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Jackson

This is not the Marlow I know.

Shifting from foot to foot with her eyes cast down, she offers me a bag of chips with queso as a consolation prize.

I’d almost go as far as saying that she’s barely recognizable.

Not because she’s not the epitome of put together.

She’s dressed nicely with her hair styled in place.

For me, it doesn’t matter what she wears because I always see her beauty.

But it’s not her clothes or appearance that are out of character. It’s her expression.

Humility doesn’t suit her fine features.

The fact that Marlow walked out this morning doesn’t surprise me, although it was disappointing.

Now, she’s here, and that is completely unexpected.

She’s never been one to grovel, even when I asked her to last summer while we were exploring new sexual kinks.

She suggested begging, I thought she meant for her to beg me, ready to drop to her knees, but I quickly found out she meant the opposite.

I also discovered one of her hard limits.

I would have thought this fell under that umbrella.

Scratching the back of my neck, I leave her standing near the door, not sure what to think of this turnabout. She’s either trying to redeem herself or pretend it never happened. I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

Can’t help but find a little joy in watching this play out. Especially since she doesn’t owe me anything. We crossed lines that she’s not ready for. I don’t feel I need to take away from her admitting she’s wrong, though. It might be the first and last time, so I need to savor it.

She makes her way into the apartment, setting the bag on the counter before leaning against it. Even though she’s hidden her hands from view, I can tell she’s gripping the edge. Now that we’re back here together, even I feel the discomfort that never existed between us before.

I keep some distance, not as a punishment for her but to protect myself. I choose a chair in the living room and sit. “Do you want to go first?”

Releasing the stone counter, she drops her arms to her sides. “Why aren’t you going to watch football today?”

“I will. Here.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Look, Marlow. You don’t have to check on me.

I’m fine. Would I rather you have stayed?

Yep. But I’m not holding it against you if that’s what you’re worried about.

You know I’ve never been one to beat around the bush, so let’s address the elephant in the room.

” I sit forward, resting my forearms on my legs.

“I’m not going to their place because I wasn’t sure if you wanted to see me, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see you. ”

The realization strikes her, widening her eyes and parting her lips. She’s quick to realign and straighten her shoulders. “I want to see you. That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re here all right.” Fucking gorgeous as always . Of all the people I had to set my sights on, why’d it have to be Marlow Marché? “And why is that?” I don’t know why I’m getting irritated, but I am.

“I’d say I read too much into your text, but it seems it landed how it was intended.

” She tentatively steps closer, moving around the couch to the far side from me before sitting down.

I think her pit stop to see me wasn’t part of her game plan because of how uncomfortable she appears with her stiff disposition.

I look away, trying to find interest in the area rug.

She says, “We said no strings.”

“We said a lot of things.” I tilt my gaze up, knowing I’m too weak to look away from her for long. The feelings I have for her have been brewing for years. It’s too bad they couldn’t have stayed buried.

“I don’t understand what’s wrong, Jackson.”

“I know you don’t.” I push up and go into the kitchen, not sure what I need but pretend it’s something in here. “I take it you’re not staying?” I grab a bottle of beer and twist off the cap. I don’t even know the time, but it seems like a reasonable hour for a drink since it’s a holiday.

“After that warm welcome,” she replies sarcastically, not making a move to leave, “I’m not sure it’s safe to stay.”

“Safe?” I laugh, but there’s no humor. I take a long pull from the bottle, letting the liquid coat my throat.

Setting it down, I press my palms to the cold stone.

“You want to talk, let’s talk. I’ll start.

Safe is what I felt in bed next to you. Safe in the thought that you enjoyed the night as much as I did.

Safe in the crazy fucking notion that you’d be there this morning.

Safe that we were moving past the games we play into something .

. . You know what? Fuck safe . Take your queso and go. ”

She finally stands, her clicking heels causing an echo across the wood floors. Snatching the bag, she whips back to face me. “We have a good thing going, but you want something I can’t give you.”

“Which is?”

“More.” She’s already shaking her head when she adds, “I don’t have the emotional energy to spend on anything or anyone else.

Don’t you understand? My life is a shit show right now.

If I’m not being run ragged at work trying to constantly prove myself to a boss who will never see me as more than someone who runs her errands to dealing with creditors and bills I didn’t even know existed until a few months ago, I’m selling my stuff to try to earn extra money for a down payment I’ll never have. ”

Like a rose, she blooms in anger, the thorns, the walls she uses to protect her. Or maybe more like an onion—layer by layer. Either way, I had no idea things were this bad because she wears bravado and attitude like the latest fashion. “Then tell me that instead of leaving me guessing.”

Coming closer, she presses the bag to my chest, crushing the chips in the process. “I just did. I can’t give you what you need, Jackson. Keep the queso.” Her words land like punches, and she keeps swinging. “Maybe it can keep you warm tonight.”

She leaves me holding the bag, literally, as her hair flies from her shoulders when she spins in her goddamn righteousness and storms toward the door with her walls sky high again.

What she fails to see is that I’m not her enemy in this scenario. “Don’t drag the queso into this. This is about you and me, sweetheart.”

Turning back with a hand anchored to her hip, she purses her lips in anger. Her chest rises once before she roars, “I’m not your sweetheart. I’m an after-hours booty call at best. So queso or not, this,” she says, swaying her free hand between us, “isn’t going to happen.”

The disappointment that I felt when I woke up returns.

It’s not caused by her rejection. It’s caused by her words.

She doesn’t even believe them. I can see it in her eyes.

I’ve seen Marlow riled up before and have even been at the receiving end of her wrath a few times through the years.

But there’s no fire burning in her irises.

Despite the show she’s putting on, she’s not angry with me. She’s lost faith. That’s not something I can change in the heat of an argument, so I say, “You assume I’m trying to convince you to stay. I’m not.”

“Then what are you doing?” she asks, her head wobbling on her neck.

“Waiting.”

The word hits as if she never saw it coming. She didn’t. I didn’t either. I’m not usually one to pour out my emotions like some sap with nothing better to do on a Saturday night. Doesn’t matter that it’s Tuesday. My point still stands.

She huffs. “For what?”

“I’m waiting for?—”

“Don’t wait on me.” And then she heads for the door again, unwilling to give me anything—peace, freedom, or even a glimmer of hope of scaling those walls she’s built.

Not ten minutes earlier, I didn’t think I had much to get off my chest. The woman brings out the best and worst in me, it seems. My worst wins, and with a boulder of a chip on my shoulder, I reply, “Don’t worry, sweetheart , I won’t.”

With her back still to me, she holds the doorknob in her hand and then swings the door wide open. I almost expect more of her anger, and I’m ready for the onslaught, but it never comes. She walks out, slamming it behind her.

I won’t chase her. Not anymore. She’s said her piece, and now I know where I stand. Right where she fucking left me.

I throw the bag against the wall. “Fuck!”