by Mina Bennett
Mark looked at me sharply. "That's not very professional to discuss with other customers," he said.
"Oh," I said, mildly. "Hi, Mark."
"People are nuts," Marissa said. "Hon, do you see the one we need?"
"No," he muttered. "I don't know why we bothered coming here, they never have anything."
"Because every other place is closed," said Marissa, patiently. "Wait - didn't you say D0065? That's right over here." She reached out to grab one of the cartridges hanging near my head, and time stopped.
Her finger caught the light. Or, rather, something on her finger did.
A diamond.
No, two diamonds. Because he wouldn't be Mark if he gave her a ring with just one diamond on it.
Mark grumbled a reluctant "yes," snatching the cartridge from her and heading back towards the front of the store. "Okay, well, good to see you, Jacob," Marissa called out as he pulled her along with him.
My heart felt like it was beating about once per minute.
I knew it was coming.
I did. I'd come to peace with it already, long, long before I heard the news. I knew it was going to happen. There was absolutely no excuse for acting like it was some big surprise.
I stood there with the planogram in my hand, staring at it, like it was written in some foreign language. It felt like my brain had overloaded, stalled out, please wait. Buffering. I became intently aware of the sound of the music blaring in the speakers above my head, every word and every note boring a hole in my eardrums. Louder and louder, until I wanted to scream.
"Hey." Mr. Harris' voice filtered faintly through the noise in my head. "How's it going?"
"Good," I replied, a little too quickly. "I'm just...just double-checking something."
"Great. It's important to be thorough." I could see him watching me, concerned, out of the corner of my eye. "Need any help figuring it out?"
"No, no, I got it." I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. "I just...I'm just not feeling well, all of a sudden."
"Okay, well." He hesitated for a moment. "When you get done with that, come up front and we'll work on sorting out the new releases."
Some time later, I looked down at the shelves and realized I was done. I had no specific memory of having completed the job, but I seemed to have put everything in the right place, so I boxed up the tote of discontinued toners and carried it to the back room. After I set it down, I spent a good few minutes just sitting on a box, staring at the wall. Breathing.
When I heard the door click suddenly, I jumped to my feet and pretended to busy myself with the tote. Mr. Harris poked his head in.
"You all right in here?"
"Oh, yeah," I said. "Yeah, I just - I just wanted to make sure the zip ties were on really tight. I didn't want anything to fall out."
"I'm sure they're just perfect," he said. "Why don't you come up front for a while?"
I followed him up to the counter, keeping my mind very deliberately blank. On the wall of TVs, Shania Twain was dancing over a backdrop, the wind ruffling her hair as she sang something I couldn't quite hear.
"I hope you're not still shaken up over Mary Rose," he said, pulling out a box from under the counter. I shook my head.
"Nah," I said. "It's something else. But I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay."
"Sure," he said. "Whatever it is, don't let it get in the way of your plans for that bike shop. I'm counting on you to get me out of this place." He grinned.
"You know, you'll probably still have to work with the public."
"Sure, but will I have your permission to kick somebody out if they start throwing a tantrum?"
"Absolutely you will."
"See, I like working for you already." He plopped a box on the counter; it was adorned with bright orange labels that said things like WARNING - DO NOT OPEN and tomorrow's date. "New releases," he said. "It's very important to keep the street date on this stuff, or the production companies come after us with torches and pitchforks. It's pretty hard not to notice the stickers, but you'd be surprised how many people somehow manage to cut right through them." He started rifling through the box. "Our job is to put them on file in the system so they'll scan tomorrow. They can't go out on the shelf until tomorrow morning, but they have to already be in the computer system by then, or else the cashiers come after us with torches and pitchforks."
"Makes sense," I said. He handed me a little device to scan the barcodes and verify the information, and I started in on my task.
"So, when's your grand opening?" Mr. Harris smiled at me. "Can I give notice yet?"
I laughed. "I'm hoping to put pretty much everything I make here into savings for a lease on some retail space. But of course I have to help my family out a little, too."
"Of course." He glanced at me. "Is this really your first job?"
"Yeah, my parents didn't really want me to. But ever since I graduated, I haven't had much to do. My mom fought me a little, but I managed to convince her that it was a good idea."
Mr. Harris chuckled. "Most of the kids I get in here practically have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, because their parents want them to learn a little responsibility. You can imagine how well that goes. I'm just glad to have someone here who wants to work."
"I've always thought time goes by faster when you have plenty to do."
"It's true. And if there's anything in your life that you want to get away from - or you just want to stop thinking about your troubles, there's nothing quite like re-alphabetizing the whole R&B section for a couple hours. But I can tell you're headed for better things."
"Let's hope so," I said. "I mean, no offense."
"None taken, Jacob." Mr. Harris hefted another box from under the counter and plopped it down in front of me. "Believe me, none taken whatsoever."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Marissa
I felt like I'd spent a lot of time staring at the grandfather clock in Mark's living room, lately.
The last few times, I'd asked if I could help out in the kitchen so that we could cook together. He was actually more receptive to that than I expected, and so I found myself seeding, coring and chopping any number of things on his premium walnut cutting boards with his gleaming, always-sharp knives. He handled all the actual cooking, but at least I wasn't bored.
But today, there was nothing for me to do.
Finally, he came out from the kitchen and handed me a glass of wine. By now I was used to the lightheaded feeling, that low buzzing at the base of my skull. I'd even started to like the taste.
I'd taken a few good-sized sips before I realized he was being uncharacteristically quiet. He was looking down at the carpet, swirling his wine glass absentmindedly.
"What's wrong?" I asked, setting my own glass down on the table.
"Nothing," he said, shortly. I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was silent for long enough that I started to think maybe it really was nothing.
And then, he spoke again.
"Didn't we just talk about the way you dress?"
My heart sank.
"Yes," I said, softly.
"I thought," he said, his voice growing suddenly louder, "I thought you agreed you were going to be more careful."
He looked at me suddenly. There was no softness in his eyes, and I felt a lump growing in my throat.
"I thought I was being careful," I said. I wasn't apologizing. Not again. I'd purposefully worn a turtleneck that was several sizes too big, even though it was hot out, and boy's jeans that didn't cling to my hips. What problem could he possibly have with the way I was dressed?
"Marissa," he said, with a sort of forced patience. "Remember how I said that men's brains work differently? I know you don't really understand lust the way I experience it, but you can look in a mirror, can't you?"
Well it was between this and the burlap sack, but that was above knee-level so I decided to go with this ensemble. Angry tears were stinging in the corners of my eyes, but I
wasn't going to let him see me cry. Not over something stupid like this.
"Well, Mark," I said, my voice quivering with barely restrained fury. "Maybe you can just write me a list of the kinds of things I'm allowed to wear and we'll go from there."
"Mari, please, let's not fight." His voice had softened. "I'm sorry, it's just...I get so frustrated when I see you. It hurts that I can't touch you the way I want to. Or even see you the way I want to."
"I thought you didn't want to see too much of me." I reached for my wine and took another generous swallow.
"Of course I want to," he said. "The point is that I shouldn't."
"Maybe we shouldn't be alone together," I suggested. I knew that most young couples in our community were expected to have chaperones at all times, until they got married. It was too much temptation otherwise. It had never occurred to me that Mark would have that problem, being a church leader and all that, but I supposed I'd overestimated his self control.
"Don't be silly," he said, firmly. "We can make it work, right?"
"Can we?" I finished my glass, then set it down, surprised at myself. Mark immediately lifted the bottle and poured me another. "I'm not the one who should be making that call."
"Good grief," said Mark. "You must think I'm some kind of pervert."
"I don't think that," I said. "I know it's different for men."
I was halfway through my second glass before I realized my head was spinning. I'd had this much before, but never this quickly. It was a rather nice feeling. I could understand why people chased after this. I felt...bold, somehow, stronger and more self-assured.
"Just so you know," I said, in a voice that was recognizably mine yet somehow sounding very distant, "I don't try to tempt you on purpose. I spent a long time picking out this outfit specifically because it was the most modest thing I could think of."
"Oh, Mari," he said, leaning closer, the heat of his body seeping through my clothes and making me shiver. "I know. But that just makes it harder."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean," he said, his voice dropped to a smooth baritone murmur, "the fact that you're trying so hard not to tempt me is even more tempting than if you'd set out to seduce me."
"I'd never do that," I said, because I had nothing else to say.
"Of course you wouldn't," he said. "That's what I like about you."
I felt that prickling on the back of my neck again, but I forced myself to focus on the pleasant lightheadedness that the wine had brought me. Mark poured me another glass, but my stomach felt like it was clenching up around itself, so I decided to abstain for now.
His eyes had been locked on me for a while. I was choosing to ignore it, outwardly, but I was very aware that he was watching, and smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile.
"You make me crazy, Mari," he said, softly.
I swallowed hard, choosing not to answer.
"I think you know that you're driving me crazy," he said. "And I think you like it."
Well, I couldn't deny that. Not entirely.
"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," I said, which was mostly true.
His smile was growing. "You're so innocent," he said. "But nobody's totally pure, are they, Mari?"
I tugged at my sleeves. "I guess not," I said.
"So you have been paying attention." He reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The brush of his fingertips against my temple made goosebumps rise all over my body. "It's okay to have desires," he said. "I know in the church, sometimes we focus so much on men's struggles in that area that we ignore what women are struggling with. Especially young women, just as their bodies are coming awake and starting to want things they never wanted before. I know it might feel awkward, considering the situation, but you can always talk to me."
"I don't really think that's a good idea," I said.
"It's fine," said Mark. "Trust me. Men are visual. Talking is perfectly okay."
I didn't quite believe him, but I decided to trust that he knew his own limits.
"I'm serious," he said, reading the doubt on my face. "If there's anything I do that's causing you to stumble, please don't hesitate to tell me."
"Okay, fine," I said. "I wish you wouldn't talk so much about your...you know, your struggles." Even a little drunk, I blushed at the thought. "It makes me...you know, it's, it's...it makes me want...things."
He was looking at me intently. "Oh, Mari," he said, at last, very quietly. His voice sounded strained. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
I shook my head.
"You want me to see you," he said. "Don't you?"
I didn't know what else to do, so I nodded.
Without another word, he stood up and walked over to the windows, drawing the blinds. I couldn't stop myself from staring at his lap, at the very obvious bulge under his pants. Nobody had ever bothered to give me any halfway decent sex ed, but I could crack an encyclopedia just as easily as anybody else. I knew what it was.
My whole body flushed very hot, then chilled very cold. I shivered, hugging my arms around my chest.
"Are you cold?" Mark asked, coming back and sitting down beside me. "I can turn down the air conditioner."
I shook my head.
"You sure?" he asked. "I want you to be comfortable."
"I'm sure," I said.
"I want to see you, too," he said. "Just as much as you want to be seen. More. More than you could ever imagine."
I didn't answer.
"Just let me see a little bit of you, Mari," he said. "Just a little. I promise if you do, I'll back off until the wedding."
Clearing my throat, I finally found my voice. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Honestly," he said, "right now, I don't care."
My fists were clenched at my sides. His desire was palpable, and there was a part of me that wanted very much to buckle. To give him what he wanted. But I knew his approval would be fleeting. In a few days, or hours, or minutes, he'd turn on me. He'd blame me for "making him stumble." I had to be strong when he couldn't, for both of our sakes.
"Mari, please," he said, softly.
I shook my head.
"Why not?" he almost whined.
"You're going to regret it," I said. And blame me, I added silently.
"I swear I won't breathe a word of it," he whispered. "Not after tonight."
I swallowed thickly. It would be so easy, to just reach under the hem of my shirt and pull it off. Just for a moment. Enough to satisfy him, at least for now.
And then, impossibly, I felt myself doing it. I couldn't look at him, but I managed to slip the fabric over my head and set it down on the sofa next to me. I couldn't let go of the shirt afterwards, clenching it in my fist like that everything better.
His breathing grew harsher. I gripped the shirt even more tightly, staring at the carpet, feeling goose bumps rise on my exposed skin. My nipples were stiffening too. Tears were gathering in my eyes, and all I wanted to do was to put my stupid shirt back on, or maybe go back in time to before I'd taken it off in the first place.
I knew this was going to be a mistake.
"Look at me," he said, softly.
I forced myself to do as he asked.
He was just a few inches away, and I was acutely aware of his closeness - but at the same time, I felt like I was a million miles away. The look on his face was unlike anything I'd ever seen. He was smiling a little, but there was something else in his eyes.
"Please don't cry," he said. "You're beautiful."
"I'm not crying," I said. My voice sounded distant; timid and weak. What was wrong with me? Why was I doing this? Why couldn't I stop?
It was like I was watching myself in a dream. I wanted to scream or throw things or wake myself up somehow, but I knew this was all too real.
He reached out and touched my arm, lightly. I shuddered, but I didn't pull away.
Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. He was completely silent as I hastily pulled my shirt back on,
and the tears I'd been holding back finally came. I ran out of the house, slamming the door behind me and running all the way home.
My parents were sitting at the dinner table, but I ran past them before they had a chance to look up or say anything to me.
I didn't come out of my room for a long time, but I could hear them talking about me through the vent.
"They probably had a fight," was all my dad said. "Happens to everybody."
"Well, she can be irrational sometimes." My mom was scraping her fork along her plate, in that way that always set my teeth on edge. "They've always seemed to get along so well, though."
"Sure, but that doesn't mean she'll never get her feelings hurt."
I tried to imagine explaining to my parents what had just happened. How would they react? I couldn't decide if they would accuse me of lying, blame me for seducing him, or actually believe me. More than that, I couldn't decide which would be worse.
I couldn't shut off my brain. The scenario of telling someone played out like a movie in my head; the dark looks, the suspicious whispers, a thousand times worse than they'd ever been before. Whether or not anyone believed me, that was almost guaranteed to happen. And even if someone did, I could never show my face around those people again. Not that I wanted to. But my parents would never forgive me for tarnishing their reputation even further than I already had.
And really, on reflection, what had he actually done to me? He didn't rape me. He barely even touched me. Back when I was a kid, my mom always told me that if an adult ever made me feel pressured to something that made me feel uncomfortable, I should tell someone right away. But I wasn't a kid anymore. I was a grown woman with a fiancé who loved me and wanted to see me topless. That wasn't inappropriate. It was perfectly natural, in fact. There were plenty of people out there in the real world, outside of our community, who slept together, or even lived together, before they got married. And really, despite what I'd been told my whole life, they seemed perfectly happy. Maybe Mark and I were finding our own way of enjoying each other before marriage, without technically violating any of our beliefs. After all, I had decided to take my shirt off. I'd done it of my own free will, no matter how much it had felt like someone else doing it.
