“Marlin!” Stuart says, coming over to me and giving me a hug. “Thanks for coming. What’d you think?”
Sometimes, in moments like these, you see two distinct paths you can take. One path leads to destruction—the other, to fulfillment. Or at least that’s what they tell you. I always choose the right path, and the only fulfillment I felt in the last week was when Henry hit on me. So fuck it, I’m going to be honest. I choose the path to destruction.
“Wow, well… you guys really sucked,” I say, giggling hysterically. The words are out of my mouth before I can think. I don’t even care—just like when I lost it with Charlie’s parents a few days ago, I’m starting to realize I don’t care about a large number of things. It’s not worth it, to care. Things get muddled and fucked up no matter how much you care.
Stuart gawks at me, his mouth open and his brow furrowed in confusion. I’m sure I’m the first person not to blow air up his ass about his singing. I’m sure his mother, Gemma, and every other single person here has given him nothing but praise. It feels kind of great to tell him the truth. The group goes quiet, and I see Gemma look at Charlie nervously.
“Okay, then,” Stuart says quietly. “Thanks so much, Marlin,” he adds. Then he abruptly turns and walks over to Gemma.
“You guys were great. Don’t listen to her. She’s obviously wasted.” Gemma gives me a pitying look, and then they both walk away, followed by the rest of the band. That leaves Charlie with me.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Charlie hisses, and then, not surprisingly, he leaves and follows the rest of the group out of the back door. I wonder for a minute if he’s going to leave without me. Of course, I’m sure Henry would give me a ride home. I realize I’m happier thinking of a stranger giving me a ride rather than my boyfriend. I say goodbye to Henry, who is standing, baffled, having just seen what transpired. I’m no longer the cute girl who orders scotch. I’m crazy. I’m too crazy for Charlie. I’m too crazy for Henry. I’d be better off alone.
When I walk outside, Charlie, Stuart, Gemma, and the rest of the band are huddled around the VW bus that Stuart drives. For some reason, he thinks he’s cool for driving a shitty car from forty years ago with abysmal gas mileage. They’re all speaking in hushed whispers, and I know it’s about me.
“I can guarantee, whatever you all are saying about me, I’ve thought worse about myself. How about saying it to my face?” I yell, my drink sloshing out of the side of my cup.
“Get in the car,” Charlie urges, grabbing my arm before I can embarrass myself further. I pull away from him, tugging my arm free.
“Fuck you all,” I say under my breath. “It’s not my fault that you can’t sing.” I direct the insult at Stuart, though I’m not sure why. I don’t actually mind the guy, but my brain is rotting on hate right now. It’s like the saying, the kinder you are, the easier it becomes. I think it applies to being an asshole, too.
“What’s your problem, Marlin?” Gemma asks, stepping towards me. “You’re such a bitch. We’ve always tried to befriend you. We’ve always been nice to you.”
“Fake nice,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “You’re right. You’ve all been perfectly nice to my face. But what about after I walk away?”
Gemma contemplates my words, and then she shakes her head. At least she didn’t try to deny it.
“Let’s go,” Charlie yells, grabbing me, tighter this time so I can’t escape.
“Have a good night,” I spit at them, and I can feel the self-loathing coursing through my veins. It’s not them—of course it’s not. I’ll apologize tomorrow. It’s me. I’m rotten.
I buckle myself in and turn the radio on so that Charlie doesn’t chastise me for my behavior on the ride home. I know I deserve it, and I will be punishing myself later. On cue, I look down at my bare, pale wrists. It’s going to feel so good to bleed—bleed all the hatred, self-loathing, and unhappiness out.
And then tomorrow I’ll deal with the repercussions.
Chapter Nine
PRESENT
I haven’t had the courage to look down at my wrists all day. I’ll know for sure once I pull the sweater up my forearm. Sebastian is whistling to a Sam Smith song on the radio. He’s not paying attention. I feign being hot, first turning the heater down, and then pushing the sleeves of my wool sweater up. I glance down.
Nothing. There’s nothing. The Marlin in this life doesn’t cut herself. The Marlin in this life doesn’t need to. She’s happy. She’s getting married. She’s having a baby with the man she loves. She gets to eat cheese all day long, and she’s back in a place with snow.
Now all I have to do is figure out how to stay here. If this is all just a dream, I don’t think I ever want to wake up.
“You’re so quiet today,” Sebastian says, his voice tinted with worry.
“I’m just content,” I blurt out, and I realize suddenly that I am. I’m content here. Panic begins to fill my chest when I think about going back to my old life.
“That’s good,” Sebastian laughs.
“Are we happy?” I ask, twisting around and studying him.
“Baby, what are you talking about? We’re so happy. We’re the happiest. They write songs about people like us.” As if on cue, he starts to sing the Sam Smith song out loud.
“You’re the one designed for me
A distant stranger that I will complete
I know you’re out there we’re meant to be
So keep your head down and make it to me
And make it to me…”
He really does have a sickeningly good voice.
I laugh. “Okay, I believe you. I’ve just been thinking lately about what could’ve been.”
“Give me an example,” he requests, placing a warm hand on my thigh.
“For example… what if I ended up going to San Diego State instead of Long Beach? What if we never met in Italy?”
He stares ahead in thought, silent for a moment. A few seconds later, when we pull up to a red light, he turns to me with a solicitous expression on his face.
“We’d find each other. I believe that. We might have a different story, but we’d find each other. Our souls were destined to meet, I think, long before our bodies were.”
I look down at my hands, my wrists bare, and I believe his words. The urge to cry contorts my face. His words are simple yet impactful. I want to believe him. I want to believe that he exists in my real world. I feel a tear slip down my cheek, and I look over at him, my body warming under his earnest gaze.
“I hope so,” I whisper, and I reach down and squeeze his hand.
“I know so.” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my palm gently. His lips are so soft. He’s always so tender. He’s going to make a great father one day.
“I’m sorry,” I add, wiping my cheeks. “It must be the hormones. I’m overly emotional.”
“You don’t ever have to apologize for feeling, Marlin. Life’s not worth living if we don’t feel intensely.”
I nod and look out of the window. The light turns green, and we pull onto a dirt road. I study our surroundings with glum understanding—I might not be around to witness the house fully renovated. I might not be around to experience birth or motherhood. If any of this is real, and I’ve somehow been transported to an alternate universe, this could all carry on without me.
Sebastian turns down an even smaller road, and I know we’re close to the house because Sebastian keeps peeking glances in my direction, a sly smile on his lips. The sun is starting to go down, and the pink sky is romantic and dazzling. I don’t want the day to end.
“They painted the exterior yesterday,” Sebastian says, the words bursting from his mouth excitedly.
“What color?” I say it without thinking, and Sebastian tilts his head at me curiously.
“You picked the color, Marlin. I thought it was grey, but you were adamant that it was blue. Either way, I’m sure it looks great with the white trim.”
I die a little inside. I k
now it’ll look good with white trim. In fact, I’m sure I’m going to fall in love with this little house of ours.
“Wow,” Sebastian says, just as we round a corner. A large, old Victorian house sits next to a bare oak tree with a swing hanging from the branches. The snow makes everything brighter, whiter, more dramatic. I feel my jaw drop. It’s breathtaking, and it’s ours.
“It looks great,” I say, trying to cover my awe. I have to keep in mind that I’ve seen the house before. I have to keep my emotions in check.
Sebastian parks and comes around to open my door. I hop out, childlike excitement coursing through my veins, and I take a mental picture. It’s still a bit run-down, but the new paint did wonders. There’s a garden patch out front, empty right now of course, and the wooden steps are covered in snow. There’s a porch, neglected because of the current weather.
I envision our child growing up here, shoveling snow just like I did. I imagine the three of us drinking iced tea on the porch in the summer as we fan ourselves off, wondering why we never installed central air conditioning. I see slow, lazy mornings around a fireplace as Sebastian gets ready for work. I see breakfast together with messy hair and matching Scooby-Doo slippers.
The door is painted red, and a large brass knocker sits right at eye level. We walk up to it together, and I have to bite my lip to keep it from quivering.
“After you,” he says, gesturing to the knocker.
“Together,” I counter, and he nods once, placing his large hand over mine. We knock three times, giggling, and then Sebastian opens the front door.
It’s just as marvelous inside—just like I thought it would be. Salvaged oak flooring shines up at us, waxed and new. The walls are white, and the crown molding isn’t quite finished in certain parts, but I’m enamored with the rawness already. The doorway from the foyer arches into the living room, and I walk into the kitchen. Modern appliances sit unused, and the subway tile is exquisite against the dusk sun coming in through the kitchen window.
I follow Sebastian as he tours the downstairs bathroom and then the dining room with built-ins. I take his hand as we walk upstairs, and three bedrooms, one right after the other, line the hallway. Sebastian pulls me to the last room—our master bedroom. I gasp as I see that a large canopy bed sits in the corner. So this is where our real bed is. Though as Sebastian squeezes my hand, I realize I’d sleep in a barn every night as long as it meant I could stay with him in this life.
“What do you think?” he asks, pulling me out and to the last door lining the hallway.
“I love it,” I say, my voice breaking. He stops walking, looking at me with concern. “I’m okay, just emotional,” I add, pointing to my stomach. He chuckles.
“I have a surprise for you,” he says quietly. He opens the last door and pulls me inside. It’s bare, but in one corner is a small vintage crib.
“Oh my god.” I run my finger along the smooth wood. It’s beautiful. “Where did you get this?”
“It was mine,” he says proudly. “My dad dropped it off earlier. I wanted to surprise you.”
I turn around and put my arms around his neck. “I love it. Our baby will love it.” My words make me sad. I don’t know if I’ll get to experience our baby sleeping in Sebastian’s crib, but I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to experience anything more.
“Good. Because you deserve the best,” he says before leaning down and kissing me. It sweeps me off my feet, and he pulls me close into him, his lips moving against mine. I pull away, totally overwhelmed with emotion.
“I already have the best.” I kiss him again on the cheek, and I stare at him, burning the image of his face into my mind. I vow to find him in my real life. I vow to kiss him like this again. Everything else can stay up in the air—the house, the job, the baby… as long as I have him, I’ll be happy.
“Lets go back to our shitty apartment, drink some sparkling cider, and we’ll toast to us. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, smiling.
*
Sebastian makes us dinner: roasted vegetables, brown rice, and feta. It’s delicious, healthy, and satisfying. I drink a large glass of whole milk, per Sebastian’s suggestion that I need to eat more calories, and afterwards, I feel content and ready for bed.
“Can you play ‘Ave Maria’?” Sebastian begs, coming around behind me just as I place the dirty dishes in the sink.
“What?” I spin around, and he pulls me in tight, kissing me on the neck, the temple, the forehead. “Schubert?”
“Yeah. It’s my favorite.” He gestures to the small spinet piano in the corner. My eyes go wide in surprise. There are a few moving boxes in front of it, and I didn’t even notice it sitting in the corner of the living room until now. I haven’t played the piano since I lived in Wyoming.
“I might be a little rusty,” I say, walking over to the bench.
“Since last night? Nah,” he says, brushing me off. Last night? He continues. “You practice every night, mi amor. You’re incredible. It’s my favorite part of the day, listening to you play.”
“I play every day?” I look over at him, and the look of confusion on his face makes me uncomfortable. “I mean, of course I play every day.”
I sit down at the bench, and I pray that I remember as well as he thinks I do. I flip the music page open to “Ave Maria,” crack my knuckles, and then I begin. To my surprise, my fingers move effortlessly over the keys, fluidly. It’s familiar and unfamiliar to me, all at the same time. I know how to play—though it’s been over ten years and I feel rusty, my fingers fly over the keys like a person who has been practicing every day, which I guess I’ve done in this life. The muscles in my hands are stretched, expectant, and once I let go of my mind block, the music begins to take over.
The melody is slow, peaceful, thought-provoking. It stirs some kind of emotion inside of me. I close my eyes, and I continue playing with confidence. I’ve missed this—playing a song by heart. The music swells, and I feel the layers peel away, leaving only me, bare and plain, here and now. There is no Marlin of yesterday. I exist only in this life—this wonderful life.
When I finish, I feel raw and exposed. I look behind me at Sebastian, and the look on his face is pure awe and wonder.
“How did I ever get so lucky?” he whispers, and I feel myself get up and go to sit in his lap. I figure, if this life is finite, I might as well take advantage of it. I lean in and kiss him. He reaches his hand up to my cheek, gently thumbing it as his tongue works its way into my mouth, slowly, erotically.
The apartment is dark, and I feel my body burn under his touch. He pulls me in closer.
“Sebastian,” I whisper, my voice desperate. “Make love to me.”
He doesn’t say anything. He gathers me in his arms and carries me to the bedroom. He gently places me down on the bed, and when he does, I reach my arms back, resting them behind my head. I study him as he takes his shirt off. He’s beautiful, and not just in the ‘he’s hot’ kind of way. His chest is strong, his angles sharp. Statues should be erected in his honor. Yet… he’s sweet, and tender, and loving.
He unbuckles his pants, and that’s when I see it: a small, thin scar running down his left arm.
“What’s that?” I ask, my voice more accusatory than I’d like to admit. I sit upright and grab his afflicted arm, studying the familiar lines. “What the hell are these?” I yell, pulling him down onto the bed.
“Marlin… are you serious?” He watches me, confused, concerned. “You know what they are.”
I wave my hands in front of me, furiously, irritably. “I know what they are. Why do you have them?” I grab his arm and kiss the scars, tears falling from my cheeks.
“Does pregnancy brain give you amnesia?” he asks, laughing.
“This isn’t funny!” I cry, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Yes, I have amnesia. I don’t remember the last seven years, maybe longer. Please tell me why you have these marks.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “You alread
y know the story, but I’ll humor you. I used to cut myself in high school. It was awful. I was suicidal for a time. I went on antidepressants. But then I met you, and I’ve never looked back.”
“When was the last time?” I ask, my voice frantic.
He smiles. “Two years before we met.”
His answer appeases me, but I’m still uncomfortable. I look down at my wrists for the second time tonight. I search my pale, translucent flesh for any signs of scarring, and there is nothing. My skin is smooth. The sign of a happy life. How can I talk to him about my real life when he has no idea about any of it?
Instead, I pull him into a hug, grasping onto his muscled back. I cry, harder than I’ve ever cried. Giant, heaving sobs leave my body through my eyes, creating a river down his shoulder—a trail of evidence. I’ve been there, I want to say. Snot runs down my nose, but I don’t care. Somehow, I feel more connected to Sebastian than I do to Charlie, and I’ve only known him for a day. I want to share that part of my life with him, but I’m hesitant. Of all the people I know, the man I’ve known the least amount of time is the only person I want to tell.
Sebastian pulls back and hands me a handkerchief, which he pulled out of his jeans pocket. I love that he carries an actual handkerchief. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes. I throw it into our laundry pile. I would do laundry every day for the rest of my life (and that’s saying a lot since laundry is my least favorite chore) if I could only stay here with him.
I look up at him through my wet eyelashes, and he leans in, planting a soft kiss on my lips. It’s light yet so unequivocally poignant. He grabs my hands, lacing his fingers through mine, and deepens the kiss. His breath tastes milky and sweet, and he smells like vanilla and peppermint. The dimness of the room sets the mood, and I begin to take my clothes off, one article at a time. Our breathing is all I hear.
He helps me with my socks, and to my surprise, he bends down and kisses my foot. I pull it away instinctually. I’ve been wearing wool socks all day. I’m sure the smell is less than pleasant. But he grabs me firmly, planting a soft kiss on each toe. I throw my head back and moan. He works his way up, pulling my jeans off with smooth precision. Next is my shirt, which he lifts over my head, gently. Finally, my underwear and bra. I don’t feel exposed. I feel free, for the first time in my life.
The Realm of You: A Novel Page 8