The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(18)

“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.

“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.