Chasing Chaos: A Novel (14 page)

She
knew she herself would never stand under anything so lovely, made just for her.

Then
her elbow brushed the side of the arbor. “Oh, crap,” she said. She looked at
her sleeve. A dark mark marred the fabric where it had absorbed oil from the
wood surface. “Did I hurt the arbor?” she asked.

“Nah.
It’s fine. But you need to treat the oil mark right away. Come on.”

She
followed him to the back of the wood shop and through a door. It led to a patio
under the deck and a garden beyond. A spiral staircase at this end of the patio
led straight up to the deck. She climbed behind him until they reached his
deck. Her breath caught for a moment as she remembered the night before, as she
remembered leaving him, telling him to stay away from her. Yet here she was,
back in the same place again.

Even
weaker than before. Even more unable to say no to him.

“This
way,” he said. “I have good stuff in my laundry room. But we need to get you
another shirt.”

Mutely,
she followed. She felt so selfish. She knew where this walk would end, and she
wanted it to end there.

Marlon
slid open a glass door, and they entered his bedroom. She removed her shoes at
the threshold as he closed the door behind them. The room was lit only by the
remaining daylight entering through the glass. Daphne sat on the bed, watching
Marlon move through his space, remembering what it felt like to sleep with him
here, how she’d fallen into a sleep so deep and relaxed she hadn’t even
dreamed.

She
couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept so well.

Marlon
pulled open a drawer to reveal rows of neatly folded shirts. He extracted one,
long-sleeved and black, and set it on the bed next to her. He stood facing her.
She glanced at his face, then at his feet.

“Daphne.
Look at me.”

“God,
Marlon. I can’t.”

“You
can’t look at me?”

“I
can’t hurt someone as wonderful as you.”

“You
plan on hurting me sometime soon?”

“I
would never hurt you on purpose. Never.” She burst to her feet. “But it just
happens. That’s what happened to Greta. Just being near me almost got her
killed.”

“You
two are still friends, though.”

“She
was lucky to escape with no permanent injuries. And I was lucky she is so
forgiving.”

“Or
Greta just doesn’t let you push her away.” Marlon lifted her hand, then turned
her arm over, examining the oil mark. “Change your shirt. Let me fix it.”

~~~~

To
Marlon, Daphne’s eyes looked wretched. When he let go of her hand, he wanted to
grasp her to him, not in an embrace, but to hold her together so she wouldn’t
break into pieces. But he didn’t. He turned to go, to give her privacy. But
before he could leave she moved.

Daphne
unbuttoned her first button. By the time she’d unbuttoned the second, Marlon
was spellbound, her delicate fingers tripping across the fabric. He didn’t
deserve this. He knew he didn’t deserve this gift.

She
slipped the shirt from her shoulders and held it out to him, standing before
him in a plain black bra, the dips in her clavicles catching the evening
shadows, her narrow waist making him want to fall to his knees.

He
took the shirt, clenching it in both fists.

Now
what?

She
sighed, a velvety sound in his dimly lit room, and reached for his T-shirt.

He
threw her shirt to the floor.

Pulling
her to him, he kissed her lips, kissed her neck, kissed her shoulder. He
thought of how much he’d studied human anatomy for studio art, and he wanted to
find and name all of those places on Daphne’s body and more, and then he wanted
to worship them.

“Wait
here,” he said, leading her to the head of the bed, pulling back the covers. It
was the same place she’d lain the night before. The pillow still held the
impression of her head. “I’m going to go wash your shirt.”

He
left her standing there by the bed. He knew he was taking a risk. He might come
back to find she’d changed her mind, spouting more nonsense about how he should
keep his distance. He might come back to find her gone completely.

But
this was the sort of thing he did: He took things slowly and carefully. He had
faith that if he did so, the right thing would happen. She would either be
there when he got back, or she wouldn’t.

And
if she were there, then being with her would be right.

He
brought her shirt into his laundry room and treated the stain with a concoction
he’d been using on oil stains since college, then rinsed it in cold water. He
hung it on a wooden rack. It would be dry by morning.

He
hoped she would be here in the morning.

He
stopped in the kitchen to grab two beers, a hard cheese, a knife and a cutting
board. Food first. She needed care as much as she needed love.

He
paused and made a wish.

Then
he walked into his bedroom. The door to the deck was open again. He looked out,
hoping to see her there, staring at the valley below. Hoping that she hadn’t
left him. Then he saw his T-shirt, still sitting on the bed where he’d placed
it. A few seconds later, he heard the faucet in the bathroom to his right. She
stood over the sink, splashing water on her face. Then she turned to his bath
towel and rubbed her face dry, pinking her cheeks.

Relief
washed over him.

She
saw him and smiled.

“I
thought you might be hungry,” he said. “It’s nearly seven o’clock.”

“I
can tell.” She nodded toward the open door. “The sun is getting ready to set.”

He
set the bottles on the bedside table and the cheese board on the bed. “Come
eat.”

Daphne
grabbed a beer and joined him on the bed. She lounged opposite him, the cheese
board between them. She still wore only her bra and jeans. She’d removed her
socks at some point, so her narrow bare feet peeked out from the bottom of her
jeans. Her toenails were painted a pale pink.

They
ate in silence, studying one another. He cut her a slice of the hard cheese, an
Australian cheddar, holding it out to her. She ate it, looking thoughtful. But
she didn’t see fit to share those thoughts with him.

Finally,
when the block of cheese was almost gone, when the beers were nearly empty, he
spoke. “I can’t decide if it would be better or worse to tell you what I’m
really thinking.”

“I’m
a fan of honesty,” she said.

“But
I think we both know there are lots of ways of stating the truth.”

Daphne
smiled.

“I
could tell you, for example,” he said, “that no woman except you has ever slept
in this bed. And that would be the truth.”

Daphne
nodded. “I figured I wasn’t the first woman to be in this bed. But sleeping is
far more intimate than having sex.” She chewed a bite of food, thoughtful. “And
I would respond to your statement with a question.”

Marlon
raised his eyebrows.

“Why
me?”

Marlon
didn’t know the names of all of the boyfriends Daphne had brought with her to
Sandy’s house for dinner parties over the years, but he knew who all of them
were. First there’d been a young, handsome one, dashing even, clearly wealthy,
who seemed to worship her. Greta hadn’t liked him much, though, calling him
Slick Rick behind his back. He hadn’t lasted long. Then there’d been the guy
who played for the baseball team. Marlon hadn’t recognized the guy because
really, who has time for baseball, but Sandy had told Marlon at one point.
Apparently the guy wasn’t a dumb jock though—and he led a lot of community
investment projects in East LA where he’d grown up. After the baseball player
had come Dan Morello, who, despite his macho attitude, was a successful
screenwriter and producer and seemed to care a lot for Daphne.

Thus,
from a certain point of view, Marlon could easily be asking Daphne the same
question she’d asked him. Why Marlon, when it seemed she could have anyone?

But
Daphne didn’t care at all that someone was a famous screenwriter, or producer,
or actor like Sandy, or professional athlete. And that was part of the reason
he wanted her.

So
he started there. “You don’t care about status symbols or someone’s income. You
don’t care that I’m a handyman.”

“To
be fair, I don’t actually think you are a handyman.”

“You
didn’t correct me when I said that I was to Dan Morello.”

“Of
course I didn’t.”

“Why
not?”

She
bit her lip, appearing confused.

“Because
you actually don’t care whether I’m a handyman.”

She
nodded. “I wouldn’t care. That’s true.”

“But
you do care whether I have a shot at happiness, or fulfillment, or whatever you
want to call it. That’s why you said what you said about showing my work.”

“Yes,
of course,” she said, appearing confused again. “Why else would I have said
it?”

He
laughed sourly. “There are lots of self-serving people who have made a similar
suggestion for self-serving reasons.”

“Oh,”
she said. “You didn’t think that about me I hope.”

“No.
Because the only thing you care about is your friends. And that right there is
the answer to your question.”

“You’re
wrong.” She took the last sip of beer from her bottle, then handed it to him to
place on the table. “I care about myself too. I refuse to be financially
dependent on others. I own my home, my car, everything that’s important to me.
It’s all mine and only mine. I’m horribly selfish.”

“Wanting
security isn’t selfish. That’s sanity.” He reached over and placed both bottles
and the cheeseboard on the bedside table. Then he yanked his own T-shirt over
his head. He turned back to her, and in a quick motion, rolled her beneath him
until their noses almost touched, until their bodies pressed so close that he
nearly lost his mind. “I’m the same way.”

She
reached up and ran her hands through his hair. “So the only reason I was
allowed to stay here last night was because I don’t care about status symbols
and I’m loyal to my friends?”

“Looking
like a goddess doesn’t hurt your case.”

He
ran one hand down the side of her rib cage, down to the curve of her waist, to
her hip, to the top of her jeans, and groaned.

She
smiled, a secretive smile, close-lipped, looking like the portraits of
Persephone just before her abduction that he’d studied in school. Perhaps he
shouldn’t have invoked a deity. He pushed his luck too far.

But
no. She was reaching down, unbuttoning her jeans. She was lifting her hips and
sliding them off. Jesus.

He
came to his knees and pulled her jeans from her legs, working each pant leg
down, pausing at each foot to admire her pink toes. Finally, she was lying
before him in only her black bra and panties, pushed up on her elbows, her
ponytail draped over one shoulder. She was smiling, a real smile, not a sad one
like he’d seen earlier.

He
stood and took off his own jeans. She stood too, on the opposite side of the
bed. She grabbed the covers and sheet, and he did the same, and they pulled
them from the bed. They came together on his cool white sheets, their mouths
meeting first. He wrapped his arms around her lower back as they stood on their
knees. Then he lowered himself onto his back and brought her with him, draping
her across his chest.

“You’re
a good person, Marlon.”

“I’m
not perfect.”

“I
only said you were good,” she said. “Goodness is rare.”

Then
she was slipping his boxers from his legs. Then she was kicking off her
panties.

“Top
drawer,” he managed to croak, and she located a condom there and handed it to
him.

Then
she was on top of him. And then he was lost.

~~~~

Around
eleven o’clock Tuesday night, Daphne realized she had to decide whether to stay
or go home. She stood in the open doorway of Marlon’s bedroom, looking out into
the night. Marlon had made it clear she was welcome to stay. Plus, she was
meeting Greta here at Sandy’s early in the morning.

Greta’s
wedding day.

A
simple text message to Greta to ask her to grab her dress for her would solve
the logistical problems tomorrow, and Daphne would avoid the hour and a half of
traffic she’d have to sit in during morning rush hour.

Plus,
she really wanted to stay here.

Marlon
was sitting up in bed texting with Carrie. He was arranging a mid-morning
coffee date at the café down the hill from Sandy’s. Apparently Carrie met
Marlon there a lot, so coming around was nothing new for her. The new thing
would be seeing Daphne with Marlon.

Daphne
was nervous.

“It’s
all set,” he said, looking up from his phone. “We just need to give her twenty
minutes’ notice, and she’ll be there. She’s working a double at Rivet tonight
so she’s off all day tomorrow.”