Chapter 31 SIOBHAN
Chapter 31
S IOBHAN
Marcel wasn’t in bed when she woke the next morning. She stretched out her arm and ran it over the wrinkled sheets, which still held the warmth of his body. In the light of day, the previous night seemed like a fever dream. But her aching thighs, the lingering feel of his stubble grazing her neck, and his smell on the pillow reassured her that it was all real. She rolled over on the mattress feeling stupidly happy and buried her face in the traces of his scent. It had been amazing. All of it. What Marcel had done in the kitchen, what they had done twice in a row in bed, and what she had done to him later, with a determination she hadn’t known she had in her. “You’re no princess, you’re a fucking goddess,” he had whispered, surrendering to the pleasure of her mouth, as he stroked her hair. When she remembered his confession, she shivered. Do you think I fake this stupid feeling of fullness I get just from being by your side? How strange that a man who claimed not to believe in love was able to define it so well. The fact that he had suggested spending the weekend together was irrefutable proof that he felt the same way she did. And she couldn’t have been more delighted. Good thing she had trusted her instincts. Going out to dinner with Buckley would have been an unforgiveable mistake.
She heard a noise downstairs and decided to get up. She missed Marcel, even though they had spent all night in each other’s arms; so incomprehensible, unclassifiable, and unpredictable is love. She was naked. When she realized that her dress was still lying where she had abandoned it on the kitchen floor, she gave a naughty giggle. And what had become of her panties? Or rather, what was left of them. Had he kept them as a trophy? The idea seemed sordid and exciting in equal measure. Since her backpack was downstairs, she took the liberty of going into Marcel’s walk-in closet and looking for something to wear. She selected one of the few white shirts he had. It came down to her knees, but she felt comfortable in it. Before going downstairs, she went into the bathroom to pee, wash her face, and straighten her hair. A penetrating aroma of freshly made coffee wafted toward her as she walked down the stairs. Marcel was in the kitchen, his back to her, with his arms outstretched and palms on the counter; he seemed to be waiting for something. Or someone. Siobhan entered stealthily, circled that island of lust and sin, and embraced him from behind, interlacing her fingers over his firm abdomen. He smelled of soap.
“Good morning, Mr. Black. You’re always such an early riser. For a moment I thought you’d gone out running. As if we didn’t get enough exercise last night,” she joked, with a broad smile. “So, you’ve made coffee for your girl, huh? Admit it: you were going to bring it up to me in bed.”
Marcel tensed.
He didn’t take her hands as she expected.
He didn’t mention that she was wearing his shirt.
He didn’t turn to kiss her.
Something wasn’t right. She took a couple of steps back and asked:
“Marcel, what is it?”
He sighed, let his head drop forward, scratched the back of his neck wearily, and finally turned around. He broke her to pieces before he even started to speak, just with the forlorn way he looked at her. She saw shadows under his eyes and tension lines marking the rigid set of his mouth.
She saw regret.
And suddenly everything became clear.
“I’m sorry, Siobhan. I can’t do this. You and me ... I can’t do it, I really can’t.”
Her heart sank. And that wasn’t a metaphor. She really felt as though it had sunk into a very deep, black hole.
“I don’t understand. What’s changed since last night? What on earth could possibly have made you change your mind, when last night you seemed hellbent on being with me?”
“It’s not you, Siobhan. It’s me.”
She gave a bitter laugh.
“You could at least have come up with less of a cheap cliché. You’re making me feel like a loose end you’ve finally been able to tie up,” she replied stonily.
Two parallel furrows appeared between Marcel’s eyebrows. He shook his head.
“That’s not fair. Everything I said last night is true, I swear.”
“But?”
“You deserve someone who’s able to give you what you need.”
It felt like someone had thrown her off a cliff.
“What I need is for you to stop pushing me away,” she said.
Marcel ran a hand over his face, disconsolate.
“I’m going to screw it up. I know I’m going to screw it up. You want something out of a romance novel, and I—”
“I don’t want anything out of a romance novel!” she cried. “I want real love! Real and mature love. And I don’t care how complicated it is. Relationships can be solid and precious even if they’re not perfect. Do you think I’m a china doll?”
“Of course not! You’re an incredible woman. But I know what would happen if we had a relationship. It would be like driving over bumpy ground, and you’d break in the first pothole, because of me, because I’m defective.”
“And that’s why you’ve decided to slam on the brakes. Thanks for sparing me the trauma.”
“I’m not what you’re looking for, Siobhan. I never have been. And I couldn’t bear to hurt you.” He paused to swallow. “Not you.”
“You couldn’t hurt me as much as you are right now, Marcel.”
Her voice trembled, muffled by the tears that threatened to break her pride as well.
“I’m really sorry to hear that,” he muttered, head lowered.
Perhaps she had been too hard on him. The problem was that she had gone to bed as the girl who believed in happy endings and woken up with her illusions torn to shreds.
“Why risk loving or being loved? It’s better to break up before we even begin,” she said, trying to keep her tears at bay.
“You don’t understand, Siobhan. I don’t believe in love. I don’t believe in saying ‘I love you.’ The most important lesson I’ve learned in my life is not to trust those three empty words.”
He had summed up the situation with the surgical coldness of a heart hardened by the cruelty of the world. It could only mean one thing: Marcel believed that she would leave him too.
It was understandable.
But no less hurtful.
“You’re scared,” said Siobhan.
“And can you blame me, knowing what you know about my life?” he said, sounding pained.
“No! I blame you for not being braver. I blame you for not trying. I blame you for not at least giving us a chance. And I blame you for fighting against what you really want.”
“What’s the point in being brave? Brave people are the first to go into battle, and that’s why they’re the first to fall.”
“So, this is the end?”
He remained quiet, jaw clenched. Siobhan watched him and knew there was nothing she could say to change his mind. Marcel had given up. The man who had carried her to bed in his arms the night before and the man standing before her now were not the same person. They were two different people whose paths had crossed, heading in opposite directions.
“You aren’t going to say anything, are you?”
Marcel didn’t move or make a sound.
“Okay, I get it.”
Her dress and bra were neatly folded on one of the kitchen stools; it struck her as the saddest sight in the world. She grabbed them and left the kitchen. She retrieved her backpack from the living room and headed into Marcel’s study. She was emptying her side of the desk when he entered. He caught her by the wrist. Siobhan raised her eyes slowly and fixed her teary gaze on him.
“Why are you taking your things?”
“Because I think it’s better if we finish the novel separately. There isn’t much left. We can wrap up the last few chapters on our own, and then I’ll have disappeared from your life, just like you wanted.”
Her voice broke. And he, who seemed to be wavering between moving closer and keeping his distance, eventually released her.
“You think I like the way things have turned out, Siobhan?”
“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “And frankly, I don’t want to know. I just want”—she rubbed her temples—“to go home. So please, don’t make things any harder.”
Marcel nodded silently.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll go up to your room to get dressed.”
“Sure. Take all the time you need.”
It didn’t take her long to erase all traces of her presence in the apartment. She was struck by a feeling of unreality; she had both found and lost everything within the space of a couple of hours. It was one thing to break someone’s heart and quite another to shatter their pride. If she had to lose him, better for it to be quick, like ripping off a Band-Aid. When she was ready, she trudged back downstairs. Marcel was waiting for her, leaning against the door, with a crestfallen air about him. She looked him in the eye; there was anguish in his gaze, confusion, and a mountain of words left unsaid. Better not to ask. Better not to put his weak will to the test. He drew her toward him and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace so long, so intense, and so true that she lost herself in it. She wanted his protection to last an eternity and for it to swallow up the pain.
She was too in love to leave.
And she was too in love to stay.
She summoned every last ounce of strength to separate herself from him and, in a reedy voice, said:
“Goodbye, Marcel. I don’t know what will make you happy, but whatever it is, I hope you find it.”
Marcel blinked as though he was only just realizing that everything—whatever it was they had had—was over between them. Siobhan turned the door handle with a single thought in her head: she wouldn’t cry. She. Would. Not. Cry. She took a deep breath and left. Later, she regretted not slamming the door. The tears flooded her eyes before she reached the elevator.
The wound was deep.
Bloody.
Real.