“Down the stairs?”
I give a soft laugh. “Yeah.”
Gabe shifts closer, close enough that I can smell him, see the outline of his frown. “Well—are you okay?”
“I’m okay.” I wobble to my feet and grab onto the stair rail. God, I’m dizzy. Really dizzy.
I look up the stairs.
“Why don’t you let me help you up?” I feel his hand on my elbow and try to step away. Except my knee gives out. As I grab for the stair rail, Gabe scoops me up, carrying me in front of him like a husband carrying his bride over the threshold.
I blink up at him. Shove him. “Let me go!”
“You can’t even stand up on the ground, Marley. You want to fall again?”
“I wouldn’t.”
Sparkly tingles fizzle through me as I feel his lips against my hair. “You smell like a bar.”
“The most good-smelling bar,” I say in a drunk half-sigh, even as I try to wriggle free. He ascends a few more steps before I grab his shirt collar and tug. “I’ll have you know…I’ve been walking for…thirty-three…well, something.” I giggle. “Thirty years or more, I’ve been walking. Put me down, you big dickface!”
I swat him and feel his chest shake. Futhermucker laughing at me… I’m set on my feet, but Gabe won’t move his arm; it’s trapping me against him.
I turn around to face him, my ass brushing the arm that’s still wrapped around my hips. He looks like he’s smirking, so I shove him in the forehead. “Pork-chop stealer. You can go now.”
“Yeah? I’ve got permission?”
“Yes, you pompus dickface.”
I hear Gabe chuckle—and I feel it, too. He feels so warm against me. Warmer than the chilly air. He’s like a pillow. I blink at his face and pet his shoulder as I try to comprehend this moment.
“This is not the way it’s meant to be.”
He smiles a little, and I flick one of his stupid curls.
“I don’t need you or want you around.”
He laughs again, and I can feel his hand holding my hip. “Maybe I deserve that.”
“Trust me, you do. Let go of me, and watch this.”
I climb the next two stairs, proud of how I keep my balance even though the world is spinning. Then I feel his arms come back around me from behind. I smell his smell-good man stuff—stupid man stuff—and I want him. My vagina wants his penis. He’s so solid, tall, and warm, and Gabey.
“You can let me go!” I feel him right behind me. God, I want to feel him hard behind me, and that’s not, not good!
“Let me pick you up, Mar. I’d feel like shit if you fell back down.”
“Oh,” I cry as he lifts me. “You’d feel like shit. Well then! That would be a motherfucking shame!”
I attempt to roll my eyes, but they fall shut instead. As Gabe carries me up the last few stairs, I feel like I’m sailing through space. And maybe time as well. His body against mine is pleasantly familiar. The moment he gets to the top, he sets me on my feet, keeping his arms around me like a cage.
“Do you have your keys?” I feel his breath on my temple. It smells like mint.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you find them, hero? Heh. It makes me laugh to call you hero. What I really mean…is like, zero…”
I feel his chest expand as he inhales. I watch as he lifts my purse, still hanging diagonally across my chest, and delves inside. I make a grab for it.
“Don’t snoopy…snoopy.” God, I’m fucking funny when I’m drunk.
I can feel him watch me as I fumble in my purse. “Oh no! They’re not here!” I look down the stairs—so many stairs. “Ah, hell. I think I had them…when I fell.” My words sound slurred. I laugh again, because I’m stupid. Drunk and stupid.
“I’ll check underneath the stairs.” Gabe starts to help me sit, but then he scoops me back up, tossing me over his shoulder as he descends the stairs.
“Whoa—you’re like Godzilla here…” I giggle.
“What?”
“Big steps, boom…boom.”
He sets me on the bottom step, then disappears behind the staircase. I can see his back as he bends over, sifting through the grass.
“The famous Gabriel McKellan,” I boom.
He leans around the stairs, looking confused. I kinda like the way his curls are sticking up.
I laugh. “Oh, carry on. I like to see you bending over.” When he looks again at me, I give him my best smirk. “It’s 2017, babe. Time for you to be objectified. And you whoa—I mean, you know what, Gabe? You know what? I really like the way your ass looks in those shorts. Are those even shorts?” I pull my phone out, struggling with the flashlight as he comes back around in front of me, holding my keys.
“Ohh, blue jeans.” I look up at him. His face is locked down, but I think he’s trying not to laugh. “Are those some schmancy, big deal Hollywood asshole brand? Seven thousand dollar jeans?”
He screws his face up. Shakes his head.
“Are you embarrassed, rich boy?”
“Fuck no.”
“Are you sure?” I pull myself up, holding onto the bannister, and stare at him. “I think you are.”
“About my blue jeans? Mar, I bought them at the WalMart.”
“BAHA…surrreeeeeee you did. Surrreeeeeee.”
He picks me up again, and starts back up the stairs. “Are they Wranglers?” I ask, slapping his ass—more like his hip—as we reach the top and Gabe works my key into the lock.
“I don’t know.” The door swings open, and I say, “Is that how you stay anona—anonymous? Dress like the locals?”
“Always,” he says flatly as he sets me on my feet inside the kitchen.
“You’re in my house. Weirdness!” I blink at him, and hold onto his gaze, because it’s mega weird to see him here in my space.
“Mar, I’m always in your house.”
He’s in the doorway, though, I realize; he’s not stepping in.
“What do you think?” I wave my arms around. “You like my crib?”
He nods, stepping backward. “Goodnight, Marley.”
I lunge for him. “Wait!”
9
Gabe
Marley’s plastered. Three sheets to the fucking wind. So when she yells for me to wait, I consider leaving anyway. Would she remember in the morning? Before I get a chance to find out, her small hand is wrapped around my wrist; her dazed, brown eyes are peering up at me. Her face is open, trusting, youthful, as is her voice when she whispers, “You look older, Gabe.”
I peer at the freckles strewn over the bridge of her nose, at her long eyelashes and her red lips.
“Yes.” She looks older, too. More beautiful, if that’s possible—her dramatic features emboldened by time, so they seem to fit this older, bolder Marley.
“You look like someone really different,” she says, the words slightly slurred. “Are you really different?” Her gaze on mine is unnervingly focused for someone as drunk as she is.
“Are you?” I manage, in an even tone. I look down at her hand on my wrist, but Marley doesn’t seem to notice as she swings my arm.