Chapter 18 SIOBHAN
Chapter 18
S IOBHAN
Try as she might, it just wasn’t humanly possible for her to concentrate that morning. Every time she thought of Marcel’s caress, the heat she had felt the night before spilled through her body like liquid asphalt. It had been special. Intense. So special and intense that she was convinced it had meant something. But when the last notes of “Summertime” faded, he had pulled away from her abruptly, and the feeling vanished. And now, all she wanted to do was dissect the before and after of that moment. Then there was the fact that Marcel had opened the door in his workout clothes—heavens alive, those running tights accentuated his muscular thighs, quite the sight for sore eyes—and soaked in sweat because he had inexplicably woken later than usual, and his morning exercise routine had been delayed. And finally, she couldn’t help but think about the fact that while she was preparing the coffee, he was in the shower. Naked. Wet. With water cascading over his dark skin.
The imagination is a double-edged sword.
Later on, her conversation with Paige and Lena on the group chat only made things worse.
Paige
I’m NEVER sleeping with another man again. I am officially going into SEXILE.
Shiv
What happened?
Paige
The guy I was with last night let out an almighty fart right in the act.
A FART.
I’m traumatized.
Shiv
I don’t believe it!
Lena
I could believe anything of a white cis hetero man.
I hope at least it was discreet.
Paige
About as discreet as a pipe bursting in the middle of the night.
For a moment I thought he had shat the bed.
Lena
Too much information.
Shiv
Gross!
Lena
Tell me he apologized.
Paige
Negative.
He started laughing with his prick still inside me and said they were OCCUPATIONAL GASES.
The brute didn’t even seem embarrassed.
Shiv
NOOOOO!
Lena
So not only did the guy have dodgy pipework, he was a comedian as well. My god, Paige, you’re onto a WINNER there.
Paige
I know, OK? I’m a frickin’ weirdo-magnet.
Anyway, Shiv. Are you 100% sure your friend Alex is gay?
Because he couldn’t stop looking at my tits.
Lena
Alex? Who’s Alex? Have I missed something?
Paige
So, last night I bumped into Shiv at Grimaldi’s. She was with two guys, Alex and Michael, supposedly a gay couple. And I say supposedly because I got the impression they were both MEGA-HETERO. Alex was charming, the kind of guy who’s all smiles. As for Michael ... well, I admit he’s hot, but he’s also SUPER-RUDE.
Shiv
He isn’t all that rude. He’s just ... a bit tricky to handle.
Paige
Tricky verging on impossible.
Lena
And how do you know them, Shiv?
Paige
Alex is a literary agent. The other ... I suppose he comes as part of the package. If they are actually a couple, that is.
Lena
Wait. Wasn’t Marcel Black’s agent named Alex?
Shit.
At that point, Siobhan dropped out of the conversation. Lena was the most intuitive of the three; Siobhan should have known Lena would figure it out right away.
This was another factor adding to the constant hum in her poor tormented head.
A couple of hours later, as her fingers were drifting erratically over the keyboard, she pressed the M key— M for Marcel, what a coincidence—and held her finger down until a line of M s appeared on the computer screen. Before that she had made and unmade a ponytail, tidied her side of the desk, emptied half a pack of Jelly Bellies into her mouth, stretched her arms over her head, and yawned at regular intervals.
It’s a well-known fact that boredom changes the way we perceive space and time.
Marcel sighed heavily.
“You’re making me anxious. Don’t you have anything better to do? Like work or something?”
“Sorry. I don’t know what’s up with me today.” She did know. “I can’t concentrate. The words aren’t flowing. I don’t even feel like writing.”
“Yeah. Me neither,” he admitted, taking off his glasses and placing them on the desk.
Maybe he had the same image burned on his retinas, of the two of them in that magical and perfect moment under a streetlight, with the East River in the background. Maybe the sensuality of the sax was still ringing in his ears. And maybe he regretted having jumped into a taxi instead of staying with her.
Too many maybes and not a sure thing in sight.
“Why don’t we take the day off?” suggested Siobhan.
“Okay,” he agreed, massaging the bridge of his nose with an absent expression. “Go home and come back tomorrow with your batteries recharged.”
“Actually ...” She paused and bit her lip. “I was thinking we could do something together.”
“You and I?”
“Yes, you and I. Perhaps we could ... I don’t know ... go to the beach?”
Marcel looked at her as though she were an alien.
“You’re kidding, right? The beach? In this heat?” He gestured toward the window.
“Come on, don’t be a wet blanket. We haven’t stopped for a month and a half. Don’t you think we deserve at least one day of rest?”
“Well, yes, but ... why the beach? It’s mid-August. Everyone’ll be packed in like sardines,” he said. “If you want to see me in my swimsuit, I’ll get changed right now. It’s no problem.”
Siobhan half closed her eyes and sighed.
“My god, you’re conceited, Mr. Black. I just want to see the sea, that’s all. Feel the sand between my toes and the sun on my skin. Come on, do it for me.” She pouted and fluttered her lashes in an attempt to appear irresistible. “Please?”
Marcel tutted, notably irritated.
“How is it that you always get your way? Fine, we’ll go to the lousy beach,” he said, sighing with resignation.
Yes! She had won.
They arrived at Coney Island at midday. Marcel had spent the twenty-nine stops between Seventy-Second and Ocean Parkway, at the end of the Q line, complaining as usual:
“A rickshaw would have been more comfortable ... I don’t like the New York subway, you know? There are rats everywhere ... Do you have a wet wipe? I hate sitting in someone else’s ass sweat.”
It was the price she had to pay to satisfy her desires.
The sun fell heavily on the peninsula south of Brooklyn. As expected, the beach was mobbed. The broad strip of sand was speckled with colorful umbrellas and towels from the boardwalk to the water’s edge, and the music from each outlet vied for dominance. The first song that reached Siobhan’s ears was “Shape of You,” by Ed Sheeran, which a few seconds later merged into “24K Magic,” by Bruno Mars. Generally, the kind of people who visited Coney Island in mid-August were New York families, although that day there were also groups of boys playing Frisbee and girls taking selfies. And, of course, a bunch of tourists. A light aircraft flew overhead trailing a long Budweiser advertising banner.
Siobhan took out her cat-eye sunglasses from her purse and put them on.
“Let’s go?”
“Where?”
“To see the sea up close.”
Marcel pulled down his dark cap and folded his arms across his chest like a petulant child. His disgust was palpable.
“I can see it perfectly well from here, thank you. And I’m pretty sure there are sharks.”
“But you’re from Louisiana.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Are you shitting me? Everyone knows that folks from Louisiana have gators on their porches.”
“Yes, of course. And we eat them at Thanksgiving because the meat tastes better than turkey.”
Siobhan laughed. Then she grabbed Marcel by the elbow, and he allowed himself to be pulled along, against his better judgment. They dodged a group of inline skaters, the wooden walkway vibrating beneath their wheels. They went down the stairs onto the sand and wove their way through the beach umbrellas and deck chairs. A foot here, another there, step to the left, step to the right; it was like playing Twister. The place stank of sunscreen. Three seagulls were perched on the lifeguard station. The waves rolled in constant low ripples. At the water’s edge, Siobhan took off her sandals and let the Atlantic lick her feet. A sense of well-being flooded over her right away. The scent of the sea reminded her of the happiest times of her childhood. Marcel took off his shoes as well.
“Isn’t it amazing?” she asked, her gaze fixed on the horizon.
“What, that a crummy beach like this is jam-packed with people? Oh yeah, amazing.”
“I mean this,” she gestured toward the ocean. The blue sky met the sea in a perfect line in the distance. “I don’t know what it is, but watching it makes me feel like I’m in harmony with the world. I remember when Robin and I were little, and my dad taught us to fish.”
“There are studies showing the neurological benefits of the sea. Just being near water reduces stress and improves mental clarity. It releases endorphins. It’s a natural painkiller.”
“See? It was a good idea to come here,” she said and then splashed water over Marcel with her foot.
“Did you just splash me?” he said, fixing her with a glare of feigned indignation. “Did you seriously dare to splash me?”
She splashed him again in reply.
“Are you ...? You want war, huh, princess? Very well, I’ll give you war.”
He crouched, grabbed a fistful of sand and lobbed it at her knees, just below her denim shorts, with a speed she didn’t see coming.
“Hey, New Orleans! That was uncalled for. Pearl Harbor fell after much less. Take this!”
No sooner said than done. Her revenge was a huge ball of sloppy sand that landed right in the middle of Marcel’s thin T-shirt. From his crazed expression, Siobhan knew she should run. But he was faster. When he caught her, he trapped her in his arms and smeared her with sand. They started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Marcel was charming when he laughed: he threw his head back and revealed those marble-white teeth. It was a spontaneous and genuine gesture, which spread right across his face. The unthinkable had occurred: they were having fun together. Laughing! Who would have thought it would feel so good. The hum of the waves increased in intensity, decreased, increased again. The laughter gradually petered out, although they remained tangled together. Siobhan stretched out her hand to touch the point, just below his Adam’s apple, where the sand had dried to form a small crust. She used her thumb to brush it off and then, on an impulse, slid her thumb down and hooked it over the neck of his T-shirt. His skin was such a beautiful color she would have liked to tell him so, but it would have been inappropriate. Marcel’s intense gaze roamed to her eyes. Then, to that rebellious strand of hair across her face. And finally, to her lips. An electric current flowed between them. The fire she had seen in him the night before returned, glowing behind his jet-black eyes.
“You’re going to burn,” he warned her, with that hoarse voice that came out in intimate moments, emphasizing the natural musicality of his accent.
“I don’t care,” replied Siobhan, almost without thinking.
Marcel gave a lazy smile.
“I doubt those lily-white shoulders of yours would agree. Come on, let’s find a bit of shade. I’ll treat you to an ice cream.”
Siobhan let out her breath very slowly, trying to release the tension in her ribs. She wanted to beat her head against a wall.
“I’m not five years old,” she protested. “But then, if they have mint chocolate chip ...”
They went to Nathan’s—you don’t go to Coney Island without visiting the legendary Nathan’s. They ordered sodas and hot dogs, which they devoured under the capacious parasol at one of the tables on the boardwalk, with the emblematic Ferris wheel and the Cyclone, the mother of all roller coasters, forming the backdrop. At that time of day, the attractions were closed, but later, when the last rays of sun had dissipated and the horizon had adopted an orangey hue, the place would erupt in an explosion of noise, neon lights, and glittering bulbs.
“Well, well, well. Do you realize that’s two days in a row you’ve forced me to come to Brooklyn? I assume you’ve thought of a way to make it up to me,” remarked Marcel, before sinking his teeth into his hot dog.
“Now that you mention it, I don’t recall having put a knife to your throat at any point. Could it be that you enjoy my company?”
“When you’re being quiet.”
“Ha! You’re lucky the ketchup dispenser is four tables away,” Siobhan said and stuck out her tongue.
Marcel’s lips tightened into a sarcastic grin. As he took a drink, she was spellbound by the way his cheeks sunk in as he sucked the liquid through the straw.
My god, he’s so ridiculously hot in every way. It’s so unfair.
An ice cream and an espresso later, they were still sitting in the same spot. Neither of them seemed to have any intention of moving. The sea breeze, the sun’s caress, and their full stomachs kept them rooted to the spot.
Siobhan pushed her sunglasses onto the top of her head and rested her cheek in her palm.
“Tell me something about yourself that I don’t know,” she asked him.
“You already know lots about me. More than most.”
“That’s because you live like you’re a double agent in The Americans .”
“To control the narrative.”
“Come on, don’t play hard to get,” she pressed him, flapping her hand impatiently.
“All right.” He interlaced his hands on the table. “But you have to do the same for me.”
“All right. I’ll start. Let’s see, I went to NYU. Where did you go to college? In New Orleans, I expect, so Loyola or Tulane?”
“I didn’t go to college. Everything I know about literature I learned on my own. I’m 100 percent self-taught.”
Fascinating.
“A self-made man, and a talented one at that.”
“Talent is all well and good, but it’s no use without determination and hard work. If there’s one thing you need to be successful as a writer, it’s resilience. Always remember that, Miss Harris. Come on, next question.”
“Okay. What was the last book you read?”
A mischievous smile played at the corners of his mouth. He raised a hand to his lips as though about to unveil a secret and leaned forward with an air of mystery.
“You know which one,” he whispered.
Siobhan’s mouth dropped open.
“You mean the one I found hidden in the sofa, which you denied having bought because you were ashamed to admit you could read a romance novel without dying in the attempt?”
“Mm-hmm. It’s possible we’re talking about the same book. Do you want to know whether I liked it?”
“And see you take pleasure in destroying my self-esteem? I’d rather commit hara-kiri.”
Marcel shook his head.
“If you’re going to let just anyone destroy your self-esteem, you’d better find another line of work. We don’t write for people to like us, but to find meaning in what we don’t understand.” He scrutinized her with a stern expression, allowing her to take in his words. It wasn’t a platitude or a reprimand. It was important. “And for your information, I think you have what it takes to be a writer.”
“Wait. Can you repeat that last bit?”
“In your dreams. And now it’s my turn to ask. Do you sing in the shower?”
“What kind of a question is that? Everyone sings in the shower.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, what a surprise. Given how jovial and joyous you are.”
“ Jovial and joyous are synonyms.” Siobhan rolled her eyes. “Have you already forgotten our lesson from that first day? Economy of language, honey.” The prick of annoyance she felt turned into something else when she noticed how naturally he had called her honey . “All right, next. The movie you’ve seen the most times?”
“ When Harry Met Sally . And before it occurs to you to ask, no, I’m not going to emulate Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in Katz’s.” Marcel’s face seemed to say, What a pity. “Favorite food? Let me guess. Filet mignon or Iranian caviar.”
“Almost. Jambalaya.”
“That’s a Cajun dish, right?”
“Wrong. It isn’t just any Cajun dish, it’s the Cajun dish.”
“I’ve never been to New Orleans. What’s it like?”
“Well ...,” he began. He took off his cap and played with it. “I’d say it’s almost too intense. A mix of whites, Blacks, immigrants, Cajuns, and Creoles. A chaotic city, where great poverty exists alongside great wealth, sometimes on the same street. Ideal for drunks and dreamers who don’t wake up before noon.”
“Sounds good. Particularly the sleeping until noon. Any secret hobbies?”
“I like to sit in the hall of Grand Central Terminal, watching people and imagining their lives. It’s one of my favorite places in New York. What’s yours?”
“My favorite place?” She pushed her hair behind her ear as she pondered her reply. “The skating rink at Rockefeller Center at Christmas.”
Marcel snorted involuntarily.
“I might have known.”
“Are you judging me?”
“Ha! God forbid,” he said, raising his hands in defense. “What would be your perfect day?”
“One spent with my nearest and dearest. And you?”
“One spent writing.”
“Is there really nothing you like more than writing?”
“Of course not,” he replied, as though it was obvious. “Not even sex. I mean, sex is very good, but writing is much more personal. Speaking of sex, what’s the strangest place you’ve ever done it?”
Siobhan blushed. She could feel a blaze of shame furling over her neck and shoulders. Unable to meet his eyes, she averted her gaze.
“Well ... um ... in the back row on a Greyhound bus to Philadelphia.”
Marcel’s eyebrows shot up.
“Seriously?” He seemed genuinely surprised, and Siobhan couldn’t help but feel offended by his reaction. What did he take her for? A prude? Just because she didn’t sleep with the first man she met in the street didn’t mean she was incapable of enjoying sex and being a bit daring. “Whoa, princess. Who was the lucky man? A college fling?”
“I don’t ... I don’t have flings. It was Buckley, my ex. His family lives in Philly.” She cleared her throat. “But that was a long time ago, when we first started dating.”
Silence.
“Do you still think about him?”
Good question. Siobhan suddenly realized she couldn’t remember the last time Buckley had crossed her mind. She also realized that the only man occupying her thoughts for more than two months had been Marcel.
Day and night.
A casual attraction had turned into an intense and unbearably dangerous sensation that made her skin bristle. And it wasn’t just physical. Every conversation with him revealed something new that made her like him more.
Much more.
So she said:
“All the time.”
And she wasn’t talking about her ex.
“It’s terribly cruel when someone you love hurts you, and yet your feelings don’t just fade,” he replied. He sniffed and averted his gaze, his eyes narrowed, as though the glare of the sun was bothering him. Or perhaps something else was bothering him. “That’s why I’d rather be alone, to avoid the distress.”
“Well, I think solitude is unnatural. Everyone needs to love and be loved.”
“My god, who still says horseshit like that? Love is nothing like the idealized vision you have in your head. It isn’t something shiny and perfect that makes you recite Shakespeare sonnets in a field of lavender under a rainbow. Love upsets the balance and causes infernal pain.” He looked at her disapprovingly. “As if there could ever be a happy ending in real life. It never happens.”
Another silence, this time rather more tense.
She would have loved to stop to analyze him and search for clues about his personality and his past in each comment.
But she was becoming far too interested in this man.
“Are you speaking from experience?”
Marcel ran a hand over his face, exasperated.
“I’m not interested in relationships lasting longer than a night. I only take calculated risks.”
“You’re assuming that feelings can be controlled. They can’t. They just emerge, and that’s that. Sometimes you know it’s going to fail, and you rush into it regardless. Have you never been in love, Marcel?”
“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, cutting her off and gesticulating wildly. “What kind of man talks about these things? What’s next? Making s’mores and braiding our hair? I’ll pass.”
“You don’t need to get all defensive. I’m just asking because sometimes you seem a bit resentful, that’s all.”
“All right, whatever. Can we change the subject, please?”
Siobhan nodded, and Marcel relaxed. The nerves settled, and the conversation continued to flow like before.
At least, until Siobhan asked:
“What are your parents’ names?”
She found it strange to think of Marcel having a family and reconciling the idea that, before becoming a tall, antisocial cynic who didn’t believe in happy endings, he was probably an adorable child. Not for the first time since she had met him, Siobhan considered how little they had spoken about his private life.
“Father. No mother. His name is Bernard. He lives in New Orleans with my sister, Charmaine.” He swallowed and added: “He’s been fighting Alzheimer’s for a while now. She takes care of him.”
Siobhan felt a lump form in her throat.
“I’m really sorry. I had no idea. That must be terrible.”
“I haven’t been to see them for a year. The last time ...” He blinked. “See, my dad isn’t in his right mind, and he does stuff that ... Chaz refuses to place him in memory care. And I refuse to return to New Orleans while that man is still at home.”
And in that fraction of a second, she saw it all clearly.
This was one hell of a revelation: Marcel Dupont was a human being who felt pain, sadness, confusion, and loneliness.
They looked at each other for a long time, without blinking. An invisible thread stretched from her eyes to his, and she felt as though electricity was crackling along that thread.
Suddenly, a voice broke the magic.
“Excuse me, are you Siobhan Harris?”
When she turned around, a group of teenage girls was surrounding the table.
“Um . . . yes.”
The girls squealed. Siobhan and Marcel exchanged a sly glance.
“We’ve been watching you for a while, and we weren’t sure if it was really you, but your face is, like, unmistakable,” claimed the girl who seemed to be the leader of the group. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. You’re so much prettier in real life!”
“Thanks?”
Marcel frowned and lowered his head to hide his suppressed laughter.
Another girl said:
“We’re superfans!”
And another:
“Yeah, With Fate on Our Side is our favorite book.”
“Can we take a photo with you? Please, please, please?”
“Of course. Would you mind, Marcel?”
“No problem.”
The girls posed next to Siobhan, making peace signs with their fingers. Click, click. Then they swarmed around her, flushed with excitement, and barraged her with questions. Siobhan started to feel rather uncomfortable and exposed, but she didn’t know how to deal with the situation without being rude.
And being rude to those girls was the last thing she wanted to do.
Luckily, Marcel knew what to do.
“Darling, didn’t you want to take a walk before we go home?”
It worked.
Perhaps the odious Mr. Black had more social skills than she’d thought.
And he had called her darling .
“Wow ... That was ... I don’t know what to say. Do you realize those girls just recognized me? It’s amazing!” she said once they were alone. “I felt a bit, I don’t know, like Kim Kardashian,” she continued. “Although I don’t have her ass.”
“I said you’d go far, and I wasn’t wrong. As for the ass ... Well, it’s a matter of perspective.”
“Sure. Well, thanks for rescuing me.”
“Anytime.”
Marcel gave her a warm, slow smile. Siobhan felt so absurdly happy just then that she would have liked to capture the moment in her hands and lock it in a safe so she would never lose it.
Then a notification sounded on her phone. What she saw made her go pale. She covered her mouth with her hand, knowing that her happiness was going to be short-lived.