Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Hallie
M idmorning three days in, and I seem to have done nothing other than make a mess of Marcus’s once-pristine guest space. For all his taunting in the driveway when I’d moved in, he’s kept his distance, most likely being able to feel the emotional turmoil radiating out of his pool house and wanting to stay far from it.
So far, I’ve spent my time going through work emails and making notes for feedback on designs, regardless of the fact that I’m technically on leave. Working in UX design is a dream with the remote work it allows for. But it makes disconnecting from work difficult, especially on days like these, where I’m looking for distractions. There’s also been a fair amount of “pro-masturbation”—masturbation as a form of procrastination, a classic time waster.
In the moments I managed actual self-control, I sat on the floor, sifting through my belongings and slowly coming to terms with just how much of it I wasn’t going to be able to keep. Any doubts I may have harbored over whether or not my parents had regrets about procreating were put further to rest with every box I opened.
They hadn’t kept a single thing.
Mind full and earphones in, it takes me longer than I care to admit to realize I’m not alone.
A young guy and girl in paint-splattered work pants and black sweatshirts with “Scott Construction” embroidered across the front stand over me. Neither of them looks older than eighteen, one with neon green shoelaces and platinum-blond hair and the other straightlaced with a crew cut.
“Hi, are you Miss Cairns?” asks the young person with the platinum pigtails and a friendly smile.
“That’d be me.” The prickly sensation of pins and needles travels down my leg as I stand. “Can I help you two with anything?”
I can only assume they’re here to pick something up for Marcus.
“I’m Jason, and this is Layla,” says the young guy, all seriousness in his demeanor, so at odds with his colleague. “And, actually, we’re here to help you.”
“You are?” My eyebrows lift.
I hadn’t even been able to bring myself to call Erica to ask for help. I knew it’d be impossible for her to go through my childhood belongings without asking questions about each and every item she touched. Memories that would only drag me back into a place I no longer want to be.
“Yeah, didn’t Mr. Scott tell you?” Layla asks so earnestly in regard to her boss. At my obvious lack of knowledge, she adds, “He said we were to help you with anything you need. And we don’t mind, really.”
The gentle offer hits me straight in the chest. I’m barely treading water as it is, exhausted from feeling feelings and resisting the urge to cry after having to put one too many of my gran’s old things into piles to be given or thrown away.
“Mr. Scott and I aren’t so good with communication skills. Would you give me a second?” I ask, voice tight.
I move to where my phone rests on a stack of boxes, then quickly scroll for the group text and Marcus’s number. Except I can’t seem to press Call . Instead, I source the office number for Scott Construction.
The phone rings twice before a pleasant-sounding female voice answers, “Good morning, Scott Construction, how can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m a tenant staying in Marcus Scott’s pool house rental,” I say, hoping to sound sweet and genuinely concerned as I move out of earshot of the teenagers waiting patiently for me. “I was hoping he’d be able to speak with me regarding two people who have just trespassed onto his property.”
“Oh, of course! I’ll transfer you now.”
I can’t help but hope she doesn’t get in trouble for not checking for further details before putting the call through.
Marcus answers on the first ring, and I don’t have it in me to grace him with a greeting. “Why was I nearly just scared to death by two teenagers?” The words leave me in what I can only describe as a growl.
He sighs, and I can picture him sitting behind a desk, instantly annoyed at the sound of my voice. The image is soothing. “I thought an extra pair of hands or two might help. It looked like you had a lot to do today.”
His response is reasonable—kind, even—and yet my brain won’t let it go. His being nice just pisses me off more. “Did you send them to annoy me?”
“No, Hallie, I didn’t send my two best apprentices to annoy you. What the hell would I do that for? I’m not a fan of wasting time or money.”
“I don’t know, Marcus, why would you send me two apprentices?”
Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I can see how it was a generous thing to do, how it’s something the Marcus I used to know would do, but I can’t trust it.
“At this point, Hal, I have no idea…” His frustration with me is as clear.
“I didn’t ask for your help. I don’t need your help.”
I don’t want his help.
Mostly, I don’t want to need it.
“It’s not me helping.” His reasonable rebuttal is honestly more than I can handle. I hate that he even wants to help me. It would make my life easier if he didn’t.
“Your indirect assistance counts.”
“Hallie, have you even showered in the last two days?” Marcus asks bluntly.
I take it that my lack of contact with the outside world hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“Did Erica call you?” I ask, rubbing a hand over my overly tired eyes. Emotional turmoil does not make for a relaxing bed buddy.
There is a slight pause before he replies drily, “What do you think?”
“I think if I wanted your help, I’d ask for it.” The nasty words are out of my mouth before I can think twice.
That’s the problem with me and Marcus: everything in me reacts to him before my brain has the chance to think a single thing through.
“Jesus Christ, Hallie. Fine. Take the help. Don’t take the help. I. Do. Not. Care. I do not have time to care. But you listen here. They’re good kids. They’re there to help. When you ask them to leave, don’t you dare make them feel like this is about them. You make it clear this doesn’t have anything to do with anything but your own bullshit. You understand me?”
There’s no escaping the firm line of defense he takes to protect the young people he’s sent to help me.
“Yes,” I grate out.
I feel about two inches tall.
There’s a swift pause on the line, and then, “Hallie, why didn’t you call my mobile number?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don’t have it anymore.”
“It’s in the group chat,” he replies, frustration melting away into droll amusement.
“I didn’t save it.” It’s not a lie. I haven’t saved it.
“Hmm. Well, I just sent you a text.” I lower my phone to look at it.
Unknown: You shouldn’t lie.
“You’re an ass.”
“That might be true, but I’ll pick up if you call, Hallie.”
“Okay,” I answer, my brain running blank on anything else to say. I don’t want to have to call him. The last time I called him, he broke my heart. If he wants to talk, he can call me.
“I guess I won’t be getting a ‘thank you,’ then?”
I don’t bother to reply and instead end the call.
Taking a deep breath, I attempt to calm the whirl of emotion stirring in my chest, rising up to my throat. So maybe going through my past has taken more of a toll than expected. Maybe, just maybe, an extra pair of hands or two would help make this job a little quicker and a little less painful.
What I do want desperately is a hug. You couldn’t pay me enough to utter the words aloud, but I want someone to touch me. To hold me. Physical touch is my number one love language, according to the all-knowing internet, and the one thing I generally go without. A quick hug from a friend or a hookup with a stranger—the only ways I get a fix of physical contact anymore, and I can’t help but wonder which one I’d let myself ask for and receive.
I get up to boil water for the millionth time today, knowing I don’t want a cup of tea but desperately needing the distraction. A distraction from the fact my focus and self-control are completely shot. I move on autopilot, putting my phone on the kitchen counter, its screen remaining mostly dark after finally blocking my dad’s number. Grabbing a mug from one of the navy cabinets, I drop in one of the Lady Grey tea bags I’d brought with me. I never thought I’d admit it, but tea really is soothing, and yes, I now agree it’s sacrilege to make it using a microwave. Convenience be damned.
I hadn’t thought it would happen so quickly, but I’m already wishing to be back in Edinburgh, where I could snuggle up, safe, sane, and warm. Since I’ve arrived here, it seems to be one test after another, and I’ve yet to figure out if I’m passing or failing.
My needs and wants are simple: pack up my old belongings, finalize the sale of my gran’s house, and attend Erica and Jules’s wedding before flying my ass back home.
A light flicks across the backyard, and Marcus walks into his kitchen, holding his phone to his ear; he seems to be on it continuously.
Not that I’ve been trying to catch glimpses of him. If anything, it’s the opposite, but going through the belongings stacked up in my living space is Pandora’s box drawing me to him, to the tightly threaded tension still between us.
I love it, and I hate it, and I want it to go away.
I want it out of my system.
I crave the apathy I’ve worked so hard for and which seems to melt away in his presence, replaced by a twisting angst I remember all too well.
Sending me his two apprentices today made things worse. Now, not only do I feel like an ass for making such a big deal out of the help, but it also meant Marcus was aware I was in above my head to start with. That he still knows me well enough to understand I wouldn’t be finding this easy, that I would’ve been too stubborn to ask for help on my own.
I hate that.
I’m jolted out of my thoughts by the ping of my phone, indicating a message.
Marcus: Stop staring at me. Take a picture, it’ll last longer.
My eyes refocus on the window in front of me, where Marcus is very much aware of my presence. I’d assumed with my lights dimmed, I wouldn’t have been as noticeable. I’d obviously assumed wrong.
My phone pings again.
Marcus: Don’t worry, you weren’t drooling.
Hallie: I see you finally decided to use my number.
Marcus: Julian made me promise I wouldn’t send you any dick pics.
Hallie: That’s disgusting.
Marcus: I know, right? I thought so too. How rude of him to keep you from such an immense honor.
Hallie: Is there something you want, Marcus?
Marcus: Come over.
My brows rise in surprise. That’s not the request I’d been expecting.
Hallie: No.
To be fair, I thought I’d be getting a scolding about my shitty attitude earlier, but maybe he’s been waiting to let me have it in person.
Marcus: Hallie, I’m not going to bite. Unless you ask. We do, however, need a plan for our wedding duties.
Hallie: I have a plan. It includes emails and texts.
Marcus: Stop being a pain. You don’t want us to be the cause of any grief for Julian and Erica, do you?
He remains in front of his window, and I can feel his eyes on me.
It’s a simple yes-or-no question with only one true answer. This is why I like living so far away.
Hallie: Now?
Marcus: The sooner, the better. Quick and painless.
Hallie: I bet that’s what you tell all the girls.
Marcus: Hurry up, Hallie.
I give myself as little time to think as possible. Wearing black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, I’m not exactly dressed to impress. Taking my phone and my cup of tea with me, I move out the door and across the lawn. I don’t bother to mask my curiosity at the fact I’m going to see inside Marcus’s home. The back sliding door is open. Inside, off-white walls and shiny timber floors welcome me, bouncing warm light around the room.
“I noticed Layla and Jason didn’t make it back to the site today,” Marcus states blandly.
He moves around the kitchen, unloading his dishwasher, as if my being in his space were the most normal thing in the world.
As if we hadn’t come to verbal blows just a few hours ago.
“You were right,” I admit begrudgingly. “They really are great kids.”
“And did they manage to complete at least three tasks before tormenting one another?”
“Three exactly. But the tormenting was done fairly quietly, and they both gave as much as they got. For teenagers, they could be a whole lot worse.”
Marcus looks up at me with a shadow of a smile. “I’d put money on Jason being the biggest softie on my site most days—a giant marshmallow, that kid. Layla’s the only one who brings any kind of temper out in him.”
“It seems that if anything, she drags a little more life out of him,” I say, thinking of the way Jason had progressively gotten more confident in response to Layla.
“Oh, I know. I’ve asked them both on separate occasions if they would rather work apart, but they’re adamant they’re fine.” He shrugs. “Now I just use it to my advantage to get the best out of them in a working day.”
Marcus flips on his coffee machine, and taking a mug from the cupboard above, he gestures it toward me.
“No, thanks. I brought my own,” I say, raising my own mug to him. I’m glad I have something in my hands to fuss over.
Or, you know, something in my hands to throw at him.
Whatever comes first, really.
I’m wary of how calm he is, of the lack of heat in the moment, especially after our call earlier today.
Each time we’ve shared a space or had a simple conversation, there’ve been sparks—a zing that’s both incredibly uncomfortable and highly pleasurable. Its absence is disconcerting.
I move about his home with ravenous eyes, mostly so I stop focusing on how good he looks in sweatpants and a well-worn black T-shirt. The space is open, allowing me to stay in his line of sight the whole time.
I take my time looking at a few artfully arranged photos in the hallway, all of them black-and-white prints of faraway destinations.
Large frames hang in contrast to the white walls: Petra in all its ancient glory, windmills in what’s most likely the Netherlands, and another of what could only be somewhere in the Scottish Highlands.
They’re beautiful photos, and I’m instantly curious to know if he took the shots himself and, if so, when. Because if he’d taken the pictures himself, it’d mean he hadn’t been all that far away from me, not all that long ago.
And just like my other issues regarding Marcus, I needed to not overanalyze that too much.
He’s pouring himself a coffee as I head back into the main living area, and I take what I hope is a silent breath, releasing it slowly. The urge to say something, anything, is strong. The silence between us makes my skin itch.
Kicking off my shoes, I make myself comfortable on his black leather couch, my legs pulled up beneath me.
“I thought I would’ve heard from you sooner—a complaint about my sense of style or a broken dishwasher,” Marcus finally comments. His tone is dry, and I’m not impressed.
Here’s me trying to be on my best behavior.
“Honestly, it could still go that way, but I’m attempting to be good. I’ve gotta say, though, I’m surprised you’re okay with me being here.”
He laughs. “There’s the bluntness I was missing.”
He’s so unbothered, it makes me wonder if I’d imagined all the sharp and fire-filled words between us over the last few days.
“You’re telling me you’re happy I’m taking up residence in your backyard?”
It’s not the smartest or the sanest thing I’ve ever heard, that’s for sure.
Marcus lifts a hand to scratch his chin, all the while keeping his eyes steady on mine. He knows exactly what I’m looking for in order to believe whatever he says next. “Well, I don’t know if happy would be the word, but I think it’ll be fine. We’re both adults, have our own lives, and the delightful treaty my brother set. The only time we really need to see each other is for the wedding, and then you’ll be away again in, like, what? Three weeks, four tops? It’ll be like you were never here at all.”
Everything he says makes complete and utter sense, but wow, what a dick.
It’d be like I was never here at all.
Considering that’s how I feel and have felt about most of my life and relationships already, hearing the words from his mouth shouldn’t have caused a painful knot to form in my throat.
But it did.
I’ll stay, I’ll be a good friend, and I’ll leave. Like I was never here at all.
My need for physical touch intensifies. What I would give for a warm, comforting hand on my lower back.
I swallow down any pretense of hurt, saving it for later and embracing the burn.
“We work together on the wedding, I have a place to lay my head at night, and I’ll leave like I was never here at all,” I agree, the words tasting bitter as they make their way out of my mouth.
It makes me sick to think maybe that’s the way it’s always been for him, that my leaving all those years ago had meant so little. I don’t give myself too much time to think or for him to respond because, hey, the more it hurts, the easier it is to leave.
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Marcus repeats, almost questioningly.
He leans back in his chair, his large hands cradling his coffee mug, his fingertips running around the edge of it.
I’m once again reminded of my first glimpse of him at dinner just a few nights ago. His eyes are warm only when it suits them; their true nature, it seems, is to be calculating. Handsome as ever, but eyes to be wary of.
Annoyingly, as desperate as I am, none of this seems to matter. I can’t help but be envious of the cup between his palms, and it’s not because I suddenly feel like coffee instead of tea.
His fingers continue to stroke the ceramic surface with light touches.
My mouth dries, and goose bumps rise on my arms as I track his movements. Even though I know I’d regret it, I know he’d feel warm, his fingertips firm, and I can almost convince myself it’d be enough.
Dragging my eyes up to his, I take in his single raised brow and slight smirk.
“What?” I question, a hint of annoyance tingeing my tone.
“Hey, you’re the one looking at me. I’m just noticing it.” Marcus’s face is smug.
I’d like to punch it.
“You are the only other person to look at.” I don’t bother denying I’m looking at him, as I’ve yet to figure out if it’s worse to be completely fascinated by his space or his body.
Either way, I’m disgusted with myself.