Chapter 14 Lucy
Lucy
Marsh lives in the middle of Mar Vista on a quaint street lined with palm trees.
His house is a modest size, although any sized single-family home in Los Angeles is more than impressive.
His home, along with the others on his block, is Spanish style with arched doorways, a terra-cotta roof, and earth-toned exteriors.
Before heading inside, I pull down the car visor and do a quick pass at myself in the mirror. I don’t have much makeup on. My hair is a little frizzier than usual, but I don’t feel like I have to try with Marsh. I pull my cardigan tighter around me and ring the doorbell.
“Hey,” Marsh says as he opens the door, welcoming me in. I’m instantly greeted by the smell of santal and an indie-folk playlist in the background. His calm demeanor makes this a little more normal. Not that I thought this was anything more than just friends hanging out.
Marsh’s home is charming and intentional.
The bungalow holds respect for the craftsmanship of the twenties.
Saltillo tiles, a fireplace to the right, a small dining area, and a kitchen and hallway around the corner.
Manifested into his home, the whole motif is light and woodsy, yet the artwork displayed on the walls and the vintage record player in the corner tell me he’s not a minimalist. There’s clearly a style he possesses, which I’ve noticed from the clothes he wears.
Marsh can be wearing a basic flannel but layered over a T-shirt of the finest cotton, I’m sure.
I take off my shoes and follow Marsh toward the kitchen.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks. There’s already a setup of brioche bread, cheese, onions, spinach, and a few spices.
“I’ll just have water, please,” I say.
Marsh pours a glass of water and when he hands it to me, our fingertips gently graze. I’ve written articles about the best foreplay tactics, how to turn someone on without touching them—you name it, I’ve written it. But pouring a glass of water was never something I found erotic.
What’s happening to me?
“Are you hungry now?” Marsh asks. “I can get this ready in the next ten minutes.”
“Sure,” I say.
“Hey.” He takes a step closer to me and my breath hitches. “Is everything okay?”
“Hmm?” I frown. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know.” He steps back. “You just seem…off.”
I swallow. How can Marsh be this intuitive?
“It’s just nice you’re cooking dinner,” I say awkwardly.
He makes a face. “I wouldn’t really call this cooking.”
“Tell that to a guy I dated who thought ‘making me breakfast’ meant pouring me a bowl of cereal.”
Marsh frowns and his eyes travel across my face. I wish I was able to read him the way he can me.
“Well.” He inhales. “At least the bar is low.”
I let out a laugh. “Very low.”
There’s a split second where Marsh’s gaze lands on my mouth. He subtly licks his lips, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
“So.” He turns and heats up one of the burners. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Didn’t we already get the awkward conversation about last night out of the way?”
“Not that,” he says. “The story I’m working on.”
“Oh yeah.” I perk up, relieved. “What about it?”
“I read the notes that you shared from Christina Logan’s interview. They were insightful. How you practically dissected her thoughts and how it must feel for the woman to hold the power in the relationship.”
I don’t think I’ve shared my notes with anyone since the early days in my career. Nowadays, I have my process locked down and I share only my final product. To hear Marsh compliment the in-between portion of the journey feels highly vulnerable but also satisfying.
“I’m glad I was able to help,” I say.
“I’d like to use you as an expert on the story,” he says. “If you’re interested.”
Is he serious?
“Are you serious?” I stammer.
“Very much.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because you’re valuable,” he says like he knew this question was coming.
“You’re a woman who objectively knows more about sex than the average person.
You understand this world—having to use your body, your looks, your sexuality as a tool to move forward and be someone.
You’re a strong writer and this story can benefit from a woman’s POV,” he says.
“And I think when it comes to this story, I can learn a lot from you.”
This is the most serious I’ve seen Marsh, and he’s serious probably ninety-six percent of the time.
Saying what he just said, asking for what he’s asking, isn’t easy.
In this industry, it’s hard to find a man admitting he can’t do all the things a woman can.
Once, I had a male editor tell me that he could’ve written my G-spot story better than I could have. I wish I was joking.
“Wow, thank you, Marsh. You’re right, a lot of stories would benefit from a female perspective,” I say. “So, what do you need from me?”
“I would do an interview with you, you’d give your perspective on the case, escort services in general, and I can use any of your quotes in the story.”
Suddenly this feels a lot more real. An expert credit on a story published in The Journal. With a credit like that, this could only help my case for a promotion.
“You trust me to be an expert on a feature?” I ask, making sure that I’m not dreaming this.
Marsh nods. “There is no ulterior motive, no catch. I think that between the two of us, we can make this story the best it can be, and isn’t that all that matters?”
“Wait, does this change anything about our arrangement?” As much as I want to help Marsh with this story, I still absolutely need to complete my stories, and I need him.
“The only thing that would change is we’d probably be spending more time together,” Marsh says.
I wince. “Well, in that case…”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“I’ve been told I can tell a joke.” I throw his line from earlier back at him, and he just lets out this infectious smile, causing me to beam in response. “I’d be honored to help,” I say. “Thanks, Marsh.”
“Thank you.” Marsh tips his head and then places a hand over the pan, gauging the heat. “How are your stories going?”
I lean against the counter next to him and watch him slice into a brioche bun. “They’re doing great, actually. I think the plan is working.”
“You’re a genius.”
“I was thinking on the drive here about the next story. I was going to run it by you once it was solidified, but it’s inspired by last night.”
Marsh looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Not the dirty dancing or anything.” My response is almost immediate. “But the idea of owning up to your mistakes, admitting when you’re wrong. It’s not something that I’ve experienced a lot.”
“Really?”
“Like the fact that both of us apologized and we had a mature conversation about it?” I ponder. “That feels like the foundation of a healthy relationship.”
Marsh places two brioche slices face up and sprinkles a healthy amount of cheese on the bare side of the bread. “I think that’s a great idea.”
“Okay, amazing. I’ll start writing it.”
“Speaking of open communication,” Marsh starts, “I feel like you know a lot about my past relationship, and I don’t know anything about yours.”
I was able to avoid this conversation in-depth last night, mostly because this topic is always off-limits with guys I go on dates with. But whatever boundaries I’ve given myself don’t adhere when I’m with Marsh.
I exhale. “This is going to sound awful.”
“I don’t think it gets worse than asking someone to be your fake girlfriend to go to your ex’s wedding.”
“I’m not very good at monogamy,” I admit. “Or commitment…or relationships. I’ve actually never been in a serious relationship.”
Saying it out loud makes me wonder how Marsh sees me. Do I seem like someone cold and deceiving like my father? Or do I seem like someone weak and scared like my mother? I’ve worked so hard to not be either of them.
“Are you not good at those things?” Marsh asks. “Or you just don’t want those things?”
“I don’t want those things,” I admit, and relief floods me saying it so openly. “The way I see it…why would I chase something that will just lead to heartbreak?”
I watch Marsh cut up an onion into the tiniest pieces and mix it in with some kind of sauce he made. “Some people might say it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all,” he says.
I think of my parents. The hurt they’ve inflicted on each other. The sacrifice they made to stay in a loveless marriage.
“Are you one of those people?” I ask.
Marsh’s gaze stays on mine for a moment and then it cuts back down to his knife. “I think you’re smarter than all of us.” He slices another bun. “By not chasing love.”
I play with the rings on my finger, spinning them around. “What even is love anyway?” I say rhetorically, almost comically. Marsh sets his knife down and looks at me. Really looks at me.
“I thought I knew.” He flips the bread and cheese on the pan. The other side reveals a crisp golden-brown texture. “I don’t know shit.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Well.” He reaches for his glass of water on the counter. “Here’s to not chasing love.”
A light sensation settles in my chest and I laugh, clinking my water to his. “And not knowing shit.”
We both take a sip and he brings his attention back to the stove. “Is there anything you wish you could’ve experienced about having a boyfriend?” He says the word like he just said Santa Claus.
“You know…there is,” I say, surprised how easily an answer comes to mind. “I’ve never gotten to say my ex.”
“Your ex?” Marsh frowns. He takes the finished grilled cheese off the pan with a spatula and places it on the cutting board. I watch the cheesy goodness ooze out, and my mouth starts to water.
“Yeah, like the saying,” I clarify. “People always refer to their exes and I’ve never done that, because I don’t have an ex.”
Marsh lets out a laugh. He removes the second grilled cheese, placing it on the cutting board and slicing it in half. “Seriously? That’s what you’re missing out on?”
“I’d just like to be able to use the term if I ever need to.”