slid past his lips, making it much more than one of our friendly pecks.
Of course he pulled away. “Lex, what the hell are you doing?”
“Marcus, I want you,” I replied and climbed on top of him.
“Come on, we’re just friends.”
“You know it’s more than that.”
I kissed him again, feeling far less hesitation this time. For a few blissful seconds, his arms wrapped around my body and I reveled in his delicious nibbles.
But then he gently pushed me off of him and stared me dead in the eyes.
“Listen to me. You are a mess. You’re vulnerable and you don’t know what you’re saying. You’ll hate yourself afterward.”
“No, I won’t. Please Marcus, make love to me. I need you. You can’t tell me you don’t want me too. I know you’d be lying.”
He lay there speechless and I knew there’d be no more fighting. I took my shirt off and crawled back to him. He pushed the hair away from my face and kissed me the way I knew he’d dreamt of for so long.
* * * *
When I woke the next morning, Marcus had already gone to work. I couldn’t stay there, in his bed, wearing only his pajama top. Embarrassment filled me as I recalled the evening—throwing myself at him, preying on his feelings for me. He’d always wanted our relationship to step past its platonic level. I was the one who’d decided it best to stay just friends. But now we’d had sex, a simple act of desperation for me—to him it probably meant the world.
I had to get out of there and for obvious reasons, my apartment was out. The friend list was rather short. Non-existent, actually. Only pure hopelessness could lead my brain to even consider this last option. As much as I hated it, spending some time at my parents’ house was inevitable.
Dressed in my dirty clothes, the ones I’d worn the day my life fell apart, I climbed into a cab. After a forty-five minute ride, I keyed into my childhood home and knew I’d hit the bottom. At least my next move would be up. It had to be, right?
The house seemed empty, with the exception of the TV blaring in my brother’s room. Not much had changed. I lived less than an hour away, but rarely made a visit. My mother’s sickening June Cleaver impersonation made me want to hurl. Every knick-knack sat in its correct place and every lace doily lay perfectly where it belonged. It smelled like Pine Sol, the same scent she’s used since the dawn of my existence.
I heard Andy’s obnoxious snort of a laugh over the noise of the TV. My twin, a complete loser, still lived at home and still worked at the same pizza joint he’d worked at in high school. How did we come from the same womb? We shared amniotic fluid, for God’s sake!
I brewed myself some strong coffee and flipped on the tube. Mom’s Victorian-style floral couch lent little in the way of comfort, but I curled myself up on it anyway. As I caught up with the ladies on The View, my eyelids slowly closed. I pushed them open only to repeat the same sequence three more times before giving in completely to my exhaustion.
“Alexandra, honey,” I heard first, then Oprah’s voice lecturing her viewers on the dangers of fad diets.
“Sweetie, wake up,” the mousy voice spoke again and I felt my arm being gently shaken.
I peeked one eye open, then the other.
My mother’s beaming face stared at me, her perfect white teeth matching the pearls around her neck. “What are you doing here, dear?”
“I need to stay a few days, okay?”
“Of course! Is everything all right?”
“I don’t want to get into it.”
“Okay. You know you can stay as long as you like. Your room is always ready for you.”
Most parents, upon gaining an extra space in their home, convert it to an exercise room or sewing room. Not my mother. When I left fourteen years ago, she kept the room for me, but returned it to its feminine glory of pink walls and floral print bedding—the décor of the days before I had a say.
At exactly six on the dot, we gathered at mom’s formal dining table for a traditional Marshall Family meal: meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Mom and Dad exchanged small talk as we ate. I knew the topic of conversation would turn to me eventually.
“So, dear, where is Zachary? It’s been ages since we’ve seen him. How is he? I thought of him just the other day. I came across the cutest birthday card at the supermarket. It had a cartoon on the front of it with a golfer and I know how much Zachary likes to play golf. I couldn’t remember the exact date of his birthday, but I planned on calling to ask you.” Clueless to the fact that I’d tuned her out, she could babble on and on about the most mundane things. “So, has there been any talk of a wedding for the two of you?” she asked next.
I stared at her as she awaited my answer, her eyebrows raised in anticipation. I knew what she hoped and prayed for. In my mother’s eyes, I was an old maid.
“No, Mom. He’s been having an affair with Brenda behind my back for months.”
“No! He wouldn’t do that! He’s such a nice boy. Are you sure?”
“Yes, Mom. I walked into my apartment and saw his penis inside her.”
My use of the “p” word at the dinner table flabbergasted her. She never could handle my bluntness. “Oh, well, um...” She stood and cleared away some dishes from the table.
“Do you need to be so graphic with your mother?” Dad asked once Mom had entered the safety of her kitchen oasis.
“Hey, I could have told her I walked in and saw him fucking her brains out. I thought my original statement had significantly more tact.”
He just shook his head.
Andy, as usual, laughed his ass off as he shoveled more food into his mouth.
* * * *
For the next few days, I threw myself the biggest pity party ever. I borrowed some of Mom’s perfectly matching sweat suits and basically sat my ass on the couch and didn’t move, drowning my sorrows in high-calorie, high-fat, high-carb foods. Dr. Pepper and Chester Cheetah soon became my best friends.
I watched old re-runs of Jerry Springer and new episodes of Judge Judy, flipped on some soap operas to see if anyone’s life came even close to the grand level of patheticness of mine. Some came close, but not quite.
My cellphone rang only once, though I refused to answer it. Rachel left me a voice mail begging me to call her so she could apologize. I didn’t feel like hearing it. I prayed to hear The Rembrandts I’ll Be There for You ring tone, the special song for Marcus. Not only did the words fit us, but we’d made a date every Thursday night from 1994 though 2004 to watch the ins and outs of our favorite “friends” on TV.
I wanted to talk with Marcus, but sheer terror prevented me from calling him myself. He’d been right about the night we were together. I was vulnerable, but even worse, I wanted to get back at Zak and I’m sure he knew that, too. My insides churned when I thought of what I’d done. If only he’d forget it ever happened. I longed for our together-forever-always-be-there-for-you friendship but deep down, I feared a permanent annihilation.
Mom walked in the door with armloads of groceries. “Alexandra! Guess what?” she said enthusiastically.
“What is all the excitement?” I asked gaily, but she didn’t pick up on my sarcasm.
“I was at the market, trying to pick out some oranges, when Pastor John came up to me. He said ‘Hello Maryanne, orange you glad to see me?’ Isn’t he so witty? I invited him over for supper tonight so you can meet him.”
My dull, “Hooray” didn’t phase her one bit.
“He’s been our pastor for six months now and we haven’t had