by Noelle Adams
It’s way out of her way to pick me up, but Beck’s the most generous person I’ve ever met, and she doesn’t seem to mind the extra hour-and-a-half drive.
We go to three different stores. Beck buys an expensive pair of shoes and a dress, and I buy two tops on deep discount. Then we go for a late lunch at a popular chain restaurant, and Beck grills me about Marcus for twenty minutes while we wait for our food.
I don’t blame her. Marcus is by far the most interesting thing going on in my life right now.
When our plates come, she takes a break from her questioning, and we both dig into our pasta dishes. But after a few minutes, she leans back in her chair and says, “I really can’t figure out if you’re happy with how things are or if you’re secretly wanting more.”
I stiffen defensively, although I try not to. “I don’t want more.”
“Are you sure? Because I’ve had a few just-sex situations. They never lasted long, and all we did was screw. We never spent cozy evenings together, making dinner and watching TV.”
“Don’t make it sound like that. He just came over before I had eaten.”
“Yeah, but that wasn’t the first time you ate together, was it? And you’ve hung out a lot before and after sex. It seems more like dating than no-strings-attached sex.” She pauses to take a bite. “Honestly, it seems more like a hot-and-heavy relationship than the early stages of dating.”
I groan. “Beck, it isn’t either of those things. It’s just sex and some hanging out for convenience’s sake. I don’t have any sappy feelings about him.”
“None?”
“None.” I hesitate, trying to be honest with both her and myself. “All right, I do like him. And I might occasionally get a flicker of feeling about liking him a lot. But I’m keeping it in perspective. I’m not stupid.”
“Why would it be stupid to fall for him?”
“Why would...” I almost choke on my indignation. “You know why. It’s Marcus Greene we’re talking about.”
“I know it’s Marcus Greene. And as far as I can see, he’s a nice guy with a good job and sense of humor and a decent heart. Sure, he has a bit of an attitude, but it’s not a bad one. And why should that mean he’s not potential relationship material?”
I shake my head. “He’s never had a serious relationship in his life. He’s thirty-two. He’s never been with a woman more than a month.”
“And you think he’s incapable of ever doing so?”
“I don’t know. But how much of an idiot would I be if I decide I’m the woman who’s finally going to change him, when he’s given me absolutely no reason to expect it. He’s made it clear it’s casual from the beginning. Should I put at risk my heart, my emotional stability, on the off chance that he’s capable of change? And the even slimmer chance that it’s me he’s going to change for?”
Beck’s expression softens into sympathy. “Shit. When you put it like that, I do see your point. If he’s given you no signs he’s interested in more, then you’re right. It would be silly for you to start to emotionally invest in him. But are you sure you’re seeing everything clearly? He’s really not said or done anything that makes you think he wants more than just sex?”
“Nothing.” My voice breaks on the one word because it’s hard to admit. It’s hard to acknowledge I might secretly have a few hopes I never let come to the surface of my mind. “He’s done nothing, Beck. And he’s the one who keeps telling me that if a guy is really interested, he’ll make it clear. He’ll make a real effort. He’s done nothing but hang out and have sex with me. That’s all he wants.”
Beck nods. “All right. I believe you. I’m kind of disappointed because I think you two make a good couple, but it’s hard for people to change the habits of a lifetime. I wonder why he’s so afraid of relationships.”
“He told me once that no one sees him for real. The real him. Not even his family. I wonder if he’s felt that for a long time and sort of built his life around it.” I hadn’t realized before that I have this insight on Marcus, but the words sound true as I speak them. “He’s shaped his life assuming no one is ever going to know him, so he always stops himself from getting too close.”
Then I wonder if I should have shared something so intimate with Beck.
She treats the knowledge with the sensitivity it deserves. She lowers her eyes and looks at her plate of pasta as she thinks. She’s got long, wavy hair, and today she’s pulled it into one loose braid that’s hanging over one shoulder. She tugs on it as she says, “That’s probably true. Maybe what he needs is someone to look beyond the surface and see him for real.”
The gentle comment makes me feel almost guilty—like I somehow should have done better by Marcus. “How can anyone do that if he won’t let them?”
“They can’t. It’s a self-defeating circle. We all do that to ourselves in one way or another.” Her voice is dry as she adds, “Welcome to the human race.”
After a minute, she asks, “So you really don’t have any sappy feelings for him at all?”
I shake my head. “Nothing significant.”
“Do you think about him when you’re not with him?”
“Sure, but why is that a problem?”
“It’s not. As long as you’re fantasizing about sex with him and not daydreaming about holding hands and romantic dinners and evenings cuddling on the couch together.”
“Oh my God, Beck, I’m not daydreaming about any of that. I really think I’m doing good and keeping things in perspective.”
“Okay. Then you’re probably safe. Have as much fun as you want. But if you start to get sappy feelings, you might think about calling it quits before it ends up hurting you. Hot sex is all well and good, but you don’t want to end up with a broken heart.”
I’M ABLE TO BRUSH ASIDE my conversation with Beck enough to enjoy another week of sex.
I’m still holding strong on Thursday when Marcus tells me he’s got something to do after work but he can come over around nine if that works for me.
I tell him it works fine because it does. It’s better for me when he comes over later. It helps me not get wrong ideas about us.
At five after nine, I’m starting to wonder if Marcus is coming over soon. I’ve got things I want to tell him. Nothing important. Just a funny anecdote about a cat hanging around the grounds of the nursing home and about Beck’s crazy coffee date last night. (She’d connected with the guy on a dating app. He kept calling her Becca, even after being corrected twice, and he wanted her to have dinner with his parents the following week and was shocked and offended when she politely demurred. This is not the oddest guy she’s met from online.)
I’m just glancing at my phone to check the time when a text comes in.
It’s Marcus. Sorry. Running late.
No problem. Take your time. I’m not sure what he’s doing—probably helping out his folks—but I’m not too worried about his delay.
I’ll text when I’m on my way.
Now that I know what to expect, I don’t sit and watch the clock for him. I unload the dishwasher, move some laundry into the dryer, and then I decide to take a shower and read in bed.
Marcus texts again at just after ten. I’m on my way if it’s not too late.
It’s not.
He’s knocking on my door six minutes later, dressed in what he wore to work—gray trousers and a black shirt, half-untucked. (It’s been half-untucked all day.)
He scans my tank and pajama pants. “In bed already?”
“I was reading in bed. You were late.”
A half smile warms his face. “I know I was. Am I to be invited into bed?”
“If you’re good.”
“I can be good.”
“Can you? Can you really?” I take his shirt in both my hands and use my grip on it to pull myself closer to him.
He closes the gap with his hands on my hips. “I can be good if I really try.”
I giggle. “I’ve seen very little sign of that.” I glance toward the
kitchen. “Are you hungry?”
“Nah. I was just at Hal’s.”
“You were at Hal’s all this time?”
“Not the whole time. I didn’t get there until seven thirty.”
“Were you meeting someone?”
I’ve been walking toward the bedroom, but he grabs my hand and pulls me back to face him. His expression is uncharacteristically serious as he says, “I wasn’t there with a girl, Jennifer.”
“I didn’t think you were with a girl. I was just surprised.” I’m telling him the truth. It never occurs to me that Marcus might be seeing someone else while he’s having sex with me.
I’m sure he’s not.
It’s not like him.
He’s better than that.
He evidently sees the truth of it in my expression because his face relaxes. He comes into the bedroom with me and toes off his shoes. “I was having dinner with Mike Faucett. You know him, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Your buddy. He’s got the cutest little girls, and his wife dresses them up all pretty for church. Last Sunday, they were all dressed in pink with ribbons in their hair.” I climb into bed and stretch out on my side. “I thought you just got together with him to drink beer and watch games.”
“Yeah. Well, we do a lot of that.” Marcus looks slightly stiff as he pulls off his socks. He’s not meeting my eyes.
It makes me curious enough to sit up. He’s shucking off his trousers and still avoiding my gaze. “Is something going on, Marcus?”
“No. Course not.” He takes off his shirt and gets into bed in his boxer briefs and undershirt. He finally looks at me, and it seems to take effort to say, “I’ve just been thinking about what you said. About friends. So... so... I’m trying.”
I admit it. I experience the most ridiculous rush of sappy, swoony emotions.
Yes. Both sappy and swoony. Let me assure you that sometimes neither word is quite enough.
I manage to control my face so I don’t embarrass him. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m not any good at it. But I’m trying.”
I reach over to rub a hand over his heart. “I think you’re pretty good at it.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You’re good with me.”
He moves over me, the warm weight of him pressing me into the mattress. “You think so?”
I take his face in both hands. “Yeah. I think so.”
“I’m glad.” He kisses me, coming up just long enough to ask, “You want me to take a shower?”
I give him an extended sniff that makes him chuckle. He doesn’t smell all nice and fresh like he does after a shower. He smells just slightly like laundry and a lot like he’s had a long day. But it’s not bad. It smells like him. I tell him, “You’re fine as you are.”
We kiss again and make love under the covers with the lights on. He spends a lot of time on foreplay, and I come twice before he puts on a condom. Then he turns me over on my hands and knees and aligns himself at my entrance from behind. He takes me like that until I’m babbling out nonsense into a pillow, begging him to make me come.
He does. I shudder through a hard climax, smothering my cry of release in into the pillow. Then he turns me over onto my back and enters me again, and I wrap my arms and legs around him as he rocks both our bodies with his thrusts.
I don’t come this time, but he does, and I enjoy it just as much. The way he lets go. The bitten-back sound he makes. The way his body jerks and then softens.
He lies on top of me for a few minutes, and I don’t want to let him go.
I told Beck this weekend that I wasn’t having sappy feelings, but I’m definitely having them this evening.
But it isn’t always like this. It’s not going to be like this forever.
So I’m not going to let myself fall. Not until I know it’s really safe.
I WAS RIGHT. MARCUS acts casual and teasing the next morning, so it’s clear the mood between us the night before wasn’t really as deep and meaningful as it felt.
It’s fine with me. I know what I’m doing.
Marcus and I continue our pattern of going to work together and then seeing each other at night for sex for another two weeks. We eat together sometimes, but it’s not like they’re romantic dinners. And we do watch some TV, but who on earth can have sex every minute of the evening?
It’s fine. It’s all fine. Everything is fine.
I’m having fun and still playing it safe.
And nothing has changed about Marcus’s relaxed, amused attitude toward me—except that one evening that probably didn’t mean anything.
But then on Friday evening a month after we first got together I get a call at seven o’clock from one of my grandmother’s friends, someone who lives in Sterling and I’ve known since the day I was born.
It’s not a good conversation, and I’m just hanging up when Marcus knocks on my door, so I don’t even have time to process things and recover my equilibrium.
He sees immediately that something is wrong. “What’s the matter?” he asks as soon as I open the door for him. “Is your grandma all right?”
“She’s fine. Everything is fine. I mean, I just got a call from Martha Webb. You know her?”
“Yeah. I know her. What did she say that upset you?” His brow furrows as he walks into the house, toes off his shoes, and then leans against the dining room table, pulling me closer to him.
I don’t need to be quite so close to him to have a conversation. We can talk just fine with a few feet of space between us. But it feels rude to back away, so I stay where he puts me and don’t shrug his hand off my shoulder. “I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are. Tell me what she said.”
“She said... She said...” I rub my face and groan. “Oh God, it’s so embarrassing. She said that the Martins saw your truck in my driveway last night.”
“Fuck, you’ve got to be kidding me. And they decided to tell everyone in town about it?”
“It’s Sterling. What do you expect? Katie started asking around to see if anyone knew about us dating, and then everyone starting collecting information about our driving to work together, about your visiting Grandma with me that one time, about how... how...”
“How what?” He’s frowning and searching my face.
“About how happy you’ve looked lately.” I blush hotly as I say the words. “That’s what Martha said. Oh God, what a mess. Everyone in town is talking about it now.”
His mouth twists in a snarl. He doesn’t shape that expression very often, and it startles me so much I stare. “It’s none of their fucking business.”
“I know that, but you grew up in this town just like I did. Everything is everyone’s business, and now they’re gossiping. Martha’s all worried you’re going to get me in trouble.”
“Trouble? Trouble? You’re a grown woman! What kind of trouble am I supposed to be getting you into?”
“I have no idea. But I got a long lecture about how I need to be careful. I tried to tell her nothing is going on, but she doesn’t believe me.”
He’s still scowling, and his hand has tightened on my shoulder. “Martha doesn’t matter. None of them matter. Let them think whatever they want.”
I pull out of his grip. Not because he’s hurting me but because he feels too close, too intense. There’s some kind of force radiating off him right now, and it’s really upsetting me. Making me feel too much. “This is my town, Marcus. My neighbors. My community. My friends. Maybe they don’t matter to you, but they matter to me.”
There’s a new look in his eyes as he stares down at me. “And you want to stop seeing me because they’re stupidly gossiping about us?”
“No! I never said I wanted to stop seeing you.”
The tension on his face relaxes slightly. “You’re obviously upset about it.”
“Of course I’m upset. Who wouldn’t be? I don’t like people talking about me, worrying about me, judging me. It makes me feel...”
“Feel what?”
“Vulnerable.”
He’s quiet for a minute. “And you can never be that.”
“I don’t want to be. Who does?”
He shakes his head and lets out a long breath. “So what do you want to do?”
“I want us to be more careful. Maybe you can wait to come over here until it’s dark. They only saw your truck yesterday because you came over early.”
His jaw tightens again. He’s breathing heavily and staring at the floor.
My heart is fluttering wildly, feeling like something important is about to happen.
I have no idea what I expect to happen, but I wait for it anyway.
When he doesn’t say anything, I finally can’t stand it anymore. “You’re really angry about a simple request like waiting until dark?”
“I’m not angry.”
“Yes, you are. You’re always so insistent on knowing what I’m feeling. You think I don’t know what you’re feeling too. You’re angry. Angry at me.”
He rubs his jaw and moves away from me for a minute, clearly working through the intensity of his emotions. When he turns back, his tone is natural. “I’m not angry at you. I’m angry about the situation. All my life, this town has judged me and found me wanting. And I’ve tried. I’ve tried. I’ve made something decent of my life, and they’re still... Their judgment is still getting in the way of what I want.”
I’m close to tears and I don’t know why. “They judged you before because you used to act like an asshole. You were rude to people all the time, and you disrespected people’s property, and you were loud and obnoxious. You know you were. Of course they judged you for that.”
“That was fifteen years ago!” he bursts out. He’s not yelling, but I’ve never heard him speak so loud before.
I take a step back. Not in fear but in astonishment. “I know it was.” My voice wobbles, and I hate it that I always cry when I get too emotional. It makes me feel weak when I’m not. “But people remember. Yes, you’ve grown up. You’ve changed. But think about it for a minute. Have you ever really tried to get to know them now? Have you ever let them see who you really are so they know you’re something other than the way you acted back then?”