Chapter 35 Lucy
Lucy
“Oh my god,” I say clutching my phone, my eyes still glued to my screen. “Oh my god.”
“It’s making its rounds,” Jonah says. “It’s already the most clicked-on article of The Journal in the past year and it’s only been up for an hour.”
“I need to talk to him,” I say, pure shock in my face.
I cannot believe Marsh wrote this. He not only wrote a vulnerable, honest story, he revealed the truth to the world.
I think of his brother reading this article, his mother, even Julia.
The ripple effects this story will have on his life.
How his rug-burned ego is having to deal with the aftermath of this story alone. “I have to see him.” I stand up.
“What are you going to say?” he asks.
“I-I have no idea, but I need to see him.” I rush back to the elevator that I was in a mere thirty minutes ago and go back to the fourth floor. “I’ll call you back,” I say before I hang up the phone.
I make a sharp right and speed walk to Marsh’s office, past the people, the sound of printers, chatter, and typing. But I stop dead in my tracks when I see a woman on the phone sitting in Marsh’s chair. I look at the nameplate and see the name Sandra Choi.
“Wh—” I spin on my heel and look around, confused.
Maybe I have the wrong office. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve been over here.
Maybe Marsh moved. I go to the person whose desk is right across from Marsh’s old office.
“Excuse me,” I say, and the man looks up at me.
“Can you please tell me where Marsh sits?”
The man frowns. “Marshall Oakley?”
“Yeah,” I breathe out. “Did he move desks?”
“I don’t think he works here anymore.”
“What?” My face collapses. “What do you mean? Since when?”
“I think he left a week or so ago?”
“A week ag—” I try to process this information. “Where did he go?”
“I don’t know…” the guy says and then asks someone else in the bullpen. “Hey, is Marshall Oakley still here?”
The woman takes off her earphones. “Yeah, but he’s on a leave of absence. I think he’s going on vacation.”
“Vacation?” I say, confused. Marsh doesn’t take vacations.
Then a guy I vaguely remember meeting once comes walking by with a coffee. “Hey! Lucy, right? How’s it going?”
“Where’s Marsh?” I huff.
“Oh, uh.” The corners of his mouth twist at my abruptness. “He’s on vacation.”
“Where on vacation?”
“I think he’s going to Thailand or something?” he says. “He’ll be back next month.”
“Next month?!” I cry. I don’t think I can go that long without talking to Marsh.
A month may as well be a lifetime because I need to see him now.
I need to look into his eyes, tell him that I’m so unbelievably proud of him for putting himself out there and writing that piece.
I want to tell him that he’s not alone. I want to tell him that I miss him. I want to tell him so many things.
I walk away speechless. It’s been a minute since Marsh and I spoke, and while some days feel like a lifetime, it also feels like no time at all.
I think there was some kind of comfort in knowing that while we were no longer talking, he was a couple floors below me.
That we were still orbiting each other’s circle and maybe, just maybe, we could run into each other again.
The possibility was always in the back of my mind.
Now weeks will go by where that distance between us will grow stronger with each day.
Turning a corner, I pull out my phone and call Marsh.
Before I even have a chance to anxiously await his answer, it goes straight to voicemail.
I try again. Straight to voicemail. My eyes begin to swell.
I can’t help but think this is some kind of sign.
A sign that I should leave it and just move on.
I don’t have an appetite for anything, really. I pick at a few items in my kitchen—chips, a granola bar. That’s it. I sit on my couch and pull up Marsh’s opinion piece again. Each time I read the headline I tell myself to just let it go. But here I am, reading it for the fifth time today.
I briefly scan the comments section that has more comments than I’ve ever seen on any Rue article:
he got what was coming to him. his ex is better off now. good luck to her and her new husband.
Why was he even invited to the wedding? It’s so obvious she was trying to rub it in his face.
WHO IS THE GIRL AND HOW DO WE REUNITE THEM?!?!?
All day I’ve been teetering on the idea of messaging Marsh, a simple check-in.
I typed and then deleted a few text messages.
One saying I read the article and asking if he’s okay.
Another saying that I hope he’s enjoying his well-deserved trip.
No matter what I write I already know I won’t get a response.
Why would Marsh respond to me? He told me how much he cares about me, how he wanted to be with me—and I responded by leaving him.
Yes, we both said things that were intentionally hurtful.
Maybe I should be mad about that, but I’m not.
I’m grateful for our verbal sparring. It shows me that we’re tender and real… we’re human.
While I’m continuing to work through my feelings in therapy, the fact of the matter is that without Marsh, I’m empty.
I try to think of someone who has even come close to filling me the way Marsh does, and I hit a wall.
I can’t think of anyone because there is no one…
There’s nobody I ever allowed to see all the sides of me that Marsh has. There’s nobody but him.
I reread the article again.
The one person that mattered to me is gone, so I’ll at least try to put myself first for once.
I stand up and rummage through my kitchen counter drawer. I sift through old receipts, greeting cards I’ve hoarded for years, photos, and pens and highlighters. Finally, I find a blank sheet of paper and sit at my kitchen table.
I write until my hand starts to cramp and then turn the page and continue writing some more.
It’s been a while since I’ve written by hand.
My stream of consciousness flows out of me and I write exactly how I feel in this moment.
How I’ve been feeling the past few weeks, how I feel about my career, and how Marsh’s article made me feel.
When I’m done, I stare at the sheet of paper, front and back, surprised at how much I was able to get out.
I fold it and consider throwing it in the garbage can and setting it on fire.
I debate hiding it deep in the back of my drawer never to be found again. Instead, I stand up and grab my keys.
In no time at all I’m in my car and driving down Venice Boulevard.
I’m wearing my flannel pajama pants, an old sweatshirt, and a pair of running shoes, but I don’t care.
I carefully speed through LA traffic until I’m in front of a house that feels like an old friend.
The driveway is empty, and my heart begins to thunder just wishing Marsh was home.
My hands tremble as I turn off the engine, putting the parking brake on.
I think I might throw up. It’s that feeling you get as a child when you stand up in front of the whole class for a presentation.
Step by step, my feet cross the damp road from an earlier rainstorm that’s now glistening underneath the streetlights.
When I get to the front porch, I grip the paper in my hand.
I don’t know what’s going to happen in a month from now.
Where my head will be at, where Marsh’s head will be at.
He could come back from his trip and have found someone new, someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with.
In a month from now I could come to the decision that I don’t need to say anything to Marsh.
It’s apparent anything can happen in a month’s time.
But today, I need to say something to him. I want him to know that today, I care.
Analyzing the space between his front door and the floor, I wonder if I can slide my sheet of paper underneath, but it’s sealed.
I look around and wonder if there’s a spot safe enough for me to put it in for the next few weeks.
My gaze falls to my feet, and I consider the welcome mat—the dense fiber that looks water resistant.
Then I realize he may never look under there.
Finally, I clock the steel mounted mailbox to the side of the door.
I flip open the lid and see that there are already a few letters and some junk mail inside.
I figure I might be able to place my note in between some of the mail or maybe wrap it around one of his bills to assure he finds it.
“Lucy?” The voice behind me causes me to freeze, hands inside the mailbox. “What are you doing?”
Slowly, I turn around and see Marsh at the end of his driveway.
“Uh,” I stammer.
He squints. “Are you going through my mail?”
“No!” I immediately pull my hands out of his mailbox.
“I mean, yes. But it’s not what you think.
” I shove the letter into the pocket of my sweatshirt and register that Marsh is in front of me.
God, it’s been so long and yet it’s like no time has passed.
He’s wearing a black Henley with beige pants and a pair of sneakers.
His hair looks a little longer than it did at the wedding and he let his facial hair grow out more than usual. And of course, his signature glasses.
I already feel like a wilted flower coming back to life.
“I…I thought you were in Thailand.”
There’s a puzzled look on Marsh’s face, but his gaze sticks to mine like a magnet. “I leave tomorrow night.” He takes a step forward. “What are you doing here?”