The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(27)

“Ready?” he murmurs. I nod, and he’s out.

I’m dizzy as I blink around the room—a bedroom with blue curtains—and Gabe scoops me up and lays me in the bed, which smells like vanilla.

“Rest,” he says, and then he’s gone. I’m half asleep, I’m in a fugue state. Then he’s back and I can see he’s hard as lead inside his work-out shorts. I try to sit up, but he puts a hand on my shoulder and shakes his head.

I let him clean me with a warm towel, feeling something afterward that takes the sting away—a kind of warming cream. I’m on my side, and when I peer up at him, I’m so exhausted, I can feel my eyes roll back.

“Are you okay?” I manage, dimly.

He nods, reaching down to tuck his cock into the waist of his pants.

“Do you want me to take care of that?” I murmur.

Gabe shakes his head. Then he scoops me up—sheet and all—and carries me in front of him. I can tell our time is over—he’s taking me to my place—before we reach the front door.

I find myself too shy—to embarrassed, maybe—to look at him. But when he opens his front door and steps into the cool night, I think I feel him glancing down at me.

He moves quietly and efficiently up the stairs with me, setting me down and handing me my keys in front of my door. When I blink, he’s got his head ducked slightly. For half a second, his blue eyes swing up to mine.

“Thank you,” he says softly, already heading down my stairs into the inky darkness.





3





Marley





I awaken the next morning feeling like the universe has rearranged itself. After I brush my teeth, I blink into the mirror and I try to see back over time, to see all the Marleys that I’ve been since I was old enough to look in mirrors. Sometimes if I squint right, I can see one of the others: Mar the middle-schooler who wore pig-tails every day and was obsessed with Judy Blume; high school Marley with her bangs and pony-tail and somber face; Gabe’s first Marley, with her blunt bob hair and pert red lips and too-large eyes. And then the Marley I’ve been mostly since. The One Who Gets Shit Done. The One Who Doesn’t Make Excuses, Who Does What Is Reasonable and Right and Logical and Necessary.

I blink and blink and blink and blink because I know The New Marley, she does not let her ex finger her asshole. She does not. She walks down to the farmer’s market café and she has her whipped-cream-topped apple cider, and if she thinks about Gabe weeping on the first floor, she does so with only the most distant kind of curiosity, with only the most removed sort of concern. Because she knows he’s not hers, and she knows why that is a very good thing. And she is living her life on a straight line, goddammit; she is on an arrow, and her arrow knows the way and never dumps her off to fall through outer fucking space screaming a silent, oxygen-less scream. She knows she should ride this arrow straight into tomorrow, and if she does, This Smarter Marley understands that if not happiness, there should at least be peace. And this Marley, she needs peace. She requires it.

Therefore, clearly, this Marley is dead. She died the moment she wrapped her hand around the doorknob and pushed. She was buried under Gabe’s hot tongue. And when he carried her up the stairs—the outdoor stairs—wrung out and tussled, and he sat her on her doorstep, she was born again.

What kind of creature is she now? I blink at her neck, marked with green and yellow bruises. I look at her hair, just washed and half dry on her back and shoulders. I straighten her glasses.

I don’t know her motivations, her intentions, her limits, or her plans.

Am I insane? I wonder all day as I peek in little ears, wave my thermometer across small foreheads, poke flu shots into arms, and scribble prescriptions for amoxicillin. I’m a doctor, I’m a daughter, I’m a friend, and I want desperately to be a mother.

And maybe I still want my ex-husband—just a little.



*

Gabe





At 5:40 a.m., when she starts creaking on the boards above my head, I walk into the bathroom, take the top off of the mouthwash, and pour the bottle down the sink. The sharp scent wafts into my head. I close my eyes as I inhale. My hands are sweaty on the counter’s edge. My legs feel weak and unsteady.

A brief glance in the mirror shows a man I know too well lately. Gabe McKellan—insomniac. Gabe McKellan—addict. I don’t like to see my own tired eyes or line-drawn face, so I step into the shower. In where it smells like soap and water, and not gin—or her. I lean my back against the tiles and tilt my head back. Breathe.

I almost licked a jagged shard of glass after I took her home. I pressed my hands into the gin-soaked rug and ran my damp fingers under my nostrils. I saw a few drops atop a shelf and my mouth watered. For six hours, I tortured myself cleaning that room—while Cora whined from the bedroom where I quarantined her and, at random-seeming intervals, Marley creaked around upstairs.

All night on my hands and knees: kneeling, crouching, bending down and standing up to pick up shards and toss them in a bag. I saw it as penance. For Marley or Geneva?

I feel no remorse for Marley. I’m aware I should. I should have had the self-control to keep from letting her into the foyer. When she asked to hug me, I should have sent her packing. I could have lied to her. I should have evaded her. But I was weak. Needy. She hugged me, and I put my arms around her. What happened after that was near inevitable. And still, I didn’t have to put my mouth on her soft skin. I didn’t have to carry her into that bedroom. I fucking fed on her.