Chapter 16 #2
I shiver and put in my token, loading up the balls. “The key,” I start with a cocky lilt to my voice, “is using combos and bonuses and cradling the ball when it rolls down instead of wailing on the buttons like a meathead.”
“Are you calling me a meathead?” He pokes my side, which makes me giggle and jump. He gives me an amused look. “Wow, you’re ticklish.”
I sigh in acknowledgment. “It’s a curse.”
It doesn’t take me long to bump past Marcus’s score and continue to rack up points.
“Jesus fuck,” Marcus breathes.
I cackle. “Told you. They made a song about me, you know. It’s called ‘Pinball Wizard.’”
Marcus chuckles, and I miss a ball. “That’s a lie. That song came out in the sixties. Long before you were born.”
“Fine, but if The Who knew about my sweet skills, they’d dedicate it to me.” I whiff the last ball, and the final number flashes on the screen, prompting me for my initials.
“Speaking of sweet skills, while you definitely spanked my score, you still didn’t beat whoever JLH is.”
I try to swallow my laugh as I enter my initials.
Marcus’s mouth drops open. “JLH.” He looks at me skeptically. “You’re kidding, right? You’re JLH?”
I nod. “You’re not the only one who played here every visit. Plus, they have this same machine at the arcade in Brighton, which was my safe place through middle school and high school.”
“Your safe place?”
“Yeah,” I say, my voice a little quieter. “The owner was queer and he didn’t tolerate bullies.”
Marcus’s face falls, but he seems to rally, changing the subject. He pokes me in the side again, and I swat his finger away. “What’s your middle name?”
“Layne.”
“Jeremy Layne Hart.” He throws an arm over my shoulders as we exit the arcade, and I lean into his warmth. “Has a sexy ring to it.”
I roll my eyes. “Layne was my mom’s maiden name, but I’m sure sexy is what my parents were going for.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Such a sarcastic brat.”
The affectionate gesture catches me off guard, and a lump fills my throat because I’m becoming addicted to Marcus Conner, and I’m surely going to have withdrawals when I’m forced to quit him like a bad habit.
But I’m not going to think about that right now.
Instead, I revel in the feel of Marcus’s arm around me, completely uncaring who sees us or what they may think. We reach the truck, and I reluctantly shrug out of his hold and climb into the passenger side. Marcus gets in and starts the engine, and we make the ten-minute drive back to Cannon Beach.
I flip the radio stations until I settle on a song from The Fray, and Marcus doesn’t complain.
He has a weird obsession with nineties grunge rock, from what I can tell.
On the way down, his playlist was all Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Stone Temple Pilots, and Soundgarden, so I suppose The Fray is nineties grunge rock adjacent.
After a minute, his hand falls on my thigh, his pointer finger tapping to the beat. I turn my face to hide my goofy smile.
He’s acting like . . . my boyfriend. It’s fucking weird. But also, I love it.
It’s almost dark by the time we get back to the beach house, and since it’s not raining, we decide to start a bonfire on the beach.
We bicker over location but finally settle on which log will be the most comfortable.
Then, Marcus hauls a load of driftwood from a pile by the stairs and drops it on the sand.
He digs a shallow hole and places the kindling in a teepee formation.
“You look like you know what you’re doing,” I say, walking up behind him with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. “So rustic.”
He glances back at me with an easy smile. “One of the few useful skills my dad taught me.”
I frown. “Is your dad homophobic?”
Marcus sits back on his knees. “I think so. He wants me to lead what he thinks is a traditional life.”
I swallow. “What does that mean?”
“Be part of his company. Marry a woman. Have children. Same as him.”
“And . . . you don’t want that?”
Marcus concentrates on pushing some wadded-up newspaper into the center of the structure, then reaches for the lighter. He pushes the button, and the orange flame lights up the planes of his face before he uses it to start the fire.
“No, not anymore,” he says, finally.
He stands, walks to the log, and sits, patting the spot beside him. I shuffle over and push into his side, letting his warmth seep into my body. I breathe him in; he smells like pine trees and campfire.
We sit in silence for a while, staring at the flickering flames and listening to the ebb and flow of the ocean.
I try to think about anything but the fact that we’re leaving in the morning: Marcus’s reluctant smile, his laugh that I worked so hard to earn, and the way he’s been touching me all day as though I’m his person.
But you’re not.
“What’s your favorite movie and why?” Marcus asks suddenly, his voice disrupting my thoughts.
“You want me to pick just one?”
“Humor me.”
“Alright. Don’t laugh, though.”
He scoffs. “No promises.”
“Ten Things I Hate About You.”
“The nineties flick?” Just as I nod, Marcus straightens so quickly that I almost tumble to the sand, but he catches me by the shoulders, turning me bodily toward him. “I fucking love that movie.” His eyes sparkle in the firelight, and I laugh at his boyish reaction. “Why do you like it?”
I grin shyly. “Because it’s quintessential nineties.
I was born at the end of that decade, so I don’t know if that’s what it was really like.
But my good friend in high school went through a nineties-obsession period, and we watched all the nineties teen stuff: Dawson’s Creek, Empire Records, My So-Called Life, Freaks and Geeks, Varsity Blues, Clueless, and, of course, Ten Things I Hate About You.
” I sigh, thinking about the nights when Trey and I stayed up way past our bedtimes watching all the teen drama unfold.
“I just became so enamored with that high school experience—all these beautiful people living whimsical, overtly romantic lives, conversing in witty euphemisms and comebacks, all the while listening to angsty pop and alt-rock. It was incredible.”
“You’re kind of a romantic, which is a huge shocker,” Marcus says with a smirk, and I elbow him. “But it’s a good reason!”
I rest my head against his arm. “What’s your favorite movie?”
“Spider-Man: No Way Home,” he replies with no hesitation.
I squint up at him, trying to gauge whether he’s joking. He looks very serious. “While I agree that’s a great movie, it’s not what I expected you to say.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. I guess I expected something older. That one is pretty recent.”
He blows out a breath. “Well, I was always conflicted about which Spider-Man I liked best, but then Disney went and made a brilliant movie that featured all three. I was a goner.”
“Why Spider-Man, though?” I ask, tracing small circles on his thigh with my pointer finger. “Is he your favorite Avenger?”
Marcus is quiet for so long that I almost worry he dozed off.
“No,” he says finally, “he’s not. But you’re my favorite person.”
Emotion floods my chest when I remember that he used to call me Peter Parker before he knew my actual name. “And I’m the romantic one?” Tears fill my eyes, and I wipe them away quickly. We’re too fucking new at this for me to be feeling this way.
“Tell me something true,” Marcus murmurs.
I smile, recognizing the quote. “Should it be something real? Something no one else knows?” He chuckles at my response, and I consider my answer. “In middle school, I was obsessed with the Tobey Maguire Spider-Man movies.”
“That’s your truth?”
“Hold on. I’m not done.” He nods for me to continue. “I listened to the soundtracks so much that my aunt threatened to throw away my iPod speaker dock.” Marcus laughs, and I almost lose my train of thought. “Uhm, so guess what my favorite song was?”
Marcus groans. “Jesus, it’s that Nickelback song, isn’t it? Because I know it wouldn’t be a secret if you were talking about Dashboard Confessional.”
“Hey, c’mon! That song wasn’t so bad.”
He looks at me deadpan. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to look at you the same way again.”
“Technically, it wasn’t even Nickelback.
It was Chad Kroeger and Josey Scott.” I bite my lip, suddenly feeling nervous and silly for sharing that bit of personal information.
Even though it seems innocent enough, I have never told anyone about it.
“I know it was stupid, but I asked the DJ to play it at every school dance, and they never did. I was so bummed because I was convinced it’d be so romantic to dance to. ”
Marcus’s laugh is louder this time, and so genuine. “Let’s find out.” He stands and pulls his phone from his pocket, typing something on the screen.
“What?”
After a few seconds, the drumroll intro to “Hero” sounds over his iPhone speaker and Chad Kroeger’s voice fills the salty air as Marcus turns it up and sets his phone face-up on the log.
He extends his hand, and I look at it in confusion. “Dance with me, Starlight.”
I swallow. “W-what?”
He rolls his eyes and grabs my hand, tugging me up as the blanket falls to the ground, and I let out a surprised chirp. Then he holds me against his body, takes my hand in his, and places a possessive grip on my waist.
“I said, dance with me.”
“Okay,” I whisper, still not sure if what’s happening is real.
We sway awkwardly around the fire, and I let a giggle slip because Marcus Conner is a terrible dancer.
“What?” he asks, grinning down at me as he grips my hand tighter.
“You’re just . . . kind of stiff.”
He glances down. “Not yet, I’m not.”
“That’s not what I meant, pervert.”
He smiles wider. “I’m not graceful like you. We both know that.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I lay my head on his chest. “I would have killed for a dance like this in middle school. Or high school, for that matter.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was too shy to ask a girl, and not many gay kids wanted to come out just to dance with me.”
“That’s sad.” The words vibrate against my cheek.