Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [145]
Because I had no idea what to say next, I blurted out what is, quite possibly, the least appropriate thing I could say.
“I slept with Len!”
Despite his Zen leanings, I guess I expected Marcus to react with some measure of surprise. But I didn't get that satisfaction.
“Good for both of you,” was all he said, but it wasn't with a trace of bitterness. He said it like he meant it, and his face meant it, too.
I huffed beside him in my seat. “That's all you have to say?!”
He sighed before gingerly cupping my chin with his chapped hands. “Isn't this what got us in trouble before?”
He was right. Hadn't I learned anything in two years? Or, more to the point, was this a warning sign that Marcus and I were fated to repeat the same mistakes over and over and over again?
I recoiled from his touch. I wasn't ready for this. Not at all.
“It's exactly what got us in trouble before.”
And without another word, I yanked on the door handle and left him and the toilet seat cover in the car.
Marcus idled in the road for a few minutes before slowly pulling out and into the frigid darkness. I know this because I watched him from my unlit bedroom window. I guess I wasn't quite ready to take my eyes off him.
the twenty-sixth
Last night I was kept awake by questions:
Why Marcus?
Why did I get over Kieran so quickly? Why am I not mad for Len, who is as smart and sensitive as Kieran pretended to be? Why am I not still pining for Scotty, the first boy to kiss me? Or William, whose death promises that there will never be a cathartic resolution to what could have been? Or Bastian, who might have loved me like a real man—if only for one night? Or Cal, whom I'd all but forgotten until I saw him at the anniversary party? Why not any other man whose life has overlapped mine?
Why Marcus?
Why?
The answer to all these questions was waiting for me in the mailbox this afternoon. A postcard from the National Organization of Women. On the back, one more word.
Jessica—
NOW
—Marcus
the twenty-seventh
Not long after “right now,” Marcus and I shared the most sublime sex of our lives. It was utterly transcendent and confused the senses. I tasted his sighs. I was tickled by the salt in his sweat. I saw every microscopic cell in our one united body expanding and contracting in pleasure.
“Are you happy?” he asked.
“Yes,” I whispered. “Yes. Yes.”
“I love hearing you say that.”
“I love you.”
I have only said these words to Marcus. And I almost got sad, trying to remember the last time I uttered them. But before I gave in to regret, I reached up and grabbed the leather string he was wearing around his neck. On it hung several totems—a piece of soapstone carved in the shape of a horse, a Native American arrowhead, a small silver ring. I inspected the last closely, and read aloud the words I knew were etched on the outside: My thoughts create my world.
“How did you know that I'd take you back after all this time?” I asked, sticking my middle finger through the ring and caressing the delicate flesh at the base of his throat. “When I didn't know it myself until after I saw you?”
“I had to take that chance,” he said, the words vibrating through his skin and buzzing my fingertip. “The only way our relationship would be worth having is if you knew what you were missing without it.”
When he said that, I was reminded of that time I came home for Christmas break and my mom had put my most treasured possessions in storage. I remember her, then me, questioning their importance. If they were really that significant, I would have brought them with me to school, right? I remembered poring over these items—the “Fall” poem on its deeply creased piece of notebook paper, the mosaic portrait Hope gave me right before she moved—wondering why I had left them behind, and wondering if the relationships that these things represented would be in better shape if I hadn't. But I realize now that if I had brought those things with me, if I had surrounded