Page 84

Marlow

I’ve never spit in my life, and now I’m wiping dribbling champagne from my chin in the middle of a trendy Manhattan restaurant.

I’d recognize Talia Marché’s voice anywhere—the laid-back California pace mixing with the slightest of accent via France or Italy.

It changes on an as-needed basis. But I can’t say I ever expected to run into her in New York City.

I stand in a rush, my cloth napkin accidentally falling to the floor before I can catch it.

“Mom?” I say again as if my eyes deceive me and my nerves are kicking in.

She walks over with shock embracing her own face. Others might not catch the expression before she rights it into a smile, but I’m the last person she expected to see. Otherwise, she would have sent a text or even a wire to let me know she was in the city.

She embraces me like a daughter she’s close to, a daughter who she hasn’t seen in a long time and whose presence has been missed.

In reality, she hasn’t missed me a single day of my life. Her lifestyle is a testament to her chosen path and my replacement.

I lift my arms, but they’re slow to obey. I’ve been hurt before by her absence. Does her presence make a difference? I hug her. “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were in the city?”

“Look at you. So . . . adult-like.” Pulling back, she holds my arms, swinging them wide so she can get a good look at me.

I lost the five pounds she used to hound me about, but I’m pretty sure they returned in the last week living with Jackson.

Happiness does that, gives one a sense of comfort when someone not only accepts you but loves you for who you are and not just for appearances.

When her eyes linger on my midsection, I yank my arms out of her hands. “That happens when you near thirty.”

“Thirty?” Her head goes back as if she’s going to need smelling salts to continue. “How is it possible that I have a thirty-year-old?”

“Not quite yet. I have a good six months.”

“Right. That’s good. I was starting to feel old. What a dreadful hand to be dealt.”

Jackson stands and says, “It’s good to see you again, Ms. Marché.”

Her entire body angles toward him, and she drops her wrist in front of him. I want to roll my eyes. Good Lord, this is over the top. She should probably take a break from the French Riviera. “Who are you?” she asks, giving him sudden interest.

And my friends always called me over the top. Guess the apple doesn’t fall far in that aspect. I’m tall enough for entry into the runway world of modeling but more muscular in build. My mom said designers would never want to fit clothes on that type of model. It seemed to bother her more than me.

At fourteen, I knew that life wasn’t for me, and I was happy not to follow in my mother’s footsteps.

My dad said I was pretty and could make it in Hollywood if I put in the effort.

It was a constant fight between them. But I know my mom married him for his money, so I’m not sure she thought beyond the wedding.

She left to get away from him after the divorce, but I wish she would have stayed for me.

None of it matters now, so why do I feel like a child begging for her attention?

“Jackson St. James. We’ve met a couple of times over the years. I’m a good friend of Marlow’s.”

“How good?”

My mouth falls open while Jackson takes the question in stride. Reaching for my hand, he holds it as he moves to my side. “Very good friends.”

“I see.” Her eyes shift to mine. “I didn’t know you were dating anyone.”

A server squeezes by, and I realize we’re blocking the walkway. “How long will you be here?” I hate that I sound like a little girl again, but I’ve asked her this same question many times over the years. It’s not so far-fetched that not much has changed.

She smiles. “Paolo’s waiting for me in the other room, so I should get back. We flew in to celebrate a friend’s birthday tonight.” Grabbing my wrist, she asks, “Lunch or dinner before I leave?” An air kiss is given to each cheek before she turns to leave. “I’ll text you tomorrow. Bye, darling.”

Reaching for my throat, I cover it, hoping the lump of pain she left in her wake doesn’t get stuck there forever.

Jackson rubs my lower back and angles me toward him, putting the rest of the patrons behind us. Whispering, he says, “This place isn’t so great. Why don’t we get our order to go?”

I manage a smile under the waterfall of emotions trying to drown me. I take a sip of my champagne and then just finish it because who cares about appearances anyway. Setting it down, I say, “I’m good without the food.”

“I think we should eat.” He sits down and then adds, “Please sit.”

Besides feeling numb from running into my mom in the first place, her blatant disregard hurts the most. I sit, and then I reach across the table to grab his glass and shoot the rest of his lowball of whiskey. Why not?

“As much as I don’t want you puking on the ride home, do you need another?”

“My throat is on fire.” It’s hard to catch my breath through the rasps and coughing. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff.” I sip water to douse the fire. Setting the glass back down, I say, “I want another round.”

Twenty minutes and two drinks I shoot like shots later, I’m feeling less—physically, caring emotionally, less of everything—which is what I wanted.

“What about tacos? We could get tacos on the way home or a hot dog. Mmm, a hot dog sounds so good. Doesn’t it, Jackson?”

“The food should be here any minute, but you might want to slow down, Marlow.”

I set another empty glass of champagne down on the table and rest back, trying to calculate how many drinks that’s been but start laughing, which, in turn, becomes a fit of giggles.

“It’s Mrs. St. James, remember?” When he doesn’t crack a smile, I round my shoulders forward, and try whispering, “You’re not having fun. ”

“I’m fine.” His reply is as flat as that line across his mouth. Doesn’t matter that he’s a sourpuss. I still want to kiss him silly. But even tipsy, I know that’s not supposed to be done in a restaurant. I roll my eyes. Society’s rules and all that.

Stretching my leg out, I rub the tip of my shoe under the hem of his pants. “Do you know what drinking does to me?”

Suddenly, he’s entertained. Amused, he sits there with that happy sexy face, his gorgeous eyes staring into mine. “I do. We’ve gotten drunk together many times over the years.”

“But why did we always fight? We’ve wasted so much time when we could have been having sex all these years.” My voice pitches, but I’m okay with it. More than okay.

“We didn’t really know each other until?—”

“Until now. The sex is so good.” Struggling to stave off the slur trying to kick in, I narrow my eyes and try to be serious. “Intense.”

“Marlow,” he whispers, leaning forward against the edge of the table. “People can hear you.”

I pick up my glass of water and take a sip.

“It’s not my problem they don’t have sex like we do.

Like animals who can’t get enough of each other.

” I turn to look across the room, disappointed when I don’t see our server.

“When’s the food going to be here? I’m starving.

I need tacos.” The water sloshes in the glass.

“You ordered the fish.” Jackson reaches over and takes the glass from me.

My nose scrunches, and I reach up to uncrunch it. “I don’t want fish. I want tacos.” I gasp when I realize I can have both. “Hear me out. Fish. Tacos.”

He gets up and comes around to my side of the table. “It’s time to go. I’ll get you tacos.”

I stand and wrap my arms around him. “Because you’re my hero.”

“No, because my girl wants tacos, so she gets tacos.”

Poking him in the chest, I nod. “That’s hero stuff right there.” We start to walk, but my ankle wobbles under me. “Whiskey is strong, Jackson. Why’d you let me drink that? Especially on an empty stomach.”

“ I didn’t let you drink anything. That’s all on you, sweetheart.”

“You could at least humor me.”

Chuckling, he replies, “I have been for the past forty-five minutes.”

Just as we leave the atrium, we see the server carrying the bag of food, and I’ve never felt so relieved. We follow him into the corridor, where he swipes the credit card through the reader. He glances at me like he’s never seen a woman under the influence before.

I’m not doing anything outrageous. I’m tipsy, at the most. This city’s full of people partying at all hours of the night and day.

I still need to hold tight to Jackson’s arm to steady myself though.

Maybe I am drunk. Approved flashes onto the screen.

“Success!” I exclaim too loud for the server’s comfort level.

Jackson chuckles while signing the receipt. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” He takes the bag, and we head for the exit, each step becoming more troublesome.

But when we pass the last door in the row of private party rooms, I catch a glimpse of my mom and her boyfriend. The room is boisterous, and she stands to lead them in a rousing edition of “Happy Birthday.”

Memories of sitting alone on my balcony, wishing on a star for one person to care, come flashing back. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t being greedy. Just one. That’s all I ever dreamed about.

I don’t stare, forcing myself to look ahead instead. Looking back never did me any favors anyway.

The cold air outside is sobering, and I tuck myself under Jackson’s arm until we find a taxi and hop in. “I don’t want tacos. I just want to go home.”

“You need to eat, and you said you didn’t want the fish.”

“I can find something at the apartment.”

I hear the crumpling of the bag, and then he asks, “Do you want my steak? It came with a baked potato on the side. I think that would be filling and help absorb some of the alcohol.”

“I don’t want to think about food, Jackson,” I snap, staring at my reflection in the window. “That’s all I did growing up. I was never enough, or I was too much. I could never just be me.” When he doesn’t respond, I look at him.

Waiting.

I just wish I knew what he was waiting for. “Jackson?”

His eyes find me in the dark cab, and then his hand reaches over, barely touching mine.

“I’m not going to fight with you, Marlow.

I know you’re angry, and you have every right to be.

No one should be made to feel less than, and that’s what she does to you.

I’m sorry she’s hurt you. I’m sorry she doesn’t see it.

I’m really fucking sorry that she doesn’t treat you how you deserve to be. ”

I loop my fingers around two of his. “Me too.”

But then he continues, “I don’t know that you’ll ever get the chance to tell your parents how they’ve hurt you.

But you can tell me. Yell if you need to.

I’ll listen. But I want you to hear me back.

And come sunrise, I don’t want you feeling like shit.

I want to see the woman I love sleeping soundly next to me with this bullshit in the rearview mirror.

It’s not going to be easy, but you’re stronger than they give you credit for. Do we have a deal?”

“That’s a lot of words to process if you ask me.” I start laughing, and then it becomes contagious when he joins in. “I’m drunk, Jackson,” I say, rolling my neck in his direction.

“I’m not surprised.”

“I’m drunk, but even in this state, I know you’re putting yourself on the line to make me feel better.” I take a deep breath and sigh. “Thank you. You’re an amazing man—” And then I vomit.