Chapter 5 Lucy #2
“Wait.” I rest my elbows on the table. “Are you doing this so you don’t steal her thunder?”
“You’re making it sound more noble than it is.”
“That’s noble as hell, Marsh.”
“It’s also to get my family and hers off my back. Win-win,” he says. “So, we’ve been together for three months…do we live together?”
“Do you want to live together?” I ask, aware of how ridiculous it sounds.
Marsh thinks. “Maybe not, that one would be hard to explain to the family.”
“All right, we don’t live together,” I say. “Tell me about your family. Your friends.”
He pops a roll in his mouth. “I have an older brother, Oliver. He’s married to his high school girlfriend, Quinn.
They have a daughter, Sadie. He lives in the Bay Area, and my mom lives in Nebraska where I grew up.
” Marsh pauses to think. “I have friends from college who might be at the wedding…Peter, Felix, Jenn.” He nods like that’s all he can think of right now. “Your turn.”
“You already know I’m born and raised in Santa Clarita,” I start.
“I’m an only child. My group of girlfriends are either married, engaged, or have kids, so it’s a little hard to find time because of life.
The closest person to me right now is Jonah.
He’s a pop culture writer at The Rue. You’d love him. ”
We both stare at each other, smiling and in silence. There’s something oddly intimate about what we’re doing. We’re the only two people in the world who know about this little plan we have going on, and there’s something strangely comforting about that.
“Thoughts on kids?” he asks.
On dates, I hate this question. Because I’m usually the one who asks it. Depending on the person I’m with, their reaction goes one of two ways: utter bliss, or distaste.
“I don’t want kids,” I answer honestly. I say it more bluntly than I normally would, but I’m not trying to impress Marsh right now. “I’d love to have a dog, though. You?”
“I had a vasectomy,” he says.
That I was not expecting, but I don’t make a big deal out of it. We can get deeper into it one day, if ever, but sitting in the middle of a sushi restaurant is not the time or place.
“Who was the last person you dated?” I ask.
“Define dated.”
“Went on more than three dates with, but doesn’t necessarily mean you slept together.”
Marsh takes in a deep inhale and looks up. “Uh, two months ago. Someone from Hinge, she was a Pilates instructor.”
“Why didn’t it work out?”
“She was fun, but she was young,” he says. “She lived in Hollywood and wanted to go out all the time. Just a different kind of lifestyle.”
“As opposed to you who likes to sit at home all day with your pipe and crossword puzzles.”
“Don’t forget my robe and reruns of Matlock in the background,” he says. I let out a laugh, and I realize that not many people make me laugh as much as Marsh does. “What about you?” he asks. “Last person you dated?”
“Uh…” I think of Chris but don’t necessarily know if that qualifies.
“That many, huh?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “I just, uh, rarely make it to date three.”
“Why’s that?”
“I guess I’m picky?” I say, not even knowing if that’s really the answer. There’s a silence that’s a little longer than the normal breath of a conversation and I desperately wait for Marsh to say something.
“Fair enough.” He reaches for a spicy tuna roll.
“Favorite movie?” I change the subject.
“I stand by this when I say Back to the Future is the single best movie ever made. No notes.”
“Oh, obviously. Hot take, but I actually do love the third one.”
“That is a hot take.” Marsh points his chopsticks toward me. “I respect it.”
“My favorite is Singin’ in the Rain,” I say.
“I’ve never seen that movie.”
“Oh my god, Marsh. We have to watch it!” I grab his forearm across the table and then immediately let go.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He lets out a silent laugh.
My eyes widen. “I don’t think you understand how excited I am.”
“I think I’m getting an inkling.”
“And then you can help me choose an outfit for the wedding,” I say. “I’ll bring some options and you let me know what will make the best impression.”
“I don’t want to make her jealous,” Marsh replies, reminding me.
“We don’t have to make her jealous.”
He scoffs. “Well, it’s too late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“It would be hard for her not to be jealous seeing you,” he responds, clarifying.
I laugh. “I’m not going to sex it up and wear a revealing dress or anything.”
“Doesn’t matter, it’s just…you,” he says casually. I’ve been with many men and probably heard almost every line you can think of and there isn’t a word to describe the butterflies fluttering in my core right now. “But it’s fine. She’ll live.”
“Great,” I force out and take a sip of my soup. “We’ve got a foolproof plan.”
“Do we?” Marsh makes a face.
“Foolproof enough.”
“Okay, well now can we talk about literally anything else?” Marsh relaxes into his chair. “What are you working on?”
“ ‘The Dos and Don’ts of Deep-Throating.’ ”
“Jesus.” Marsh closes his eyes.
“You asked.” I pop a tempura roll into my mouth.
“What’s the verdict?”
“I haven’t started. I still need to do my research.” I notice how Marsh’s cheeks tinge pink. “Want to be a test subject?”
“Lucy…”
“I’m kidding!” I let out a laugh and find amusement teasing him.
“How do you even start your research process on that without…”
“Without giving twenty guys head?” I finish his sentence and he lifts a shoulder.
“So, most stories I write come from experience. If it’s something like the last story I did about actual recommendations, whether it be a person, place, or thing, I have to go through with the process.
For something like deep-throating, I go off my history but then also interview a bunch of women and men. ”
“Makes sense.”
“Since I have you—”
“No,” Marsh says almost immediately.
“Oh, come on,” I encourage him. “Why not?”
“Because it’s inappropriate? We’re co-workers—well, I’m actually far more senior than you—which means we definitely aren’t talking about blow-job preferences.”
“Okay, first of all”—I prop an elbow up on the table and point my chopsticks toward him—“I think we crossed the co-worker line when we agreed to pretend to date. And secondly, if we want anyone to believe we’re together, we need to stop thinking of each other like co-workers.”
“There needs to be a line,” Marsh demands.
This is a quality I appreciate in Marsh. Here I am pretty much saying that I don’t care about any boundaries between the two of us and he insists on respecting me.
“At work we are professional.” I put my fingers up in an air quote motion. “And outside of work, we think of each other like equals.”
The creases between Marsh’s brows deepen. He doesn’t say anything and takes a sip of his miso soup. When he places the tiny bowl down on the table, he finally makes eye contact.
“Fine.”
I smile. “So, what are you working on?”
“Uh.” He runs a hand through his thick hair. “There’s a political piece for tomorrow and then I’m doing a story on one of the South Central murders.”
He says it so casually. Like he’s reporting on the weather.