Screwmates(45)

Suddenly, faking my own death seemed way less complicated than before. Compared to explaining myself, it would be a piece of cake.

My eyelids were made of cement, it felt like, so I let them do what they wanted and close heavily. After all that wine and all that sex, I should have slept like a baby, but anxiety dreams are strong with me even without looming household crises.

That night, it was the usual one. I was walking down the hall at school when I heard the whispers start. I looked down, and the ink blots on my arms were gossiping about my crooked glasses and messy hair and how I was naked. I crossed them over my boobs. My professor walked by and the ink stains told her she looked haggard. She glared at me. “But it wasn’t…” I started, but she stalked off. I had to get to class, I had to turn in my project, but suddenly the school wasn’t even the school anymore, it was a penis-shaped rocket ship and I would never get to turn in my self-portrait from Mars. Alarms started to blare and I realized the rocket was crashing but instead of impact I woke up.

My heart was pounding and my mouth was dry. That was a whole new level of The Dream, and I didn’t need to call Scarlet for an analysis. I was going to have to deal with Marc immediately. Because this could not continue.

And, terrifying as it was, if I didn’t just admit my feelings were real, this dream would keep coming back. So, selfishly, if nothing else, I knew what the morning would bring.

With that resolve, I managed to sleep through the rest of the night with only a few more weird images floating through my dreamscape.

The next day, I took an extra long time picking an outfit, making sure all my clothes looked totally grown up and had no paint splatters (or treacherous ink spots) and matched. Cracking open my door, I peered left and right before creeping into my bathroom to shower. The billowing clouds of steam carried the scent of lavender vanilla. It was very soothing, I understood why Marc liked it. And I felt not a whit of regret over stealing it.

After all, it wasn’t like he didn’t know where to find it.

I scrunched my hair with a little mousse, typically something I saved for only the most public of appearances. Took my glasses off and leaned deep into the sink to see what the hell I was doing as I brushed on some eye makeup. Makeup is like having a coloring book attached to your face. So fun.

And it feels like war paint, which was absolutely the reason I was putting it on before heading out to face the music with Marc. I replaced my glasses and stared in the mirror, practicing what I was going to say.

After a few revisions, I did a final swipe of chapstick and opened the door. The scent of coffee wafting in from the kitchen said that the object of my affection was awake. Deep breath, Madison, be brave. My knees were quivery, though, because I was not the kind of girl who was this brave. I thought to myself, “What would Kitty Pryde do?” because lady X-Men are who we should all aspire to be. And the answer was, she would face her fears. I squared my shoulders, and walked in.

Marc was at the table with his books and his laptop. He looked up at me, but he didn’t say anything. That was fine. He’d clearly wanted to talk last night, but I wasn’t ready then.

“I don’t want you to go to France,” I said, all in a rush. “Stay here.” Now that got a rise out of him.

“Say what?” His jaw could have hit the table, it fell open so quickly.

“I meant it. Last night.” Oh god what was I doing? Being brave! Being a lady X-Man! Being so stupid! But I was committed. And maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way.

“You mean—”

“Yes. I mean when I told you I loved you, I meant it. All this time we’ve been spending together, and getting to know you—like the real you, not just the Hot Marc part—it’s changed things for me. I thought this was just going to be a sex thing. Or maybe I just told myself it was going to be a sex thing, but that’s just not true.” I paused for a breath, and Marc didn’t interrupt, so I kept right on baring my heart.

“When I think about the France thing—”

“The bangcation,” he supplied.

“Yes. The bangcation. When I imagine you there, sharing everything we’ve shared, with other people… I just can’t.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Marc said. I waited a beat. He didn’t elaborate. I was feeling better, though, because he was clearly on the same page as me. Thank god.

“And I know you need to research, I wouldn’t ask you to give that up, but I am asking you to give up the trip. I don’t want you to leave when this is so brand new. It’s not fair to go away for months without taking the time to see what this could become. Everything we do together is fun. I have so much fun with you. The sex is amazing. We finally figured out wine! Maybe I can help you with your research. I’m really good at the internet. Or you could go for a week or two, even.”

“You’re asking me to cancel the trip of a lifetime.” The way he said it wasn’t a question. “Because you don’t want me sleeping with other women.”

“Yes. I am. I don’t. Look. It took us ages to figure out seduction and foreplay. Ages. Why would you even want to go through that over and over again? You don’t go to a buffet when the five-star restaurant is right there. And free. It’s right here and free.” I pointed to myself, unsure if the point was as well-made as it had seemed in my head before emerging from my mouth.