Get What You Need (28 page)

Marsh didn’t reply except to give a little grunt.

Greg’s mom took a sip of her water, then asked, “So you’re in undergrad?”

“Yeah. A senior, though.”

“And you’re majoring in…”

“History.” Marsh withdrew his hand, twisting around in his seat. Picking up his butter knife, he gestured toward Greg with the blade. “I’m not like Greg.”

“I don’t know anyone who is,” Greg’s mom said conspiratorially.

Greg gave a little groan. “Which is why you’ve been saying I’m exactly like my father for twenty-five years now?”

“In temperament, sure,” she admitted before refocusing on Marsh. “The things this boy used to say to me when he was a kid. He’d come home with these science books he got from the library, and I’d just sit there and nod and smile. Even when he was this high,” she held her hand three feet off the ground, “he knew more than I did about that stuff.”

“Hasn’t changed much, huh?”

“Not a bit.” She darted her gaze to the side, giving Greg a warm smile. “He’s always outshone everyone. And he works so hard. Too hard.” She gave Marsh a pointed look. “Which is why he needs people in his life who know how to have a good time and put the books down once in a while.”

“That’s me,” Marsh said, chuckling, but the humor sounded forced.

It wasn’t much of a tell, but it was the second or third thing he’d said tonight that made Greg frown. Because Marsh could be self-deprecating—he acted that way all time, but this ran deeper. Was uglier. And Greg didn’t like it at all.

For a beat too long, no one said anything. Greg glanced at his father, who shifted forward in his chair. “Any idea what you’re going to do next year?”

To Greg’s surprise, Marsh laughed, and his grip was too tight on that knife. “Frankly, sir, I don’t know what I’m doing next semester.”

Okay, now Greg really didn’t know what to think. He twisted around to face Marsh more fully. “What?”

“Nothing.” Marsh waved him off, and everything about the gesture said not to press. That they’d talk about it later. Greg opened his mouth anyway, but Marsh talked over him, “Anyway, um, a history major isn’t exactly very marketable right now. I guess there are office jobs. Maybe.”

“Any interest in grad school?” Greg’s mom asked.

“Ah, no.” Marsh tapped the knife against the table in a twitchy, staccato rhythm. “School’s not exactly my strong point.”

“Can’t blame you.” Greg’s dad smiled, and Greg had never appreciated him more than he did in that moment—been more aware of how he could diffuse things. “Was never mine either. We weren’t kidding—” he pointed at Greg, “—we have no idea where this one came from when it comes to book smarts.”

“Still,” Greg’s mom said. “Especially if you don’t care for classes, you’ll be a college graduate. That’s saying a lot.”

A dark expression passed over Marsh’s face. “It would be. Yeah.”

And Greg wanted to reach out and touch him, to
shake
him and make him explain what was going on, but for now all he could do was slip an arm around the back of his chair and run a thumb along his shoulder blade. “Marsh is pretty amazing,” he said.

But he might have been the only one of the two of them who believed it.

“I’ll pick you guys up at eight tomorrow? Quick breakfast before we head to the airport?”

“Perfect,” Mom said, pulling him into a hug. “I just wish we could stay longer.”

“Yeah, me, too.” Greg wrapped his arms around her and held on.

A much quicker hug from his dad, and that was more or less that. He gestured behind himself. “Well, Marsh is waiting.”

His mom gave a knowing smile. “He is a lovely boy. A little lost, but lovely.”

“Glad you approve.” The
lost
part echoed in Greg’s thoughts the loudest, though.

“You have always made good choices.”

Not always. Not when he stayed silent while everything in him was screaming at him to ask for more. Not when he was working himself to the bone. “I try,” was all he could concede.

“And that’s all we ask.” She shooed him toward the door. “Go on. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.” Greg gave a parting wave and headed out.

Just like he had the night before, he paused outside the door to their motel room, but instead of looking at the sky, he stared at the parked car where Marsh was sitting in the passenger’s seat, doing something on his phone. Greg hadn’t been exaggerating back at dinner, when he’d told his parents Marsh was amazing. These past few days, Marsh had done more for Greg than he knew how to thank him for.

Damned if he wasn’t going to try, though.

Greg inhaled deeply, then let it go. He strode the few steps across the parking lot and slipped into the driver’s side door. Sliding the key in the ignition, he turned to look at Marsh.

“Home?” he asked.

And for the longest time, their eyes connected.

Until Marsh looked away, nodding jerkily as he gazed out the window. His voice was quiet as he echoed, “Home.”

Chapter Twenty

“So.”

Marsh flinched internally at the sound of Greg’s voice, that one short syllable, uttered sharp and quick. They’d just made it through the door of the house, and now they were standing there in the entryway, the air crackling between them, and Marsh didn’t know exactly what came next.

“So,” Marsh echoed, turned away from Greg. The whole ride home, his nerves had been rising, because the signs had been good. Greg had slept in his bed last night. He’d taken his hand in front of all those people.

He hadn’t been embarrassed of Marsh.

But Marsh had intruded in so many ways, first with Greg’s schedule, and then by showing up uninvited to his talk and letting Greg’s parents cajole him into going to dinner. He shouldn’t be able to get away with all of that.

It felt like time for it to all come crashing down around him, these weeks of sex and growing intimacy and unspoken wanting. Every second when it didn’t felt like borrowed time.

“So. Your room or mine?”

Well, no one had ever accused Greg of being anything other than efficient.

“Mine.” It was the only bedroom on this floor, and from where Marsh was standing, it didn’t look like anyone was hanging out in the living room or the kitchen. They’d have the least chance of being overheard here.

And if things went badly, Greg wouldn’t have to kick Marsh out. He’d just be able to leave.

“All right.” Greg headed in that direction, but Marsh needed a second.

“I’m just going to…” He pointed down the hall. “Get a drink. But, uh, go ahead.”

Greg nodded sharply and started walking. The second he was out of view, Marsh ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard, shoulders sagging. He needed to chill out, or get a grip, or just…not freak out. Not freaking out would be awesome.

He headed to the kitchen, where he perused the fridge for a second just to feel the cool air and buy himself some time. A beer was tempting, but probably not the best idea. He picked a soda at random and popped the top, then took a big glug, draining half of it in one go. It felt good on his throat. Closing the fridge door, he leaned up against it for a few breaths.

All right. Time to face the music.

Leaving his soda on the counter, he headed back to his room, shoulders square and spine straight. Greg was standing at the foot of the bed, by the opposite wall. He’d loosened his tie, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone, his hair sticking up a little on one side like he’d spent the last five minutes running his hands through it. He looked good. Amazing, really. And Marsh knew the shape of the body underneath those too-nice clothes. He knew this man. He just had to have some faith in him.

Marsh closed the door behind him and turned to put his back to it, bending one knee and kicking to brace his foot against the wood. At the sound, Greg looked up at him, and his face was open and honest—unguarded in a way he so rarely was, especially around Marsh.

Marsh
wanted
to know this man. All the little pieces of himself he kept hidden away.

Looking down, Marsh shoved his hands in his pockets, only he couldn’t keep his eyes averted for long. Glancing up again, he settled his gaze on Greg’s mouth.

“Hi,” Marsh said, and it wasn’t fair how breathy and tentative the word sounded on the air.

“Hi.”

Marsh chuckled, fidgeting and sucking the inside of his lip between his teeth. “How’re you?”

“Good. I guess.” A momentary pause. “It’s been a hell of a couple days.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Marsh, I—” And the earnestness in that tone took the molten pieces inside of Marsh and sent them coursing through his bloodstream, lodging them in his heart.

Because they’d talked about things a little yesterday, but it wasn’t really settled. Marsh still didn’t know where he stood, and everything felt too uncertain—Greg’s easy acceptance of everything Marsh had done and his public affection all night long and just
everything
.

“I’m sorry,” Marsh choked out.

All at once, Greg’s face fell, his expression stricken. “I— You— You’re…sorry.”

Marsh’s eyes felt too hot, his chest ready to fly apart. “Everything, these past couple of days. I didn’t have any right.”

“What—”

“I didn’t mean to intrude or impose. First with your schedule, or—”

“No, that was—”

“But you were drowning, and when you were sick you looked like you needed someone to take care of you. And I wanted to be that person.”

That declaration hung in the space between them for a moment that seemed to stretch out forever before Greg said, quiet, like a confession, “I wanted you to be, too.”

Marsh had to look away this time. He
had
to focus on something other than the line of Greg’s mouth or the jut of his chin. “I wasn’t going to go today,” he said, talking to the wall to his right. Greg said nothing, but the floorboards squeaked. Greg was coming closer, and Marsh had to get this out. “I didn’t think you wanted me to. But it was open to anyone, and Yulia showed up with a flier, and I…I wanted to. I wanted to see you. Even though I was too dumb to understand any of it.”

“Would you stop it?”

Marsh jerked his head back to center, and there Greg was, right in front of Marsh, only inches between them, his expression the weirdest cross between anger and pleading.

“What?”

“That’s the sixth time tonight you’ve said something about you being stupid. If it were anyone else talking about you that way, I’d punch them.”

And that was an image, wasn’t it? “Seriously?”

“Like a heart attack. Nobody talks about my—about you like that. You act as if you’re an idiot, or—”

“What else am I supposed to act like?” Marsh pushed off the wall, shoving past Greg, because he needed some air. He flung his arm out to the side when he could breathe again. “I’m not you, or any of your friends. When you guys talk, sometimes I feel like it’s a different language.”

“Then tell us to slow down.”

Yeah, like that was ever going to happen. He didn’t need to point out that he wasn’t smart enough to keep up, when really he was happy they even let him listen to them talk at all. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. How long have you been feeling like this?”

Laughing, dark and ugly, Marsh dragged a hand over his face, muttering beneath his breath, “Since I was born?” Louder, he said, “I don’t know. It’s just how it is. If it weren’t for baseball, I wouldn’t be here at all. Not exactly college material, you know?”

Not even close. Just like his dad said, he didn’t belong here.

“Bullshit.”

“Right, listen—”

“No, you listen. Jesus.” Greg had his hand in his hair again, and he was going to be bald on that side if he didn’t let up soon. He crossed the room, reaching down to tug out one of Marsh’s textbooks. “This stuff isn’t easy. Athletic scholarship or no, you’re doing stuff that’s hard. I don’t think I could do what you do.”

“Sure.”

“Seriously. Science? Math? Yeah, I’ve always had an okay time with those, but you should have seen my high school English papers. They were more red ink than black.”

“But anyone can learn that.”

“And anyone can learn math! If they work at it.”

“I do work at it.” A rage he never gave enough air to lit his lungs. “Even the history and the English and shit, I work my ass off and I barely pass. I needed tutoring for all my gen-ed classes. It’s not just the scholarship. If the team didn’t set us up with people to help us get through our classes, I’d be fucked.”

“Marsh, we’re at a really good school. Even if your academics aren’t your strong point, or even if you need help, you’re making it. You read these crazy things.” He rattled off one of the titles from an article Marsh had tucked inside the book. “And you’re into it. I’ve seen you studying, and you get totally lost in it. You have books everywhere, and maybe you’re not a nerd, but you’re good at it. All the history stuff. You like it.”

“Well, it’s interesting.”