Shelter Me (14 page)

"Pretty good," I said. "I mean, you know. We had a customer in here a while ago who was pretty mad that we were sold out of something, and threw a fit over it."

Mark looked at me sharply. "That's not very professional to discuss with other customers," he said.

"Oh," I said, mildly. "Hi, Mark."

"People are nuts," Marissa said. "Hon, do you see the one we need?"

"No," he muttered. "I don't know why we bothered coming here, they never have anything."

"Because every other place is closed," said Marissa, patiently. "Wait - didn't you say D0065? That's right over here." She reached out to grab one of the cartridges hanging near my head, and time stopped.

Her finger caught the light. Or, rather, something
on
her finger did.

A diamond.

No, two diamonds. Because he wouldn't be Mark if he gave her a ring with just
one
diamond on it.

Mark grumbled a reluctant "yes," snatching the cartridge from her and heading back towards the front of the store. "Okay, well, good to see you, Jacob," Marissa called out as he pulled her along with him.

My heart felt like it was beating about once per minute.

I knew it was coming.
 

I did. I'd come to peace with it already, long, long before I heard the news. I knew it was going to happen. There was absolutely no excuse for acting like it was some big surprise.

I stood there with the planogram in my hand, staring at it, like it was written in some foreign language. It felt like my brain had overloaded, stalled out,
please wait. Buffering
. I became intently aware of the sound of the music blaring in the speakers above my head, every word and every note boring a hole in my eardrums. Louder and louder, until I wanted to scream.

"Hey." Mr. Harris' voice filtered faintly through the noise in my head. "How's it going?"

"Good," I replied, a little too quickly. "I'm just...just double-checking something."

"Great. It's important to be thorough." I could see him watching me, concerned, out of the corner of my eye. "Need any help figuring it out?"

"No, no, I got it." I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. "I just...I'm just not feeling well, all of a sudden."

"Okay, well." He hesitated for a moment. "When you get done with that, come up front and we'll work on sorting out the new releases."

Some time later, I looked down at the shelves and realized I was done. I had no specific memory of having completed the job, but I seemed to have put everything in the right place, so I boxed up the tote of discontinued toners and carried it to the back room. After I set it down, I spent a good few minutes just sitting on a box, staring at the wall. Breathing.

When I heard the door click suddenly, I jumped to my feet and pretended to busy myself with the tote. Mr. Harris poked his head in.

"You all right in here?"

"Oh, yeah," I said. "Yeah, I just - I just wanted to make sure the zip ties were on really tight. I didn't want anything to fall out."

"I'm sure they're just perfect," he said. "Why don't you come up front for a while?"

I followed him up to the counter, keeping my mind very deliberately blank. On the wall of TVs, Shania Twain was dancing over a backdrop, the wind ruffling her hair as she sang something I couldn't quite hear.

"I hope you're not still shaken up over Mary Rose," he said, pulling out a box from under the counter. I shook my head.

"Nah," I said. "It's something else. But I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay."

"Sure," he said. "Whatever it is, don't let it get in the way of your plans for that bike shop. I'm counting on you to get me out of this place." He grinned.

"You know, you'll probably still have to work with the public."

"Sure, but will I have your permission to kick somebody out if they start throwing a tantrum?"

"Absolutely you will."

"See, I like working for you already." He plopped a box on the counter; it was adorned with bright orange labels that said things like
WARNING - DO NOT OPEN
and tomorrow's date. "New releases," he said. "It's very important to keep the street date on this stuff, or the production companies come after us with torches and pitchforks. It's pretty hard not to notice the stickers, but you'd be surprised how many people somehow manage to cut right through them." He started rifling through the box. "Our job is to put them on file in the system so they'll scan tomorrow. They can't go out on the shelf until tomorrow morning, but they have to already be in the computer system by then, or else the
cashiers
come after us with torches and pitchforks."

"Makes sense," I said. He handed me a little device to scan the barcodes and verify the information, and I started in on my task.
 

"So, when's your grand opening?" Mr. Harris smiled at me. "Can I give notice yet?"

I laughed. "I'm hoping to put pretty much everything I make here into savings for a lease on some retail space. But of course I have to help my family out a little, too."

"Of course." He glanced at me. "Is this really your first job?"

"Yeah, my parents didn't really want me to. But ever since I graduated, I haven't had much to do. My mom fought me a little, but I managed to convince her that it was a good idea."

Mr. Harris chuckled. "Most of the kids I get in here practically have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, because their parents want them to learn a little responsibility. You can imagine how well that goes. I'm just glad to have someone here who
wants
to work."

"I've always thought time goes by faster when you have plenty to do."

"It's true. And if there's anything in your life that you want to get away from - or you just want to stop thinking about your troubles, there's nothing quite like re-alphabetizing the whole R&B section for a couple hours. But I can tell you're headed for better things."

"Let's hope so," I said. "I mean, no offense."

"None taken, Jacob." Mr. Harris hefted another box from under the counter and plopped it down in front of me. "Believe me, none taken whatsoever."

CHAPTER TWELVE

Marissa

I felt like I'd spent a lot of time staring at the grandfather clock in Mark's living room, lately.

The last few times, I'd asked if I could help out in the kitchen so that we could cook together. He was actually more receptive to that than I expected, and so I found myself seeding, coring and chopping any number of things on his premium walnut cutting boards with his gleaming, always-sharp knives. He handled all the actual cooking, but at least I wasn't bored.

But today, there was nothing for me to do.

Finally, he came out from the kitchen and handed me a glass of wine. By now I was used to the lightheaded feeling, that low buzzing at the base of my skull. I'd even started to like the taste.

I'd taken a few good-sized sips before I realized he was being uncharacteristically quiet. He was looking down at the carpet, swirling his wine glass absentmindedly.

"What's wrong?" I asked, setting my own glass down on the table.

"Nothing," he said, shortly. I held my breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was silent for long enough that I started to think maybe it really was nothing.

And then, he spoke again.

"Didn't we just talk about the way you dress?"

My heart sank.

"Yes," I said, softly.

"I thought," he said, his voice growing suddenly louder, "I thought you agreed you were going to be more careful."

He looked at me suddenly. There was no softness in his eyes, and I felt a lump growing in my throat.

"I thought I
was
being careful," I said. I wasn't apologizing. Not again. I'd purposefully worn a turtleneck that was several sizes too big, even though it was hot out, and boy's jeans that didn't cling to my hips. What problem could he possibly have with the way I was dressed?

"Marissa," he said, with a sort of forced patience. "Remember how I said that men's brains work differently? I know you don't really understand lust the way I experience it, but you can look in a mirror, can't you?"

Well it was between this and the burlap sack, but that was above knee-level so I decided to go with this ensemble.
Angry tears were stinging in the corners of my eyes, but I wasn't going to let him see me cry. Not over something stupid like this.

"Well, Mark," I said, my voice quivering with barely restrained fury. "Maybe you can just write me a list of the kinds of things I'm allowed to wear and we'll go from there."

"Mari, please, let's not fight." His voice had softened. "I'm sorry, it's just...I get so frustrated when I see you. It hurts that I can't touch you the way I want to. Or even
see
you the way I want to."

"I thought you didn't want to see too much of me." I reached for my wine and took another generous swallow.
 

"Of course I want to," he said. "The point is that I
shouldn't
."

"Maybe we shouldn't be alone together," I suggested. I knew that most young couples in our community were expected to have chaperones at all times, until they got married. It was too much temptation otherwise. It had never occurred to me that Mark would have that problem, being a church leader and all that, but I supposed I'd overestimated his self control.

"Don't be silly," he said, firmly. "We can make it work, right?"

"Can we?" I finished my glass, then set it down, surprised at myself. Mark immediately lifted the bottle and poured me another. "I'm not the one who should be making that call."

"Good grief," said Mark. "You must think I'm some kind of pervert."

"I don't think that," I said. "I know it's different for men."

I was halfway through my second glass before I realized my head was spinning. I'd had this much before, but never this quickly. It was a rather nice feeling. I could understand why people chased after this. I felt...bold, somehow, stronger and more self-assured.

"Just so you know," I said, in a voice that was recognizably mine yet somehow sounding very distant, "I don't try to tempt you on purpose. I spent a long time picking out this outfit specifically because it was the most modest thing I could think of."

"Oh, Mari," he said, leaning closer, the heat of his body seeping through my clothes and making me shiver. "I know. But that just makes it harder."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, his voice dropped to a smooth baritone murmur, "the fact that you're trying so hard not to tempt me is even
more
tempting than if you'd set out to seduce me."

"I'd never do that," I said, because I had nothing else to say.

"Of course you wouldn't," he said. "That's what I like about you."

I felt that prickling on the back of my neck again, but I forced myself to focus on the pleasant lightheadedness that the wine had brought me. Mark poured me another glass, but my stomach felt like it was clenching up around itself, so I decided to abstain for now.

His eyes had been locked on me for a while. I was choosing to ignore it, outwardly, but I was very aware that he was watching, and smiling. It wasn't a friendly smile.

"You make me crazy, Mari," he said, softly.

I swallowed hard, choosing not to answer.

"I think you know that you're driving me crazy," he said. "And I think you like it."

Well, I couldn't deny that. Not entirely.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," I said, which was mostly true.

His smile was growing. "You're so innocent," he said. "But nobody's totally pure, are they, Mari?"

I tugged at my sleeves. "I guess not," I said.

"So you
have
been paying attention." He reached out and pushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The brush of his fingertips against my temple made goosebumps rise all over my body. "It's okay to have desires," he said. "I know in the church, sometimes we focus so much on men's struggles in that area that we ignore what women are struggling with. Especially young women, just as their bodies are coming awake and starting to want things they never wanted before. I know it might feel awkward, considering the situation, but you can always talk to me."

"I don't really think that's a good idea," I said.

"It's fine," said Mark. "Trust me. Men are visual. Talking is perfectly okay."

I didn't quite believe him, but I decided to trust that he knew his own limits.

"I'm serious," he said, reading the doubt on my face. "If there's anything I do that's causing you to stumble, please don't hesitate to tell me."

"Okay, fine," I said. "I wish you wouldn't talk so much about your...you know, your struggles." Even a little drunk, I blushed at the thought. "It makes me...you know, it's, it's...it makes me want...things."

He was looking at me intently. "Oh, Mari," he said, at last, very quietly. His voice sounded strained. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

I shook my head.

"You
want
me to see you," he said. "Don't you?"

I didn't know what else to do, so I nodded.

Without another word, he stood up and walked over to the windows, drawing the blinds. I couldn't stop myself from staring at his lap, at the very obvious bulge under his pants. Nobody had ever bothered to give me any halfway decent sex ed, but I could crack an encyclopedia just as easily as anybody else. I knew what it was.

My whole body flushed very hot, then chilled very cold. I shivered, hugging my arms around my chest.

"Are you cold?" Mark asked, coming back and sitting down beside me. "I can turn down the air conditioner."

I shook my head.

"You sure?" he asked. "I want you to be comfortable."

"I'm sure," I said.

"I want to see you, too," he said. "Just as much as you want to be seen. More. More than you could ever imagine."

I didn't answer.

"Just let me see a little bit of you, Mari," he said. "Just a little. I promise if you do, I'll back off until the wedding."

Clearing my throat, I finally found my voice. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Honestly," he said, "right now, I don't care."