We race through the boring part: How are you? I don’t know, how are you? I miss you. I know. Are you dating anyone? None of your business.
Then he slows down. “What’s so important?”
“You know.” I pause. “Home. Only worse with Billy.” I never liked talking to Marcus about my family. For me, he was an escape from their all-consuming, ever-demanding love, from feeling like an insider and outsider at the same time. “Let’s talk about you, though. Your most recent text mentioned a first kiss.”
“Did I? I don’t remember. Was it good?”
“Meh,” I say, and we both laugh.
I knew Marcus for a long time before I really saw him. For years, he was another guy, someone’s husband, on the periphery. My feelings turned, of all places, in the celebration room, where Eleanor was hosting a black-tie event. The house was filled with men in tuxedos, and I was fifteen and feeling impossibly adult in a strapless dress and spiked heels. My hair was blown out, my lipstick cherry-red and sexy. Standing by the mantel, Marcus was dangling a drink between his fingers, and studying me with an amused expression. He was dark and rugged. Familiar but unthreatening.
“You look handsome.” I shivered at my boldness.
“You mean, for an old man?”
“You’re not old. Don’t say that.”
“I’m old enough to be your dad, Cassie.” His tone was firm, but playful, too.
It was after midnight, and everyone was drunk. No one noticed the way his eyes lingered on my breasts, his hand brushing mine as he topped off his whiskey. Later, he claimed he didn’t touch me on purpose, but when his fingertip trailed along my forearm, the jolt triggered some dormant need, and I was rocked off my feet. From then on, Marcus never stopped touching me. He could be two inches away or a mile across town, and I could feel his fingers trailing down my body, across my breasts, below my stomach and deep into the cavern between my legs.
A week later, Marcus was waiting outside school after classes. He didn’t call out to me, just waited until I spotted his face in the crowd. It was exciting to see him. It made me giddy, like he was a celebrity dropping into my boring world. He was wearing jeans and a windbreaker. “It’s fun to be in play clothes in the middle of the day,” he said. “Are you surprised to see me?”
“Who says ‘play clothes’ anymore?” I retorted, then cringed. Why couldn’t I just be nice?
“Old men,” he replied. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well,” I said, grateful he wasn’t offended. “You look great for an old man. And yes, I’m very surprised. Happily surprised. Very happily surprised.” We went for a walk in the park, two people enjoying the sunshine. We’re both voracious readers, so we talked about books: Song of Solomon, my favorite, and Catch-22, his. When he put his arm around my shoulders, I waited for his kiss. Instead, he brushed my hair with his lips. “I can’t have a physical relationship with you,” he told me.
“I wasn’t asking for one,” I said, taking umbrage. At the same time, I started aching for him.
“I’m just putting it out there. We can see each other as often as it makes sense, but we can’t touch each other.” He paused. “We’ll wait until you’re older. Seventeen.”
Seventeen? That was two years away. He had to be kidding, or in denial. As it turned out, we could barely wait six months. I was fifteen and a half when Marcus kissed me the first time.
“You kissed me,” he says now.
“Oh my God, I did not. You kissed me.”
Christ, that kiss. On the phone, Marcus walks me through the memory; the way he touched me, the way I touched him. He reels me in slowly, just a few details then a few details more.
Again, we go to the park, only it’s Riverside, on the west side across town. It’s chilly out, so no one’s here. Two ducks waddle by. Marcus and I sit on a bench. Tracing my skin with his finger, he says he’ll never understand why men hunt. “Look at those ducks. They’re harmless.”
I correct him. “Those are drakes,” I say. “They’re male.” I can see my breath as I speak. I’m shivering from the cold and from Marcus.
He asks how I know.
“They’re not wearing lipstick.”
Marcus cracks up. “You are so clever,” he tells me. “Such a clever, clever girl.” My body hums with desire.
“Remember the ducks?” His voice, his warmth spreads through me, floods me.
“They were drakes.” I am so desperate to feel his skin, taste his mouth, I claw at my sheets. I want to do everything all at once and savor every second.
On the bench, he leans forward. I close my eyes. He presses his mouth against mine. I feel myself falling. A trapdoor swings open.
I stroke myself while he talks. “I love you,” he says. He’s breathless too. “I love you, Cassie.” Losing myself in his voice, I brace my body for the rush, for the heat I can’t capture but then I can, then I can. It’s ecstasy, all of it. “Cassie, baby.”
“I love you, too,” I choke out, panting. “I love you forever, Marcus Silver.”
26
A FEW DAYS LATER, HAGGERTY SENDS A TEXT:
your Audi story isn’t true. There aren’t any records Billy never reported it, he didn’t want to get her in trouble You have an answer for everything
Apparently I need to
I know what Haggerty wants. I knew the minute I googled him. He’s not interested in Billy in any significant way. He wants to know about Marcus. The question isn’t why but why now? Why does it matter? Marcus and I broke up more than a year ago. Haggerty doesn’t know how old I was when we started having sex. Who cares?
For the record, I told the truth about Billy’s Audi; rather, I told Haggerty what I knew. Admittedly, I didn’t see it happen nor did I have many details. Lawrence called last December, a week before the holidays to make sure I was coming home. “Billy and Diana had a fight,” he said at one point. “Billy’s car is destroyed.”
“I told you Diana is nuts.” I felt vindicated. “Why isn’t she paying for it?”
“Eleanor just asked the same thing. I think she’s afraid to tell her father. Their financial situation isn’t great. That’s just speculation, though. Billy was vague about it.” He paused. “It was weird—the way your brother was protecting her. I didn’t think they were seeing each other anymore.”
“You should press charges. At least call the cops.”
“Billy doesn’t want to.”
The story I told Haggerty could’ve been true. I mean, why would Billy bust up his own car? I texted him, but he never replied. Nate claimed he had no idea. No one pressed charges. There were no witnesses. So, really, who’s to say the whole thing didn’t happen exactly the way I described it?
*
I dread going back to New York, even if is better for Billy. I hate when Lawrence and Eleanor drag me into the middle of their arguments. One of my worst memories is from when I was nine. It was Christmas morning, and everyone was in the celebration room, waiting for me. When I raced in, giddy and excited, Eleanor jumped up from the couch. “Cassandra!” she admonished me. “Put something on. You can’t come in here like that.”