Chapter 7 Lucy #2
“It was really interesting,” I say, taking a sip of my milk tea. “Does she fit the profile of someone you’d expect to be an escort?”
“It’s always the ones you don’t expect,” Marsh replies, not entirely answering my question.
“How so?”
“Don’t disregard anyone as someone who could be a murderer or a pedophile…or especially a pervert,” he says, and I raise my eyebrows. “When you cover enough cases, it fucks with your trust of other people.”
“Yeah, I guess it would,” I say. “But I agree with that sentiment. You’d be surprised how the most normal-looking people are into the freakiest shit in the bedroom.”
“I’m curious how Christina got to this point, considering her background.” Marsh takes a sip of his coffee. “Ivy League school, good family.”
“I mean, it’s not hard to fall down the rabbit hole,” I respond. “Especially when you’re making money.”
“Do you think that’s what happened?”
“I’m sure. Think about cam girls. It probably starts as one photo, it gets attention, and then you just keep pushing your luck. The majority of men are stupid and will pay for dumb shit like that.”
“In a world full of free porn, it always does surprise me what men pay to see another woman,” Marsh says.
“There’s something that feels dominant about knowing you’re the only person that photo or video is for.”
“How do you know so much about this?”
“I used to sell feet pics,” I say.
Marsh starts coughing on his French toast. “Wait, really?”
“Mhm.” I cut our matcha bun in half. “After graduating. Let me tell you, I never showed my face once and made enough to pay for like thirty percent of my tuition.”
Marsh leans back, cocking his head. “Why do you like writing about sex?”
There’s something about his tone that oddly brings me solace. I’m used to men desperately trying to sound cool with my job, which results in weird questions like So I’m sure you’ve seen all kinds of labias?
But Marsh talks about my job like it’s completely normal. Like sex is nothing other than a topic I’m choosing to write about, just like politics, and equally important.
“Well, because I find sex to be empowering.” I start answering the question the same way I have been for the past seven years.
“There’s something powerful about creating a safe space for women.
Giving women a platform to feel like themselves, and free, and that whatever kink turns them on is normal.
Creating a community for women so they know they’re not alone. ”
Marsh nods. “What’s the real reason?”
My face drops. “Excuse me?”
“Not that I don’t believe what you said. I absolutely agree with it too. I think what you do and what you’ve created is something that I wish I had,” he says. “But as someone who knows what you go through day in and day out for a story, I want to know why you choose to write about sex.”
Wanting to write about sex was always enough of a reason. Nobody’s ever wanted to really know why.
“I grew up wanting to tell stories,” I start.
“There was that opening for my college paper and I thought, What would be a topic that would really turn heads? So, I decided to write about sex. I was never an expert on it. I had only slept with one person at the time, and I didn’t even have an orgasm.
But when the article took off, I knew I had the momentum.
I figured writing about a taboo subject like this was straightforward enough to keep people reading.
Then I saw the reactions to my stories, how they’ve helped people.
I didn’t just empower readers, I felt empowered.
I became more open about my sexuality, more confident in talking about what I want and don’t want.
Sexuality is so much more than how we connect to another person. It’s how we connect to ourselves.”
“Touché.” Marsh smiles and I force myself to do the same.
Maybe it’s not the entire truth, but it’s still an honest answer.
“So, if you could work at The Rue for the next ten years, granted you’re given a promotion, you’d be happy?”
“If I was appropriately compensated, then yeah,” I respond. “I’m proud to be writing about sex. I just want other people to take it seriously,” I say quietly, because he’s already doing it. Marsh has that recognition and respect and there’s something humbling about admitting it.
“If you take it seriously, other people will,” he says.
“Easy for you to say.”
“You’re already writing what you want…and at one of the most reputable publications in the world,” he simply says.
He’s not trying to be condescending, but it’s so clear that he’s lived his life and career with that mindset: that he can do whatever he wants because he’s confident in himself in a way that maybe I’m not.
“I think The Journal is one of the most reputable publications,” I correct him. “The Rue is a little more niche.”
“Would you want to work at The Journal?” he asks.
“I’m not opposed to it.” I muse about the type of stories I’d be writing and also giving up. I’d be willing to if it meant a better title and better pay. “If there’s an open job, I’d apply. But the market’s been so tough, I don’t think they hired anyone in the past year other than you.”
Marsh scratches the side of his jaw, understanding. “I think I was an exception. There was an opening and I knew Nadia.”
“That’s how it always works, isn’t it?”
“I mean this in the most non-mansplaining way possible…” Marsh starts.
“That’s never a good way to start a sentence,” I warn.
“There’s a life you’re envisioning in your mind. You deserve to have it,” Marsh says.
His words surprise me. Like his sentiment is something that deserves to be worked up to saying; you can’t just say that to someone so easily. Yet here we are in the middle of a diner at eleven a.m. and he’s telling me that I deserve the things I want.
“All right, you’ve met your fake boyfriend encouraging speech quota for the week.
” I dismiss him and try my pork belly, which I can now say is one of the best things I’ve ever eaten.
“I was brainstorming, and I have our couples activities I’d like us to do.
There’s also a rom-com marathon at the New Beverly I want to go to. ”
“Great, let’s do it,” Marsh says. “When?”
“In two weeks. Saturday and Sunday.” I grin. “Take your pick.”
Marsh takes out his phone, and I see his eyes scan back and forth. “I, uh, I can’t that weekend.”
I haven’t known Marsh for long, but it hasn’t taken me long to catch on to his mannerisms; when he finds something genuinely funny, when he’s frustrated, or now, when a cleft forms between his brows and I can tell he’s stressed out.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Hmm?” He looks up. “Oh yeah, I just…I’m out of town then.”
“You sound excited,” I say sarcastically.
“My niece Sadie’s sixth birthday.” He lets out a forced smile. “Julia’s going to be there.”
“Oh…” I’m still not entirely understanding why this woman is such a big part of Marsh’s life.
“What about tomorrow?”
There’s a small part of me that knows I should leave it. But there’s an even bigger part of me that is starting to care about Marsh, like a friend? “Want me to come?” I offer.
“To what?”
“The birthday party,” I clarify. “I know we haven’t really talked about it, but maybe it would be fun.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” he says. “You’re already coming to the wedding.”
“Exactly, so it would make sense for me to also come to this. Especially if Julia’s going to be there,” I say. “Plus! It will check one of the boxes on my couples activities to do this month.”
“It’s in the Bay Area,” he says, not necessarily saying no.
“Great.” I smile. “I love it up there.”
Marsh dips lower in his seat and leans his head back in the booth. “This is fucked.”
“It’ll be fun.” I correct him and flash my most dazzling smile. “Just tell me when and where to be and I’ll be there—”
“No,” Marsh interrupts. “I’m driving us.”
“Fine,” I say.
“And are you going to tell me about this checklist you have?”
I let out an embarrassed laugh realizing that detail slipped. “Oh, uh, yeah. It’s just something stupid I made to make sure I get as much out of this month as possible.”
Marsh reaches across the table, offering me an open palm. “Let’s see.”
“I’m good,” I say. “This is very embarrassing for me.”
“And me pretending to have a girlfriend in front of all my friends and family isn’t embarrassing for me?”
I open the notes app on my phone and place it in his hand.
Marsh studies the screen, the bright light glaring off his glasses. I try to remember all the things on the list: meet each other’s families, go furniture shopping, evening walk along the beach, talk about future, celebrate a birthday together.
“This is…” he says.
“Stupid?”
“No,” he says, eyes still scanning my notes. “We can do all of these.”
There’s a warm feeling in my stomach that I’m not used to having. “Really?” I ask.
“Yeah, the only thing is that it’s not my birthday until November. When’s yours?”
“It just passed, but that’s okay! I only put that down in case yours happened to fall under this month,” I say, and Marsh passes me back my phone.
As we pay for our bill and walk toward our cars, there’s something about how our bodies match each other’s rhythm. The way we mirror each other’s steps, swaying back and forth, slightly bumping arms every few seconds as we walk down Sixth.
“This is me.” I stop in front of my white Jeep.
“I’m the Bronco.” He nods toward a black SUV a few cars down.
“Well, this was fun,” I say, really meaning it.
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Sounds good.” I walk around to my side of the car and get in the driver’s seat. Marsh is still standing on the sidewalk, and I open the window to the passenger’s side.
“Okay, I need to ask one question.” He takes a step closer and ducks his head to view me.
“Shoot.”
“Do you have any more copies of those feet pics?”
“Oh my god!” I burst out laughing.
“Look, I just thought I’d ask. You know, for research.”
“Goodbye, Marsh.”
“Goodbye, Lucy.” He laughs and starts walking toward his car.