Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [143]
It kind of reminded me of a few years back, when Marin was getting christened and Bethany asked me to be her godmother. I told her I couldn't do it because I was an atheist and it would be totally hypocritical for me to stand up there and pretend that I would raise Marin as a child of God.
But this time I said yes before I let my mind get the better of my heart.
I'm not saying that this news has totally transformed my notion of marriage. It makes no sense for them to get engaged so young, especially when they've got more than a year of school left. It makes no sense at all. But I just am so happy for Bridget and Percy that I want their commitment to make perfect sense. I want to believe in forever and destiny and, most of all, love.
They make me believe in love.
the twenty-fifth
In my younger days, I would have begun this entry with a string of exclamation points. But I'm too old for that sort of thing now.
Unfortunately, now that I'm stripped of this youthful shorthand, I'm finding it impossible to express what I'm feeling.
Oh, fuck it.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
There's only one event that could make me so willing to regress. And that's what happened on this holy holiday:
The one-man phenomenon called Marcus Flutie returned to me.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, when I opened the door.
He was dressed in a wool cap, jeans, a black hand-knit sweater, and his old pea coat. He looked, remarkably, like a lot of twentysomething guys. No shirt-jacket-and-tie-goody-goody Honors uniform. No snarky or days-of-the-week T-shirts. No Buddhist pajamas. No gay cowboy chaps. The outfit was refreshing because it signified absolutely nothing.
And as bizarre as it sounds after his two years of absence, the sight of him under my parents' portico, one he'd never before stood beneath, didn't seem strange at all. It felt as if all the times I had opened the door to someone else were the aberrations. This—him—was the norm. He was always supposed to be there.
“Merry Christmas?” he repeated, this time more of a question.
He was beautiful. Glowing from within, a human luminaria on my doorstep. Whatever he's been looking for all these years, he must have found it. Lucky him. But his hands jingle-jangled in his pockets, betraying a nervousness that reminded me of something rather important: I shouldn't be so happy to see him.
“In or out, Jessie!” my dad shouted from the living room.
Was I in? Or was I out?
I sprung open the coat closet, grabbed my parka, and shouted back, “I'm out!”
I could hear my mother asking, “With who?” as I slammed the door behind me.
We walked toward the Caddie, which was parked by the curb. I shook my head in disbelief. Who would have thought this fossil burner would outlast our relationship? I tugged the stubborn door handle, then slipped into the passenger side. The springs under the leather creaked under my weight. Marcus slid behind the wheel, smiling to himself as he turned the key into the ignition. As the engine sputtered to life, and hot air blasted from the dashboard, I realized that I still hadn't said a word to him.
“MERRY CHRISTMAS,” I shouted over the noise from the heater. This made Marcus laugh. His was a genuine laugh, full and deep in the belly, one that sounded exactly as I had remembered. Hearing it made me laugh, too, even though I wasn't sure why.
“I thought you were supposed to stay in the desert until next spring,” I said.
“I decided to leave early,” he replied. “I learned all I needed to learn.”
“So the whole silent meditation Buddhist thing, you're over that?”
“Well, clearly,” he said. “I'm talking to you, aren't I?”
“Are you?” I asked, with a little edge to my voice.
“I am,” he said. I turned to the window to avoid his laserlike gaze. My parents were gawking from the front door. We were still idling in the street, and I resisted the urge to ask him to take me away.
“And you're through with being a lonely cowboy?”
You'll notice how I replaced “gay” with