Lie to Me (5 page)

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He put his hand out to my dad like it was no big thing and said, “Hello, Mr. Chase. I’m Marcus Roma. You here to see what Lo’s been up to?”

Marcus was the first person to call me Lo. That threw my Dad for bit, too.

“Yes, I am,” my dad said. “I don’t appreciate my daughter sneaking out like this.”

Marcus looked at me. I didn’t know what to say.

“I apologize, sir,” Marcus said, carefully. “We only have to meet like this because the owner of this gym is…old fashioned.”

“I told him,” I said.

“Would you like to stay and watch us?” Marcus asked. “Lo, why don’t you go warm up and I can answer questions, if that works for you, Mr. Chase?”

I stared at Marcus. He seemed so adult, so in control. I had never felt so young and immature compared to him, and now…

I felt even more infatuated with him, and even stupider for it. He was so obviously beyond me.

I was glad to go lose myself in a warm up, working too hard too quickly and feeling nauseous for it, and not caring even a little bit. I jumped rope until my calves started to burn, and then started my shadow boxing, getting my shoulders loose, trying to focus on anything other than the conversation my father was having with Marcus just out of earshot.

The next time I looked over there, Marcus was showing my dad some basic boxing moves, the two of them talking together like old friends.

It was the weirdest feeling. If there was a Parental Embarrassment Olympics, I would have medaled that morning. Gold medal in cringing, right here.

I mean, what was my dad saying about me? I just remember being so sure that whatever headway I’d made into being a cool girl, a friend even, someone maybe on Marcus’s maturity level, it was probably all ruined now. I felt like such a child that my dad had come, that Marcus had to convince my parents that everything was cool. By the time I was done with my warm up, I was actually pissed off.

Which worked out, because Marcus set the timer on the bell, put on the mitts, and said, “Come on, Lo, combinations, let’s go!”

So my dad watched Marcus call out punches to me and watched me nail every single one, hitting those mitts as hard as I could, driving Marcus around the floor of the gym, working off all that humiliation. The bell went off after that first round and I looked over at my dad, who was shaking his head and smiling a little.

“Wow, Harlow,” he said. “Wow.”

I was sweating, out of breath, feeling weird about my worlds colliding like this.

“Dad, the bell’s going to go off again in a minute,” I said. Impatient with him. I just wanted him out of there.

“Ok, ok,” Dad said, putting his hands up. “I’ll leave you to it. I don’t want to mess up your work out. Marcus, thank you, and I’ll take you up on that offer. Harlow, have fun. You’re still grounded for a week, so come home right after school.” Dad smiled at me. “C’mon, you know you have to tell us these things. See you tonight, sweetheart.”

I am loath to admit this, but that right there? That moment, when my Dad told me I was grounded, right in front of Marcus? I probably would have told my father that I hated him if Marcus hadn’t been there. Because I was young, and lucky, and sheltered, and immature.

And because it made me feel even more child like in front of Marcus.

I worked so hard that morning. I overdid it. And when Marcus told me to cool it, I didn’t listen, kept pushing as hard as I could, running toward that burning feeling as fast as I could because it was better than the humiliation.

Which is how I ended up with a wicked cramp in my calf.

I collapsed to the ground, completely and utterly shocked that something could actually hurt that bad. Marcus was right there, right away, taking my shoes off and pushing my foot back, stretching the muscle out. He talked to me in low, calm tones, telling me to try to relax as much as possible.

“These suck, but it will be ok,” he said, his fingers working into my leg. “Just breathe, ok? Breathe with me, Lo.”

Pretty soon there was just the sound of us breathing together, and Marcus’s hands on my leg, his fingers kneading and rubbing. Once the pain subsided I pulled my leg back, instinctively embarrassed, knowing I was starting to get turned on. But Marcus grabbed my leg, kept me in place.

“You have your water bottle?” he asked.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

“Drink up,” he said. “You’re too tight. Stay right here.”

He got up and I watched him walk away, too dumbfounded to even drink my water properly. Every fiber of my being wished that whatever was going to happen next involved more of his hands on my body. When he came back with a banana, my reaction was probably less than enthused.

Marcus smiled. “It’s got potassium. Eat it. And drink up.” Then he sat down in front of me, his legs on either side of me, and said, “Now gimme your legs.”

Right there, in that moment, I swear the clouds parted, angels sang, and I promised about a million unreasonable things to God. Marcus took first one leg, then the other, and pulled them on either side of his lap. Then he began to massage my muscles, carefully at first, slowly, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

I was in some kind of heaven.

He only had to touch my calves, gently, softly, searchingly, and I honestly think I was halfway there. At the time I didn’t have a lot of experience with sex. Just some fumbling make out sessions, and once I let Jared Kozwolski try to go down on me, which was an awkward disaster that no one was happy with. But I had made myself orgasm plenty of times. I knew what it felt like.

I just didn’t know I could get so close from such a simple touch.

I leaned back on my hands and watched him with my mouth open, trying to keep my breathing slow and regular, so it wouldn’t give me away. Marcus worked his thumbs on me in slow circles, probing my calves, calming them. Now that I was no longer worried about my calf seizing up, now that we’d settled into this, whatever it was that was happening, all I had to concentrate on was his touch. The skin-to-skin contact, the feel of the pads of his fingers on my legs, the sheer strength of his huge hands…

Even thinking about it now makes me feel…soft.

I was quiet, maybe for the first time ever, just letting it happen. Watching him. What I remember most was how intense he was, his eyes focused and his lips slightly downturned, like he wasn’t thinking about anything else on the planet except my body and me. And his hands explored me the same way, feeling me out, figuring out what my body needed. No words, just touch. Totally in tune in a way that was beyond words. And it was the most intimate I’d ever been with anyone.

And I forgot, momentarily, that he was just supposed to be massaging out a cramp. It was so much more than that to me.

I think it was for him, too. We both forgot ourselves in that moment. His hands kept working up my leg, to my quads, my thigh. Oh God, his hands on my thigh. Even the memory…

I will remember this until the day I die. Such a little thing, but it felt like fire. Marcus looked up at me, locked his beautiful pale eyes with mine, and I was rooted in place. His fingertips grazed the delicate skin on my inner thigh as he shifted his grip, and the sensation shot straight to my core, pushing the pressure up over what I could handle. Overwhelming me. I dug my fingers into the floor mat and gasped audibly, my lower abs contracting in that distinctive way.

I was
so
mortified.

There was literally nothing else it could be. I was sure I’d just given away what I was feeling, and that made me acutely aware of how inappropriate it was, how almost skeevy it was, to be totally turned on by something that was supposed to be innocent. I yanked my leg away from him, drawing it up close to me, and then just stayed there, awkward and off balance, trying not to breathe too hard.

Marcus was silent a moment.

Finally he said, “Lo, why are you mad?”

I think he was trying to figure out if I was mad at him, if I thought he’d been trying to molest me or whatever. But that didn’t occur to me until later. I was mad, and I guess that was obvious in my expression, but not at him—I was mad at myself for being so pathetic, for being humiliated yet again, for wanting something I couldn’t have.

But I couldn’t say any of that, so of course I blamed it on my poor dad.

“He didn’t have to humiliate me,” I said bitterly. I put my leg back down, still resting on Marcus’s, greedy for the contact, and leaned forward so I could stare at the small diamond of floor mat between us.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“My dad.” I sighed, like I was sorry to even have to explain it. “Grounding me? I mean, honestly.”

“You’re mad at your dad for this morning?”

He sounded genuinely confused. And in retrospect, I understand why. At the time? Not so much.

“Yeah,” I said, like it was obvious. “He was a freaking jerk.”

“Look at me,” Marcus commanded.

Believe me, I’ve never obeyed anyone so quickly in my entire life. And when I looked up? Those eyes. Staring right into mine. Serious. Intense.

Everything still.

“Don’t say that,” Marcus said. “I don’t know, maybe he is a jerk sometimes. But not for this morning. He cares about you. He came down here because he was worried. And he didn’t have to be, you could’ve told him what you were doing. But you didn’t. And now you’re mad at him for caring enough about what happens to you to be worried.”

His eyes never left mine. He was serious, yes, but more than that—it was like he was looking for something in me. Like this mattered to him, like it was important that I understand what he was saying. And that’s when I had one of those little epiphanies, the kind I remember from growing up, when I would suddenly understand where someone else was coming from.

Marcus needed to see that I understood, because it would be like understanding him. His reaction was all out of proportion to my calling my dad a jerk, and it was because Marcus knew what I didn’t, in a very real way: not all fathers care for their children. Not all dads get worried. Not all of them show up.

Marcus knew that already.

I thought about how I’d never heard anything about Marcus’s dad. Or his mom, even. He never talked about them, not even in passing. And I thought about how weird that was for a seventeen year old. How much could I reveal about my life without reference to my family? Barely anything.

Right then, I got that about him. He was alone. Maybe he lived in the same house, but physical proximity only goes so far. That’s why he spent all his time in a gym. I had so much more than he did, and I didn’t even know it.

“I’m sorry,” I said softly. “You’re right.”

His expression relaxed, and he grinned at me, squeezing my knees with those big hands. “Good,” he said.

I don’t remember the rest of that work out. I do remember that after that things changed for me. Our mornings together weren’t just about the giddiness of this new, gorgeous guy, of being around someone who made me feel more alive, more deliciously conscious of my body just by being nearby, who made me glad to learn how to use that body. That was all still there, constantly, making every moment with Marcus charged with newly formed, raw desire. But now there was this added depth to all of it. Like when he looked at me and seemed to see through me, I knew now that I wasn’t just imagining it. His loneliness gave him insight, and he made me look at things in a new way.

Marcus was the first person who, when he told me how lucky I was, I believed him.

As time went by, I learned I was right about his family. I didn’t get the details until later, but I don’t think the details really mattered. Sometimes I wondered if I’d be as good a person as Marcus if I’d grown up without my parents loving me. I honestly don’t think I would. Marcus made himself. He decided what kind of man he would be all on his own. I don’t know if I would have been strong enough for that.

After all, when my turn came to be alone, I had Marcus. Right up until I didn’t.

***

All of these thoughts about Marcus and fathers, and what it might mean to suddenly have someone in your life to be that father figure when you’d never had one before, come rushing through my head as I watch Mr. Wolfe with my little brother. Because Mr. Wolfe was the one who stepped in when Marcus’s own neglectful dad died about two years after my own parents died. You could ask where Mr. Wolfe was before Mr. Roma died, but that’s a complicated question. As far as Marcus was concerned, he had no one. His dad hated him and his mother was ashamed of him.

And then, soon after Mr. Roma’s funeral, Mr. Wolfe showed up, and a little while after that, Marcus left to go work for Mr. Wolfe. And watching Mr. Wolfe with Dill, I can see it. I can see Mr. Wolfe stepping in, showing Marcus what it might be like to have a father, to have a family.

I’d even felt it myself for that one moment inside the courtroom when Mr. Wolfe smiled at me. That feeling that someone is looking out for you, that someone is on your side? It’s powerful.

And that’s why, standing soaking wet in my living room, watching Mr. Wolfe chuck my little brother on the side of the head in that familiar way, I’m scared shitless. Because it suddenly occurs to me that maybe Mr. Wolfe offered something I never could: the chance to have a family. And the thought that he might come after Dill like that fills my body with dread.

Which, I’ll be honest: not the best way to start a tough conversation.

Mr. Wolfe almost seems to sense his advantage. As soon as Dill and Maria leave for the kitchen, Dill looking scared in that way I hate to see, Mr. Wolfe gives me that same knowing smile I remember from the custody hearing.

“Harlow,” he says, still smiling, standing in my living room with his arms open, like he’s welcoming me to my own home. It’s unnerving. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yup,” I say. “You’re here about the development, aren’t you?”

I was never good at playing it cool. Give me the option, and I jump right in. I’d rather know what I’m fighting against than have to do all that guesswork. Maybe part of it is because I feel so guilty, knowing I have to go up against Mr. Wolfe.