Chapter 2 Marsh #2
“I’m a writer,” she clarifies and I wonder if she writes for The Journal or if this is a surprising coincidence. “One of my stories is about finding a date organically, and what’s more organic than meeting someone at a bar?”
“A grocery store?” I offer. “A dog park? Through a fri—”
“Okay, smart-ass.” She places the record in her hand back on the shelf. “I didn’t say a bar was my only option.”
“What does your research entail?” I ask, perpetually curious about other writers’ processes. “Do you wait for someone to pick you up or do you go around eavesdropping?”
“Maybe I’m the one picking someone up.” She shrugs.
“So that’s what this is.” I cross my arms and lean against the wooden shelf next to us. “Asking about Michael Jackson is a foolproof pickup line if you ask me.”
“So, what do you do?” Lucy crosses her arms, mirroring my pose against the shelf.
Out of my control, Lucy’s movement causes my gaze to quickly move down to a flash of skin. While it was barely a fraction of a second, I notice a display of cleavage under her tank top that I wish I didn’t see.
I look away as fast as I can. “Uh, I’m also a writer. Sort of in between jobs right now.”
“A fancy way to say unemployed,” she says.
“Ouch.”
Lucy tries her best to conceal a smile. “I’m kidding! What do you write?”
“I’m actually trying to do this thing where I don’t talk about work all the time.”
“Oh, you’re a workaholic,” Lucy says like she’s psychoanalyzing me.
“When you say it like that, it sounds like a bad thing.”
“Marsh, you’re talking to someone who is at a bar on a Friday night and whose instinct is to do research.”
“Touché,” I say with a laugh. This conversation is going well.
It’s one of the few conversations I’ve had lately that doesn’t revolve around current events making headlines.
Maybe that’s a good sign. There’s a moment of silence between us as the bass of the music pulses under my feet.
Lucy’s beautiful. There’s no denying that.
She has the kind of beauty that’s completely natural.
Like she belongs in an early ’90s movie.
Shockingly, her looks are only 20 percent of the reason why I want to keep talking to her.
There’s an infectious energy to Lucy. She’s quick and seems engaged with whatever I have to say.
“I was thinking of getting another drink.” I hold up my borderline empty beer bottle. “Can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, why not?” She grins. “Are you sure you can afford it? You know, without a job and all?”
“You’re funny.” I roll my eyes and lead the way through the crowd of people. I wave down a bartender and hold up my drink. “Another beer, and…” I look at Lucy.
“Martini,” she says, and our gazes stay on each other a moment longer than they should. “Extra dirty.”
I turn back to the bartender. “And a martini, extra dirty please.”
“I don’t have cash on me,” Lucy says when I turn with both our drinks in hand.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Next time it’s on me.” She takes her drink and pops an olive into her mouth.
“That’s not necessary,” I reiterate, because I already know there won’t be a next time. I’ve never seen this woman before, and I doubt I will after tonight.
We walk toward the corner of the bar where we surprisingly find a vacant tabletop. When we take our seats, I notice that Lucy smells like some kind of berry.
“So, what’s your deal, Marsh?” Lucy leans back in her chair, eyeing me from head to toe. I actively try to think of what I’m wearing without glancing down at myself. Jeans, sneakers, and a feathered white T-shirt. I guess that feels okay.
“My deal?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she says, another one of those smiles sweeping across her face.
There’s a wicked twinkle in her eye like we’re about to play a round of truth or dare and she’s the one who’s going to be asking the questions.
“You know, hometown, mother’s maiden name, social security number, your biggest fear, your hopes and dreams.”
“You really are a journalist,” I say.
“And you’re really secretive,” she says, amused.
“How about I give you three questions?”
“I’ll take what I can get,” she obliges. “Where did you grow up?”
“Born in Nebraska,” I say. “But we moved to the Bay Area when I was in high school.”
“I don’t think I’ve met anyone from Nebraska?” Lucy looks up in the distance like she’s trying to recall all the people she’s ever met in her lifetime.
“I’m happy to set the bar.” I take a sip of my beer.
She raises an eyebrow. “What was your first paid writing gig?”
“You know, I don’t think anyone’s asked me that before,” I say, surprised at how a simple question to me tells me so much about her.
There’s something about Lucy I can’t quite put my finger on.
There’s an ease and a playful banter we have going.
Lucy’s not dumbing herself down for the sake of a laugh; she’s being what I assume is authentically herself.
Although our encounter has been short, I recognize that Lucy’s time is valuable and however she chooses to spend it gets her undivided attention.
“When I was a freshman in high school, seniors would pay me to write their papers,” I admit, pretty sure I’ve never told anyone else that. “English and history were my specialties.”
“Marsh!” Lucy’s eyes widen. “That’s cheating!”
“I wasn’t cheating,” I correct her. “The football team was.”
“The perfect way to start a career in journalism,” she says.
“Ten bucks was ten bucks.” I shrug.
“That’s crazy.” She laughs, and I’m wondering for the first time in my life if I’m funny. “Was not expecting that answer.”
“Choose your last question wisely,” I warn.
Lucy runs a hand through her hair. For a moment the nape of her neck is exposed, and my eyes are drawn to every part of her skin like a moth to a flame. “Favorite sex position?”
I almost spit up my beer. My eyes shoot up to Lucy’s to make sure I didn’t mishear her—I didn’t—or that she wasn’t joking—she’s not. “Excuse me?”
“I’m a sex writer,” she says. “I’m not asking in a creepy way. It’s actually one of my favorite questions to ask people. It reveals a lot about their personalities.”
“I don’t doubt it.” I let out a scoff. “But some of us like to keep things sacred.”
“I see.” She takes another sip of her martini.
“Don’t do that.” I give her a pointed look.
“Do what?” she says innocently.
“You’re taking my refusal to engage in this topic as an answer in itself.”
“So what if I am?”
“Lucy, I could tell you what I like”—my voice lowers as I lean in closer, ensuring nobody hears us—“but where’s the fun in that?”
Lucy’s gaze meets mine and there’s a moment of mutuality, an unspoken respect that we have for each other.
“Touché.” She tips her glass, and I settle back in my seat.
“So, does this mean I get three questions now?” I ask.
“It’s only fair,” she says.
There are a million things I could ask Lucy. What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Why are you talking to me when there are far more interesting people at this bar? Are you dating anyone? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? All questions that I will absolutely not be asking. Now or ever.
“Where did you grow up?” I realize my lack of creativity, but it’s a question I want to know the answer to.
“Santa Clarita,” she answers. “Moved to LA during college, and yes, I’m aware non-transplants are a rare breed.”
I want to tell her that I think she’s a rare breed, not the fact that she’s not a transplant, but I obviously don’t.
“It’s a Sunday.” I start to paint a picture. “You don’t have a deadline, no errands to run, not a care in the world…How do you spend your day?”
“Ooh, that’s a good question.” She bites her glossed lip. “I would probably go to a boxing class, grab a smoothie or takeout from one of my favorite spots, and then spend the rest of the day binge-watching true crime documentaries.”
“You box?” My eyebrows lift. This woman continues to surprise me by the second. Every detail of her life I’m finding fascinating.
“I do,” she says. “Do you?”
“I actually used to,” I say. “I loved it.”
“Why’d you stop?” she asks.
“Not by choice,” I explain. “Work is always unpredictable and it’s tough committing to any classes. I just usually run or work out at home whenever I can.”
She flips her dark hair over her shoulder. “Well, if you ever want to take it up, let me know.”
“Oh yeah? You’d spar with me?”
“Hell yeah. And I don’t care if you’re twice my size, Marsh. I’ll still kick your ass.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I say, and we do that thing again where our gazes linger on each other for a moment longer than is natural. “What made you decide to write about sex?” I ask my final question.
“Because I love sex,” she says, and there’s honesty to her answer. “Sex is like math. It’s the same in every language.”
I let out a laugh. “I’ve never thought about it like that. Have you always had this perspective?”
“It’s something I grew to understand the more I wrote about it,” Lucy says. “One of my first articles was a one-off story in the college paper that ultimately became my niche.”
“What was the article?” I ask.
“It truly is the most uninspired title.” She rolls her eyes, almost embarrassed.
“It was ‘What Your Online Dating Profile Really Says About You.’ It turned into this viral manual. Students used it as their bible to navigate Tinder at the time, and they wanted more. So, when the paper offered me a weekly column to talk about dating advice, I obviously jumped at the opportunity.”
“Makes sense,” I say.
“I’m good at it, and I love writing about sex, but…” It doesn’t seem that Lucy is struggling with her answer. She knows exactly what she wants to say, she’s just not sure if I’m the person she wants to tell it to.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say gently. “For what it’s worth, I admire what you do.”
She narrows her eyes at me, almost offended. “I think that’s pretty bold of you to say.”
“I’m not patronizing you.”
“Then say more.” She cocks her head and I’m starting to believe this isn’t the first time a man has made this remark to her. “How do you admire what I do?”