by Kelsie Rae
“Yeah,” she squeaks. “I’m just not feeling well, so I’m going to go to bed, okay?”
My brows furrow. “Are you the one that brought Thai?”
It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s the one that brought it.
“Yup.”
“Well…” I look back toward the kitchen. “Do you want me to heat it up and bring it into your room or something?”
“Nope.”
The one word answers, combined with talking through her door, are enough to flag my conscience.
I attempt to replay the last hour in my head, trying to figure out when she would’ve gotten home, and how I could’ve missed her.
The conversation with my teammates flashes through my mind.
“Hey, Nat?”
It’s silent for a moment before I hear, “Yeah?” Her tone is exasperated, like she can’t wait for me to disappear and leave her alone. It sucks.
I clear my throat. “How long have you been home?”
Please say only a few minutes, I pray to no one in particular.
More silence.
“Not long.”
Another pause.
“Goodnight, Marcus.” The lie from seconds before rolls off her tongue like sticky molasses, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out she isn’t telling the truth.
However, with the one word answers and the transparent dismissal, I’m going to assume it’s a moot point right now.
“Night, Natalie.” My voice sounds like I’ve gargled glass as I force my feet to take a step toward the kitchen and away from the girl I obviously hurt.
I screwed up. Big time.
The next morning, Natalie is gone before I wake up. Her coffee mug is freshly rinsed and sits on the drying rack next to the kitchen sink. I find myself staring at that damn cup for a solid ten minutes as the overwhelming guilt washes over me.
Normally, I’d attempt to erase it by logging onto Flinch and playing a game. But somehow, I know that won’t work.
I take a deep breath before changing into my running shorts and taking my guilt out on the pavement.
After running a solid five miles, I come up with the perfect excuse to drop by Get Baked. And with all the sweat I just worked up, I’ve earned it.
My hand grasps the handle of the door, swinging it open as a little bell rings at the same instant, notifying the employees that another customer just arrived.
However, it isn’t necessary because Sophie is already glaring daggers at me from behind the counter.
“Hey, dumbass. Fancy seeing you here,” she greets me, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Tilting my head from side to side, I crack my neck before approaching her. “Good morning to you too, Tink. Is Natalie here?”
“Indie! I’m taking a break!” she calls out, ripping off her apron and stomping around the counter. Grabbing my arm, she leads me out of the shop like a woman on a mission. I don’t fight her because, one, she’s pregnant, and two, she’s a feisty little thing and will get her way regardless of whether or not I protest. Therefore, it’s easiest to play along, even though I’m three times her size.
When we’re a few feet away from the big open window out front, she stops.
“You,” she pokes me in the chest, “are an ass.”
I roll my eyes before taking a deep breath and praying for patience. “Yeah. I figured that part out.”
“Oh really? Well, let me say it again, just to be clear. You, Marcus James Calloway, are an ass,” she spits. “How could you do that to her? Why would you say something like that? Do you have any idea how crushed she is? What were you thinking?”
She peppers me with questions while that same little index finger keeps poking away, driving her point home like a champ.
I groan, rubbing my hand over my face in frustration. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess it’s just second nature to point out the fact that she’s my little sister’s best friend. Which is true, by the way.”
She shakes her head. “You really think she’s pissed because you pointed out that I’m best friends with her?”
I shrug.
“Wow,” she states dramatically, dragging out the word. “You really are an idiot, Marcus. She’s hurt that you said she isn’t your type. To. Your. Friends. She’s hurt that you pretty much said you’d rather be abstinent for the rest of your life than touch her with a ten-foot pole. How the hell do you think that makes her feel, Marcus?”
I open my mouth to answer, but she pushes forward, taking a step closer until we’re almost chest to chest. Or…chest to forehead, since she’s so short.
“It makes her feel ugly. It makes her feel unwanted. It makes her feel like she’s your younger sister’s annoying little friend. That’s how it makes her feel.” I grimace, feeling like shit. “Wanna know something funny?” she continues.
Again, I open my mouth to answer, but she keeps on spouting her verbal assault. “I was rooting for you. Hell, I’ve always been rooting for you. But after this? After all the other shit you’ve put her through? I just…I can’t anymore. If you don’t fix this then I’m going to stop cock-blocking for you and finally become the wing woman Natalie so desperately deserves.” She shakes her head in disgust, eyeing me up and down like she can barely look at me. And it burns. Bad. “Can I even begin to tell you how many men she’s almost ended up with? How many men she could’ve shared her happily-ever-after with while you were busy screwing every fangirl you have? Let me tell you, Marcus, it was a lot.” She pauses to take a deep breath while making me feel like nothing more than a sewer rat. “But she didn’t. Want to know why? Because you’ve always owned her, Marcus. Always.” A burst of hope pulses through me before she squashes it with her next sentence. “That is…until last night, when it finally became clear that you’re never going to get your head out of your ass, and that she can’t keep waiting on the sidelines for you to figure out that she’s the best thing that could ever happen to you.”
Sophie takes a step back before wiping an angry tear off her cheek and breathing in through her nose in hopes of calming down.
“What do I do?” I ask gruffly. Because…what else can I say?
She shrugs as she scans the surrounding New York City streets before answering exasperatedly, “I dunno, Marcus. What do you want to do?”
My brows furrow. “What do you mean, what do I want to do?”
“Well.” She pops out one of her hips before placing her hands on them. “Seems to me, you’ve always held back when it comes to her. You’ve always told yourself it’s a bad idea, even though we both know it isn’t. I think we both know what you should do. The question is, do you have the guts to do it? Or are you going to be a coward––again––and hide behind the fact that I’ve known her my whole life, and that things could get messy if it doesn’t work out. Newsflash, Marcus! Things are already messy. How much worse could it get?”
Sophie steps around me to head inside, leaving me with my jaw on the concrete at her sassy wisdom.
Well…shit.
Chapter Fifteen
Natalie
Flowers. Freaking flowers. I hate flowers.
Even though I don’t. Not really, anyway.
I just don’t understand them, that’s all. Why would I get flowers? Why would he send them? Why do they have to look so pretty? Why do they have to smell so good?
I run my fingers through my long hair before tugging on the roots in frustration.
Why? Why? Why?
Why is he so damn confusing?
I’m pacing the tiny kitchen with the accompanying note in my hands, refusing to open the envelope.
Nope. I will not be sucked in again.
Nope. Nope. Nope. I shake my head back and forth as my hands shake right along with it.
If anything, yesterday should make me happy. It’s one less string attaching me to the States, one less thing for me to question, to second guess. One less reason to stay.
I squeeze my eyes sh
ut tightly as the overwhelming loss encompasses me.
He’s not home. Which is kind of unusual. I heard him at Get Baked this morning for about two minutes before Sophie dragged him out and disappeared with him, only to come back ten minutes later, pretending he never existed.
I think the hardest part was Sophie’s reaction. Marcus has been a jerk more times than I can count since I’ve known him, but Sophie’s always defended him. Always told me to be patient. That he didn’t mean it. That I needed to give him time to figure out that I’m worth pursuing. But this time?
This time, she gave me a hug and told me she’s sorry.
That was it.
Like the final nail in the coffin of my non-existent relationship with her brother.
The thought hurts. It aches. Like a deep wound that isn’t visible to the eye, but you can still feel it. And boy do I feel it.
My fingers tremble as I slide them under the lip of the envelope. I shouldn’t torture myself. It’ll only make the situation worse, but I can’t help it. I’ve never been able to when it comes to him.
When I see his chicken scratch handwriting, a dry laugh escapes me.
I’m an ass, but these flowers reminded me of you.
-Marc
My gaze stays glued to his signature. Marc. Not Marcus. Marc. The four letters take me back to when I was in middle school.
A day I assumed he’d never remember. A day I’ll never forget.
“Bye, Marc,” the leggy blonde states before leaning in for another kiss. She pouts her puffy lips for good measure before Marcus closes the distance between them.
Sophie makes a gagging noise next to me as we sit in the back of his car. He’s dropping off his flavor of the week before basketball practice, and we get to tag along because he offered to take us to the movie theater before he heads to the school.
I try to hide my curiosity, but I can’t help but sneak a few glances to the front seats. My gaze zeroes in on his lips as I watch him kiss another girl. He makes it look so easy. Like he was made to do it. My breathing is shallow, and I look toward the ceiling before my interest wins out all over again.
Quickly, I take another peek. Marcus tangles his fingers in her curly blonde hair, tipping her head back slightly before sliding his tongue into her mouth. Tearing my eyes away, I focus on the window, instead of my crush who’s busy making out with a random girl. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.
I’ve never been kissed before, and I definitely feel uncomfortable watching Sophie’s older brother make out with a stranger, but I also feel…curious. What would it be like to feel his soft lips press against mine? To taste his unique flavor against my tongue? To have him tease my hair with his fingers the same way he’s teasing hers?
I shake my head, goosebumps pebbling my skin. I need to figure out how to get rid of these totally inappropriate thoughts, because this isn’t the first time my mind has wandered.
My focus turns back to Sophie’s older brother.
And I doubt it’ll be the last.
“My name’s Marcus. Not Marc.” His gruff voice sends tingles racing down my spine even though it’s sharp and bossy as heck.
She giggles awkwardly before planting another kiss against his lips. “Oh, yeah. Totally. See ya later, okay?”
“Yeah,” he grunts from the front seat. His attention is already on the windshield as though he’s already dismissed her.
She takes the hint and exits the car while Sophie continues to make fake gagging noises from beside me. We’re only four years younger than Marcus, but it might as well be a couple decades with the way he treats us.
“Shut up, Tink.” His words might be sharp, but his tone is relaxed, and it doesn’t surprise me. He’s always like that. Bossy but laid back. Controlling but kind. Protective but understanding.
I can barely contain the sigh.
He’s perfect. That’s what the jerk is.
“So why can’t they call you Marc?” Sophie probes, bouncing her eyebrows up and down suggestively.
Marcus looks in his rearview mirror for a split second before turning on his blinker and heading toward the theater. “I dunno. The nickname makes things…personal or something.”
“Oh, like sticking your tongue down someone’s throat isn’t personal?” Sophie quips as she leans forward.
His deep chuckle reverberates through the car. “Not really. Guys are assholes, Soph.”
“Including you?” I murmur before I can stop myself.
His eyes connect with mine through the rearview mirror. I feel like he’s frozen me in place, and I couldn’t move, even if I wanted to. Licking his lips, he mumbles, “Yeah. Including me.” He holds my stare for a second longer before reaching for the stereo and turning up the music, effectively ending the conversation.
I don’t know why I feel disappointed, but I do.
Minutes later, we pull up to the theater and hop out of the back. I can’t help but feel like he’s watching me the entire way. But when I turn around? He’s putting his car into drive with his gaze straight ahead, like our little moment in the car never happened.
Maybe it didn’t.
The sound of the front door closing jolts me from my walk down memory lane.
As soon as he comes into view, I take a defensive step back. “I don’t want the flowers.”
His brows furrow. “What?”
“I…I said, I don’t want the flowers.” I stumble over the words. “And I don’t want that damn note, either.”
“Why not?”
I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to fight my instincts to flee. “Because I don’t know what they mean, Marcus.”
Wow. I’ve never been this honest before. Letting my unfiltered thoughts fly out of my mouth without giving a rat’s ass about the consequences. I think it’s the white surrender flag I’ve been carrying around for years that’s finally making an appearance. I can’t do this anymore. I give up. I can’t handle the push and pull between us. The conversation with his friends? A big, giant push. These flowers? An overwhelming pull. And the note with the name Marc scrawled in his handwriting? No. Just no. I shake my head back and forth as I stare at him from across the room. This time, I’m digging in my heels and not letting him get away with it. Nope. Not happening.
Hell, he’s the one that told me he was an asshole all those years ago in the first place. I should’ve listened back then and saved myself hours, days, and years of heartache.
He takes a cautious step toward me with his palms facing up in surrender. “They mean I’m sorry,” he attempts to clarify.
“And that’s it?” I accuse as my eyes turn glassy.
He tilts his head, assessing me. “What do you mean?”
His feet bring him a little closer, but I mirror his movements, keeping the much-needed distance between us.
“I mean that I don’t know what the hell you mean. I mean that I never know what to expect from you. I mean that sometimes, I feel like we’re friends, and sometimes, I feel like I’m just your little sister’s shadow. I mean that I can’t figure out what the hell is going through your head, and I’m done trying to.” My hands are trembling at my sides, so I fold them across my chest.
Tentatively, he inches closer until I’m pushed into a corner with my back against the fridge. The cool metal seeps through my shirt, making goosebumps break out along my skin.
“You’re done?” he murmurs, repeating my words.
I attempt to take a deep breath, but it makes my chest brush against his, so I choose to take shallow ones, instead. “Yeah. I’m done. I’m done trying to figure you out, Marcus. I’m done with all of it.”
His gaze slides down to my mouth before reaching my eyes again. “With what, exactly?”
I want to hit him for making me spell it out. “You. I’m done with you.” My voice is shaky, and I pray he doesn’t notice.
Unfortunately for me, his mouth tips up on one side, giving me a glimpse of his amusement.
Bastard.
&
nbsp; “Is that right?”
“Y-yeah.” My mouth feels like the freaking desert. “It is.”
He leans a little closer, until I can smell the cologne clinging to him. Or maybe that mouthwatering scent is all Marcus. I don’t think I want to know. It’ll only add to his appeal.
“All because I said I wouldn’t touch you?” He’s so close to me that his minty breath blows across my face.
I gulp. What the hell do I say to that?
“Or is it because I said you weren’t my type?” he continues, pinning me in place. My cheeks heat at the memory. The embarrassment is still fresh.
“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He smiles wickedly before brushing the tips of his fingers down my cheek. The calloused skin scratches my flesh in the most delicious way possible, but I refrain from leaning into his touch. It’s a damn-near miracle.
“Can I ask you something, Natalie?” I’m mesmerized by the way his mouth forms my name. Like…like he’s tasting me somehow by simply uttering the three syllables.
I don’t move a muscle. Part of me feels like he’s a scared little kitten, and any tiny move will scare him into running away. The other part of me feels like I’m the scared little kitten, and I’m about to get eaten by a lion. I can’t decide which part is more accurate.
“Do you want to be my type?” he probes with a knowing smirk.
I nearly choke on my own tongue. “What? Of course not,” I scoff.
“Then why does it matter if I told my friends that?”
“Well…I mean…” I stutter. “Every girl wants to be found attractive, and to find out that a good-looking guy doesn’t consider you beautiful…it…well, it doesn’t exactly feel good,” I huff.
There. Honesty. Even if I won’t admit to him that I don’t care what other guys think. Only him.
His brows raise. “So you think I’m good looking?”
Tilting my head toward the heavens, I say a silent prayer for strength before taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. “You’re an idiot.” I’m almost grateful that this conversation has taken a less alluring turn, because I was close to crumbling under his intensity from only seconds before.
