by Sarah Skye
His pupils are about to eclipse his eyes, but then he scowls and shakes his head. “You’re bullshitting me.”
I laugh freely then, my head tilted back, more open than I usually let myself be. “Obviously, you creep. It’s a class, Marco. I sit in a pose and artists draw me.”
“That still sounds interesting. Do you get cold?”
“Sometimes, but I’m a pro.” I wink and sip my beer.
“So if I search you on Instagram, will I see your work?”
“Not nudes, but yeah.”
He whips out his phone while I wait. Eyes scan the screen, brows lifted slightly. “This is good content. You are a pro. I can see why it was so hard to take the time off for Nina. Must be a fast-moving industry.”
“Um, precisely,” I say, unprepared for him to be so insightful. “I mean, I was ready to do it again, but someone stepped in and—”
“Saved the day?”
“More like hypnotized my Gram.”
We laugh again. Every time we do, it gets a little less weird. That thought alone should bother me, but with the beer and the pub vibes all around, it doesn’t. I remember trading quips with him a long time ago, but those were much more malicious.
And that was before he did all those shitty things.
It was also before this exact moment for both of you. My intuition tingles with that thought. This is a good lesson. I try to live with mindful presence, but it can be tough to hold onto.
“Do you remember me from before?” I ask abruptly, not needing to explain further.
He nods a little. “Yeah. You were funny.”
“You mean rude.”
He shrugs. “You always had a comeback. That hasn’t changed, clearly. I respect that.”
“Why?”
“Because it says you can think on your feet.”
Well, shit. He’s not wrong there. “You were rude.”
“Probably.”
“You’re okay with that?”
He shifts on the stool, that guarded look coming back. “Look, I don’t want to blame my parents for everything. I’m a person. I make my choices. But programming comes from somewhere. And my whole life I was trained that if I didn’t feel comfortable in a situation, the best thing to do was disconnect. Much better not to care than to let people see you sweat.”
“Why were you uncomfortable? They were just dinners with friends.”
“It was time with people I didn’t know or have anything in common with. You all were her friends.”
It’s a fair point. I shrug one shoulder. “But we do have stuff in common. We both love our grandmothers. We both appreciate a quick comeback.”
He nods. “True, but I wasn’t going to find that out. Again, not how I was trained to handle the situation.”
“You talk like you’re a circus elephant or a guard dog.”
“Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
Marco shakes his head sadly. “No, it’s okay. It’s fair. I guess it’s kind of how I look at it now, on this side of… everything. I was angry. Wait, no. Maybe not angry. Maybe just numb? Maybe both. Either way, looking at myself, at my life, now? I just see how little I really thought about anything I did. Even law school. I went because I was expected to do something prestigious and lucrative as a career, but I didn’t want to go into investment banking like my dad.”
He runs a hand through his dark hair and exhales hard. “It’s incredible. Like I was asleep my whole life or something. It took getting my fucking nose broken to see it.”
Without thinking, I grip his hand that’s resting on the bar. Marco startles and looks into my eyes as I say, “But you did see. You’re awake. And once you’re awake to life, to the universe, you don’t get to go back to sleep.”
He twists his lips. “Sometimes it feels like it’d be easier.”
“It does. But then again you wouldn’t want to. Right? Life is hard. Being aware of it all, of the goods and bads and ups and downs, of the breaths you take and the moments that take your breath, it’s so much better than snoozing through existence. Even when it hurts like hell.”
His dark brown eyes have gone liquid, like he’s drowning in my words. His lips part slowly, words so soft that I have to lean in to hear him. “Kind of like how you’re vise-gripping my hand?”
I release my, admittedly, death grip on him and slap his shoulder as I groan. “God, you’re a douchebag.”
“I’m teasing you, Morgan,” he laughs.
I punch him again, but he catches my hand and laces our fingers together and guides my hand back to the bar. “Stop it,” he chuckles.
But the warm, smooth glide of his fingers sends a jolt of energy straight through my body. Thoughts scatter; I swear the din in the bar quiets as my heartbeat fills my ears. Capable hands… oh, fuck.
Marco releases me with a swish of his thumb across my knuckles. There’s nothing in his demeanor that suggests the move was meant to give me the tingles. He’s still grinning at his own silly joke, for crying out loud.
Your shit. Get it together, Morgan Paulsen.
The bartenders help me. A siren blares from behind the counter, and suddenly everyone is clapping. The TVs stop showing highlight reels and flash neon pink. “Music Trivia Hour! Free round for the winner!” screams on the screens.
“You two a team?” the bartender asks as he refills our beers. He proffers a golf pencil and a square of paper with four boxes on it.
Marco lifts a hand in a no, but I glance at the clock. “Sure. I love trivia, and we have another hour to kill per Gram’s instructions.”
I accept the pencil and paper and ponder the top line. “What should our team name be?”
“Top Secret, obviously.”
Obviously. I scribble it down.
The first two questions I know before the song finishes. Marco’s brows shoot up as he watches me run this on my own. “One woman team, huh?”
“Karaoke is one of my favorite night-out adventures, even though I haven’t been since before Gram got sick,” I say as I finish scribbling “Uptown Girl” in box two.
The bartender speaks into the mic: “This album won Grammys for Album of the Year and Best Pop Vocal Album in 2016 and featured tracks such as ‘Style’ and ‘Blank Space.’”
“Taylor Swift,” I breathe and touch the pencil to the page.
“Remember, we want the album here, not the artist,” he adds before I can write.
“Shit.” My hand freezes. Album names aren’t my strength. I just listen to playlists.
Marco turns his head to look at the floor so his mouth is close to my ear. “It’s 1989.”
Now my brows are at my hairline. He nods resolutely, so I jot it down. Up next is a song clip and a “name that artist” challenge. I listen and nod, but Marco peers over my shoulder and grunts. “No. It’s Lady Gaga featuring Ariana Grande, not Ariana.”
“Are you a pop diva expert or something?”
“Girl pop is fun. Don’t hate.”
“Oh, I’m not if it buys us a round.”
“Bonus question!” bellows the bartender. “Name this band and the song. If you’re under twenty-five it’s a no-brainer, but this crowd might struggle a little.” He laughs and cues the track.
The room goes silent as lyrics I can’t decipher blare. In a far corner, a woman squeals, but otherwise nothing.
Well, except from the guy beside me. He practically rips the pencil from my hand. A grin creases his entire face as he scribbles and slides it back to me. “BTS ft. Halsey. ‘Boy With Luv’.”
“That K-pop boy band?”
“Definitely.”
“If you say so.” I hand the paper over as the bartender collects them. Marco is still grinning, kind of shaking his head at himself.
We win the game. Only one other group got all five right, so we both get our rounds bought. Marco and I leave Gram’s $20 as a tip and wind our way out of the bar after that.
Outside, I burst into uncontrollable giggles. “So you’re a prete
en girl in a thirty-year-old man’s body, huh?”
In the dwindling sunlight, his cheeks flush pink. “Oh, shut up. I like catchy music. It’s good for running. What’s wrong with that?”
“Please tell me you have fan club gear.”
He just groans and shoves me.
It’s a light push, much lighter than I gave him in the bar. The alcohol and no dinner have me off balance, though, and I stumble over my own feet. I let out a weird yelp and flail, my hands finding purchase on his forearm too late.
“Ouch!” My ass crashes to the grass just off the sidewalk.
“Shit!” Marco crashes down right on top of me. His knee lands between my legs, hands planted on either side of my hips.
Leaving us nose to nose.
“I’m sorry,” he splutters. “I’m so sorry, are you hurt? I didn’t mean to push you, for fuck’s sake. I didn’t realize I was that hard—shit, I mean that I pushed you that hard—I’m so—”
“I’m okay,” I hurry to reassure him. “You didn’t, I just lost my balance and fell.”
“No, it’s my fault, I feel awful. Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
I can’t help it. My face melts in a smile at his genuine concern. “I’m sure.”
He takes it out of panic mode—and only then seems to realize our proximity. But he doesn’t move right away.
And the truth is, I don’t really want him to.
I can smell his cologne. I’ve smelled it before, like when I rode in the Mercedes out to Gram, but right now I’m breathing it in. What the hell is that deliciousness? Pepper, citrus, earth, spice, cocoa… I know essential oils pretty thoroughly, and my nose is picking up a little bit of everything. Whatever it is, it plays with his natural scent like it was designed for him. A little dark, a little clean, light and edgy. Fucking hell, it’s doing things to my body. Gazing into those dark eyes this close isn’t helping, either.
My heart hammers in my chest. I swear eons have passed that we’ve been sitting here on the ground together, but in reality it’s only a few seconds. “Um… um…” I swallow hard and take another deep inhale. “Don’t just kneel there. Help me up.”
Marco hops instantly to his feet and offers his hand. He pulls me up, but that just brings us close again. His hand is wrapped around my forearm lightly as I fall into his eyes all over again.
But he does the right thing. The sane thing. The only thing. He releases me and rolls his eyes. “Should’ve just left you there for dissing my music taste. Let’s go. Nina will need dinner. So do we. Come on, friend.”
9
MARCO
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
What the hell was that?
Who am I kidding? I know exactly what that was.
That was me on top of Morgan, our faces barely an inch apart. That was me breathing in her hot-as-hell scent. That was me touching her hand for an extra second so I could relish her silky skin as we play-fought while sitting at the bar. That was me confiding in her about my personal struggles, stuff I’ve never told anyone.
That was us having a genuinely good time together. Joking, laughing, being playful—actually enjoying each other’s company. I haven’t had that good a time in… years? Christ, yeah. Years.
And, finally, that was me holding back with all my willpower from kissing her as I knelt between her legs, my arms braced around her. God, the things I could do, kneeling between her legs…
I shouldn’t feel this heat, this bliss with Morgan. But that’s exactly what’s happening.
As we walk in silence back to Gram’s house, I shove my hands in my pockets. Otherwise, I’d pull Morgan to my mouth and things would get very, very unfriendly.
I follow her up Nina’s porch stairs, my heart thudding like an out-of-control drum beat. When I don’t follow her through the door so I can take a half-second to get my shit together, she spins around to me.
“You okay?”
No. I’m not. I think I like you, Morgan. Way more than I should.
Instead of saying any of that, I flash what I hope is an easy smile. “Yep. All good.”
10
MORGAN
I lie in bed and stare at the sunlight on the ceiling. Ensconced in lavender sheets that I picked out when I was sixteen, the comfort and familiarity of my old bedroom are reason enough to be lazy this morning.
The awkwardness of Marco being just down the hall is a pretty good reason, too.
No, it isn’t. Logic tries to intervene amid dreamy flashbacks of last night. You had a moderately good time with a person who’s taking care of Gram. You didn’t go on a date or anything. You just… commiserated.
Then why am I lying here wondering if he sleeps with his shirt off?
Abruptly, I roll out of bed and check the clock: 6 a.m.; seems pretty safe. I slip out of my room and walk on tiptoes down the short hallway, expertly avoiding the soft spots in the floor that creak. I learned them well as a teenager sneaking back in, even though Gram always seemed to know precisely what time I got home.
At the end of the hall, I hold my breath and plaster myself to the wall to peep around the corner. Marco’s got one foot planted on the floor, the other stuck out of the sheet over the arm of the sofa. His right arm is thrown over his eyes while his left is stuck under the pillow. Limbs everywhere, body far too long for the little couch that can be offering zero lumbar support, he is the picture of uncomfortable.
He could model for a mattress company.
I bite my lip to swallow a giggle, but really. He’d be perfect. And he’s so damn handsome that he could pull it off, no doubt.
But he’s also wearing a white tee, thus solving the mystery that propelled me out of bed in the first place.
Why, then, I tiptoe closer, I’m really not sure.
I crouch in front of his face and examine him. Expression smooth from sleep, scruff on his chin, dark hair sticking up everywhere in wild curls. One falls on his forehead.
Christ, he really is pretty.
No, he’s an ass.
Yeah, but he’s a pretty ass. He probably has a pretty ass, too.
Yet again I clamp down on my lip at my absurd train of thought, but this is serious. I can’t be thinking about freaking Marco like this. I can’t be admiring his sharp jaw and strong profile, or the way the slight crook in his nose—presumably from where Calder broke it last year—makes him all the more dashing. None of that is part of this situation. How he looks, or the way he makes me laugh, has zero to do with helping Gram or whatever soul journey he seems to be on.
And still, here I am.
Okay, so you’re getting to know him—this new version of him or whatever. That’s appealing. Someone working to be a better person, you can’t hate that right? But he’s a failure at relationships. And, to be fair, so am I.
… Why are you thinking about relationships????
I topple out of my crouch and fall on my ass, startled by my train of thought. Marco jolts and sits upright, head whipping around from side to side.
“Nina?”
“Shh,” I hiss as I scramble up and rub my tailbone. “It’s me. I, uh, tripped on the coffee table.”
His dark eyes fix on me, brows drawn in concern. “Why?”
“Trying not to wake you.”
The side of his mouth curls up. “How sweet.”
“Piss off.”
“Mmkay.” He falls back to the pillow and closes his eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour. Nina has a bridge game at nine.”
Cheeks on fire, I rush back to my room and fall face-first into the pillow with a groan.
At 8:45, I’m in the backseat of Marco’s Mercedes. Beside him, in the passenger seat, Gram is almost vibrating with excitement. She keeps saying, “It’s just so nice to get out and about again.”
Marco and I have been taking turns offering agreeable affirmations, but I have to interject: “I know you’re planning on being at Mrs. Lewis’s house all day next Friday. Marco will be in the city until late. Are you sure it’s safe?”
But she waves me away like usual. “If it weren’t, Marco would be coming along. But Bev was a nurse for forty years, and on top of that, her daughter will be here. She’s still an RN. I’m in good hands.”
Marco and I both hum. We’re appeased.
He pulls up to the house and parks, and, I swear, Gram is out of the car before it’s stopped moving. “Gram!” I gasp, but she’s already shut the door and adjusting her hat.
Marco chuckles and kills the engine.
He’s rounded the car and has Gram on his arm when I step out, so I follow them up the walk to the front door. Mrs. Lewis, one of Gram’s oldest friends, greets us. “Nina, welcome back,” she cries with a wide smile. “How have you been keeping?”
“Oh, you know how the doctors worry,” Gram replies with a dismissive wave. “But I’ve been in good hands.”
Mrs. Lewis eyes Marco with a look I can only describe as thirsty. “So I see. Is this your new beau?”
Gram cackles merrily. “Something like that. Meet Marco. Marco, this is Bev.”
“Pleasure.” Marco’s voice is soft. I glance at him and read a lot of hesitation in his aura.
Gram pats his arm and disentangles from him. “You kids are welcome to play a few hands with us if you want. Otherwise, Bev has a lovely patio and plenty of lemonade.”
We opt for lemonade.
But it’s yet another instance where I’m forced to hang out with him, and between my muddled thoughts, worry over Gram, and growing guilt about keeping all this from Lily and Harmony, I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I accept the glass of lemonade Marco pours and sit on the glider, tapping my nails against the cup.
He clears his throat. “What’s with you today? You’re all edgy.”
“I’m just… well, yeah. Edgy would sum up my vibe, I guess.”
He hums as he stretches his long legs out on the chaise. “Your vibe. There’s a term. Do you want to talk about your vibe?”
