Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [144]
“I'm over it,” he replied. “It was a phase. One I needed to go through to get away from my other . . .” He placed his hands on top of his head, as if to reach in and pull out the answer. “Less healthy phases.”
Should I be so surprised that Marcus needed to disappear for a while so he could get his head together? Haven't I also dropped out of my own life on occasion? And others' lives—like Hope's—when I didn't feel like I could live up to what I thought she deserved as a person? As a friend?
And yet, I couldn't bring myself to be quite so forgiving.
“A phase,” I said archly, wringing my cold hands together. “I never thought that Marcus Flutie would still need to go through a phase.”
“Well, when you think of it, isn't everything a phase?” he asked.
“How so?” I asked, unwilling to let on how I'd come to a similar conclusion in his absence.
He pulled off his wool cap, then stuck his long, roughened fingers into the twisted, matted clumps coming out of his scalp. His hair was a dark, dirty red, and back to the dreadlocks he had when we first met. I guessed this had less to do with fashion than it did with a lack of hair-grooming products out in the desert.
“Nothing lasts forever, so everything is a phase,” he said. “Some phases are just longer than others.”
As casually as possible, I flicked the palm tree deodorizer still hanging from the rearview. “So what phase are you in right now?”
“A friendship phase.”
I let this sink in before responding.
“You think we can be friends?” I asked. “We've never been friends.”
After a slow start, I was gaining momentum. He's come back because he wants to be friends. Well, isn't that convenient for him? Coming and going whenever and however he pleases, defining our relationship on his own terms, leaving me fucked up and confused for years. . . .
I suddenly had a lot to get out of my system.
“A friend, dear Marcus, would have had the decency to officially break up with me. A friend wouldn't pull what you did with those postcards.” Between the heater and the intensity of my feelings, I was boiling. “What was that all about anyway? I mean, really. If you had something to say to me, why didn't you just say it? Or write a real letter or e-mail like a normal person would?” I had imagined giving this speech so many times that the words flew out fluidly. “Don't you think you're getting a little old for these antics? Like, it's not enough for you to take a break from our relationship, you have to go on a yearlong silent meditation. And it's not enough for you to give yourself some space, you have to go to goddamn Death Valley. Next thing you know, you'll decide it's not enough to take a vow of celibacy, you'll have to castrate yourself with a ceremonial sword carved out of strawberry Jell-O!”
This made him laugh, even though I hadn't envisioned a humorous reaction.
“I mean it, Marcus,” I snapped. “It was cute and mysterious in high school, but now, now it's just . . .”
As I floundered for the right word, Marcus filled in with one of his own.
“Sorry,” he said.
“It is sorry,” I said.
“No, I'm sorry,” he corrected. “I am who I am and I did what I did. I hope we can be friends again, which is why I'm here now. That's all I can say.”
Then he reached around and grabbed a roundish package wrapped in red tissue paper that was sitting on the floor in the backseat. He handed it over to me, and the gift sat heavy in my lap.
“Open it,” he urged, a hopeful expression on his face.
After a second or two of quiet contemplation, I dug my nails into the paper. And as I removed the wrapping, I couldn't quite believe what I held in my hands. Not even after I saw the blue jumpsuited image of the Showman of Our Time in all his decoupaged glory.
“Remember?” he asked.
Yes, I remembered. How could I forget the Barry Manilow toilet seat from three summers ago? This was precisely the kind of theatrics I was just talking about! A bizillion questions bounced off my brain: Who the hell does he think he is? What gives him the right to pull this sort of stunt on me? When