Lock and Key(21)

Marshall was eighteen and had graduated from Jackson the year before, although we hadn’t known each other until he moved in with Rogerson, the guy who sold all my friends their pot. At first, Marshall didn’t make much of an impression—just a tall, skinny guy who was always passing through or in the kitchen when we went over there to get bags. I’d never even talked to him until one day I went over by myself and Rogerson wasn’t around, so it was just the two of us.

Rogerson was all business and little conversation. You knocked, you came in, got what you needed, and got out. I was expecting pretty much the same with Marshall, and at first he didn’t disappoint, barely speaking as I followed him to the living room and watched him measure out the bag. I paid him and was just about to get to my feet when he reached over to a nearby cabinet, pulling open a drawer and taking out a small ceramic bowl. “You want some?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, and then he handed it over, along with a lighter. I could feel him watching me, his dark eyes narrowed, as I lit it, took some in, and passed it back.

The pot was good, better than the stuff we bought, and I felt it almost instantly, the room and my brain slowly taking on a heavy, rolling haze. Suddenly, everything seemed that much more fascinating, from the pattern on the couch beneath me to Marshall himself, sitting back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head. After a few minutes, I realized we’d stopped passing the bowl back and forth and were just sitting there in silence, for how long I had no idea.

“You know what we need,” he said suddenly, his voice low and flat.

“What’s that?” My own tongue felt thick, my entire mouth dry.

“Slurpees,” he said. “Come on.”

I’d been afraid he would ask me to drive, which was completely out of the question, but instead, once outside, he led the way down a path that cut across a nearby field dotted with power lines, emerging a block down from a convenience store. We didn’t talk the entire way there, or when we were in the store itself. It was not until we were leaving, in fact, each of us sucking away at our Slurpees—which were cold and sweet and perfect—that he finally spoke.

“Good stuff,” he said, glancing over at me.

I nodded. “It’s fantastic.”

Hearing this, he smiled, which was unnerving simply because it was something I’d never seen before. Even stranger, as we started back across the path, he reached behind him, grabbing my hand, and then held it, walking a little bit ahead, the whole way home. I will never forget that, my Slurpee cold on my teeth and Marshall’s palm warm against mine as we walked in the late-afternoon sunshine, those power lines rising up and casting long shadows all around us.

When he stopped walking and kissed me a few minutes later, it was like time had stopped, with the air, my heart, and the world all so still. And it was this I remembered every other time I was with Marshall. Maybe it was the setting, us alone in that field, or because it was the first time. I didn’t know yet that this was all either of us was capable of: moments together that were great but also fleeting.

Marshall was not my boyfriend. On the other hand, he wasn’t just a friend either. Instead, our relationship was elastic, stretching between those two extremes depending on who else was around, how much either of us had had to drink, and other varying factors. This was exactly what I wanted, as commitments had never really been my thing. And it wasn’t like it was hard, either. The only trick was never giving more than you were willing to lose. With Marshall and me, it was like a game called I Could Care Less. I talked to a guy at a party; he disappeared with some girl at the next one. He didn’t return my calls; I’d stay away for a while, making him wonder what I was up to. And so on.

We’d been doing this for so long that really, it came naturally. But now, I was so surprised by how nice it was to hear his voice, something familiar in all this newness, that I found myself breaking my own rule, offering up more than I’d planned.

“Yeah, so, I’ve just been, you know, dealing with some family stuff,” I said, easing back against the booth wall behind me. “I moved in with my sister, and—”

“Hang on a sec, okay?” he said, and then I heard his hand cover the receiver, muffling it. Then he was saying something, his words impossible to make out before I heard him come back on. “Sorry,” he said, then coughed. “What were you saying?”

And just like that, it was over. Even missing him was fleeting, like everything else.

“Nothing,” I told him. “I should go. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?”

“Yeah. See you around.”

I hung up, leaving my hand on the receiver as I reached into my pocket, pulling out some more change. Then I took a breath and put it back to my ear, dropped in a few coins, and called someone I knew would be more than happy to talk.

"Ruby? ” Peyton said as soon as she heard my voice. “Oh my God. What happened to you?”

“Well,” I said.

But she was already continuing, her voice coming out in a gush. “I mean, I was waiting for you in the courtyard, just like always, and you never showed up! So I’m like, she must be mad at me or something, but then Aaron said the cops had pulled you out of class, and nobody knew why. And then I went by your house, and it was all dark, and—”

“Everything’s fine,” I said, cutting her off more out of a time concern than rudeness. Peyton was always summarizing, even when you knew the story as well as she did. “It’s just a family thing. I’m staying with my sister for a while.”