Fifteen
“I wasn’t sure what we were going to be doing, but I brought some running shoes just in case.”
Ash’s car always reminds me of a cave. Not one of those creepy damp places where translucent monsters live and you get dripped on the entire time, but somewhere cozy and safe. Warm seats, the bracing October night kept at bay, and Ash’s breathing slow and steady in the dark.
“What did you think we’d be doing?” Ash’s voice rumbles over the engine. “Chasing people through the streets and demanding they tell us about their relationships?”
“I don’t know, Ash, because you’ve been extremely tight-lipped about this week’s excursion.” My tone is flippant, as if it hasn’t been noticeable that Ash has been tight-lipped about everything this week.
“I’m just trying to build a little suspense.” He matches me, measure for measure, and we both ignore the ravine inching wider between us.
“And I’m just trying to be well-prepared.” He’s lucky I didn’t pack a carry-on to account for all possibilities. “My book this past week was about two spies who fell in love. What if you were planning on having us infiltrate a crime ring?”
“A crime ring? In River Haven?”
I lean closer. “I don’t like to gossip, but Brian Poole once said you could buy weed through the Chicken Shack’s drive-through if you ordered a seven-piece, extra crispy.”
He leans in too, and the car defies physics and shrinks a little bit. “I think we’ll just let that one slide.”
I nod, because the spies from my book weren’t busting small-time pot dealers. They were stealing back nuclear codes, kicking ass, yelling (and then kissing), and having an amazing time doing it. I sit up straighter. “A karate class then.”
“Nope,” he says, cracking a smile.
“We’re going to case a bank?”
“Based on the enthusiasm with which you just asked that question, I’m never going into any government buildings with you. My parents travel too much to post my bail within a reasonable time period.”
The joke falls flat, memories of his big, empty house looming between us.
“Don’t worry, my parents will bust us both out.” I want to reach out and touch his arm, but the abrupt way he got off the phone the other night keeps my hands by my sides.
“I thought they wouldn’t accept someone like me.”
The words slice into me, and I hate the stiff set to his mouth. The fake little smile trying to pretend that it’s all a joke, and he doesn’t care. I’m not sure what’s worse—that Josh believes my parents are that judgmental (they’re not), or that he knows they aren’t and said it just to hurt Ash.
I haven’t even been able to write the third letter, and it’s eating me up. Every time I sit down, ready to write about body, the words dry up. Not a single thought about Josh’s beautiful face or the way his kisses used to light me on fire. All I can think about is that angry voice in the hallway. Him telling me that Spencer wasn’t his fault. The way he dropped me like I was nothing, only to turn around and say I still mean something to him.
What do you want, Marlowe?
I keep my voice light. “My parents would love you. Momma would want to talk your ear off about books, and Stu would be thankful that someone else is willing to hear about mushrooms.”
He snorts, his fingers gently tapping the wheel to the quiet strains of music filling the pauses between us. “You know, it’s not the first time I’ve heard that about parents?” He looks over briefly. “About me not being an ideal choice?”
“You mean with Brandon or Rebecca’s parents?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I realize it’s clear how much I’ve paid attention to his love life.
“Not exactly,” he says, letting it slide. “My dad was very similar to Josh when he was younger. Football, prom, court shit.” He waves his hand. “President of his frat, and you can probably assume how surprised he was to have a son like me.”
“I love surprises,” I say, barely loud enough to be heard above the music. I’m lying through my teeth, because surprises are terrible, and I want to know everything at all times. Ash was a surprise, though. A good one. An exception to the rule.
I don’t say anything more because I’m afraid my response will ruin this. I want every scrap he’s willing to share until I have enough clues to piece together the entirety of him.
“Of course, they love me, we just clash,” he says, eyes fixed straight ahead. “It’s not like I need them around, anyway. I’m more than old enough.”
“Need” is a loaded word, but the slope of his mouth sets off alarms that we’ve dipped our toes into this particular pool long enough for tonight.
“Hold on,” I say, unlocking my phone. “Just going to share my location with Odette and Poppy, because it seems like we’re going to encounter murderers tonight, and I want to make sure someone finds my body.”
“It’s laser tag.” The words come out sheepish, and I squint at his profile.
“Laser tag?” I repeat, trying out the words and the idea.
“They’re shooting stuff in the book,” he says, almost defensive. “Plus, it’s still fieldwork, because we can observe all the couples.”
“The couples at the laser tag?”
“It’s BOGO tonight, Marlowe. Plenty of couples show up.”
“Wait,” I say, swallowing down the laughter that is rising dangerously fast. “Not only are we going to laser tag, but we’re going to a laser tag place that you are extremely familiar with?”
“I don’t know if I would say extremely—”
I don’t hold back this time, and my delight rings through the car. “How did you know tonight was BOGO?”
“A lucky guess.”
“You’re on an email list, aren’t you?”
He coughs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Am I interrupting your regularly scheduled laser tag night?” I laugh as his affronted expression grows.
“I stand by my decision that this is a perfectly acceptable place for fieldwork.”
I’m hit with such a jolt of fondness that my stomach aches. “The spy novel was a nice segue.”
He turns and grins at me, his lip ring glinting in the darkness. “Wasn’t it?”
My insides twist again, and everything feels messy and overwhelming. I don’t want to be watching Ash smile at me in a car and immediately thinking about whether he’s hot or wondering if he’d be horrified or ambivalent about accidentally starring in a dream I had last night. It was easier when we were strangers carefully and separately celebrating the small wins of our contract. Now we’re dancing at harvest festivals, watching mushroom documentaries, and I’m not sure what box to put him in anymore.
Sure, Marlowe. We’re friends.
My face burns and I grab for something to squash the tension snapping through this dark, quiet car.
“We need to work on the next letter.” The words leave me in a rush, and I stare straight ahead. We’ve been tiptoeing around the topic of Josh, and Ash has resolutely refused to ask me any more questions about whether or not he’s still reaching out. He’s not, which would be frustrating enough, but it feels like we’re just treading water as the semester continues to slip by. We need to get back on track, otherwise what are we even doing here?
What do you want, Marlowe?
I want to scream, I don’t know! I don’t know what the right choice is! But until I do, I am going to keep going down the path I’ve already committed to.
I see him shift in my periphery, and he finally asks, “Any ideas?”
“No,” I admit. Because it’s true. A wall has come up and bricked over the connection between my heart and my brain. I remember these snapshots of sweet moments with Josh and it’s like watching a movie, like it happened to someone else.
“That’s okay,” he says, and the lack of judgment feels like a hand in the dark. I can’t seem to find the words or moments, and all that’s left are snarled feelings and intrusive thoughts.
“Let’s talk about your book this week, Secrets in the City. What did you like about it?” he asks, breaking through the gloom.
I lean back into the warm leather, grateful for the change in subject. “I liked Agent McGuire. I liked how she moved through the world without hesitation.” I look at him, and he’s nodding. “I liked that she made the other agent earn her time and her love.” I blaze forward, but the devil is in the details, and I don’t know what’s important. “I liked that there was only one tent when they were running for their lives from the Marino Group.” I rush ahead so we don’t linger on that part. “I liked the banter, and how they argued so much at first, but it turned into affection and respect.”
“I’m glad you liked it, Marlowe.” I shiver at my name again.
We pull into the parking lot next to a squat, unassuming building. STATESVILLE LASER TAG blinks across the top in neon lights, and color creeps into the car and washes over us both. “You’re right, this looks like a romantic dream.”
“You laugh, but wait until you see the inside,” he says, getting out of the car.
“The strobe lights? The middle schoolers on first dates?” I step out, following him. “The sexy plastic vests?”
“I’m trying to remember if I liked it more back when you were content to ignore me.” He opens the door to a lobby whose dinginess they tried to disguise with neon paint.
I look up. His words are teasing, but I hate the picture they paint. “I never ignored you.”
He lifts one dark brow. “We went to the same school for over a year, and you never spoke to me until that day in English.” He leans down, his mouth curving. “And then the first time you did, you accused me of trying to slack off.”
I’m locked in place, but he’s right. I had Josh, and Odette and Poppy, so I kept my world small. I made no effort to get to know him when he moved here, and that had been my loss.
“I’m sorry.” He shrugs, but I poke him in the ribs, hard. “You never spoke to me either.”
He laughs, acknowledging the point. “Fine, but I noticed you.”
“Well, maybe I noticed you too.”
He nods once, his faint smile draining the tension out of me. “Okay, Marlowe, if you say so.” He smiles wider at my scowl. “Let’s go in.”
Black lights, fake graffiti, and bored cashiers greet us inside, and we pay and move through the orientation process fast. We’re asked for our player names, and I blurt out “Catherine and Heathcliff” before Ash can say anything. He gives me his exasperated face, so it’s worth it.
Our hard plastic vests are locked in place, and I hold my gun awkwardly as he tightens the straps against his chest.
I frown, looking down at my outfit. “I’m going to be a pretty easy target.” My white T-shirt lights up the area around us. “Look, I’m glowing.”
He tightens his last strap and makes a funny face I can’t read. “I know.” His smile dips sideways. “Don’t worry, Heathcliff, I’ll protect you.”
I pull myself up to my full, and impressive, five feet eleven inches. “I don’t need any help, and why do I have to be Heathcliff?”
“Sorry, too late.” He grins and shoves me into the maze.
I was right about the middle schoolers; kids half our age (and height) jump out from behind walls and run across our path, and I’m shooting wildly at anything that comes near. Ash backs us into a corner and, at some point, squishes me into the wall, trying to hide my Day-Glo shine from our tiny enemies.
I take a deep breath in, the rough denim of his jacket brushing my cheek. “What do you say we make a stand here, Catherine?”
I feel the rumble of his chest more than I can hear it over the loud house music piped in from all around. “Whatever you say.”
I step out from behind him and wince at the embarrassingly high number of hits flashing across my chest. He’s doing a little better, but neither one of us is winning any trophies tonight.
“What do you think?” he yells to be heard over the music. “What were the three things you learned from Secrets in the City?”
“Hmm,” I say, scanning the dark spots of the maze for ambitious players. “I learned that you can stab someone with just about anything if you have a can-do attitude and just believe in yourself.”
He nods. “A valid observation.”
I continue, encouraged. “I also never considered Belgrade to be one of the most romantic backdrops in the world, but I stand corrected.”
He laughs, and I feel fifteen feet taller.
“And lastly…” I say, mulling it over.
He leans in, just as a wiry eighth grader jumps out and shoots him square in the chest before running away.
I smile at the thunderous look on his face, and I know if it weren’t for me, he would be deep in the maze and running after anything that moved. “The last thing I learned was one of Agent McGuire’s favorite lessons.”
His brow furrows as the countdown on his chest blinks until he’s ready to be shot again.
“The last thing I learned is that you always shoot a man when he’s down.” If he’s not going to allow himself to have fun, I’m going to help him along.
Surprise flickers across his face, but he doesn’t register my meaning until my gun comes up between us. The lights flashing across his chest dim, and I fire.
I race into the maze, legs eating up every one of those five seconds before he’s back in play. I zig and zag, bursting through groups of kids, and move into the upper level.
My ankles burn as my loafers slide across the floor, and I regret not putting on my sneakers before coming inside. The burn is good, though. This is how I imagine Agent McGuire feels when she’s racing through rainy Serbian streets to underground poker games or meatpacking plants. I’m in the game this time.
If I were with Josh, I would probably be trailing along after him, helping him by being a lookout, and letting him protect me. I would be on the sidelines, in a place that I carved out for myself. Hobbled by my own hand.
I lean against the wall, wedging myself into a corner, so my beacon of a shirt can’t attract any more attention. I’m out of breath, a little sweaty under my collar, and suddenly angrier than I have any right to be.
Can I even blame Josh for this? That I spent two years determined not to make any waves? That it was so easy to go with the flow, and yes, maybe even let someone tell me what the right decision was. What the best thing to order at the steakhouse was, and how this day we had to do this, and on that day we had to do that. Blah blah blah.
The laughter leaks out, but it’s jagged and harsh.
I let him make me like this.
I slide down the wall, tucked away in my corner, and my breathing slows.
What do you want, Marlowe?
I know I want to be like Agent McGuire. I want to be in charge and to make my own crazy plan. I want to be the main character for once.
I want to figure out what to say to Josh. Body should have been the easiest letter of all, but any attempt to describe the intimacy I used to crave has dried to dust. Disco cats now contains pages of crossed-out snippets where I can’t even imagine kissing him anymore.
I get back on my feet and step out from my corner. The words will come back; they have to. I ignore the anxiety shooting down my limbs like electricity, but the heavy beats of the music amplify it with every chord change. I’m scanning left and right, but Ash is in all black, and a lot better prepared for this than I am. I move quietly along the back wall of the upper level, and dart across a dark hallway.
Ash jumps out, his gun raised, but a kid slides in from behind him and shoots us both before he can pull the trigger. He laughs, but the sound dies when he looks at me.
“The words won’t come,” I say, the words rushing out. “That’s the problem. I’m the problem.”
I’m standing here in a laser tag of all places, and I finally feel it all. I’m simmering with anger and hurt and things I want to rub in Josh’s face, but I’m also trying to win him back so we can deal with all of this together. I don’t have the slightest clue how to navigate this.
“I’m reading all these books, and they’re filling my brain with these passionate declarations, big romantic gestures, and descriptions of kissing that go on for pages, and I’ve got nothing.”
He rolls his eyes. “You could write him three pages about kissing if you wanted to.”
“No, I couldn’t,” I yell, my voice carrying above the beat. The gun hangs limp by my side. “I have writer’s block. Kisser’s block. I tried. There’s nothing there. I don’t know if I even remember it.”
“Come on, Marlowe.”
“I’m serious. I don’t remember the last time we kissed. I don’t remember ever critically thinking about it when it was happening. I didn’t catalogue the feelings or sensation. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt the world just melt away like how they’re describing. My brain is broken. Maybe I’m broken.” That old, familiar fear rises up in the darkness.
“There’s nothing broken about you.”
“Prove it,” I say. The words are a plea, dug up deep from the most scared parts of me.
“I am. We’re here. We’re working on it.”
“No, help me prove I can feel it. I want to feel it.” I step forward, the solution crystallizing. “Kiss me.”
He steps back, and it takes him a minute to formulate a response. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
“Ash, it’s not like I have poor hygiene or anything. Ten seconds tops.” My brain latches on to the idea like a life raft.
“No.” His face is stony, betraying nothing.
“This is fieldwork! Help me make some real-time observations!”
He starts walking away, and I panic.
“Please.”
He stops, and I keep talking.
“I don’t know if I’m blocked, or angry, or not built for this, but I need you to help me answer that. Right now.”
He turns, and his eyes look nearly black. They slide over my face, but I don’t waver, and I can see the moment he decides.
He drops his gun, and it swings limply by his knees. His chest is rising rapidly with every breath. “I’m not going to kiss you just so you can think of him the entire time.”
My watch vibrates, letting me know my heart rate has tripped up into an alarming range. I can hear my pulse roaring in my ears as his words sink in. The ones that suggest his only objection would be me thinking about Josh.
“I won’t be thinking about Josh,” I say, the words sticking in my throat. “I know who I’m asking.”
He takes two careful steps toward me, and I already feel like I’ve lost control of the situation. “It’ll be an experiment of sorts.”
He closes the distance between us, and his heat wraps around me. I’m already cataloguing what I need to keep track of. Heads, hands, noses, his chest, my chest, locating lips, tongue. Do I go right or left? Do I start this?
All of my prior confidence abandons me, but I find one last sliver to look up. His expression is unreadable, and his pupils are so blown out I could fall into them and drown. “How do you feel about tongue?” I murmur as he leans down.
“Jesus Christ.” He looks at the ceiling, his throat bobbing.
“Ash, I’m trying to organize this moment to be as convenient to you as possible.”
My brain stutters as he yanks on my vest, and I’m pulled into his personal space. The hard plastic of our vests clacks together, the air is close and warm, and he’s approximately three inches from my face. My order of operations and list of romantic-but-poetic adjectives are exhaled along with my last brain cell.
His hands tangle in my hair, and his breath skates across my jaw before the soft press of his lips and the cold bite of his lip ring shove me back into reality.
He moves, and I want to hit pause because I’m being swept along on a current, but also never stop because I am built for this.
My back is pressed against the wall, and I briefly slip beyond the laws of physics. Am I still on the ground? Am I still in a laser tag maze? The only things I can keep track of are hands, teeth, and Ash’s lips and blinking vest lighting up my world.
The words slip through me like water and when I bite down and swallow the little groan that bubbles out of him, I stop caring.
What do you want, Marlowe?
I don’t know. I am too many big feelings, but right now the focus of all that is targeted at the boy panting against my mouth in the dark.
I barely register when he pulls back, but the pressure of his forehead against mine brings me back to the ground. His hands stay buried in the straps of my vest, anchoring me in place.
I’m still on fire. I want to drive to Odette’s door and yell, “Fine, Ash is hot, and I hope you’re happy.”
Then I want to drive home and write every single second of this kiss down so I can remember it, reference it, and analyze it.
It helped. I remember the moves, the cadence of it all, but it also wasn’t the same.
Josh and I had a well-worn path. A familiar route that we moved along to the inevitable in the back of his truck or his basement game room. It was familiar, it was the same, and I was fine with it, because it made me feel close to someone.
This kiss was like a free fall that gave no hint of the crash ahead. I am wrecked, and I have no idea what to say to the sort-of friend that let you put your tongue in his mouth in the service of helping you win back another guy.
I lean back and paste on a lopsided smile. “Thank you,” I say, as if I’m not rattled to my core.
He shakes his head, and I would give all the cash in my possession to read his thoughts.
He nudges me toward the exit, and I keep looking back, hoping for a sign or a hint to let me know that wasn’t the worst thing to have ever happened to him. The second time I trip, he grips one of my vest straps and pulls me in closer. When he finally speaks, he’s laughing a little.
“You’re welcome.”