When We Were Bright and Beautiful(44)

“When someone starts with ‘honestly,’ I never believe what comes next.”

“I swear, Lawrence. He asked a few questions; said he’d be in touch. End of story.”

“Well, Peter hasn’t mentioned it. So, it probably doesn’t mean anything. Still, don’t do it again.” He pauses. “What did Eleanor want?”

“She insisted I come home. She’s back to the ‘united front.’ She’s furious at you for pushing Billy to plead guilty.”

“She couldn’t say this over the phone?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“Cassie, stop. I’m not giving up or interrogating you. Eleanor hasn’t spent as much time with Peter as I have. She doesn’t understand the intricacies of the law. Billy will have to register as a sex offender, whether he takes a plea or loses at trial. But the plea guarantees him a much shorter sentence. With a guilty verdict, he could get twenty years. Do you want Billy rotting in prison until he’s forty-two? I certainly don’t. Peter is talking to the DA tomorrow. After that, I want all of us to meet with him, including you. I need your support, Cassie. We can’t go to trial.”

Immediately, I feel trapped between my parents. Nate is on Eleanor’s side, but who knows for how long. “My life is here, Lawrence.”

“It’s a life, sure, but not your real life. Your real life is in New York, with us.” He lowers his voice. “We miss you, Cassie. Billy needs you. I need you—not just to fight this case, but to fight Eleanor. Cassie, please. Come home. Don’t make me beg.”

*

I don’t know what to do. Lying in bed that night, I’m restless. I want to sleep but can’t. I want to call Marcus but shouldn’t. We haven’t spoken in nine months. I’ve refused his calls. Deleted his texts. Maintained my silence. But I need someone to talk to, a distraction so I don’t lose my mind. The more I consider calling, the smarter it sounds. Is it, though? Or am I trying to justify a short-sighted decision? How much will I hate myself in the end?

Fuck it.

I text, my heart thumps: Call me. Important.

His reply is immediate: Two minutes.

For Marcus, two minutes means anywhere from ten minutes to three days. While I wait, my hand trails down my stomach, my fingers slip between my legs. I check my phone, willing it to ring. It’s an old habit, one I thought I outgrew. If I check in five minutes, he’ll call. Ten minutes, he’ll call. Fifteen minutes, he’ll call. An hour later, when Marcus still hasn’t called, I feel my skin start to twitch. My eyes fill with tears. Not again. For years I’ve been on hold for Marcus, waiting for him to finish his call, get out of work, read the last page. He says I’m the center of his world, but his sole focus is himself, his wants, his needs. I left New York because I couldn’t let Marcus Silver be my sole focus too. And now, look. Months and months of restraint blown with one text. You’re so stupid, I chastise myself. So goddamn stupid.

The phone rings. “Hey you.”

My relief is instantaneous. Once again, I can breathe. “Hey back.”

We race through the boring part: How are you? I don’t know, how are you? I miss you. I know. Are you dating anyone? None of your business.

Then he slows down. “What’s so important?”

“You know.” I pause. “Home. Only worse with Billy.” I never liked talking to Marcus about my family. For me, he was an escape from their all-consuming, ever-demanding love, from feeling like an insider and outsider at the same time. “Let’s talk about you, though. Your most recent text mentioned a first kiss.”

“Did I? I don’t remember. Was it good?”

“Meh,” I say, and we both laugh.

I knew Marcus for a long time before I really saw him. For years, he was another guy, someone’s husband, on the periphery. My feelings turned, of all places, in the celebration room, where Eleanor was hosting a black-tie event. The house was filled with men in tuxedos, and I was fifteen and feeling impossibly adult in a strapless dress and spiked heels. My hair was blown out, my lipstick cherry-red and sexy. Standing by the mantel, Marcus was dangling a drink between his fingers, and studying me with an amused expression. He was dark and rugged. Familiar but unthreatening.

“You look handsome.” I shivered at my boldness.

“You mean, for an old man?”

“You’re not old. Don’t say that.”

“I’m old enough to be your dad, Cassie.” His tone was firm, but playful, too.

It was after midnight, and everyone was drunk. No one noticed the way his eyes lingered on my breasts, his hand brushing mine as he topped off his whiskey. Later, he claimed he didn’t touch me on purpose, but when his fingertip trailed along my forearm, the jolt triggered some dormant need, and I was rocked off my feet. From then on, Marcus never stopped touching me. He could be two inches away or a mile across town, and I could feel his fingers trailing down my body, across my breasts, below my stomach and deep into the cavern between my legs.

A week later, Marcus was waiting outside school after classes. He didn’t call out to me, just waited until I spotted his face in the crowd. It was exciting to see him. It made me giddy, like he was a celebrity dropping into my boring world. He was wearing jeans and a windbreaker. “It’s fun to be in play clothes in the middle of the day,” he said. “Are you surprised to see me?”