a whole lot of people who helped and supported him when he needed it." She raised her glass high. "So here's to you, good people. Thank you." She drained her glass, put it carefully down on the stage and then fell off.

Trent lunged and managed to catch her before she hurt herself.

Jane grinned. "She's probably the cheapest date ever. Two beers and a slice of pizza. Wow."

Trent lifted the passed-out girl easily and carried her out the door. "Even when she's plastered, she still makes sense," he mused, glancing with wonder at her angelic smile.

IV Interview

Sunday afternoon found the three back at the airport, in one of the VIP lounges. Daria and Jane were booked on a return flight to Boston, as they had classes the next day. Trent would stay in Phoenix a few more days before hitting the road for the tour. The opening performance the evening before was a sellout crowd, as this was the town where it began for his professional debut.

"Thanks again for doing this," Trent yawned. "I know you hate this kind of thing, Daria."

"I'm doing this entirely for my own selfish interest," she replied with a half-smile. "Women must know that you're spoken for."

The photographer reached over and brushed a stray wisp of hair out of Daria's eyes. "Okay, Jane, put your forearm on his shoulder, and lean on him slightly…Trent, rotate a bit to your right…arms lower, not on her chest please; Daria, relax into him just a little…okay, hold it…one more…"

The journalist leaned in. "That actually looks pretty good, with everyone's eyes closed; it's like the end of a long journey."

"Wake me up when we get to the action shots where I get to kick him in the nuts," Daria deadpanned, with her eyes still closed.

"Shut up, Daria," Jane groaned, "It hurts to laugh."

"Daria, would you take off your glasses?" the reporter asked.

"Sure, if you take off your pants," grumbled Daria.

"You know, if you took these shots without your glasses, your classmates at Raft probably won't immediately recognize you," Jane pointed out.

"Oh, hell," Daria muttered, taking them off.

It's Sunday afternoon, the day after the opening of Trent Lane's Daria tour. We're hanging out at the Phoenix Sky Harbor airport, waiting for a flight that will take two young women back to school in Boston. Trent Lane assumes what I understand to be his standard posture; repose. He sleeps a lot, apparently the result of a long undiagnosed case of borderline narcolepsy. Maybe that's why he always has what seems to be a stylized bedhead cool- his black hair is wild, deep blue eyes sedate, voice measured and husky. He's a tall, skinny guy; handsome if a bit rough around the edges. Maori style tattoos on his upper arms, three rings in each ear. At least that's what shows. His hands are long and thin, callused and not a stranger to physical labor.

One of the women has arrived with a cup of coffee for him; the same jet black hair, sapphire blue eyes, and lean athletic build. She has the same easy, intuitively graceful movements as her older brother. Like Trent, Jane is not a polished beauty, but she is unquestionably striking; uniquely beautiful, and every bit as sexy as her brother. A heart shaped face, scarlet lips, and eyes that pierce, missing not a single detail. Ink stains her fingertips; paint is embedded in her cuticles. There is a faint graphite smudge on the side of her nose. A Junior at Boston Fine Arts College, with one hell of an impressive portfolio. That's her work on the Daria cover, the tour graphics, the merchandise. With a twinkle in her eye, she drops a napkin on my lap. It's a sketch of me in a bathtub, with Jane holding a toaster, an evil smile on her face.

A slender, petite woman is sitting to my right. She's busy typing on her laptop, but it's clear that she's missing nothing going on around her. She doesn't look too happy about having a camera recently shoved in her face, and doesn't seem too keen to deal with me. But she has been professionally courteous; she recognizes that I have my job to do, and she's been accommodating. Celebrity is new to her, and clearly stressful; looking at her, I can see that she's a shy and private person. Still, she carries herself with an understated and elegant authority despite her small stature. She's a natural beauty, straight out of the Renaissance. Not a lick of makeup, and it's not needed; she has skin like ivory and auburn hair with plenty of natural color. She sits cross-legged in a large leather club chair next to a northern window, dressed in an olive silk blouse and black jeans; it's like looking at a portrait by Caravaggio.

But all that's secondary to her eyes. Deep brown, and burning with a stunning intellect. A Junior at Raft University, double majoring in Creative Writing and Journalism. At twenty-one, Daria Morgendorffer's already published more than a dozen short stories and essays, and her first novel, A Time Apart, is nearing completion.

RS: "So, Daria is a real woman."

T: "You better believe it; the entire album is based on a synthesis of her writing interpreted through my two years on the road. There's no diplomatic way of putting this; I was having a hard time accepting that I was the guy she was in love with. It seemed impossible that someone as smart and cool as her would have anything to do with a guy like me."

D: "I used to work with him on his songs, but it would frustrate the hell out of me because he had the talent to do it on his own. He would always want to know if I was okay with what he did. I mean, it's fine to collaborate, but I wanted him to take ownership of what he did. I'm a writer, he's the musician. So I printed out my journal, which was filled with notes and thoughts that I figured could be worked into good songs, and I gave it to him. I mean, it was really private stuff, but I knew I could trust him with it. At that point I was really mad at him; I knew he could do it, and he would always self-destruct and shut down on his own."

RS: "That led to a falling out, where he believed you had ended the relationship and moved on."

D: "I had moved away from Lawndale and had thrown myself into my first semester at Raft University in Boston. I was still mad at him but thought that given a little time...I never really broke up with him, at least in my head. And honestly, things were just upside down, since Jane was going to be joining me in Boston to start in the spring at her school. She and I are each other's main support system; we met soon after I had moved to Lawndale at the beginning of my sophomore year in high school. We were both social outcasts, too different to be accepted.

When I met Trent; I had this immediate reaction to him that just threw me. Remember, I was fifteen; I had no experience with guys other than realizing that not all of them had cooties. We sort of orbited each other for three years before we fell into a relationship. Looking at us back then, we were a pretty unlikely couple, but I believed that there was something there that was far more than just youthful infatuation. Stresses or not, I knew we were connected at a fundamental level. Naturally, I had expected that Trent was going to join us later, and that we would somehow work it out."

T: "I just kind of obsessed on it all, and decided that she was right. I had to find my own voice, and decided I needed a new perspective. So after I drove Jane up to Boston, I threw a change of clothes, Daria's journal, and my lyric book into a backpack and started out the door. I guess I should have handled that better."

J: "Daria and I came back to Lawndale during our first break, and we found the house empty. Well, no Trent. Just a vague note mentioning a walkabout. Needless to say, I was VERY pissed off at my brother. I hadn't heard from him since I moved up to Boston too, to start at Boston Fine Arts College. To tell you the truth, Daria and I were so swamped with college we just figured he was mad at us or something. It was so weird, he had left the car; and there was really gross stuff in the refrigerator. We had to make a special trip to the dump."

D: "I was pretty upset; I figured that he would have at least said something to me. We had left things without conclusion or plan, just letting things happen. Our relationship was like that, things happened the way they had to. How things would settle out once Jane and I started college was never really worked out. Aside from the blowout, there were so many loose ends. Jane and I began to figure out that something was really wrong when we called his friends and found that nobody had seen him in a month. I mean, I had tried calling him several times before the break and couldn't get ahold of him."

T: "Sorry, I fucked up."

D: "Right. There's no camera around, can I kick him now?"

RS: "So basically, Trent; you walked out the door and disappeared, on a journey of self-realization. I understand that you, a musician, never even took a guitar with you. You internalized all your nascent music, wrote it in your head, noted it down. Your only instrument was your voice."

T: "I guess."

J: "Bet you forgot a pencil."

T: "I forgot a lot of things, mostly how I should have let you guys know I was okay. I was just feeling sorry for myself, and I honestly didn't expect that this little walkabout was going to last for two years. But the longer I was away, the harder it was to bring myself to contact you guys. And then I got it in my head that I wanted Daria to just forget about me and move on, find someone new that was worthy of her. But I never forgot her."

J: "Just your own sister, you dope. You and I were the only ones in our family that cared for each other. It was us against the world, and you ditched me, asshole!"

T: "I knew you had Daria. You're stronger than me, Janey. Smarter too; you had the drive to get into a top art school, you were gonna make it. I started thinking that you guys were better off without me holding you both back. You and Daria, I couldn't separate you in my head, so if I called you she would hear about it. At least, it made sense to me at the time."

D: "I'm still going to kick your ass, when you're least expecting it."

RS: "So you lived life on the road. How did you get by?"

T: "It wasn't really that hard. I never panhandled, that just seemed too low to me. I mean, aside from having done something stupid, I wasn't disabled or anything, so I'd look for anyone needing help along the way, and I'd make a few bucks doing some honest labor. If I had to, I'd find a church or shelter and offer to work in exchange for a place to clean up a little. I never tried to make anybody feel sorry for me, because hey, I chose to do this, why should I bum them out? You know, I found that if I put out a good vibe, people were usually pretty nice.

"I tried pretty hard to keep myself clean, and it helped to have a change of clothes. I got pretty good at cleaning up in supermarket restrooms, and found that a little bit of bleach went a long way when I hand washed stuff in a sink. Every so often I'd find a laundromat, and throw what little I had in a machine. I'd invite people to throw stuff in alongside so it wasn't such a waste. They'd give me a little bleach and soap that I would put into small bottles I could carry. The hardest thing was keeping underwear and socks clean, 'cause they're kinda hard to dry.

"I figured that I should buy my food in supermarkets and not eat in restaurants. They always have a decent restroom, and I figured out that I could eat healthier stuff. I got a little soft-sided cooler, and I'd use frozen peas and beans to keep milk and stuff like that cool. It was like a long camping trip. I ate most everything raw, kind of, but I hear now that's a cool diet or something.

J: "Trent has a tolerance for stuff most humans won't eat. Like I said, we kind of took care of each other as kids, and I can't cook worth a damn. I mean, he likes burnt toast. That was one of my specialties, served up with lots of peanut butter. I wouldn't take culinary advice from my brother, he's like a damn goat."

RS: "So you had to spend a lot of time just trying to get by. Was it harder to work on your music on the road than you thought? When did you write and work out your lyrics?"

T: "Getting by and creating music pretty much were one and the same. Music is about life. That's why we all relate to it. Every song out there is about how you deal with being alive, being human. I would talk to as many people as I could, hear their stories, and listen to their troubles. I realized that I was damn lucky, and that underneath it all we are pretty much all in the same boat. It's just a matter of degree as to how far you let things get messed up. And one of the saddest parts of being on the road is listening to what other people would regret; not doing something that you could have done, that you should have done. The truly sad part is that it was all avoidable, except through inaction, or a wrong action. Another thing that's really close is being sorry. To have to be sorry, well, is a result of your actions. There, in a nutshell, that was me all along."

"And then I realized that I had turned a corner of sorts. I started putting it all down, working the music in my head until I had to let it out. That's when I landed in Arizona. I bought a crappy guitar at a yard sale and started to play. It all began to gel, to coalesce. I played, and I sung, and people stopped to listen. They stayed and they listened; and they understood."

V Homecoming

"Damn, this is the longest five months of my life," Daria yawned, dropping her forehead onto her textbook.

"Hey, you don't have any distractions from your work," Jane offered.

"By that logic I should make him stay away until after finals," Daria mumbled into her book. "His tour ends two weeks before the end of our semester. I'd say he needs a few days to wrap up loose ends, and then a couple days of hibernation. He's still gonna be a distraction for at least a whole week."

"At least we had a few days during Christmas and spring break with him, right?"

"Christmas was fun. I thought my dad was going to kill him."

"Think we could talk him into moving in with us? I mean, not this place, it's too small for three."

"And he's not moving all his crap into my room; I'm not sleeping in a recording studio. We really need a place for four, for when you get a significant other." Daria paused, thinking about what she had just said.

Jane was part of her family; she had stuck by her even when Daria knew that she had been at her most miserable and unpleasant. Even when she had thought she would never see or be with Trent again, Jane was a rock. And it was mutual; she knew that there was nothing she could imagine not doing for her.

Quinn was her sister, and despite all the hostility and fighting in the past, that blood connection was still there, and Daria would do the same for her if push came to shove. With Jane, that connection was also there; but it was built mutually, not by genetic lottery. They had chosen each other in friendship, and this one was as strong as sisterhood. She had reflexively wanted Jane's future mate, in passing or permanent, to share their household. She didn't want Jane disappearing for a night, or days even, to spend time with someone else. She selfishly wanted her friend to be in the same place, simply comforted by knowing where she was, and that she was okay. Damn wandering Lanes. Keeping track of their family was herding cats.

Trent's disappearing had affected them deeply; Daria wasn't ashamed to admit that it was more than she could understand. In her heart, the brother and sister were threaded together. If she and Trent explicitly broke apart, would she lose that connection she had with Jane? Of course there was that possibility, but somehow, it now seemed as remote as the moon.

By embracing joy, you accept the risk of pain in equal measure. It's true of all relationships of any value. And without experiencing pain, there would be no real understanding of joy. That was fortune-cookie obvious. Grow up, girl.

But there was a difference now. She at least understood that there was a big difference between just passively being swept along, letting things surely happen, and being determined enough to be willing to turn and face the cyclone that was life itself. If there was such a thing as fate, perhaps it appreciated the cosmic humor in hopeless defiance. Maybe that's what luck was, a graceful concession of fate.

That, and a belief, mortared by actions far beyond easily stated intentions; that Jane, her Jane, her anchor, friend, and her shield, was not one to cut ties easily.

Daria forced herself back to the here and now.

"We could find a house to rent," Jane was saying. "Be nice to have a garage to use as an art studio, and a basement space so he can work at home."

"I'll cook something; move your stuff so we can eat. You know, a house would be nice. He's not exactly broke anymore," Daria smiled. He could help with rent."

"Can we bring it up when he calls tonight? We could do a quick conference; I don't want to get too worked up about this until he signs up for it. Listen to us, we're already moving my brother into our household without talking to him about it."

"Jane, can you see our relationship working if he doesn't move in? I mean, he's a working musician. When would we ever see each other? Besides, I'll bet you that he's gonna do that anyway, even if he's not really thinking about it yet."

"You really should chain him to your bedpost."

"Hey, you're pretty smart sometimes."

"A house? Cool." The facetime image was a bit surreal, but Trent's grin was visible as well as audible.

The women shared a smile, huddling close in front of the phone's camera. "So you'll work with a realtor if we set it up for you? Just start looking around and see what's available. You know what we need; Jane and I really have to focus on finals and final projects."

"I could look at live-work lofts too, that would be cool. Jane could have a gallery space. And we don't have to rent, you know," Trent said slowly. "I mean, I'm pretty sure we could afford to buy a place."

The two women stared at each other. Jane shook her head, and then wiggled a finger in her ear. "Um, run that by me again, would you?"

"We have money now. The album is really doing great, and there's the tour revenue. Plus, they want me to do another album, and stuff like that."

"Trent, maybe you have money now. Jane and I are starving students."

"No, I said we have money. It was never just about me, you know."

Jane looked at Daria, who had fallen silent.

"We started this with the idea of us three sharing the rent on a place," Jane spoke up. "But actually buying a place? The question becomes- do we want to do this for real? For me, that's easy. I want to be with the only family that really gives a damn about me, and that's my brother and my best friend."

"This is a serious entanglement you're proposing, Trent."

"Daria, you're right. But it's not an entanglement, it's a commitment to you as well as Janey. Look, I only managed to do what I did because you weren't willing to settle for a half-assed relationship. You have every right to share this. This is our success. It won't mean anything to me without you being part of it. I guess I'm asking you to make a commitment to us. I just happen to be signing a check, money that wouldn't be there if not for you."

For just a moment, she hesitated. Once again, there was a lump of fear in the pit of her stomach; she quietly gathered herself and crushed down the defensive reflex to back away. He's asking me to trust him. Can I do that? His disappearing was because he thought I had broken up with him. He expected me to move on, even though he had never stopped loving me. He wanted what he thought was the best for me; if I had any sense at all I should have done just that. But I didn't. I couldn't, because I loved him, and I still do.

Slowly, she felt calm rising again; she took a deep breath.

"Yes, I will. I'm in." Trent had no trouble seeing Daria's smile from his end, but he couldn't hear that little voice in her head.

Will this happiness last? Perhaps not, but if you won't accept that possibility, you'll never truly taste it at all.

fin