Page 25 of Try Me
Mark frowned as if I’d asked him whether he’d showered this morning. Like I’d gotten too personal. Maybe I had. His mom had struggled with anxiety and depression for as long as I’d known him. It wasn’t a secret, but Mark hadn’t had a label for it when he was younger, just said she was feeling bad. We’d sometimes find her spaced out in the kitchen unloading the dishwasher, or in the laundry room, folding things without really seeing them. There and not. Mark was super protective of her and leery over any comments made about her, and for as much of a jerk as I might be, I’d never taken the low road where she was concerned and never would.
“She’s got better meds now,” he said after a moment, gaze moving to the bank of windows overlooking downtown. “It’s helped some. Though we still don’t actually talk about it. Like, as a family or anything. Shocking, right?” He sucked in a breath. “Anyway, I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
Just like that, the minuscule connection between us was severed. I brushed crumbs from my desk and flicked the trackpad on my laptop to wake it up. “You know, we can probably divide and conquer a lot of stuff on our project so we don’t have to meet together outside of here or anything.”
An emotion I couldn’t pin down flickered briefly in Mark’s eyes, and then he nodded once. “Good idea.”
Just before I left for the day, already dreading the long night ahead at the restaurant, Mark called out my name. I turned back to find him loosening his tie. I was envious of what the rest of his evening probably looked like. A night out at a bar, drinks with his bros, maybe somewhere poolside. No worry about his bar tab.
“I didn’t say anything to the police. You knew that already, though, right?”
“Not for sure. Why didn’t you?”
“That’s a good fucking question.” Mark snapped his gaze away from mine. “Believe me, I considered it.”
He probably knew better than to expect an expression of gratitude from me. I left without replying.
10
Mark
“On the patio.” Marta pointed the tip of her knife toward the open sliding glass door, where a hot breeze carried in the sound of my mom and dad’s voices and soft music.
I stole a slice of bell pepper before Marta could swat me away and laughed as she held the knife up threateningly.
“Is Mom wearing pearls?” I asked. We did Sunday dinners once a month, sometimes just the three of us, but most often with a handful of other folks my dad had an interest in for one reason or another. I wasn’t convinced my parents actually had many casual friends. My dad almost always seemed to have an agenda. Usually one centered on his career but, more noticeably lately, one involving me. If Mom was wearing pearls, though, it was an absolute that there was an agenda in play.
I groaned when Marta nodded. “Who’s out there? Can I just eat in my room instead? Send me dinner on a tray?”
“Big ol’ baby,” she accused, then shoved another pepper in my direction with a grin. “I forgot his name. Probably something like Archibald. Or Wharton. Brewster?”
“Hampton.” I crunched down on the pepper. I liked Marta. She was warm and down-to-earth and an amazing cook. Dad had hired her my junior year of high school to “fill in” when my mom got too overwhelmed—which really meant when my mom couldn’t muster up the energy to do much else beyond lie in bed.
“Harlequin.”
“Too avant-garde. Dad wouldn’t approve.”
“You and your fancy college words. It’s a wonder you got off with ‘Markus.’”
“They weren’t rich when I was born. That came later. Imagine if I’d been born a couple years later. I’d be Bakersfield.” Marta crinkled her nose as I winked at her. “So just one guy?”
“One guy.”
“Wow. He must be extra important.” I leaned across the counter to steal a glimpse outside, but all I could see was the top of my mom’s head, golden hair swept up in a twist, which was a positive sign. If she was in a funk, she’d do the minimal amount of processing and be completely absent the entire time—if she even made it to dinner at all.
“He’s a youngish-looking fella. Maybe a little older than you. Handsome.”
Curiosity piqued, I started toward the patio before Marta’s sharp throat clearing called me back. She waved me over, and I approached warily, lifting a brow when she took my hand. A second later, she grabbed a brush from the drawer next to her. “Scrub that dirt from under your nails.”
“How can you even see it?”
“Just can.” She nudged me again. “Do it. You know how they are.”
“We’re building a patio at the house,” I explained. Sam’s idea, and a good one, I thought. The landlord had even approved it, and we’d spent all weekend working on it. I’d taken a shower before I’d come, but guess I hadn’t been thorough enough.
“Use gloves next time,” she said as I ran my hands under the sink and scrubbed my nails clean.
“Right, uh-huh.” I dried my hands off and stood still as Marta leaned back and gave me a narrow-eyed survey. When she signaled her approval with a short nod, I headed toward the patio.