Perfect Fifths_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [81]
Marcus wants to shake Jessica awake and explain himself. I wear the dumbass watch to remind me that there will never be another Jessica, but there cannot be another Greta.
Greta had enjoyed joining Marcus in the shower. In truth, the practice had always made him uncomfortable; the act of being washed by this older woman seemed more than a little ceremonial, even maternal, which reminded Marcus—inappropriately so, especially when he was going down on Greta in the shower—of the son his age whom she never saw. It had once occurred to Marcus—again, when he was on his knees, licking, sucking, servicing—that he had never showered with Jessica. That first thought quickly became an essential aspect of the whole erotic co-showering ritual, during which he would find himself making a list of things he had done with Greta that he had never done with Jessica. The list would start off innocently—I’ve never slow-danced with Jessica, I’ve never shared a bottle of wine with Jessica, I’ve never sipped espresso with Jessica, I’ve never gone to the opera with Jessica—before turning pornographic—I’ve never rubbed a washcloth over Jessica’s breasts, I’ve never tasted soap between Jessica’s legs, I’ve never pressed Jessica up against the tiles and taken her from behind—until the culmination of all these nevers made him come between another woman’s legs (Oh, Jessica) in a passionless, masturbatory way not at all dissimilar to the manner in which Marcus has just—alone in this hotel shower, with Jessica still asleep on the other side of the door—jerked himself into ejaculatory release.
Marcus shuts off the water, reaches for a towel. He drowsily rubs his head, arms, chest, legs, his shrinking penis, dry. He’s calm for the first time since this morning, when he heard Jessica Darling’s name being called over the Clear Sky public address system. He cracks open the door to take a look at her on the bed. She hasn’t changed positions, but he can see the duvet cover rise and fall with every breath.
He steps toward the mirror and uses the same towel to wipe off the obfuscating fog. Marcus rolls his right bicep toward the glass. If you look closely enough, and know what to look for, you might notice that the skin is darker in certain spots than it is in others. He gently traces his fingertip along shadowy hatch marks and squiggles that could be mistaken for naturally occurring freckles or accidental bruises but are neither. A shiver runs through him; even the tiniest arm hairs stand up on end. It’s a response to his own touch, the delicate caresses paying respect to the ghostly remains of what was once a badly translated tattoo. Marcus pays more reverence to these near-invisible Chinese characters than he ever did when they were legible. The original needlework never meant as much to Marcus as his decision to have it erased, from his arm if not his memory.
Forever, he thinks. Whatever.
eight
Jessica is walking across a field of green. Under her arm, she carries a laptop. She’s wearing her only suit, the dark, well-tailored, and too expensive one she bought with one of her first Do Better paychecks, the one she wears when she needs to look her most competent and professional, the one she wears when Cinthia has persuaded her to meet with potential big-money donors for the Do Better High School Storytellers project and she gives her passionate, heartfelt PowerPoint presentation about how much the program has forever changed the lives of so many young people all over the country This is her power suit.