Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [83]
I thought about that girl Sierra, the one we bumped into at the park last summer, and how Marcus practically crawled out of his own skin trying to escape. I had been too upset to care about his discomfort.
She continued. “There were only two reasons why he ever returned to Pineville. His love for us, and his love for you.”
“And we told him to get the hell outta Dodge!” Mr. Flutie shouted.
I stared at the chair on which we had once made love.
“And I . . . wasn't enough,” I said softly.
Mrs. Flutie let go of my shoulder and lifted my chin with her hand so we could see eye to eye.
“I'm telling you this because I like you so much, Jessica,” she said with a sad smile. “I'm telling you this as a parent who loves her sons more than life itself.”
Mr. Flutie stayed strangely still and quiet.
“You need to let Marcus go and move on,” she said. “You are not the source of his problems. And he shouldn't be the source of yours.”
She said some more stuff after that, but it was all just different versions of the same message. One that I needed to hear, I guess. One that I would have heard months ago, if I had bothered to listen.
the thirtieth
When I called to tell him that I'd be returning to the city today, he insisted on meeting me at the bus station. My heart swelled when I saw him waiting for me under the neon blue Hudson News sign, and nearly burst when he pressed his lips to one of my cheeks, then the other, as is customary in his country. His hair hung loose, and it seductively caressed my neck when he leaned in, and again as he pulled back.
“Is it safe, kissing you?” Bastian asked.
“Uh . . .” I hadn't expected us to pick up our adulterous banter right where we had left off.
“It is the kissing disease, the mononucleosis, correct?”
“Oh, right,” I said, suddenly remembering my lie. “Yes, it is. But I'm not contagious anymore.” I wondered if my face would give me away.
“That is good,” he said with his bruised eyes as much as his succulent mouth.
Bastian threw my duffel bag over his shoulder and carried it all the way through the winding subterranean tunnels until we reached the stale-aired platform for the 1/9 line. As the train pounded through the tunnel like a drum corps one thousand strong, he turned to me and said, “Bella, tell me your story.”
And from 42nd to 116th, we crowded together, side by side in corner seats of the icy, nearly empty train, shoulders and knees occasionally crashing into one another for no reason at all other than that we wanted them to. Over the furious roar of the air conditioner, I obliged his request. As Bastian listened, and afterward, he was every bit the gentleman. Which I know he knows is exactly what he needs to be if he wants to sleep with me. My story proves that when it comes to Marcus, there is no simple beginning, middle, or end.
My Story
The first time I was ever aware of Marcus Flutie was in eighth grade at my best friend Hope's house. Hope had a brother, Heath, who was four years older than we were and who hung out with a bunch of unsavory characters, including Marcus. Marcus was a year older than Hope and me but in our grade because he was held back early on for mysterious reasons, reasons I could have probably asked him about later but didn't. Just like I could have asked him to translate the Chinese character tattoo wrapped around his bicep, but never bothered to because there was always something else to talk about. Though with respect to the latter, I suspect that another reason I didn't ask was because I was afraid to hear the answer, to discover that it was the name of one of the many girls he'd had before me. Or even worse, that it was a bit of nothing branded on his arm, an in-joke that seemed like a good idea at the time, that is, under the influence of mind-bending chemicals, but made less sense in sobriety. But what I really mean to say here is that Marcus and I didn't talk about certain things because we were too busy having