Chapter 17 Brin
Brin
The amount of trust Marco has in me must be exorbitant, because he places my ice skate between his legs while he unlaces it. Any man that’s okay putting an eight-or-so-inch blade that close to his junk is brave.
Stepping onto the ice had been a little scary, but Marco oozes confidence and the way he matter-of-factly goes about things is addictive. I had joked about that dad watching the girl skate being an airport dad, but honestly, Marco gives me those vibes too.
Like how he held my hand while we skated, using it to carefully steer me or provide me support. And now, he’s kneeling on the floor, having not even taken off his own skates yet, and is putting my feet back into my unsexy black work sneakers.
It’s so hard for him to see himself as not an asshole, but I see it every day.
Done, he pivots to sit next to me on the bench, swapping his skates out while I wait. I have to admit, I am tired. Staying up late last night and then getting up so early to watch the sunrise has taken a toll on me.
“Marco? Wait, Brie?”
The voice jolts me upright, and the name—a nickname I only used on Sugary—makes my stomach sink like lead.
“Wow, I did not recognize you the other day.” Greg sits down next to Marco, ice skates in hand, but his eyes are on me.
Marco glances at me. “You two have met?”
Greg smiles, warm eyes twinkling. The devil in disguise. “You could say that. Went on a couple dates. You went by Brie on the app, though, right?”
My stomach dips. He could be talking about any app but he’s specifically not mentioning the name. Does he not want Marco to know he was on Sugary?
“Right,” I say, looking away and down to adjust the tongue of my sneakers.
Marco turns to Greg, and I don’t know if he does it to divert Greg’s attention away from me, but he asks how the scavenger hunt is going for his team.
“Good.” Greg says it smugly. “I won’t tell you how many points we have, because I don’t want you thinking there’s any hope for you to win our bet. We’ve been going hard for the creativity points, so it’ll all boil down to the judges’ scoring.”
I’m relieved to have Greg’s attention off me. I’m fine with letting the guys have their own little contest as long as I don’t have to be involved. If we win, I’ll have to figure out a way to not be around when Greg is playing Marco’s errand boy.
If we lose, though . . . maybe I’ll never have to see Greg again.
I don’t think Marco and I have done well on our creativity points.
We’ve mostly been trying to cross off as many items as we can.
I mean, it’s hard to skate creatively when you’ve never skated before, but I’m getting worried.
We’re already constrained by my work schedule, and the clock is ticking.
“We’ll see,” Marco says. He then stands, grabbing my hand to pull him up with me. “We’ve got to get going. Have fun skating.”
They fist-bump and Marco guides me out of the area, his hand on the small of my back. When we’re clear of the crowd and headed toward the subway, Marco leans in. “You dated?”
“A while ago, and it was one date. It’s not a big deal.”
Marco drops it and we get in line for coffee.
Why didn’t I say anything to him before? Because I am embarrassed by the whole Sugary thing? Or is it because Marco likes Greg, and I don’t want to risk him not believing me?
Or do I just want it all to go away? To not upset anyone and ignore the problem? Classic fawning move.
Great, now I’m psychoanalyzing myself.
The Sugary thing is embarrassing. Signing up for a “luxury dating app” that is actually full of women looking for a sugar daddy and men who are willing to “spoil” their dates is not something Brin two years ago would have done.
My parents definitely would have had a lot of nasty things to say about me signing up for it, but I’m working really hard to not let them make me feel bad anymore.
When Marco had asked me what my type was, the first thing that came to mind was how much Greg and Marco are alike—tall, dark hair, lean and fit bodies, an affinity for suits, and an aura of Men Who Get Shit Done. Handsome.
The difference being that Marco operates under the false impression that he is a bad person.
Whereas Greg truly is the devil in disguise.
My shift sucks. I’m running on fumes most of the night, and a few tables notice. My tips aren’t as great as the night before and I drop an entire tray of drinks. At least it wasn’t an arancini-in-the-purse situation again.
Plus, I checked my phone on break and I totally missed a burst challenge. It was only a one-pointer, but still. Marco and I could have totally found a dreidel and learned how to play.
I’m supposed to be full of holiday cheer right now, and instead I’m dead on my feet, behind the bar with Eva, counting up my tips and transferring my open tabs.
Which is why I think I’m dreaming when I see Marco take a seat at the bar. He’s hung his jacket on the back of his stool and he’s wearing . . .
An ugly Christmas sweater.
Unlike the “ugly” ones (not so much ugly as tacky) we’d looked at together when we’d first seen it on the list, this sweater is really, truly hideous.
It looks like it was hand-crocheted, and whoever planned this atrocity didn’t understand how perspectives worked.
The reindeer on the front has mismatched eyes and one of its legs is bent in a way that’s more likely to get it put down than successfully flying a sleigh.
And the colors in the borders of the design are truly disturbing—the green is fine, but the red is actually hot pink, and there’s white speckles on the shoulders, which are maybe supposed to be snow but make it look like Marco has dandruff.
Eva is cackling. “Oh my god. I am DYING.”
“What are you wearing?” I ask, incredulous.
Guiltily, Marco reaches down to a bag at his feet and pulls out another ugly sweater.
This one is mostly black, but with an enormous Santa head on the front, complete with a hat and a giant beard, which actually dangles down past the hem.
It’s like a flap on the front of the sweater.
But the worst part is that Santa looks sad.
He has two beady eyes and his beard parts to expose a thin mouth that’s either designed to be frowning or has sagged as it’s been worn.
“Sorry.” Marco’s face doesn’t look sorry. “This one’s too small for me.”
“Just when you thought they couldn’t get any uglier, huh?” Eva cracks. “Now come on, put it on so I can get a picture.”
I gingerly pull the sweater over my head. It at least smells clean.
Eva cackles as she takes our picture. She hands Marco his phone, and we strip the sweaters off. “Okay, before you go home, though, I’ve got to tell you this story. You won’t believe what I heard today.”
Marco sips his soda, amused. I blink and push back a strand of hair, trying to pay attention to my friend. “What?”
“Austin’s getting married.”
“Wait. I know Theo’s getting married—” Theo is one of the servers, and he plans to propose to his girlfriend over Christmas.
We’re all ninety-nine percent sure she’s going to say yes, since they have two kids together and she’s been telling him he doesn’t get any more until he puts a ring on it. “But who’s Austin?”
“I met him on the app last year. We dated a few times. He took me to the Knicks game. Ringing any bells?”
“Vaguely,” I admit.
She explains to Marco that she’d gone on five dates with the guy, he’d been generous (which is saying a lot, given the nature of Sugary), and he’d been a bit of a romantic. Their dates had fizzled, at least on Eva’s side. And now, apparently, he’s engaged to the woman he met right after her.
I rub my temples. “Did you want to marry him?”
“Not really,” she admits. “But I was thinking about how Terry is also engaged now. And Zach. That’s three that I know about, and you know what they say, twice a coincidence, three times a trend.”
“So what are you saying?” Marco asks.
“Well, maybe my vagina’s magical.”
Marco snorts up some of his Diet Coke.
“You’ve slept with all these guys?” I ask.
Eva looks at me, and I quickly add, “Not in judgment. More of . . . awe? Assuming it was good, I mean.”
She shrugs. “Meh.”
Well, that sums that up. I hope that when I finally do it, I get more than mediocre sex. I try not to look at Marco when I have this thought. Because if the kiss was anything to go by, Marco does not have meh sex.
“It’s a theory,” she says. “I might have to experiment.”
“How would you . . .” Marco shakes his head. “Never mind. This conversation could take forever. I want to get Brin home.”
Eva waves me out of the bar. “By all means, go home. You’re dead on your feet, girlie.”
“What are you even doing here anyway?” I ask Marco as we walk to the front door. “We could have done the sweaters at home.”
“I figured maybe we’d get a few creativity points for actually wearing them in public. Plus I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” He takes my coat from me and holds it out so I can put it on. Just before we walk out the door, I stop and run back and pull Eva into a hug.
“Since you’re not working Tuesday, I won’t see you until Christmas,” I say. Mondays are my normal day off, I work on Tuesday, and then the restaurant is closed for the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth.
“What—awe.” She hugs me back, hard.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, and she says it back before shoving me out the door.