Chapter 23 Marsh #2
But now, there’s an unfamiliar urgency to wrap by five p.m. Because whatever is going to be waiting for me after work can’t wait. I don’t want it to wait.
I put my phone notifications on Do Not Disturb and set an alarm for an hour and a half.
I end up getting through two stories: the one about the Los Angeles housing market and another one about the millions of gallons of untreated sewage and industrial chemicals flowing from Tijuana into southern San Diego County.
Something I’ve been doing lately is keeping a separate document on my laptop that holds alternate perspectives for each of my stories.
What angle would I approach if I wasn’t writing each story fairly and accurately?
If I wasn’t understanding an issue from multiple angles?
My bylines are not opinion-based, they are hard news.
There are guidelines that need to be protected and that is how I conduct my research and writing.
But when Lucy opened the idea of making note of how I feel, I took that and ran with it.
Of course, not in anything I’ve written for The Journal, but I’ve been making notes here and there of things I would want to say but can’t.
For example: Instead of saying, “Research suggests that even breathing the San Diego air may be harmful, as toxic particles in the water have the potential to become airborne,” I could say, “As if there wasn’t enough reason for people to be worried about the state of our future, an act as simple as breathing is now something we should all fear. ”
What I’ve found from this new document I’ve been nursing is that I quite enjoy the act of sharing my thoughts. It helps give new perspective to what I’m writing and allows me to have a connection to my stories instead of simply dissociating.
My eleven a.m. alarm alerts me that time is up, and I’m satisfied with how much progress I’ve made. I then notice a missed call from Oliver. I call him back, tapping my pen on the side of my mug until I hear his voice on the other end.
“Hey,” Oliver says.
“Hey, sorry, I was in the middle of a story. What’s up?”
“All good,” he says. “I just wanted to catch up since we haven’t talked since Sadie’s birthday.”
I figured as much, and I’m sure Oliver has many questions on his mind.
“Did Sadie have fun?”
“Oh, she loved it. She won’t stop asking us to get her a pig…”
“That’s what happens when you rent a petting zoo,” I warn.
“I think Quinn is seriously considering getting her a pig.”
“How much are pigs?” I turn to my monitor and ask Google the exact same question.
“That would be crazy, right?” he says. “If we got a pig?”
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not,” I say. “Oh my god, there’s a pig farm in SoCal that sells teacup pigs.” I start scrolling through the pictures of piglets that even I must admit are probably the cutest things I’ve ever seen.
“Send me the link,” Oliver says, defeated. “Anyway, Sadie couldn’t stop talking about Lucy…”
“Oh yeah?” I smile. My six-year-old niece’s opinion means more to me than it should. “What did she say?”
“Lucy was the only grown-up that actually played with her,” Oliver says like he’s reciting words verbatim.
“She’s great with kids, isn’t she?”
“Marsh, Lucy’s amazing,” Oliver says incredulously.
“Are you surprised?”
“No,” he says. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks. I mean, it’s not serious or anything,” I say, trying to remember that later this month I’m going to have to curate a fake breakup, so I don’t want Oliver getting too used to the idea of Lucy.
Or maybe that’s advice more so for myself.
“I know it’s early,” Oliver says. “But seriously, you two are good together.”
“You know who doesn’t feel that way? Mom.”
“I know,” Oliver says like he’s heard his own earful from her. “She’s just close with Julia.”
“It would be nice if she could take my side…her actual child.”
“Yeah, well, you know how Mom is.”
My mother gave Oliver and me everything she could in her power as we were growing up.
She’s objectively a successful woman with her own company.
She spends an obscene amount of money on monthly facials, possesses an elegant, classy style, and loves her sons dearly.
But she’s stubborn as hell. Once my mom has an opinion about something, it’s virtually impossible to change it.
To my mother, I wasted the best years of Julia’s life and tossed a bright, beautiful, caring woman by the wayside.
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“Hi.” Lucy greets me at her front door, her face lit up, with a pair of white jeans, a white T-shirt, and white toenails.
“Hey,” I say.
“Come in, come in.” She opens the door. “Shoes off.”
“I’m offended you think I’m someone that would walk into your apartment with my shoes on.” I look at her. “No shoes in the house and no outdoor clothes on the bed are my two solid rules.”
Lucy’s apartment feels like her personified.
Within her walls sits a beautifully modern space with a cottage-like aesthetic.
She has a giant jute-textured rug sitting underneath a white cloud couch.
There’s a vase of flowers sitting on top of her dining table, and her kitchen with marble countertops looks clean and crisp.
“Your place is beautiful,” I say.
“Thanks.” She puts her hands in her back pockets and looks around. “It’s overpriced, but I love it so much. Another reason why keeping my job is essential,” she says with a laugh.
We stare at each other in a somewhat awkward silence before we walk toward each other.
Slowly, she takes her hands out of her pockets and reaches them around my neck.
My hands go to her hips, and we kiss. It’s nothing crazy or passionate; it’s soft and gentle. Almost as if to say I missed you today.
Walking places isn’t exactly normal for Los Angeles.
Thankfully, Lucy lives in a pretty central part of West Hollywood, so we end up walking down the street to grab Mexican food for a night in.
One of the best things about living in LA is the food scene.
From food trucks to brick-and-mortar restaurants, I know I will never be disappointed when craving zingy and citrusy birria tacos.
But once we take a seat to wait for our order, she jerks her body and drops her head.
“Shit,” she whispers.
I frown. “What?”
“Don’t look,” she says.
“Don’t look at what?”
She briefly lifts her eyes, and I can tell she instantly regrets it.
“Lucy?” a voice behind me says. I turn around and see a man maybe around my age wearing sweatpants and a tank top. Assumingly going or coming from the gym.
“Hey…” Lucy says slowly, like every part of her is deteriorating as each moment passes. Something tells me she’s not necessarily upset to see him, she just wishes I wasn’t here at the same time.
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Fine,” she says.
They’re clearly comfortable enough that she’s not standing up to say hello. There’s no Hey! How’s it going? Long time no see! This is a conversation, if you can even call it that, between two people who are very familiar with each other.
“Uh.” I clear my throat and look up at the guy. “Hi.”
He pulls his gaze from Lucy to me and blinks. “Hi?”
“I’m Marsh.” I offer him my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
The guy looks at my hand and then back up at me, confused. “Chris…” He hesitantly shakes it.
Chris…that name sounds familiar. Then I remember the text message I saw on Lucy’s phone when she was over at my house. This must be the same guy.
“Marsh, Chris is an old friend,” Lucy says.
“Oh, is that what I am?” Chris asks, a bite of bitter amusement to his voice.
“Chris…” Lucy warns.
“No, no, I want to know. Is that all I am? Just an old friend?”
I suddenly feel like I’m in an outdated high school scene from some 2000s movie. Come to think of it, this guy does look like someone who could be an extra in a 2000s movie.
“Chris, don’t do this right now,” Lucy hisses.
“Afraid I’m going to spoil your Bumble date?” Chris says.
“You should go,” Lucy tells him. “Or just order your food and please leave us alone.”
“I don’t get it. You want me, you don’t want me…Now you’re here with some—”
“She said please,” I interrupt him.
Chris looks at me. “Excuse me?”
“Lucy politely asked you to leave us alone,” I say. “Don’t make her ask twice, man.”
Chris takes a step back, almost shocked that I said anything at all.
“Yeah, fine,” he says and then turns his back to Lucy and just faces me. “Just warning you, you have no idea who you’re dealing with over there. She’s fucking crazy. She doesn’t know what she wants—”
“Chris!” Lucy gapes.
“You think you’re the only guy she’s talking to? This girl’s got a fucking Rolodex of names. She’s got commitment issues. Save yourself.”
I stand up so I’m eye-to-eye with Chris. I mentally make note of how big he is, and I have a few inches on him. Even though he’s no doubt muscular, I’m not worried if one thing leads to another.
“If I were you—” I start.
“Marsh, it’s fine.” Lucy stands up.
“I’d just go,” I say. “Nobody wants to see me punch you right now, which I would more than enjoy doing if you don’t back the fuck off.”
Chris just sneers at me and then looks at Lucy. “Congrats on manipulating another one, Reid. Can’t wait to read all about it.” He then switches back to me. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, man.”
With that, Chris walks out.