by Noelle Adams
“You haven’t,” I go on. I clear my throat. “I get it. I do. But you’ve hidden yourself away all your life. You’ve used your rebellious act to protect yourself. And yet you still get angry when people judge you because of the only part of yourself you’ve ever shown them.”
“So you’re on their side?” His voice is soft now. Faint.
It hurts me. “No, Marcus, I’m not on their—”
“Yes, you are. You don’t want anyone to know you’re with me. You’re ashamed.”
“Damn it, Marcus. I’m not ashamed. But we’re just having sex. Nothing but sex. Do you really think it’s reasonable to try to explain that arrangement to folks in Sterling? You think I should go around announcing that I’m fucking you with no strings? Is that really something I should do?”
He’s so tense he’s almost shaking with it. He stares at me with an ache in his eyes. Then he finally says, “No. You shouldn’t. You’re absolutely right.”
He turns and walks out the front door, leaving me with a tumult of emotion I have absolutely no way to process or understand.
HE DOESN’T COME BACK that evening. I spend the night cocooning myself in front of the television and trying not to think about it.
But I’m upset. I’m really upset.
Not just because we had a fight—and I hate naked confrontation like that—but because I feel like I hurt Marcus without intending to.
I try to make it through Saturday morning, but by eleven I’m forced to admit that I’m never going to be able to get anything done or feel at peace until we get things settled.
So I finally give in and text him. I’m sorry about last night. Are you still mad?
I wait, holding my breath to see if he’s going to reply.
He doesn’t respond with a text. My phone rings as I’m holding it.
It surprises me so much I almost drop it. I recover the phone with trembling fingers and connect the call. “Marcus?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You were mad.”
“Not at you. Not like that.” He sounds better today. Calm and soft and maybe a little resigned but not full of that dangerous intensity.
“It felt like you were.”
“I know. It was just old stuff coming back up. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
I let out a long breath of relief, the knot in my gut finally loosening. “I am sorry if I implied I was ashamed of you. I used to... I used to believe what the rest of town believed about you. But I...” I clear my throat and make myself say it. “I don’t anymore.”
He’s silent for a moment before he responds. “Thank you for that.”
“So are we... are we okay?”
“Yes.” His voice is slightly hoarse but otherwise normal. “We’re fine.”
“Do you want to come over tonight?”
He pauses again. I wish I could see his face so I’d know what he’s thinking. “Let’s take a break this weekend. See if we can dispel some of the gossip. My parents are asking about you too, so it’s really gotten around. I’ll pick you up on Monday morning for work, and we’ll go from there.”
“Okay. That sounds like a good idea. I’ll see you then.”
I hang up the phone, feeling strangely crushed.
But of course he’s right. We need to somehow deal with the town’s gossip if we’re going to continue having sex without complications. Getting together tonight would be the worst thing we could do.
I spend the day catching up on housework and errands, and I call up several key people around town and give them a plausible explanation for what’s been going on with Marcus.
I don’t know if they believe me, but it’s worth an attempt.
After dinner, I call my good friend, Giselle, and she promises to help put a damper on the gossip as much as she can. Then I call Beck because I’m ridiculously lonely. We talk for a long time, and I feel better afterward.
But I still miss Marcus as I change into my pajamas and settle in to watch TV.
I don’t need to have sex. I just want his company. I want him to put his arm around me. I want to lean against him.
I want to hold his hand.
Oh shit. I’m in real trouble here. I’m having sappy feelings, and this time they aren’t prompted by anything but my own mind.
My own desires.
I want him for a lot more than sex.
And that’s the one thing I was never supposed to do.
Seven
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT to expect on Monday morning when Marcus picks me up to go to work.
I’m determined to act normal, to try to get things back to a comfortable state between us and also to protect my heart as much as possible. I attempt to be nice and friendly and have regular conversation, and I can tell he’s trying to do the same thing.
So we chat and we laugh and we ask each other companionable questions.
And it’s terrible.
It feels wrong. Tense and awkward and uncomfortable and just plain wrong.
It isn’t real, and we’ve always been real with each other.
I feel it acutely, and it makes my stomach churn. I have that sick feeling all day, and it’s still there on the way home.
When we near my house, I try to think of what to do. Maybe I should invite him in to dinner, to something that might break this painful tension between us. Maybe I need to make the gesture because I was the one who triggered the conflict.
But he said specifically that he thought we should take a break, and I don’t want to pressure him or go against his wishes. If he needs a break from me, then he deserves to have one. He said the weekend, but maybe he wants longer than that, and I need to let him take as much time as is necessary.
Even if it makes me feel like throwing up.
So I tell him good night with a smile I have to force.
His tight expression softens slightly. “It’s okay, Jennifer. It’s going to be fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
His gentle words make me feel better, and my smile is more sincere as I get out and wave to him. But I keep thinking about what he said.
It’s going to be fine.
Fine.
It’s been more than fine between us, and I’m not sure that fine is really what I want from him.
Despite my best efforts, I’m always going to want more.
THE REST OF THE WEEK passes in the same aching discomfort. We both try to be friendly, to get over it. But he doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t act real with me.
And I can’t act real with him either.
All we do is drive to and from work, and I hate it so much I feel like crying every day when I get home.
On Friday, I head downstairs to Marcus’s office, preparing for another painful drive home. I practice smiling as I walk, trying very hard to mean it.
We don’t have to have sex if he doesn’t want to anymore, but I’d like to at least be what we were before things became intimate between us.
I liked being with him. Really liked it. He was familiar. Not quite a friend but something akin to it. I was at home with him. I didn’t have to put on a mask or a pose or try to be impressive.
I could be myself, and he seemed to appreciate the person I really am.
I desperately want to feel that way again.
My chest hurts with the loss of it as I reach the half-open door to his office.
He’s at his computer, working on emails. His shoulders are hunched, and there are shadows under his eyes. He must be growing out his beard because he hasn’t shaved since Tuesday. He looks tired. Like he hasn’t had a good day.
He looks the way I feel myself.
I try to say hello—indicate my presence—but the words are trapped in my throat.
I’m seriously about to cry.
For no reason at all.
“I’m almost done,” he says without looking away from his computer monitor. “I’ve just got one more email to answer.”
“No problem.” I try to sound bright, but my voice i
s stretched, even to my own ears.
His eyes dart over to me quickly but then return to his email. He types a few more words and then starts to close out programs and turn off his computer. “Well, it’s Friday at least,” he says.
“Yeah. That’s something.”
We seem to be in the same mood, so we don’t say any more as he locks up his office and we walk out of the building and over to the parking lot. The day is hot and sticky. Oppressive.
It makes me want to cry even more.
We’re about halfway home and neither one of us has said a word when my phone buzzes with a text.
I assume it’s Beck, and I grab it to look, hoping that she’ll say something funny and encouraging and make me feel better.
It’s not Beck. It’s the assistant at the nursing home.
My grandmother hasn’t eaten all day.
I stare down at the message, the words blurring before my eyes.
My grandmother improved progressively after her stroke until she reached a certain point, but now she’s starting to decline again.
I don’t know how much more she’ll decline.
I don’t know how long she has left.
Marcus isn’t talking to me.
Everything in my world is falling apart.
I have to fight to suppress tears, to keep myself from shaking.
“What is it?” Marcus asks, soft and urgent.
I shake my head. There’s no way I can say a word.
“Your grandma?”
I clear my throat and force the words out. “She had a bad day.”
“You want me to drive you straight there?”
I nod, grateful for the offer. I try to say thanks but can’t. I’m on the verge of tears, and it takes real effort not to give in to them.
Marcus doesn’t try to talk or ask questions on the rest of the drive. We get to the nursing home about twenty minutes later. He doesn’t drop me at the front door. He parks in the lot and undoes his seat belt.
“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice embarrassingly wobbly. I thought I’d managed to control my emotion, but I haven’t.
“I’ll go in with you.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He doesn’t let me argue any further. He gets out of the truck, so I have to too.
I’m a pitiful mess, and I don’t want Marcus to see, but there’s nothing I can do about it when he’s in this mood. He’s going to come in with me, no matter what I say.
The staff seems subdued when we enter, and it worries me. My grandmother must have had a really bad day for them to be acting like that with me. We walk to her room, and she doesn’t acknowledge our presence.
She just lies there.
We try to talk to her.
We try to get her to eat.
I hold her hand, and she just barely squeezes it.
I really don’t know if she knows we’re here or not.
We stay almost an hour, and there’s no change in her at all. Finally I can’t take anymore, and I tell her goodbye and I’ll see her tomorrow.
Marcus and I leave her room and then leave the building.
I’ve been emotional all day—all week—and this is the very last straw. I feel tears burning in my eyes as we approach the pickup truck.
I’m shaking. A kind of shuddering that begins deep inside and gradually pushes out to the rest of my body. It’s powerful. Unstoppable.
There’s no way I can hold it in.
“We can grab something to eat on the way home if you want,” Marcus murmurs. He’s standing right beside me. His voice is slightly thick.
I choke on a sob, so hard do I try to hold it back.
“Oh no, Jennifer,” he says, reaching out to pull me against his chest. “Please don’t.”
It’s all over now. I’m sobbing into his shirt.
One of his arms is holding me tightly, and the other is stroking my hair and my back. “It’s okay,” he’s murmuring. “It’s going to be okay. Maybe she’ll be feeling better tomorrow.”
There’s no way I can respond to him. Not yet. I’m still wracked with embarrassing sobs. My tears and snot are all over his shirt, and I’m clinging to him like a lifeline.
I’m such a complete mess, and there’s not much hope of doing better anytime soon.
It takes a few minutes before I’ve cried myself out. Then I still don’t want to pull away from him. He’s warm and strong and solid and safe.
Secure.
I need him.
One of his hands is tangled in my hair, cupping the back of my skull. The other is pressing against the small of my back.
“Are you okay?” he asks when my sobs have quieted.
“Yeah.” I try to pull away from him. I really do.
“It doesn’t bother me at all, but people can see us. If we keep hugging like this in the parking lot, they’ll start talking again. I know you don’t want that.”
The gossip has settled down as the week progressed. Maybe the town is still talking about us, but they’ve stopped asking me about it.
But he’s right. There’s not anyone else in the parking lot right now, but we’re visible from the building, and who knows who could be driving by and seeing us.
I pull away from him, wiping at my face. “Sorry.”
He meets my eyes with an uncharacteristically sober expression. “You don’t have to be sorry to me.”
I nod and sniff and get into the passenger side of his truck. He walks around to the driver’s side.
“You want to grab something to eat?” he asks. “We can get something to go from Hal’s.”
I think about it. Then nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He drives us over to Hal’s, which is the only restaurant in town, and I sit in the truck while Marcus gets out to put in our orders and wait until they’re done.
He’s back in the car in less than ten minutes, and he drives me home. I sit in an exhausted daze. I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel.
When Marcus pulls the truck up my driveway, I clear my throat. “You can come in and eat with me if you want. But it’s fine if you don’t.”
He gives me a quick, searching look. “Okay.” His voice sounds intentionally relaxed. “I will, if you’re sure.”
“I am.” I pause but don’t have the mental barriers to stop myself from adding, “The truth is, I’d kind of like your company.”
His expression relaxes into almost a smile as he turns off the ignition.
We eat on the couch, and I open an inexpensive bottle of red wine. It’s not the most natural pairing with our chicken tenders, fries, and coleslaw, but it’s all I have.
We don’t talk much, but I feel better after our meal. Completely drained and incapable of putting on any sort of show of strength. But better just the same.
“You can go if you’ve got stuff going on this evening,” I say, collecting our trash into the bag the food came in.
He sits and watches me with those deep blue-gray eyes. He doesn’t say anything.
“Or,” I add. “Or...”
He cocks his head to one side. “Or what, Jennifer?”
“We can... watch TV or something. If you want to hang out more.”
“What do you want?”
“You really don’t have to stay for me.”
“That’s not what I asked. What do you want?”
Under normal circumstances, I’m not sure I would have told him, but I have absolutely no defenses left. “I don’t... don’t really want to be alone. I’d like it if you stayed.”
The corner of his mouth turns up just a tiny bit. “Okay. Then I will.”
“But only if you want.”
He laughs and reaches over to pick up my hand from the couch. He holds it for a few moments, stroking my palm with his thumb. Then he squeezes my hand and releases it. “I want to stay.”
AS WE WATCH TV, I END up leaning against Marcus’s side, his arm draped around me.
It feels nice. Safe. Comforting. I don�
��t pull away.
Time passes. We get through at least two episodes of our show, but I lose count after that because I’m so tired. I can barely keep my eyes open.
The next thing I know I’m sprawled out on the sofa with my head in Marcus’s lap. I’m on my side, facing the television, and he’s very gently stroking my hair.
I feel his hand although I haven’t yet opened my eyes.
I don’t want to. I’m afraid for this moment to end.
It does. Of course it does. Because soon I realize what’s happening, what I’m doing, how vulnerable it makes me.
I fell asleep on Marcus’s lap, and that’s as helpless a position as I can imagine.
I suck in a sharp breath and sit up.
He withdraws his hand, and his eyes are watchful on my face as I smooth down my hair and try to pull myself together.
“Sorry,” I mumble at last.
“For what?”
“For falling asleep on top of you. I’m sure that’s the last thing you wanted.”
“Why are you sure of that?”
“I don’t know. Just that... it couldn’t be very comfortable for you.”
He tilts his head to the side slightly. “Do you really think I would have let you sleep on my lap for hours if I hadn’t wanted you there?”
“Hours?” I grab my phone from the coffee table to check the time.
It’s after midnight. I must have been sleeping for at least two hours.
“Jennifer, I was perfectly comfortable. I had no desire to move.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” He smiles at me—just a little—and I kind of collapse against him.
I have no idea why. Just that all my defenses have been torn down tonight, and I can’t stop myself from doing what I want to do.
And what I want right now is to be close to Marcus.
He wraps both arms around me, tightening them for a moment before he relaxes. We stay like that for a few minutes. I don’t know what to say. I don’t really want to say anything.
But I feel like something needs to be spoken. The silence is full, like it’s waiting with bated breath.
So I finally murmur, “Thank you for tonight.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“Why not?”
He moves his head, maybe brushing a kiss against my hair. “Because I want to be here. I wasn’t doing you a favor.”
