Chapter 13 Lucy #2
“Next in line!” the woman at the open cash register calls out.
“Ugh, sorry.” I look at him and he politely takes a step to the side.
After paying, we push our way through the crowd that now feels even more claustrophobic than the club last night.
“I’m so sorry about that,” I exhale once we’re outside. “What were you saying?”
Marsh wipes a palm over his face and then shoves it in his pocket. “I don’t think the way I acted was appropriate.”
“The way you acted?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” he says as we start to walk aimlessly.
“I was thinking about it and I feel bad that you were put in a situation with Dani and felt like you had to put on a show for her. That was not a part of the plan. Everything was happening so fast, and I don’t know…
” He sighs. “I don’t like how our conversation ended. ”
I’m genuinely stumped. Is Marsh here taking responsibility for something that’s not his fault? Is he doing this because this is how the night truly played out in his eyes? Like I was put in an impossible position and forced to act like his girlfriend? Is this what emotional maturity looks like?
“Last night was absolutely not your fault,” I practically snap. “I feel like I put you in a tough position. I got ahead of myself. We were having fun, and I was enjoying your company, and you looked hot,” I stress. “I’m just…I’m sorry I put you in a position you didn’t want to be in.”
“You think I looked hot last night?”
“I mean, you did. It’s not subjective. It’s a fact…you are hot,” I say, and he has a pensive look on his face. “What? Should I not be saying that? Oh god, I don’t mean it in a harassing way. I’m just—”
“No, you told me that last night. I just thought…I just thought you were drunk.”
“I kind of was.” I let out a weak laugh. “But I remember. And I meant it.”
“You didn’t put me in a position that I didn’t want to be in, Lucy.”
“But you were right,” I counter. “There was a line that was crossed. We always agreed we would be somewhat professional, given what we’re doing here. So, all that’s to say, please accept my apology.”
“Apology accepted,” Marsh says. “Can you please accept mine?”
I smile. “Accepted.”
“We don’t have to talk about it again,” Marsh says. “But just so you know…I didn’t stop anything because I didn’t want anything to happen. I stopped it because if we kept going, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”
His words are meant to be respectful. Explanatory. The way he says it is in the most gentlemanly way possible. But all I heard was that he would want nothing more than to have bent me over in the bathroom stall screaming his name.
His words do the opposite of what I’m sure he’s intending, and now all I want to know is just how far we could have gone.
“So.” I force myself to change the subject. “What are you wearing to the wedding?”
“Probably some kind of suit,” Marsh says, unfazed by the new topic.
“Must be nice being a guy.”
“You don’t have to buy anything new,” he says. “I’m sure whatever you already have is perfect. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“See, but I have this really bad habit where I actually want an excuse to go shopping, Marsh.”
“Noted,” he says. “Okay, well, I’m buying it.”
I scoff. “Why would you buy it?”
“Because it’s for the wedding that I invited you to,” he says like it’s a logical answer.
I stand there, trying to understand his logic. “So?”
“So, I don’t want you to have to buy anything on my behalf.”
Oh, he’s dead serious.
“Okay, Richard Gere.” I laugh as we continue to walk down the cobblestone pathway. “You’re not buying me clothes.”
“I’m only slightly offended you just called me Richard Gere,” he says. “Pretty Woman is a classic.”
“I just want your opinion, but this dress is for me. Okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Marsh nods as we turn in to a store that catches my eye.
I walk toward the display of the new arrivals and sift through the different summer dresses.
When it comes to fashion trends, this wedding couldn’t have come at a better time.
I pull a few dresses off the rack and throw them over my arm.
I notice Marsh trailing behind me, eyeing the other clothes in the store.
I turn to him. “What else have you been working on?”
“Another murder case,” Marsh says, now somber. “A father in South LA.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
Marsh dismissively shakes his head. “It’s all part of the job.”
The news department at The Journal is vast. They cover topics from politics to technology, global news, sports, business, education, climate—the list goes on.
Like myself, most writers have an expertise, a specific column they work on.
What I’ve learned about Marsh through conversation and reading his bylines is that he covers all topics, and usually the ones that have the most visibility.
A store employee approaches me to start a fitting room, and I hand over my selection of dresses to her and wave for Marsh to follow us.
“I’ll be a second, okay?” I touch the side of Marsh’s arm and hold my breath at the feeling of his biceps.
“Sounds good.” He takes a seat.
As I scan the dresses in front of me, I’m not sure why I feel nervous. It’s just Marsh. Marsh is a co-worker, who’s now my friend. The way he looked at me at the club and the chemistry we share is completely inconsequential. Last night is behind us.
I choose the first dress, an ankle-length silk slip dress with thin straps. It’s a soft olive color with golden flowers all around it. The dress falls effortlessly on me and feels just like butter. I toss my hair behind my shoulders and adore how it complements my tan skin.
I take a deep breath in and open the curtain, stepping out into the light.
Marsh is comfortably leaning back on the love seat, but when he sees me, there’s a look on his face very similar to the one from last night.
“Wow,” is all he says.
“You like it?” I spin around so he can see the back. I catch a sharp inhale through his nose.
“I mean, I hope the wow didn’t sound like I didn’t like it?”
“Just checking,” I say.
“You look beautiful—I mean, the dress looks beautiful,” he amends. “You should get that one.”