“Oh yeah,” she says, lifting up her other arm. “I am sooo different. It’s like…crazy.” She tilts her head at me, the way Cora does when she’s feeling contemplative. “We never really knew each other, did we?”
“I don’t know.” The words are rough and low: an admission extracted by her nearness and her scent, by her wide, doe eyes and too-soft mouth.
“I wanted to know you,” she says softly. One side of her mouth is tucked up in a sad not-really-smile. The rest of her face looks like it might crack any second. “In school, you were always someone I watched, did you know that? You seemed quiet and…I don’t know…untouchable,” she says, waving her free arm as she talks. “I think I liked untouchable a little bit, you know? That hungry feeling, like I couldn’t really get you. I think that felt familiar, cause my dad.” Tears fill Marley’s eyes, and she blinks, shakes her head, mashing her lips together. “God, I’m drunk. And thirty-three. Did you know that? I’m thirty-three right now, at midnight. Is it midnight?”
I nod. “After.”
I should go, but I feel rooted to the floor as Marley drops my arm and wobbles to her couch. She sprawls out on her back and wraps a hand around her eyes, as if the dim lamp light is too bright for her. I can see her squint as she looks at me.
“I don’t mind that you live here, you know,” she sighs, “but it makes me feel like a fuck up.”
I swallow, disarmed by her bluntness. “How?”
“Oh, you know. Like fuck-ups feel.”
“You shouldn’t feel like a fuck up,” I hear myself say quietly. “I fucked up a lot of it.”
“You were up in space, just floating…” She lifts a hand, waving toward the ceiling. “I just failed, and even if I wanted not to fail, I couldn’t find you up there.” Marley sits up, pushing a hand into her messy hair, and looks at me through her fingers. “I’m so sorry, Gabe. That’s what I feel the sorriest about.”
“What is?” I manage.
“I shouldn’t have left you…there…like that.” With her eyes locked on mine, she stands up, swaying like a limb in a breeze. “I ran because I was so scared, you know? Of failing. I was worried, and I couldn’t…fuck, you know…I couldn’t get to you. I thought you didn’t give a shit, either.”
“About you?”
She nods just once, her eyes on the verge of overflowing.
The distance between us shrinks as I step closer to her. I don’t even know how in the fuck it happens, but my arms wrap around her back, and I’ve got Marley pressed against my chest. For the longest second, I just hold her there—and it feels good. So good and right, my voice is steady as I say, “I used to fuck you three, four times a day sometimes. I read my writing to you.” Nails fill up my throat. I swallow, even though it aches. “I would let you get into the shower with me,” I say to the top of her head.
“Yeah, when you were drunk.” She laughs, a hollow sound. I wrap my hand around the back of her head.
“It wasn’t because of that.”
“It was.” She pulls away a little, and her eyes lift to meet mine; they’re suspicious, almost angry. “You were drunk like, all the time, and I was—” she laughs— “clueless. You would go out on the Strip and play that stupid—sorry, it was stupid—poker. Do those awful fights. And you would lock yourself up in that second bedroom with your laptop.” Her eyes glimmer. “I did things wrong, I know. And I was pushy. I was stupid, I had no idea what I should do for you. You wouldn’t talk to me, and I thought crazy sex would cure you.”
My cock twitches in response to those words, or maybe just her nearness. Holding her to my side, I guide her to the couch and urge her to sit down. I crouch on the floor in front of her—and hope she’ll get the message that I’m sending.
“What?” She wipes her face and sniffles as she looks at me with searching eyes. “I guess it’s my turn now, to be the drunken idiot. Do you remember that stuff you used to do? I hope I don’t remember this.” I wince, and she nods behind me. “You can go now. Get up off the floor. You’re not a floor type… Just be gone.”
I shake my head. I try to think of what to tell her: older, unknown Marley, with her aching eyes and broken heart and braided hands. “You were right to worry. I know I always said that you were nagging and you were driving me away, that I wasn’t…” I swallow. I can’t say the next two words: “a drunk.” I suck back a breath, and then I’m on my feet. My face and eyes feel so hot, it’s alarming. I turn my back to her, and I feel like I always did. It’s unbelievable, some kind of spell, some kind of fucking time warp.
I can’t look at Marley. My loyal girl with the searching eyes and dumb persistence. She loved me blindly, unrelentingly, enthusiastically. I would lock myself up in our guestroom with a cache of liquor and a death wish. Marley would pound down the door and yell at me and try to make me mad or upset, anything so I’d come out and talk to her. And I was such a fucking dick. I was such a fucking piggish asshole. I took advantage of her systematically, just like…an addict.
“It wasn’t mutual,” she says now to my back, in tired tones. “I get that, Gabe. I had a thing for you the second you moved here in ninth grade.” She gives a hollow laugh. “That night we married on the class trip? You want to hear a dumb confession?”
I turn around and look at her, and Marley stands up, arms spread wide. “I wasn’t really that drunk. You were drunk. You could barely put one shoe in front of the other, but I had only had a few drinks. When you pulled me into the chapel with you, I was thrilled. I had no one waiting for me. I had no one. We might have been the same age, but to me you were… You seemed so manly and grown up.” She wipes a tear that’s trickled down her cheek. “My mom was a bitch to me. I had a dead dad. I just wanted someone, you know? When we were like ‘oh God, we’re married,’ I…fucking wanted it. Anyway, I think it’s obvious, I should find a different place to live now.” She inhales deeply, has the fortitude to smile at me. “I don’t like feeling stupid. Doctor,” she says, with her fragile, shaky mouth.
“I can’t believe that you’re a doctor, Marley. Dr. Roberts.” I see my words hit her face, and I shake my head, laughing although it’s not the least bit funny. “Not like that. I didn’t mean it like that.” I step closer to her; Mar holds up a hand.
“It’s okay,” she says softly.
“No. I was a fucking lousy husband. Vegas, class trip wedding having nothing to do with it. We got married, I said ‘let’s give this thing a go,’ but I couldn’t put my money where my mouth was. I didn’t know a fucking thing about even a girlfriend.” I swallow—hard, and make my gaze meet hers. “Mar, you know about my dad. You’re from this town…”
She doesn’t move a muscle. In that instant, memories burn me: these same solemn brown eyes on a careful, young girl, trying not to hurt me more.