A Crazy Kind of Love

by Mary Ann Marlowe

  “Are you just drifting?”

  “With you? No. I’m anchored. Positively moored.”

  I smiled to myself. I’d never known anyone to lay it out so openly. It encouraged me to ask a trickier question. “So, would you consider this exclusive?”

  “You want to know if I’m flirting with other girls?”

  “No. You’re gonna flirt. That’s just you. But I want to know what to expect.”

  “What do you want to expect?”

  “Micah, you are talking in circles. You can’t answer a question with a question.”

  “I can’t? Why not?” He started laughing.

  “You are a brat.”

  “I’ll tell you what to expect then. Expect me to be home tomorrow around noon. What are we doing?”

  I laid my head down and rolled on my side, switching my phone to the other ear. “Going to a flea market.”

  “A flea market?”

  “With Zion.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  I lowered my voice, quiet. “Micah. You haven’t answered my question.”

  “No? I thought I did.” If I closed my eyes, I could imagine his low whisper coming from beside me.

  “I must have missed your answer. Could you say it again?”

  “Josie. Unless you tell me to take a hike, or, in some dystopian universe, I tell you we’re through, you’re the only girl for me.”

  Chapter 20

  Zion must have carried me to my bed during the night. I slept late into the morning and woke more rested than I’d been in days. I got up and made some tea, checked my glucose, and then started scrambling eggs.

  There was a message on my phone from Andy: Good work, Scout. Maybe I misjudged you. Come on into the office on Monday. We’ll talk.

  Zion opened his door, wearing his ratty bathrobe. His hair stuck out in every direction, an homage to Adrianna perhaps, though far shorter.

  “What time did you get in last night? You look like a horror show.”

  A woman emerged from his room, wearing Zion’s silky kimono. Without her blond wig, it took me a second to recognize her.

  Zion waved back at her. “Josie, you remember Adrianna?”

  “What the—” I clamped my mouth shut. “Of course. Hey, Adrianna.” I shot Zion a you-better-start-talking look, but he yawned and went into the bathroom.

  Adrianna hugged the kimono tighter around her rail-thin body. “We met last week at Eden’s show, right?” Her natural hair was cropped short and reddish brown. She had noticeable acne scars that she must have hidden under all the makeup she usually wore. Her appearance reminded me of nothing so much as a shaved poodle. Still beautiful, but strangely different without all her usual trappings.

  I threw another egg into the skillet. A little warning would have been nice. Zion had some explaining to do. I had my chance when they swapped places in the bathroom, and I arched an eyebrow at Zion, waiting for him to fill me in.

  He pulled out a chair and sat at the table. “So I’ve been chatting with her, and we decided to meet last night.”

  “I gathered.”

  He stood and reached into the fridge for juice. “Want some?”

  “Why’d you bring her here?”

  “She can’t exactly bring someone to her place. I mean, someone’s likely to notice and report it. Even people who go in her apartment alone are probably scrutinized.”

  “And they wouldn’t notice her coming over here?”

  He popped a strawberry into his mouth. “She camouflages well.”

  After seeing her this morning without her wig, I could almost believe that. “But her face is constantly on magazines. She’s instantly recognizable.”

  “Ever notice how few out-and-about pictures ever turn up of her?”

  I hadn’t, but now that he mentioned it, I’d never seen her myself. I guess I’d always assumed she was a recluse.

  She emerged from the bathroom, wearing a navy FDNY T-shirt and a pair of white nylon sweats with two bars of stripes running down the sides. She put on a baseball cap backward, and joined us at the table. To say she was perfectly androgynous would be understating things. Dressed as she was, with her height, she could even pass as a boy.

  “Oh,” I said. “OH!” All at once, I understood why Zion had been so attracted to her. To him? She looked up at me, but when Zion opened his eyes wide, I recovered and managed to blurt out, “I just remembered Micah’s coming over soon.”

  I couldn’t stop staring bug-eyed at Adrianna though. Was she still a “she” when she was dressed as a “he?” I’d need to get Zion alone and make him answer every single question, but for now, he covered for me and explained. “Jo’s seeing Micah Sinclair.”

  Adrianna smiled, coy. “Seriously? You are so lucky.”

  I shot her a dirty look. Zion was sitting right there. I was sitting right there.

  She held up a hand. “No, I don’t mean it like that. Although he is a fine piece of ass. Am I right?”

  “Mmm. You are so right.” Zion horrified me sometimes.

  “Oh, Lord, give me strength.” I finished my last bite of egg and pushed my chair back to start clearing.

  “Seriously,” said Adrianna. “Micah’s a really beautiful person, inside and out.”

  Zion burst out laughing. “That’s what she said.”

  “Zion, are we still going to the flea market?” I shot a glance at Adrianna. Zion’s plans might have changed.

  “Yeah. You wanna go?” he asked Adrianna.

  “Sure.”

  I frowned at them both. “We have to wait for Micah.” I got up to get a shower. Zion could clean up the table.

  When I came out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around my chest, hair dripping wet, Micah sat on the sofa, talking to Zion and Adrianna. He jumped up. “Need some help?”

  “I think I can manage. But you want to keep me company while I dress?”

  He followed me into my bedroom. I dug through my drawers for a nice T-shirt and flattering shorts, but he opened my closet. “This is pretty.”

  “A dress?”

  “Is that wrong? Am I not supposed to have an opinion?”

  “No. You get an opinion. I’ll have to rethink my shoes. We’re going to be walking quite a way.”

  “Never mind. Maybe you could wear this tomorrow?”

  “Why, what are we doing tomorrow? Going to church?”

  “If you want. But I was thinking of going to see my parents. Eden will be there.”

  “You want to introduce me to your parents?”

  He shrugged and dropped onto my bed. “It’s no big deal. We don’t have to.”

  “No, it sounds fun. Are we going to West Philadelphia or Bel Air?”

  “I thought you didn’t watch TV growing up.”

  “I never said I always followed the rules.”

  Once I figured out what to wear, I had an awkward moment, wondering if I should turn around and dress with my back to Micah. He sat on my bed, eyeing the knot in my towel, waiting for the big reveal. So I dropped it. But before I could step into my underwear, he reached over and drew me toward him. In a reversal of the morning before, I stood naked before a fully dressed Micah as he ran his fingers across my skin.

  “Watch it. Zion and Adrianna are waiting for us.”

  “And we’re going to be out in public for how long?”

  I hadn’t even thought about what that would mean to him. “Oh. I mean. If that’s a problem. Do you want to stay here? Or do you need a hat?”

  He stifled a laugh and handed me my bra. “A hat won’t keep me from wanting to take this back off you.”

  Getting dressed was an exercise in frustration because he handed me every piece of clothing and then followed my hands with his as I put them on. When I stepped into my underwear, he ran his finger along the inside of my leg all the way up. I climbed onto his lap, facing him, knees on either side of him and kissed him. “You are making this very hard.”

  “Nothing on what you’re doing to me.”
/>
  He pressed into me, and I groaned. Our lips barely touched. I felt his breath against my face and knew he’d passed the tipping point, too. “Your bag is in the other room.”

  “Wallet.” His hip lifted slightly, knocking me off kilter as he pulled his wallet from his back pocket. I didn’t want to know why he had a veritable Easter egg hunt of condoms in his possession. At that moment, I didn’t care.

  I unzipped his jeans, and helped him shimmy until he was free of the confinement. He didn’t bother kicking them off before he slipped on the condom, pushed my underwear to the side, and lifted me up. And then he was in me. I sat on him, not moving, feeling him deep inside me. He pushed my wet hair back and kissed my neck and shoulder. “Can we stay like this?”

  It was an impossible request. The slightest movement produced an ecstasy. I pushed him over and rocked, panting and then groaning loud enough that there was no doubt Zion would know what we were up to. I didn’t care.

  Micah pushed me off him to the side and ripped off his jeans and then my underwear. Then he was over me and in me, kissing me, sighing, moaning, saying my name, saying “Oh, my God.”

  Saying “I love you.”

  My eyes flew open. “What?”

  He stopped, and his eyes opened. “Did I just say that out loud?”

  “Uh-huh.” I pushed my hips up, urging him to keep moving.

  “I wasn’t supposed to say that. I know that. I’m sorry. You don’t have to say that.” He still wasn’t moving.

  “Micah. Could we talk about this later?” I put my legs over his back and forced his shoulders down to me. His eyes closed again, and he fell into rhythm.

  He hadn’t lied that he could go longer than five minutes. He took his time, and only after I shuddered with a groan, did he hit a faster pace until he dropped to one side, dripping sweat and breathing heavy.

  “Is Zion going to be pissed?”

  “Um, no.” I’d already picked up sounds from Zion’s adjacent room. “They found something to do while they waited.”

  I got up and started to dress. “Come on. I’m going to need to eat something and check my glucose levels before we leave.”

  He lay on the bed. “Do you want to talk first?”

  “We’ll talk later.”

  I closed the bedroom door and went to the bathroom where I’d left my pump when I showered. I reattached it and started making turkey wraps for everyone. Micah joined me, dressed again. Zion and Adrianna emerged, thankfully also dressed. I handed out sandwiches and said, “Let’s eat and walk.”

  It was a hike to the flea market. Adrianna and Zion walked about two blocks ahead of us. Adrianna’s anonymity would be compromised if anyone recognized Micah next to her. We stopped along the way and bought drinks. I carried my water bottle in one hand and held Micah’s hand with the other. Occasionally, we’d pass someone who did a double take at Micah. Nobody stopped us on our way to the flea market, but once we arrived, we slowed down to look at all the wares. And then someone tapped Micah’s shoulder and asked, “Are you Micah Sinclair?”

  He turned and said, “Yup. What’s your name?”

  “Mark.”

  “Hey, Mark. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, and they shook.

  Mark said, “Would you mind if I got a picture with you? My roommate’s never going to believe this. He’s a huge fan.”

  “That’s awesome.” Micah didn’t point out that Mark had basically just said he wasn’t a huge fan.

  Mark handed me the camera. I guessed this was going to be my new job. Selfie photographer to the stars. I said, “Say cheese,” and clicked.

  Micah put a hand on Mark’s shoulder and said, “Tell your roommate thanks for the support.”

  “He’s going to die. Thanks, man.”

  Other people had watched the exchange, which prompted more people to gather the courage to approach him and talk to him. Every time, he’d ask the person for their name and lay a hand on their shoulder or across their back. He’d find something nice to say to each and every person, no matter what.

  “You should run for office,” I said. “You’re a natural politician.”

  He draped an arm over me, and we passed through the flea market, looking at everything. The nice thing was, there were no paparazzi at the flea market. Well, there were two, but neither Zion nor I were interested in shooting pictures of Micah.

  At one stall, he stopped and tried on a knockoff Gryffindor scarf. “Would this be my house?”

  “You read it!”

  “Some. What do you think? Where would I be sorted?”

  “Yes. Gryffindor. Definitely.”

  “And you?”

  I thought about telling him I’d been sorted into Ravenclaw via Pottermore, but shrugged. “I’d have to be in Gryffindor, too. Someone would have to keep you in line.”

  “Hey. Take a picture of me here wearing this. Nobody ever prints any pictures of me having any fun.”

  “What?”

  He froze. “I mean. If you want to.” He tugged on the scarf and let it fall back on the table. “Never mind. I wasn’t thinking. It was a dumb idea.”

  I scanned the crowd around us—under the adjacent tents or passing between. So many people held their phones in their hands. Any one of them could have just snapped a picture of Micah and uploaded it to Twitter. I sighed. “Put the scarf back on. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. My boss will love it.” Andy would probably never print this fluff, but it didn’t hurt to humor Micah and shoot the picture.

  “Nah. Let’s keep moving.”

  We wended our way through to a stall filled with hilariously smutty dresses. Micah held one up. “I changed my mind. I want to see you in this.”

  I fanned out the skirt, what there was of it. “Seriously?”

  “Maybe tonight?”

  I laughed. “Sure. Anything you want.”

  He bought the skimpy thing. I doubted it would even fit, but I’d rather deal with that later. I had so many other things to sort out. Not the least of which was the problem of his profession of love.

  My first impulse—to ignore it—had only caused it to grow in my mind. And I knew it would grow between us if I didn’t address it. But how could I without ruining things one way or another? Why’d he have to go and say that? And if he went around saying that so easily, what words had he never said to another girl? “Would you like to eat squirrel?”

  The flea market went on forever. I led Micah in the direction of the waterfront and spied an unoccupied bench. “You mind sitting for a bit?”

  We’d barely situated ourselves when a kid who’d been playing Hackey Sack walked over. “Hey, man. You’re Micah Sinclair.”

  I nearly barked, “Are you kidding me?”

  But Micah’d already switched on the charm. I counted to one hundred, coincidentally about the amount of time for the whole routine: handshake, name exchange, picture, autograph, compliment, thanks, disengage.

  “Stay here,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  I went into the flea market and walked around until I found what I was looking for.

  When I came back to the bench, Micah was chatting with a girl about my age who’d taken my spot. He saw me, touched her shoulder, told her it was great to meet her, and nodded toward me. The girl took her cue and cleared out.

  I shoved a paper bag at him. “Put these on.”

  The sunglasses weren’t the most attractive, but they were cheap and dark. The baseball hat had a pickle embroidered on it. I could have bought a plain hat, honestly. But I liked to think a hat with a pickle on it might encourage Micah to keep a low profile.

  “What’s all this?”

  “Portable privacy.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Only when I’m with you.” I punched him, teasing. “And no, but I wanted to talk.”

  “Here?”

  “Okay, fine. Later then.”

  “No, here’s good. Unless you’re doing this in public so you can break it o
ff with me where I won’t cause a scene.”

  I crossed my arms. “Do you really think I’d break things off with you right now?”

  “I thought I might have freaked you out.”

  “Did you mean it? Or was it just the sex?”

  “It wasn’t just the sex. I mean, it was, but—”

  “I don’t want to put you on the spot. You can take it back. You’ve probably said it so many times, and it slipped out.”

  He took my hands and his big black bug eyes peered into mine. “I’ve never said that, except to my family, but you know, not like that.” He laughed nervously.

  “But?”

  “But I’ve said it in my head over and over again since I met you. I know. Love at first sight. It’s the worst cliché. I’ve fought to keep myself from saying anything like that to you. And then it slipped out. I’m sorry. It’s not really fair to you. I hoped you’d eventually catch up to me.”

  I rubbed his hand. “Look. I hope you’ll take this the right way. I don’t believe in love at first sight. And believe me, if there was such a thing, I felt it, too. I knew it when you first knelt down on the sidewalk that day. But that’s not love. That’s attraction or chemistry maybe. Or infatuation. And getting to know you is as intoxicating as a drug. But love isn’t a feeling.”

  “You’re infatuated with me?”

  “Duh.”

  “I’ll take that.” He grinned.

  Admittedly, it was nice to hear those three reassuring words, but I wondered if he’d feel the same way in two weeks, after our first fight or after he’d gone on tour for a month away from me. I looked through the black plastic to where I knew his eyes hid in darkness. “I want to say the same.” I couldn’t read his reaction through the disguise, but his mouth tightened, so I offered all I could. “I have a good feeling if I ever do, you’ll be the one.”

  He relaxed as though that were enough of a profession for now. But in my mind, I was picturing my dad. He told my mom he loved her, but he’d never made a promise to honor her, and when a stronger external pressure exerted its force on him, fighting for his American family proved too hard, and his flimsy feelings of so-called love caved right in. How could I trust in feelings? How could anyone prove that they exist? How could anyone promise they would last?