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“Listen, I better go. Call me tonight, okay?”
I nod, and when he turns the corner, I think all is sweet until the whispers become louder, and the three of us are standing there trying to eavesdrop.
“Just like when we were kids,” the Jerk says.
“You said I had free rein,” Marcus responds, frustrated.
“When did I ever say that?” he bites back.
“Friday night. Though you never explained why you pulled her away from the dance floor. C’mon, Haden, you’re fucking the blonde. What do you care?”
Silence falls between us all. Dee looks hurt, but that soon turns to anger. She glares at me like this is all my fault.
“You’re right, I am fucking the blonde. So why should I care about Malone? She’s all yours, bud.”
It’s my turn to be crestfallen. I’m not angry or upset with Marcus. They have some bro code going on, and he clearly has been given the green light.
Yet, I am not a possession.
I don’t belong to Haden but hearing him admit he doesn’t care for me, not even one minuscule of a feeling after he had his way, is enough to eat away at me.
I cannot fall for him.
I cannot even want him in any way.
Praying for a miracle is my only
Eight
With the Jerk away in London, I slowly piece my life back together again. Jason still hasn’t contacted me, yet every week a realtor shows prospective buyers around. I am not in a financial position to buy him out, so I settle for apartment hunting in a more affordable neighborhood. Nevertheless, I started packing my belongings and getting rid of items I no longer need like my MC Hammer pants from the nineties. There’s nostalgia, and then there is just plain hoarding. Hammer pants fall into the hoarding category though my mother would argue that in a heartbeart.
As Marcus promised, we had fun. Fun is hitting the clubs, late-night dinners, and of course, hot sex with a confirmed twenty-seven-year-old. He didn’t tell me directly, but when he took a shower at my place, I ‘stumbled’ upon his license. On a drunk bender one night, he asked my age. I wasn’t going to lie, and when I asked him if he had a problem with that, he replied by taking me back to his place and making me come on his roommate’s expensive leather sofa.
He told me only after that his roommate is his cousin, Haden.
From that moment, we only ever have sex at my place.
The Jerk virtually disappeared, and occasionally, Mr. Sadler would send out a group email in which Haden would respond. That was it in terms of contact. He never once tried to text or send me anything work-related, so it was easy to assume that the drunken night in the alley was all in the past and could easily be forgotten.
Marcus is fun, he makes me forget the stresses of everyday life, including my bad bout with the flu a couple of weeks back. I am not sure I saw it going anywhere, I simply enjoy his company, and for once in my life, I am happy to go with the flow. Very un-Presley like.
Then it all went pear-shaped—he said he loved me.
It happened last week at the Bon Jovi concert. The third beer of the night and halfway through ‘Bed of Roses,’ he pulls me into an embrace and whispers into my ear, “I think I love you, Presley Malone.”
My instant reaction was to dry heave, which ultimately had me running for the bathroom, so I could projectile vomit my fears into the dirty toilet. How do you tell someone, “Oh, hey, thanks for saying I love you, but I don’t feel the same way? However, it’s nice to know you care.”
I remember walking back to him and the puppy-dog look on his face when he saw me. It was the look of being in love. I simply smiled, told him thank you, and changed the subject by telling him that I wasn’t feeling too great. He didn’t seem to think there was an issue, so after the final song, we made our way home, and I pulled out the ‘Period’ card. He understood and left me alone.
It wasn’t a complete lie. I was almost due, and this month I was predicting a bitch of a cycle since the past three months had been light.
That bitch never came, and the emergency sirens were ringing, sending Vicky to the rescue.
It happened too fast. Starting off wit
h a joke, then an impromptu trip to the drug store which lead to the moment of disabelief.
“It’s blue.”
