Chapter 12 Marsh
Marsh
Lucy just looks at me with a devilish grin on the verge of revealing itself.
“Do you still want to leave?” she asks, ignoring my last remark. Even though it was a joke, it’s probably better this way.
I do everything in my power to not look at her cleavage that’s distractingly on display, but looking at her face isn’t any better. Her dark eyes, the graze of freckles on her nose, and her full lips make me feel like she’s fucking kryptonite.
I’m nearing the bottom of my bottle. I take a final sip. “I’m okay to stay a little longer if you are.”
“Great.” Her face lights up. “I’ll get us another round.”
“Here.” I reach for my pocket and pass her my credit card.
“No, keep it. This one’s on me, sailor.” She playfully winks and walks toward the bar.
When I agreed to this arrangement, I couldn’t have predicted at any point Lucy would be sitting on my lap in front of my ex’s best friend.
Having a conversation maybe, perhaps a hug or even a friendly handhold if we needed to, yes.
But not lap-sitting and talking about our imaginary sex lives.
What I quickly learned about Lucy, and am now growing to admire, is how ruthless and open she is.
Lucy doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her.
My gaze travels to Lucy waiting at the bar.
The minute I saw her tonight I almost couldn’t handle it.
I wanted to call the whole thing off right then and there because I don’t know if I’m strong enough to continue this charade with someone like her.
Someone who is truly testing every part of me right now.
I actively tell myself that this isn’t real. The closeness, the laughing, the lap-sitting—it’s all for show. This isn’t real.
Lucy comes back with the same brand of beer I was drinking in one hand and a martini in the other.
“Thank you,” I say and take a healthy swig to calm myself. Then, one of the waitresses comes to our table with two shot glasses on her tray. She sets them down in front of us and tells us to enjoy. “What’s this?” I ask.
“This”—Lucy takes one shot glass and passes me the other—“is to us.”
“Us?”
“Yeah.” She nods enthusiastically. “To celebrate us meeting, the fact that I’ll get to turn my column around, that you’ll have a date to the wedding…that we just made Dani shit her panties.” She laughs. “I’d say it’s a pretty good partnership, right?”
I’m suddenly feeling at ease. This past week has been great, and Lucy’s right. There is a lot to celebrate.
“I’d say it is too.” I lift my shot glass and clink it against hers.
I don’t ask what the shot is. I just let the warm liquid soothe my throat.
Lucy does the same thing and scrunches her face as she lets it pass through her.
“So, what’s going to happen after you write these stories?
” I ask, further trying to understand what’s at stake.
“A promotion,” she responds, playing with her empty shot glass. “I don’t want to be seen as a number who can spit out snappy headlines. I want creative control of my bylines.”
“You want to feel like you can grow with your stories,” I say.
“Exactly.” Lucy looks at me. “I want my stories to say something…and what kind of message am I sending if after years of being single, I’m only happy now that I have a boyfriend?”
“I think you’re putting a lot of pressure on yourself, Lucy,” I say, frowning. “These stories aren’t going to change the trajectory of someone’s personal life.”
“But I should write like they are,” she says, and it shuts me up. “It’s easier for you to say because you’re not putting yourself into your stories, Marsh. Not that what you write isn’t important, it’s so important. But your stories are facts, mine are opinions. That really matters to some people.”
My mind stews on this. I want my stories to matter to people. But the idea of sharing what I really think makes me nervous.
The DJ starts mixing a mash-up that causes Lucy to jump up in her seat and exclaim, “Oh shit, I love this song.” She subtly starts moving her body to the music. “Anyway, all that to say…this arrangement isn’t just for the stories next month. It will hopefully lead to something more. So, thank you.”
I then decide to ask a question that’s been in the back of my mind for the past few days. “Why didn’t you write the stories from memory?”
“Memory of what?” She takes a sip of her martini.
“Memory of your last relationship.”
“Oh.” Lucy lets out a laugh. “That was so long ago.”
To my surprise, I want to understand the details about Lucy’s life. Her dating history, what shows she watches when she’s home alone, who her best friend in sixth grade was. Pretty much everything that’s happened to her that has led to this exact moment being here with me.
“How long ago?” I ask.
“Uh.” Lucy takes another sip of her drink and shuts an eye like she’s thinking. “A few years ago?”
My instinct tells me that Lucy isn’t being entirely honest, but I take a sip of my beer and leave it at that.
The crowd on the dance floor is starting to get increasingly rowdy.
The music is the loudest it’s been since we arrived.
People are moving, kissing, drinking. We’ve reached the point of the night where it feels like we really are at a club in the middle of Los Angeles.
“You look really hot tonight,” Lucy breathes out like she’s admitting she did something bad.
I turn my head to look at her and she’s taking another sip of her drink. What this tells me is that two drinks and one shot into the night, Lucy is very much a lightweight.
“Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”
“It’s hotter that you’re not even aware of it,” she says matter-of-factly. Lucy calling me hot is the last thing I need. “Now this is the part where you say, Oh, thanks, Lucy. You’re pretty hot too.”
I lied. Lucy telling me to tell her she’s hot is the last thing I need.
“Lucy…” I choke out a laugh.
“Wait,” she says, a serious look on her face. Like she doesn’t even remember what she said two seconds prior. “What’s your type?”
This conversation is bordering on dangerous territory. I am not going to encourage it.
“I don’t have a type,” I say.
“Everyone has a type.” She rolls her eyes. “Even if it’s not physically. There’s something that you’re drawn to in every partner that you have.”
I start to think. Before Julia, my relationships weren’t that serious. I wouldn’t count the women I’ve been with since her as relationships either. “I really don’t know. What’s your type?”
“Assholes,” she says. Her answer triggers a small ember inside of me.
I wouldn’t say it’s me feeling protective of Lucy—she’s quite capable of taking care of herself.
But it’s almost…anger? That any guy could be with her and not realize what a fucking gem she is.
Who in their right mind would mistreat Lucy?
“There’s something about me that men are attracted to but that they don’t like,” she continues.
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“I have enough self-awareness to know that I’m not the kind of person you settle down with. I’m the kind of person you have fun with until you find someone who your family will respect. Nobody’s saying Lucy’s such a lovely girl.”
“Because you write about sex?” I ask, not seeing her sentiment at all.
“That,” she responds, “but I’m forward, I’m honest. It feels like too much for people.”
“Not me,” I say and then instantly regret it. Maybe I too have had too much alcohol. But Lucy just smiles and takes another sip of her drink. Then she does something else. Something that I could not have expected.
She starts rubbing her foot against my leg.
“Look at me,” she says. I look at her. I keep eye contact with Lucy, who now has that devilish smile on full display. “Dani’s watching.”
Although I’m aware she’s doing this for my sake, I can’t help but think she’s too good at this.
Trying to focus on anything other than Lucy’s lips, I take in everything around us: the smell of alcohol in the air, the sound of the bass booming through our seats, the people on the dance floor laughing, singing, swaying. All details I’ll make note of and that will help me with my story later.
Then I try to think of how they make me feel.
How does the taste of alcohol stained on my lips make me feel? How does the music blaring through the speakers make me feel? How does Lucy running a hand through her hair, revealing the most sensitive part of her neck, make me feel?
It makes me very aware that I haven’t had sex in over four months.
“Is she still watching?” I ask, my voice low.
“Mhm,” she says, so low I barely hear her. “Let’s dance.”
In an instant, she’s standing up. She has her martini glass in one hand and passes me my beer.
Once I follow suit and grab my drink, she interlocks her fingers with mine and guides me to the dance floor.
We find a spot in the middle of the crowd.
It’s a sensory overload with strobe lights and whiffs of perfume, cologne, and mixed drinks.
People are bumping up against us, and it feels like we just entered a space where there are no more rules.
Like everyone else, we face the direction of the DJ who’s set up on a stage.
There are lights beaming in all directions, and the music is a rush of adrenaline that’s unmatched.
Lucy positions herself in front of me, her hips swaying back and forth and dangerously close to my crotch.
I take another sip of my beer and naturally let myself feel the music the way she is, but I keep my distance.
She stands on her tiptoes, and I lean down so she’s within earshot. “She’s still watching.”
“Yeah?” Frankly, I couldn’t care less about Dani and who else is watching right now.
Lucy leans in closer and puts her hand on my chest. Her touch slowly moves down to my stomach and she frowns, staying there for a moment. She gently pushes into my torso, and I swear to god she bites her lip.
“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” She looks up at me.
I grab her hand and move it off my body. “Are you good, Lucy?”
“I’m great.” She takes a sip of her martini.