Chapter 20 SIOBHAN
Chapter 20
S IOBHAN
It was ten o’clock by the time Siobhan fell into bed in her tiny apartment. She felt slightly dizzy. Maybe the two craft beers she’d had at Brooklyn’s open-air food market, Smorgasburg, hadn’t agreed with her. Or maybe her head was just spinning from trying to make sense of the day.
I knew it would be a mistake to get involved with someone like you.
Those words echoed loudly in her ears. She pictured Marcel under the huge parasol at Coney Island, glowering down at her contemptuously. She hated feeling so small. She hated being blamed for what had happened. And she hated the fact that things had gone sour between them after the wonderful day they had spent together. That infernal Twitter photo had ruined everything.
She’d summoned Paige and Lena, and they’d met up at East River State Park. Dozens of wooden tables were packed with hipsters digging into ramen burgers, spaghetti donuts, and truffle fries and posting their #foodporn experiences on Instagram. She told her friends everything.
“So ... it’s really him? Marcel Black?” Paige asked.
Siobhan nodded slowly.
“I knew it! I knew that guy wasn’t gay! And to be honest, he didn’t look like a Michael either,” she added, dipping a tortilla chip into organic guacamole.
“Yeah, maybe I ... lied to you a bit. And maybe I kind of ... like him. A lot.”
She nearly choked on her own tongue admitting it.
Lena’s eyes widened, and she held out her hands as if she didn’t understand.
“What? You’re kidding, right? What kind of person is attracted to someone who goes through life brandishing a nail-studded baseball bat? Hooking up with him would be like going to the dark side. Are you Kylo Ren? No, you are not Kylo Ren.”
“Hot but stupid. What a pity. Guys like Marcel What’s-his-name are a double-edged sword,” agreed Paige.
“Dupont. His name is Marcel Dupont, and he’s from New Orleans.” When Siobhan realized she had probably said too much, she lowered her voice. “I don’t need to remind you that if either of you gets loose-tongued, his lawyers will turn me to pulp, right?”
Paige snorted.
“I prefer to use my tongue for more interesting things, thanks,” she replied, appearing offended that her friend might even consider the possibility.
“Just in case. As for the other ... Well, I admit that 90 percent of the time he’s standoffish, but ... the other 10 percent, he’s charming and interesting.”
“The question is whether it’s worth making things complicated for that 10 percent,” said Lena. “I mean, was it really necessary to make such a fuss about this?” She gestured at Siobhan’s phone, which was sitting on the table. “Just because he’s obsessed with maintaining his privacy doesn’t give him the right to raise his voice at you.”
“Not to mention that the only thing you can tell from the photo is that he’s African American,” added Paige.
Siobhan took a deep breath. The tightness in her chest still wouldn’t go away.
“You’re right,” she conceded. “He’s a real asshole.” A brief pause. “The problem is that ... sometimes ... he looks at me in a way that makes me feel confused. At least when he’s a jerk, I know where I stand with him. But when he isn’t ... Today, for example. We were having a great time together ... There was a real connection between us.” She placed her hand on her heart and noticed it was racing. “I even forgot about my phone. I ... I don’t want to like him, but I do and ... Oh god, this isn’t good.”
Paige patted her arm comfortingly.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Nothing. I’m just going to finish my part of the novel. Anyway, I doubt we’ll see each other again once we’ve delivered the manuscript. Marcel and I ... We’re too different. I can’t get hung up on a man who’s only interested in one-night stands; it would be emotional suicide.”
“That’s the smart way to look at it, Shiv,” agreed Lena. “You suffered enough when Buckley left. Life is supposed to be fun. Otherwise, what’s the point? To hell with men, and to hell with relationships. This is your moment, yours and nobody else’s.”
“Damn right,” said Paige. “Wanna know what I think? I’m going to get another round of beers. We need to get drunk in the name of group support.”
Gazing at her bedroom ceiling, she wondered whether she should return to Marcel’s house the next day and pick up her routine as though nothing had happened. Was it wise after today? She honestly doubted it. The asshole would almost certainly still be angry and might not even open the door to her. He would never be the one to relent, ever. His true identity and his reasons, whatever they were, for keeping it secret seemed to be the cornerstone of his very existence. But then, Siobhan was angry too. And hurt. So, given that there was little chance of receiving an apology from the odious Mr. Black, she decided they should go back to the way things were at the start.
From now on, we’ll work separately. He’ll be in his apartment, and I’ll be ... in Starbucks.
She sighed despondently and hugged her shoulders, before wincing with pain. They were red hot, just as Marcel had predicted. What was he doing right now? Thinking about her? She chased the possibility from her mind and tried to distract herself by looking at her phone. A catastrophic mistake, given that the first thing her treacherous index finger did, as if it had a life of its own, was to open Twitter, search for the photo that had caused so much grief, and download it. She enlarged the image until Marcel’s blurry profile filled the whole screen. God, he was so handsome. And he looked so relaxed in that moment. Comfortable. Calm. Happy? Yes, he was even smiling! It was as though he was enjoying her company.
As though he liked her.
Did he?
“No. Not a chance,” she said to herself out loud.
Ding.
A message from Marcel.
Marcel
Are you awake?
The protocol in these circumstances is very clear: you have to wait at least ten minutes before replying so as not to seem desperate. But Siobhan conveniently forgot all about protocol and immediately typed a succinct yet hasty answer:
Siobhan
Yes.
Of course, it could have been worse. She could have inserted a humiliating party emoji.
Then her phone rang.
Oh my god. He’s calling me? He’s calling me!
She waited three rings—there was no way she was skipping protocol twice in a row—and answered on the fourth. Her heart rate soared, her hands trembled, and her mouth went dry. She closed her eyes for a second, a knot forming in her stomach. She was a bundle of nerves.
But she had to stay firm.
“Hi.”
“Hi,” he replied in a whisper.
Siobhan squeezed her eyelids shut. She hated that he had such a deep, sexy voice. And that goddamn melodious Louisiana drawl infused even the most insignificant word with sensuality.
To hell with being firm.
“I wasn’t entirely honest,” he said abruptly. After a brief pause, he continued. “Earlier, when you asked if there was anything I liked more than writing ... I ... I said no and ... Well, that’s not true. There is something I like more than writing, Siobhan.”
Every time he uttered her name her whole body trembled.
“I see. And what might that be?”
“Writing with you.”
Silence.
Her heart expanded in her chest.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” she replied in a thin voice. She cleared her throat. “I’m still here. Why do you like writing with me?” she asked, trying not to sound too emotional. “I thought you couldn’t stand me.”
“You may have driven me up the wall early on.”
“Because we’re so different and all that, right?” she said.
“I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re not that different after all.”
A mischievous smile played on her lips as she twirled a lock of hair like a lovestruck teenager.
“Oh no?”
“No. Tell me something. Why do you write romance novels?”
She filled her cheeks with air, then released it very slowly before answering the question.
“Well ... I suppose I like unraveling the mysteries of the heart. And you? Why do you write crime novels?”
“I like unraveling the mysteries of the human mind. See? It’s all a matter of perspective.”
“Mm-hmm. All right, put Alex on the line.”
“Alex?” He sounded confused. “But he’s not here.”
“So who’s slipping you your lines, then?”
The sound of laughter caressed her ears through her phone.
“I don’t need anyone for that. I’m kind of good with words. More than good. I’m a fucking machine.”
“Are you apologizing or teasing me?”
“I’m being honest. Apologizing is the next step.”
“Okay, seriously now. Whoever you are, I don’t have the money to pay a ransom for Marcel Black. You’d be better off calling Bob Gunton.”
“Very funny. Hey.”
“What?”
Marcel exhaled at the other end of the line.
“About earlier: I shouldn’t have shouted at you. What happened wasn’t your fault. To be honest, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. I suppose ... my circumstances are complicated. I’m sorry. I was a jerk.”
“Wait. Can you repeat that? There was a bit of interference, and I’m not sure I heard you clearly.”
Siobhan heard Marcel laugh again.
“You’re cruel, princess.”
“I have the best teacher. And now that you mention it, yes, you were a real jerk.”
“You’re still mad at me, I can tell.”
“Well, yes. But less than I was five minutes ago,” she added after a brief pause.
“Well, that’s something. Will you come over to my place tomorrow?”
He hadn’t said to work or to write . He’d said to my place . And Siobhan found herself savoring his words.
“To that prison camp? I still haven’t decided,” she lied.
“Okay. Let’s see. What if I buy you a basket of muffins and some flowers?”
“I feel dizzy. You would do that for me?”
“No, not really.”
“You’re such a dumbass, Dupont.”
She only said that because she needed a way to recover some control. She had miscalculated how easily that Southern snake charmer was able to soften her up.
“Listen, Siobhan. I hate this situation. I know I’m the one who caused it, but ... I don’t like it. I ...”
Say it.
Say it.
Come on, say it.
“Yes, Marcel. What were you going to say?”
“Nothing. Just that I like your company. Professionally speaking,” he hastily clarified, rather too vehemently. “I think we make a good team. I take care of the sordid stuff, and you do the sweet stuff. I’ll understand if you need space, but ... this novel won’t get finished without you, so ... I’d love it if you came over tomorrow.”
That was nice.
And disappointing at the same time.
“Fine. I’ll come over.”
“Really?”
“But only because I’ve just realized my laptop is at your house.”
“I’ll take that. Thank you for understanding.”
“Yes, well, good night, then.”
When she hung up, she was besieged by a strange feeling, almost like loss. All the things she wished they had said to each other floated across the quiet expanse of her room.
Barely five minutes later, the sound of another call interrupted the silence. Siobhan furrowed her brow.
It was him again.
“What’s up? Guilty conscience not letting you sleep?”
“No, it isn’t that. See, I was wondering ... Would you like to come with me to New Orleans?”