by Jayce Ellis
I threw a hand up. I’d included that without even making the connections now, let alone then. “I mean, I started going off about communication and the cost of childcare and shit. I didn’t extrapolate.”
And wasn’t that something, because didn’t I pride myself on doing exactly that with my job? Of taking what people said and divining from that what they really meant? Sure, of course Marcus had couched his question in terms of parenting, but it wasn’t a far jump to think about a partnership. As I recalled the messages we’d exchanged, it brought up what was maybe, at its core, the heart of my confusion.
“One of the things we talked about,” I told her, “was the conversation. The agreement. We didn’t have that, and I was caught off guard.”
It didn’t excuse a fucking thing, but his words had come as a shock, and I’d reacted in the worst way possible.
But Fiona nodded. “Of course you were,” she said. “That’s not how you met Marcus, that’s not the relationship you and Marcus have had, and it makes sense that you weren’t ready to have such a serious discussion. He must’ve been under a ton of duress to blurt it out with no warning.”
I huffed. “Yeah, your parents showing up out of the blue like that, at my place—not Jake’s, not Clarymore, but here—would do that to anyone.”
“Right. So you have to forgive the constraint he was under when he made the statement, and maybe he has to forgive the shock of your initial reaction, made while his parents were sitting right there listening to what should have been a private conversation.” She hopped up and grabbed our plates, returning momentarily with two more, thankfully smaller, helpings of brownie. “So the big question is, would you mind if he didn’t want to work?”
Good God, I didn’t know. The idea of being responsible fully for someone else, of my little business, where I was sometimes struggling to make ends meet on my own, and be expected to take care of two people? I honestly wasn’t sure.
“I’d have to think about it. The base part of me says hell yes I’d be down for that, but real life isn’t always that simple.”
She nodded. “That’s fair. The big thing for you is you have to figure out how to talk to him about it. Because this is a conversation you two need to have, not anyone else.”
She was right, and I knew it. I smiled and thanked her, and we settled in to shoot the shit about other stuff, but it was nearly impossible to get the thought of Marcus’s eyes, the hurt in his voice, out of my head.
Marcus
I turned the volume up on my headphones, but that shit didn’t help one bit. No matter how loud I had them, no matter how I tried to distract myself, I couldn’t erase the picture of André’s absolutely horrified face from my brain. At least during the week it was easier, because I could bury myself in my coursework in a way I hadn’t at the beginning of the semester. Then I’d been so eager, so hyped to get back to DC and back into his arms. Now I dreaded the entire fucking thing.
Someone knocked on my door, and I was tempted for a minute to ignore it, as I had the past week and a half. My roommates didn’t know what the hell was wrong with me, but they’d figured out quick to give me a wide berth.
But the knock came again and I shoved my headphones down my neck. “Yeah, what is it?”
The door cracked open and one of my roommates poked her head through. “There’s someone here for you. Says he’s a friend.”
My heart leapt. Was André here? Had he come back to me? Did I want him to? The questions swirled in my mind as I made my way to the front, only to crinkle my nose when I saw who my visitor was.
“Good to see you too,” Jake said wryly.
Weariness crashed over me. “What do you want?”
He pointed toward the stairs, where a door had slammed shut. “She seems pleasant.”
I laughed, then cut it off. “We’re not close.”
“Yeah, I gathered.” He narrowed his eyes. “You stopped taking my calls.”
“I blocked your number.”
Jake nodded, like that didn’t really surprise him. “Figured you’d done some bullheaded shit. So I’m here.”
“Why?”
“You want to have it out here, or would you prefer to go somewhere, I don’t know, private?”
Part of me was tempted to tell him to say what he had to say right where we were so I could be left alone. But I didn’t, instead inclining my head for him to follow me upstairs to my room.
He shut the door behind me when we got there and plopped onto my bed while I took my seat. “I’m sorry, man. It was out of line for me to call your parents.”
I just stared at him.
“What? What else did I do?”
“Did you tell them where André lived?”
He frowned, then, “Oh fuck. They came to his place?”
I nodded, my throat clogged with too much emotion to speak.
“Marc, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it when I said it. I didn’t think they’d do that.”
“Why’d you say anything? What gave you that right?”
He bunched his fists by his side and his jaw firmed. Suddenly, he looked like the little boy who’d had his truck taken away from him when we’d first met. I’d snatched it out of the offender’s hands and handed it back, and we’d been tight since. “I’m your friend, dammit, and you were saying some real off-the-wall shit, things you wouldn’t have said even two months ago, which all started after you hooked up with this guy. I was fucking worried, okay?”
“That was some real fuck shit, Jake.”
“So, what? You want me to apologize for caring? For being worried about you?”
Fucking hell, this was why I didn’t do these conversations. Because if I said yes, I sounded like an asshole. And if I said no, and he felt justified in what he did, and the reality was, neither of those were correct. I sucked in a harsh breath and tried to find the right words.
“I need you to recognize that there are boundaries. We are not ten. We are not fifteen. We’re almost twenty-five years old, and I’m allowed to make decisions about what I do with my life. And you’re allowed to disagree with them, and tell me what you really think about it all goddamn day. What you are not a-fucking-lowed to do is run and tell my parents about those decisions.”
His shoulders sagged, the defensiveness and fight gone. “You’re right. I’m sorry, and I won’t do that shit again. How are things with you and André?”
Even hearing his name made me grimace. “There is no me and André.”
Jake straightened. “What? Why?”
“Because he’s no more a fan of me staying home than you are, than Mom and Dad are, than apparently anyone is.”
“Dude, what happened?”
The words were so weird coming from Jake, because he rarely dove into details like that, but I finally unclogged my throat, my heart, and laid it out for him. I gauged his facial expression, his winces and cringes and closed eyes, but had no idea where he stood when I was finished. “Okay, but that reaction doesn’t sound like he really has a problem with it.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, too tired to try to decipher my friend.
“You’ve been coming up a couple times a month and throwing down in the kitchen this whole time, right?” At my nod, he continued. “And you say he’s always grateful, is always trying to make sure you don’t burn yourself out, and loves on you every which way possible, which I do not want to know more about, right?”
This time I chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“Y’all hadn’t talked about this, and then you got defensive and blurted it out while your mom and dad was sitting there?”
“Kind of.”
“Fuck kind of mean?”
I told him about the stay-at-home parent conversation, which even I knew was bullshit. I’d couched it in terms to make it seem like a general topic, an
d André had answered as though we were talking about third parties, not us. I hadn’t been fair to him then.
And Jake told me as much. “You ever think he’s scared?”
“What for?”
Jake shrugged. “You said it yourself. He needed Pennington to grow his business. That means he wasn’t exactly killing it before. Imagine trying to take care of someone else under those circumstances.”
I hadn’t. I hadn’t imagined anyone else but myself. I hadn’t imagined the strain it might put on André to support me, the fact that, under other circumstances—meaning not with my parents sitting there bearing witness—he would have said yes, baby, do what makes your heart happy and then he would have worked himself to the fucking bone to make sure I could do exactly that. I hadn’t considered it at all.
“Fuck,” I whispered, and dropped my head to my hand.
“What you’re trying to do is a big deal,” Jake said. “It’s not standard, it’s not what people imagine when they think of two guys, actually. André don’t seem like the type of cat who has a problem with all that. But I can’t say I don’t at least partially get where he’s coming from.”
I nodded. Now that I was thinking half-ass lucidly, I did too. “Fuck, Jake, I don’t know what to do.”
“About André, school, or...”
“Any of it. Well, no, that’s not true. I’m going to finish this degree and kick its ass. But André? No fucking clue.”
“You want to be with him?” Jake asked.
I nodded. That much I did know.
“Even if he’s not cool with you not working?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Shit, maybe I could help get things right with his business so I can stay home.”
Jake laughed and pointed at me. “Now that sounds like the Marcus I know. Planning how to get his way.”
I flipped him off, but smiled. We at least needed to have a conversation. We needed to lay our cards out on the table and decide what we wanted, if we could be together after all. We owed each other that much.
Chapter Twenty-Five
André
“You’re quieter than normal,” Harold said from his desk, snagging another chip from the bag and munching it. We’d had our weekly meeting with the Penningtons, but instead of using the office I stubbornly insisted on continuing to rent, Marcus disappeared to the office he’d been originally assigned. I wanted to rail against it, to say our personal relationship didn’t need to interfere with our working one, but that was a damn lie. I couldn’t bear to go back to my office to soak in my personal brand of misery, so I’d followed Harold back to his. He hadn’t said anything about it, which meant he knew something was wrong.
I grunted. It had been two weeks since Marcus had stormed out of my apartment, two weeks in which I tried nightly to get in contact with him. Two weeks of impatient texts from his mother, begging me to tell her as soon as I heard from him, and a brusque, one-word text from Marcus himself.
Marcus: Stop.
And I had. For the past three days, I’d sat by my phone, determined not to reach out to him and fervently praying he’d reach out to me instead, with no luck. At some point, I needed to accept that I’d fucked all the way up, there was no getting him back, and I had to let go. I just wasn’t there yet.
“I take it from that stunning display of pointedly ignoring each other that you two are now strictly professional,” Harold said, the words mild, unassuming, like he almost didn’t care about the answer. Which I knew was a lie.
“I mean, maybe it was just too much too soon,” I mused, talking out loud about it for the first time since Fiona had drugged me with chocolate and alcohol. “We were supposed to be a hookup, for chrissakes. We didn’t have any foundation of a relationship before we met. Maybe we were trying to force something more out of that because we were stuck together. Maybe—”
“Maybe you’re talking out your ass because you don’t want to admit your feelings are hurt?”
I sighed, too tired to argue. “Shit, maybe that too.”
Harold grumbled. “What are you going to do when you see him again?”
I’d thought about that. More than I cared to. “Honestly? Walk as far away in the other direction. Leave him the fuck alone.”
“Is that what he wants?”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s what he’s asked for, and I have to respect it.”
Harold inclined his head. “Good answer. I knew something was going on, which is why I haven’t put you two together recently, but it has to change. The Penningtons are thankfully tapering off the weekly meetings and don’t need as much handholding, but you know we’re making him an offer. And this partnership has gone so successfully, Clarymore’s thinking about other joint ventures.”
I hadn’t been ready for that. “I thought Pennington was a onetime deal.”
“We’d looked at a few, but others had fallen through. The Penningtons have been talking, though. Enough that other clients like them are looking into partnerships as well. They’re not necessarily recommending Clarymore, but they are necessarily recommending you.”
I pointed a finger to myself like an idiot. “Me?”
He laughed. “Yeah, André. You. They’ve been so pleased with your work they want you on any future projects and they’re sending their friends to you.”
I hadn’t heard that, anything near it, and the words thrilled me. Made a ton of shit seem worthwhile. All this time, my sole focus had been making sure I saved my little company. Winning the Pennington matter had all but assured it. The idea that they wanted me, recommended me to other people, in other situations? That was enough to ensure it thrived, that I could take on an employee, that I could be more than just a one-man show. Fiona would be ecstatic. And I knew, even if he never said it, Marcus would be too.
“Now, what are you going to do about the boy?”
“Not a boy,” I grumbled, then stopped and laughed. “I feel like I say that every time somebody says anything about Marcus.”
Harold chuckled. “You probably do. But,” he said, tapping a pencil on the table, “what are you doing?”
I sighed. Even if Marcus could understand my reaction under the circumstances, his declaration was still a bombshell, and we’d need to have a serious conversation. Not just about his desires, but us. What we were, what we wanted. And I was still afraid our foundation was too shaky for it to do anything but crumble. “No fucking clue. Fiona told me to try to talk to him, take into consideration the stress he was under the last time we spoke, not make anything too personal. And I’ve tried to do that, but he won’t return my calls.”
“Stubborn as a goddamn rock. I knew I liked him for a reason.”
I laughed at that, and Harold joined in. And for a moment, some of the overwhelming moroseness I’d felt the past few weeks alleviated. Marcus was a rigid, bullheaded, take-charge man, and I’d been all too happy to follow. The way he cooked for me while telling me exactly what I needed to do while he was working? Had made me hard enough to pound rocks. But seeing that same stubbornness turned on me, where it meant I was among the blocked? Damn, it hurt.
“Now, I’m not going to play matchmaker,” Harold interrupted, “and you won’t cause any trouble, but you’ve both been invited to my fortieth anniversary shindig.”
I nodded. I’d gotten the invite the week before, and the party itself was three weeks from now. I figured Marcus had received one too, since Harold had mentioned it at Stan’s.
“If I were you, I’d suggest letting him make the first move.”
“Which will be no move,” I countered. I couldn’t imagine Marcus changing his mind and approaching me, even if he thought maybe he’d been hasty. Lord knew I had been.
Harold put his hands in the air, spread his arms wide. “Maybe. And if that’s the case, then you know where you stand. But don’t count him out just yet. There’s a part of me that thi
nks that maybe he’s not quite as sure about this as he seems.”
“What?” I chuckled. “Has he told you something I don’t know?” Please, God, let it be true.
“No, I haven’t spoken to him. But my wife insisted I make sure you both had invites, and I know better than to argue with her.”
Damn older Black women and their premonitions. That could just as easily mean me getting punched in the face.
“Harold, I promise I will not cause a scene at your anniversary party. I just want to know he’s okay.”
“I figured as much.” He fell silent after that, munching on chips while looking at reports, and I got lost in my own head.
Somehow, without ever really talking about it, Marcus and I’d fallen into a routine when he came to town. We had the meeting with the Penningtons, separated for a few hours to work on individual tasks, then went home and fell into bed together. Saturdays, he’d wake up and start cooking, then we’d go into the office. Sunday was a rinse and repeat, and he’d taken to flying back to school as late as possible.
It was increasingly stupid, or sappy, or something of me, but Marcus had been cooking up a storm before his parents had arrived. I’d scarfed through all the meals and was down to my final one. And I refused to touch it. It was ridiculous, but that was the last bit of...whatever... I had of him. And I needed to keep it. Eventually, I’m sure I’d eat it or toss it, but right now the idea of doing either made my stomach clench.
I stuck my hand in my pocket and fingered my small roll of antacids, then fished one out with my thumb and popped it into my mouth surreptitiously while I continued to stare blindly at reports. From my periphery, I saw Harold shift his eyes to me, but he didn’t say anything as he went back to work.
Part of me thought it’d probably be better not to go to the anniversary party at all, and not put Marcus in the uncomfortable position of trying to play nice when it was clearly the last thing he wanted. But the idea of seeing him again? If even once? Yeah, that was enough to keep me going.