Page 64

Marlow

“Hello?”

“Just got up, and I’m having coffee,” Tealey says. “Rad, naturally, has already worked out, showered, made breakfast, and now he’s squeezing in some work before?—”

“How many cups have you had?”

“Two, but who’s counting?”

I feel like I just got dropped into the middle of a conversation. “I haven’t had my coffee yet, though, so slow down, Teals.”

She laughs as I pad down the hall toward the kitchen just after eleven. The silk of my pajama top and the shorts I slipped on after showering when I got home catch in the air behind me, and I shiver from the chill.

As if she’s been dying to call me all morning, she asks, “What are we doing today? We always hang out on January first and usually relive all the juicy details from New Year’s Eve, but I haven’t heard from anyone.”

I drop the capsule in the coffee machine and push the button.

“You know my story already, so I’m not sure I’m up for anything.

” That’s when I spy the document still on the counter.

Ugh. No, I’m in no mood for that today. I shove it in my junk drawer and then walk to a window lining the wall of my living room.

“I have a slight headache, and I need food.” I open the fridge and scan the mostly empty shelves.

“At times like these, I really miss living with you and Cam.”

I really do, too. Life was so much easier back in college. Cammie, her, and I living together, having the time of our lives, being there for each other through heartbreak and happiness, job losses, promotions and personal struggles. We’ve been together through life’s ups and downs . . . and now?—

“Oh, yeah?”

“You both were always cooking or had stocked the fridge with groceries.” The memory has me smiling again.

She laughs, and even though it’s light, I pull the phone from my ear so my head doesn’t pound even harder. She says, “You can’t live off champagne.”

“Wanna bet?”

Her laughter continues, but this time, I can’t stop from laughing either. “How about this? I’ll have a full spread of greasy hangover food and a hair of the dog bar set up. All you need to do is show up.”

“What time?”

I’m already feeling better because the happiness heard in her tone begins turning my mood around. I take the coffee mug and sip, the warmth of the liquid along with my friend still being so present in my life comforts me.

“We’ll be ready for food and cocktails before kickoff.”

I grimace. “Football. Ugh. I had blissfully forgotten there was a game today.”

She laughs. “You know the guys are going to want to watch it. We’ll let them so we can chat. I can’t wait to hear about what happened after that kiss. I’ll text everyone to get the ball, pun intended, rolling.” She laughs at her own joke. God, I love my friend.

“Sounds good.”

As soon as we hang up, I snatch a shirt from the hanger and a pair of fitted jeans from the shelf and slip them on, eyeing shelves of purses and shoes from every luxury label—Hermès, YSL, Gucci, Chanel, and more.

My gut twists at the thought of having to sell my babies.

I pat a few and say, “I hope it doesn’t come to that. ”

I walk into the bathroom and start to get ready.

Depending on when this get-together is happening, I might have time to go through my accounts once more since my paycheck deposit finally landed.

I just wish I could access my trust fund, but since he’s listed on it, that seems to be a dead-end because of my dad’s bankruptcy in play.

A text pops up from Tealey: Come over. Football and food at one.

I love that she wants to continue our tradition. It’s not easy being surrounded by so many in love, but it feels good to always be included. I text: I’ll be there with queso and chips.

Cammie replies: YAY! We’ll bring hot wings and beer.

My stomach growls. I’m not usually one for greasy food, but that sounds good after a night of drinking.

A text pops up just as I’m about to set my phone down in the kitchen. I glance before reaching for a glass from the cabinet but then stop and return to read the message.

Jackson: Sorry, guys. Can’t make it.

The message is a punch to the gut. He never misses a get-together, and that the message is fewer than five words is unlike him. Dragging a finger over my lip, I read it again. And again. He never cancels. Never.

I start to feel sick to my stomach. Is he upset? Should I call him or text him privately? The reason I left was to preserve our friendship, but did me leaving do the opposite?

Cade: The fuck you talking about? Get your ass over there before kickoff, or I’ll drag it over. This is tradition, man.

Like a train wreck you see coming, I stare at the screen watching the messages roll by, unable to fully process what’s happening since I’m still caught up in wondering if I’ve caused unintended damage.

After Rad sends a message telling him to come over and even Tealey hops back on the thread to try to sway him with his favorite tacos from a place across town, I finally take my shot and type: It won’t be the same without you, St. James.

The thread comes to a halt as those three dreaded dots linger on the screen too long, then go away again. When they appear and then are replaced with words, it reads: Things change, Marché.

I pause to take in the words and, more importantly, to decipher their meaning. There must be more than just a casual response in that, a double meaning that clues me in to whether he’s mad at me or just doesn’t want to come today.

I text Tealey on the side: What does he mean?

Tealey: I’m not sure. Maybe that it’s just not the same since he can’t make it?

Me: I don’t know. It feels like there’s more to it.

Tealey: Want me to ask Rad?

Rad’s his best friend, but I don’t want to make it a big deal if it’s not. Or come off as clingy. That’s something I’ll never be. I’ve seen strong women marry my dad and then turn into desperate ex-wives as they try to hold on to a lifestyle and his money.

I will never be made a fool or put myself in a position of being hurt by anyone, so I type: It’s no big deal.

It’s probably not. Maybe he has work to do or just wants to relax at his place. I throw my arms up. “I can’t read his mind.”

Quick to end this, I text her back: I’ll see you later.

She’s not as fast to return, but then I receive her reply: See you later.

I try to busy myself with my own life—get a glass of water, pop some ibuprofen, return to my room, and start searching for my red Gucci block heels while buttoning the white cotton top I’ve chosen.

I fluff the puffy sleeves in my reflection in the full-length mirror, knowing me being overdressed is nothing new.

I dress for myself, and even if it’s just a football game on TV, I want to feel my best.

Using a stool to reach the high shelf, I pull down the shoe bin, then set them on the floor at the end of the bed.

Jackson never strays far from my mind as I finish my makeup and then coat my lips with a ruby-red lipstick.

I know he loves when I wear red, especially on my mouth.

At least that’s what I gather, considering I often catch him staring at my lips when I’m wearing it.

Come to think of it, he’s always staring at my lips, though.

Anyway, he dates plenty of women who wear red lipstick, and ones who like to claim him in the most childish ways by leaving traces of their presence behind. Or were they staking a claim on him? Who knows, but I’ll never be that girl if that’s what he’s looking for.

I’ve never thought twice about the myriad of women he’s brought around who I’ve met over the years. The guys I’ve casually introduced to my friends never venture to the forefront of my mind either.

Why am I doing it now?

Last night, it was just him and me.

Two friends.

Two . . . lovers.

Two . . .

I return the glass to the kitchen with my purse in hand but pause, anchoring my hand to the counter. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, hoping to calm the unsettling in my chest.

Distract. Distract. Distract, Marlow.

Maybe it’s not a distraction I need, but to accept this is what’s best. For me and for him.

I start to switch my stuff from my clutch to a Chanel crossbody bag.

I need to be surrounded by noise and friends, junk food and grease to dull the hangover—emotionally and physically—I feel.

I need to get going. Wrapping the strap around my body, I rest the bag on my hip and then grab my phone as I walk to the door.

The apartment has become too stuffy with my heart full of nonsense, so I leave in a hurry.

By the time the elevator arrives, I’ve ordered chips and queso from a local restaurant.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I find the elevator empty and can breathe easier in the solitude, and bonus, I reach the lobby quicker.

The streets are busier at the lunch hour, people brunching under the awning of the closest café, a line weaving out the door of the coffee shop, and even the grocer looks busy through the window.

New York City never sleeps, and there’s a sense of excitement in the air.

A new start to the year tends to do that, but I feel conflicted.

Jackson and I need to talk.

I pick up the order and then hail a cab to Tealey and Rad’s. Call me crazy, but I lean forward and give the driver Jackson’s address instead. Is it wise to return to the scene of the crime?

I’m not sure, but I have fifteen minutes to change my mind.

Fifteen minutes that fly by as every other thought crosses my mind.

Fifteen minutes to do what I’d normally do—walk away without a second glance.

I don’t, though.

I sit in the cab parked at his curb with the meter ticking instead for another five minutes before I pop the door open.

“Thank you,” I tell the driver while already stepping onto the sidewalk.

I can’t pause, or I’ll turn back. With doubt filling each step that leads me to his door, I push through the uncertainty and keep walking.

“I’m Marlow Marché, dammit,” I say under my breath, my strength gathering as I move through his building. “Screw the world and what they think.” I’m doing this for me but also for Jackson. He deserves more than I gave him this morning—an empty bed and a crappy start to the new year.

Jackson isn’t just any guy. He’s my friend, and I owe him more than sneaking out in the early hours. With my chin raised high, I knock and then take a step back and wait.

I don’t even have a chance to gulp down my nerves before the door swings open.

Wearing nothing but plaid pajama pants, Jackson leans against the doorframe.

There’s no warm greeting or kiss like he gave me at midnight.

No smile or offer to come inside. He doesn’t even look me up and down like he usually does.

I miss that. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and asks, “What brings you by?”

The uneasiness I had returns with a vengeance. I hate that I react this way. I hate that he makes me feel as if I’m the one to blame. I stuck to our agreement. Did I misread the situation?

“I . . .” I hold up the bag. “I brought queso.” I’m a fool around him. I need saving from myself.

His blue eyes narrow into suspicion. “You brought queso to take to Rad’s place.”

I don’t like the tension between us. It’s not what I’m used to. Sure, he’s the worst about teasing or giving me a hard time, but that’s done in playfulness. That’s not the emotion steadying his face as he stares at me now. And calls me out. Yikes.

Shoving it toward him, I say, “Just take the queso.” What am I doing? Begging for forgiveness for playing by the established rules?

“As a consolation prize? Do you think cheese is going to make everything better?”

I shrug. “It couldn’t hurt, right?” That earns me a smirk. I take advantage of the change in his mood, and ask, “Why are you mad at me?”

Jackson pushes off the doorframe and then swings the door open. “Want to come in and talk about it?”

It’s a pet peeve of mine when people say they hate confrontation like they’re unique that way.

They’re not. No one likes it. Some of us have learned to handle the situation.

Normally, that’d be me. But right now, instead of strength, I’m feeling insecure, and I hate that more.

It’s something I haven’t felt since I left the West Coast nine years ago. “Do I have a choice?”

“You can come in or let the door close. See, Marlow? You always have a choice.” He walks back inside his apartment, letting the door swing toward me. I catch it, shoving it open and trailing in behind him. He looks back and says, “But you already know that.”

“I know that because I chose to leave?”

Turning back, he stands in the middle of his living room, his eyes piercing mine. “So you do want to talk about it?”

Do I?

Although I’m tempted to dash back out the door, I’m here, so his assumption might be right on the money.

Sexual benefits aside, I don’t want to lose his friendship.

We may be oil and water, but it’s not been so bad in the past few months.

As strange as it sounds to admit this even to myself, Jackson St. James has become someone I look forward to seeing. I don’t want to lose that. Or him.

I’m a pro at letting others go, leaving yesterday in the past and moving on to let them live their lives without me. Why do I care so much this time?

I know . . . deep down, I know.

“Yes, I do think we need to talk,” I reply, feeling steadfast that I’m ready to throw it all out on the table.

“Then let’s talk.”