Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [75]
No, no, no. Wearing that T-shirt would have been the wrong way to go: red shirt as red flag. Not that he had even considered wearing it this morning, because it sits in the bottom of a drawer in Princeton, unworn for many months because he dislikes answering questions about it. (“Me? Yes? Me?” was a popular line of flirtation.) Such a gesture would have been too obvious. Too calculated. Too much of the same-old-same-old over-the-top Marcus Flutie bullshit that drove Jessica to distraction when they were together. Wearing the YOU. YES. YOU. T-shirt would’ve validated that he hasn’t changed at all over the last three years, that he’s still compelled to pull stunts to get and keep her attention.
Oh, shit, he thinks. I’m lasso-dicking again.
At once he remembers the ticket for tomorrow’s flight to St. Thomas and wonders how Jessica might react to its existence: bittersweet reunion or restraining order? As of right now, he imagines this $895 reconciliatory gesture sinking him into credit card debt wouldn’t go over too well. To hide the anxiety now coursing through him, Marcus goes out of his way to appear more relaxed than ever. This masquerade is much easier to pull off with his back to her, his afflicted face hidden from view. He rolls his head around on his neck, releases his taut shoulders, then, without a care in the world, shrugs off the dress shirt and hastily tosses it aside. It clings to the edge of the duvet for a moment before slipping to the carpet on the far side of his bed, out of Jessica’s view and therefore in no competition with the sweater.
Ask me, he silently urges Jessica. Ask me so I can tell you.
He clutches his T-shirt and jerks it up and over his head. It launches into the air and lands in an ignoble heap in the farthest corner of the room. Now that he is nude to the waist, his own unwashed smell is hitting him, and he knows that it will be only a few more seconds before it reaches Jessica.
He had underpacked for New Orleans, finding himself with three more days than pairs of boxer briefs. So he’s not wearing any underwear. Only a pair of corduroys separates him from stark nakedness. Jessica has seen him unclothed so many times before, what should it matter now, especially when she has made it abundantly clear that there is no sex to be had? If she’s so intent on chastity, seeing him naked shouldn’t be a trigger for arousal. But does he dare? Or should he excuse himself to the privacy of the bathroom?
Maybe I should just ask Jessica if she wants to hear the rest of the story, he thinks. Or maybe I should tell it without asking her first. After all, if she doesn’t have to ask permission to say anything, then the same should hold for me.
A contented moan comes from behind him, followed by a ruffle of pillows. With thumbs poised at the top of his fly, he turns toward the sound, toward her, and discovers that all questions and answers, all truth and dare, will have to wait for the time being.
Because Jessica Darling is sound asleep.
six
Jessica is walking along a white sand beach. Under her arm, she holds a small white-gift-wrapped box all tied up with an enormous, perhaps overcompensatory,