by Sarah Skye
“Don’t be gross.”
“I’m not,” he says with a broad grin. “I’m legit asking.”
“Do you really think I want to talk about it with you?” When he doesn’t answer, I chew on my lip and blurt, “Name one reason I shouldn’t be edgy. Gram is acting like nothing is wrong, like two weeks ago we didn’t come in and find her basically comatose. My career is on tenterhooks. Every contract is like a gift, like I can keep my apartment and my job a while longer. Meanwhile, you’re over here being… being… some alien who’s clearly inhabited Marco’s body.”
He chokes on the lemonade. “Excuse me?” he finally wheezes, after I reach over and thump him on the back.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. I keep waiting for the shoe to drop, for your true weasel colors to show—”
“What color is a weasel, anyway?”
“Apparently they’re brown-haired, brown-eyed, with olive skin. Who guessed it?”
Marco holds one hand in front of him and examines it. “Olive? Huh, guess so.” He drops his hand and the act. “What do you want me to say, Morgan? I told you already: I’m trying to be a better person. Can’t you accept that?”
My lip is going to have puncture holes in it. “I completely believe in growth and bettering yourself. I think the universe teaches you the same lesson until you learn it. But you? You’re just so…”
Dark eyes lift to me, guarded again like they were when we started all this. I wish they weren’t, wish I was looking at that spark of humor that flashes when I give him a sharp comeback.
“Just so far gone, huh?” the bottom has dropped out of his voice.
My throat gets thick. “I don’t want to think that,” I croak. “But…”
His expression shutters completely. “Think whatever you want,” he mutters. “I’m not doing any of this for you anyway.”
That statement, right there, clicks something in my head. It’s hard to say what, but it snaps the nagging feeling that this is a trick. He’s not doing this for me. Obviously, he has zero reason to want to impress me, but more than that, this isn’t a message he wants sent. He’s not being sweet to Gram so I’ll go tell Harmony that he’s a good guy now. He’s not making sugar-free banana pudding and ruining his spine on the couch night after night as a fuck you to Lily and Calder. He’s just…
Trying to be a good person.
For some unknown reason, my eyes sting a little as I wet my lips and say, “Being a good person is so simple, but also so fucking hard. Am I right?”
Marco eyes me with a single nod but doesn’t speak.
“I, uh,” I cast my gaze down and breathe a humorless laugh. “I can’t believe I’m talking about this with you. But, uh, I think that trust is the hardest part. Trust in me. In others. I’m trying to be a good person, too. Trying to do what’s right for Gram and me. It’s easier to distrust you’re doing the same.”
“Why?”
“Because if I mess up, I can blame you.”
He laughs softly at that. “I promise you, if you mess up, I’ll certainly have done it before you and far worse. I ruin everything.”
“You really don’t though.”
“Well, it feels that way. Usually. Well, it did before this. I’m just trying, Morgan. Trying however I can, you know?”
I nod.
“My grandma died when I was twelve. Remember when I told you that?”
I twist my head to him as he stares ahead, jolted by his out-of-the-blue statement. “Yeah. Embolism, right?”
“Yeah.” It comes out a harsh sigh. “I took it pretty hard. I loved her a lot.”
He opens his mouth as if to say more, but shakes his head.
I touch his arm. “I’m really sorry, Marco.”
“I used to wish I could go back in time and give her more hugs, tell her that I love her a million times. Sometimes I wonder if I’d have turned out better if she had lived longer. I know that sounds weird.”
I can’t help but wonder about his family. Who are his parents? Does he have any siblings? He never talks about them. There’s probably a reason for that. Maybe that’s why his grandma was so special to him.
“I don’t think that’s weird at all. I think that too sometimes, how different I’d be if my mom and dad had been around. If I’d be better than I am,” I say.
He pins me with his dark gaze. “You’re an incredible person, Morgan. No way you could be any better.”
His words make my mouth go dry and my heart leap.
“I think your grandma would be proud to see the person you are right now.” It comes out so quickly, so easily, almost automatically. I wonder if he thinks I’m just saying that because of the compliment he paid me. But I mean every word.
He flashes a sad smile at me. “Nina said the same thing, about my grandma being proud if she could see me now.”
“Gram’s good people.”
He laughs, then quickly sobers. “I know you initially thought I started taking care of her because I was trying to redeem myself in some weird way. And maybe a small part of me felt that too, but honestly? I just wanted to do it. It was the right thing to do, and I wanted to help. I wanted to be there for her in a way that I couldn’t for my own grandma.”
He swallows, and my gaze follows the slow movement along his stubble-covered neck.
“I miss having a grandma. And I know Nina isn’t my grandma, but she makes me feel welcome and cared for. She makes me feel like all this trying is worthwhile.”
“She cares a lot about you, Marco. I can tell.”
There’s a brightness in his eyes that shines for a good few seconds. It’s then that I realize my hand is still on his arm. I pull away.
Although my eyes are cast down, I feel him hesitate. “I, uh, maybe shouldn’t say this. But, last night was fun.”
His change of subject is jarring, but my cheeks get hot anyway. “It was.”
We trade a look and a cautious smile. Marco rakes a hand through his hair. “Won’t let it inflate my ego, don’t worry.”
“Damn right.”
We haven’t broken the stare yet. I realize I’ve leaned forward in my seat, toward him. Marco has turned to put his feet on the ground and face me.
We are terribly close to leaning into each other.
As soon as I realize it, I jolt backward in my chair and plaster my shoulders to the cushion. He blinks rapidly, looks around, and stretches back out on the chaise. We both gulp down our lemonade.
“So that’s why my vibe is edgy,” I say after a pause.
“Yeah, makes sense I guess. Just, I don’t know. Try not to be? No need to start a fire where there isn’t one.”
Thanks, Universe. That’s the advice I needed to hear right now. I steal one more glance at his profile and swear on Venus that I am done having these fluttery moments over freaking Marco Woodruff.
But I’m also done telling myself he’s just an asshole in disguise.
11
MARCO
“I’m starting to feel things.”
Dr. Imana’s brow doesn’t even twitch. I totally expect it to. It’s such a bizarre and vague thing to say, but he’s a consummate professional.
I shouldn’t be surprised. He barely blinked during any of my previous therapy sessions. It was the day I drove back to the city, when Morgan took Gram to the doctor. I’d told him the crazy-as-hell events of the last couple weeks: randomly running into Morgan on the side of the road, racing her to Gram’s house only to find her unconscious, then racing to the hospital. I’d explained how I’d offered to be her caregiver once the dust had settled and I realized how dire the situation was for both her and Morgan.
Morgan.
I blink, and all I see are those doe-like blue eyes, those light-gold freckles on the bridge of her nose, the way the right corner of her mouth always quirks up when she’s giving me a hard time.
Seeing her the other morning sprawled out on the floor in front of me when I woke up, that shock of blonde hair a tousled me
ss. God, I’d wanted to reach over and run my fingers through it.
My heart pounds. Christ. I like her.
No shit. And you’re in therapy right now, so what a perfect time to talk about it.
I swallow and look at Dr. Imana, whose thoughtful gaze remains trained on me. “What kind of things are you feeling?”
“I care a lot about Nina.” I bite the inside of my cheek, annoyed with myself for chickening out.
“I think that’s wonderful. Like I mentioned last session, it sounds like you’re having a corrective emotional experience in all the time you’re spending with her. The care and affection she’s showing you seem to be going a long way in repairing the emotional trauma you experienced with your family growing up.”
Last session, I told Dr. Imana about how natural and comfortable I felt around Nina. How it felt like I had known her for ages, how she welcomed me into her home with open arms.
How it was mystifying and heartening all at once.
“It might sound weird, me saying that I care about her, given that we haven’t known each other long. And we came together through such strange circumstances, but I feel so responsible for her. Even today as I’m here in the city. I know she’s fine with her friend, that in a few weeks she won’t need me to stay anymore, but I… I don’t know. I want to make sure she’s okay.”
“I don’t think it’s weird at all,” Dr. Imana says. “Nina’s showing you the kind of love and affection you yearned to receive from your parents and brother but didn’t get. When you spend time with her, it’s like she’s demonstrating how good it can feel to be part of a healthy and functional family unit.”
“She reminds me of my grandma,” I say, speaking the words I didn’t have the guts to say in my last therapy session.
“How so?”
“My grandma Sofia was always loving and caring. She hugged me all the time, every time we visited her. She’d always tell me how proud she was of me, how happy she was that my brother and I were there to spend time with her. She told me she loved me every single time I saw her.”
When my throat starts to tighten, I stop talking.
“That was the last time someone in my family told me they loved me,” I say quietly, staring at the carpet underneath my shoes. “I was twelve. It was the day after Christmas, and we were leaving to go back home. She hugged me, kissed my forehead, cupped my cheek with her hand, and said, ‘I love you so much, my Marco.’ She, uh, died of an embolism a couple of months later.”
My voice starts to break at the end. I quickly clear my throat, hoping it disguises the sound.
When I look up, there’s the slightest wrinkle in Dr. Imana’s brow. His eyes shine with concern. “I’m so sorry. That must have been so painful for you, to lose her suddenly at a young age.”
I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak right now, at this moment where the pain of losing her threatens to turn me into a crying mess. God, working on my feelings sucks sometimes. In a good way, but still.
“Have you been able to talk about your grandma with anyone?”
“A bit with Nina. And Morgan.”
“That’s good. I think you should keep doing that.” He pauses for a second. “How are things going with Morgan?”
“They’re better.”
He nods like he expects me to say more. Last session I revealed her connection to my most recent exes, Harmony and Lily—and how she couldn’t stand me.
“So you two are getting along?” he asks.
“Yeah. Pretty well. I… really like her.”
It doesn’t take more than that for Dr. Imana to catch my drift.
“I see.”
“I’m kinda freaked out about it.”
“Why exactly?”
“Because of our history. She hated me. I was a jerk to her. And I am scumbag number one in her social circle.”
“But she doesn’t hate you now, does she?”
“She doesn’t seem to.” My mind flashes back to when we were sprawled on the grass after trivia night, my hands braced on either side of her hips, my knee between her legs, our gazes locked. She definitely didn’t seem to hate me then.
“And you’re not being a jerk to her anymore, I assume?”
“No. I’m not. Well…” I flash a smile. “Not really. Teasing her is fun, though. She’s always got a comeback.”
“And you like that.”
I scratch the back of my head. “Yeah. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment or something, but I do.”
“What exactly do you feel for her?”
I hesitate for a second before reminding myself that Dr. Imana is here to help, not judge.
“I don’t know. Things just feel so different with her than they felt when I was with my exes. I like talking to her. I even like arguing with her. Or even just being around her, neither of us saying a word. She’s funny and sweet and hardworking. And big-hearted. And gorgeous. When she’s not around I think about her. A lot. I feel comfortable around her in a way I never have before.”
Fuck, I sound like an angsty high schooler.
“It’s like she puts out all these good vibes that help me feel at ease.”
Vibes.
The word settles on the tip of my tongue. I was never the kind of person to use that word seriously, but Morgan’s used it around me so much, it’s starting to rub off. I even like that.
“What makes you think she doesn’t feel the same way about you?” Dr. Imana asks.
“I broke her best friend’s heart. And her other friend’s heart too. I did a lot of horrible things to the people she loves.” My cheeks are on fire as I admit that for the millionth time.
“I understand your hesitation,” he says. “But you’re in therapy to address the issues that caused you to do those hurtful things. You’re different from the way you were then. Maybe Morgan is noticing that change in you. And maybe she likes it too.”
Dr. Imana’s words tumble in my head through the end of the session. They linger as I make my way out of the building where his office is and turn the corner to my parked car down the street.
And then a familiar face crashes into my chest.
“Morgan.” I grin at her. What were the odds?
“Hey.” She sets down one of the three overstuffed cloth bags she’s carrying and smooths a hand over her hair, which is styled in loose waves. She scrunches her nose at me. “We really need to stop meeting like this.”
“Getting sick of seeing my chest up close?”
“Something like that.” She purses her lips like she’s trying not to laugh. “What are you up to?”
I internally panic at her totally normal question. “Checking on an old client.”
I swallow back a self-loathing groan. Why the hell am I still so scared to admit that I see a therapist? I shove the thought aside and quickly ask her where she’s headed.
She points to a brick building on the corner of the street. “Photoshoot.”
“For what?”
“This new line of yoga pants made of recycled water bottles.”
“Yoga pants?” Smirking, I quirk a brow. When she lightly shoves me, I burst out laughing.
“Come on. You have to know yoga pants are catnip for guys.”
She rolls her eyes, laughing. “You put up a good front as the doting caretaker for the elderly, but deep down you’re a caveman. I knew it.”
“I like yoga pants. Sue me.”
“Ha. No way in hell would I ever go against a lawyer.”
I don’t miss the lightness that fills me up as we chuckle and tease. It’s addictive, and I don’t want to leave her anytime soon. I bend down and grab the bag on the sidewalk, then one of the ones in her hand. “I’ll help you carry these in.”
Her smile turns shy as she thanks me, which sends another jolt through me.
“Jesus, what’s in here?” I glance down at the bag as I walk alongside her.
“Makeup and hair stuff. They’re a small company, so I have to do my own hair and makeup for t
he shoot. The pay’s really good, though.”
“You really need this much makeup?” I ask as I peer into one of the bags.
“Duh. I want to look good on camera.” She says it like it’s a no-brainer, leaving me utterly mystified.
“But you don’t need it.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch her shaking her head. “Don’t be that guy.”
“What guy?”
She stops walking and turns to me. Not like she’s mad at what I’ve said, more like exasperated. “That obnoxious guy who says that he prefers when women look natural instead of all made up. As if we exist for the viewing pleasure of men only.”
I stammer for a second, embarrassed that I’ve given her that impression. “No, I didn’t mean that. With or without makeup, you’re beautiful. That’s all.”
Her eyes go the slightest bit wide, and I swear her cheeks go pink. “Oh. Thanks.”
She hurries toward the building, and I follow her down the hall into a massive studio. All the walls are brick. The hardwood floor looks like it’s wet, it’s so shiny.
“Morgan! Darling!” A forty-something woman with her dark brown hair in a bun runs over. She pulls Morgan into a hug and gives her air kisses on both cheeks.
She speaks a mile a minute, something about natural lighting through the window and back-ordered sports bras and a last-minute replacement for the photographer.
“But! It’s all gonna be great because you’re here and you’re beautiful and a goddess and these photos are going to be incredible,” she says while holding Morgan by the shoulders.
Morgan chuckles as the woman looks over at me. “Well, well. Who’s this?”
“Her assistant.” I smile, ignoring the way Morgan’s mouth falls open. “I’m Marco, Morgan’s PA.”
“Pleasure, dear.” She shakes my hand and says she’s Brenna, the owner of the yoga pants company.
Brenna points to a large mirror and vanity at the far side of the room. “We start shooting in twenty. You can put Morgan’s things there.”
We walk over to the mirror. I stand to the side as Morgan starts pulling out hair and makeup stuff from the bags.
