Tainted Love (Sweetest Taboo #2) (15 page)

Susie noticed the synchronized tears streaming down my cheeks and took pity on me. Suddenly her disapproving look became a cocky grin, and she nudged me. “Well if you’re not sure, you’re not sure. Give it time. Meanwhile…” her grin grew as she continued, “as long as you’re becoming the girl we all dream of becoming – the one who sleeps with one of the hottest guys on campus – you might as well tell me what it was like. Come on, details!”

Suddenly my friend was back, and I fell into the story relieved. I hadn’t planned to sleep with Marcus, but the damage was already done, and as long as I had to deal with it, there was nothing wrong with passing along the sensual and incredibly pleasurable events of last night to one of my best friends.

Chapter Eleven - Fallin’

S
usie and I were out shopping when we saw Marcus. We were at one of the higher-end shops in Georgetown – the stores where Susie could shop, being from a somewhat privileged family. I didn’t mind having to sit this particular shop out – the clothes seemed to be made only for people who were tall and built like a lamp post, so they fit Susie just fine, with her tall, statuesque, model-like figure. I always swore the girl could have gone into modeling if she had wanted to. She had the classic beauty and stature of a runway model, and could wear clothes that came straight from designers.

Fortunately, she was far too down-to-earth for that sort of lifestyle, preferring nights at home with friends and spur-of-the-moment dinner parties to clubs and fancy restaurants. She also enjoyed hanging out all day in her pajamas, if the mood suited her, or wearing nothing but a T-shirt and sweatpants all day.

And she hated having her picture taken.  Weird, right?

Still, she could wear and afford clothes I only dreamt of. I didn’t envy her for it – she was always complaining about her insignificant bra size, and how difficult it was for her to fill out her jeans. I’d grown into my high school curves, and didn’t have the exaggerated hourglass figure anymore, but I certainly would never be perceived as being ‘flat’ by any means. Susie and I were the same height, but would never be able to borrow anything but shoes from each other. I filled out my size three jeans really well; whereas her size one jeans still had room to spare.

“What do you think of the blue cocktail dress?” she called from the dressing room.

I snorted. “I thought it was gorgeous, but I don’t understand why you’d buy it. What are you going to do, wear it on the nights when I cook shrimp instead of spaghetti and meatballs?”

A giggle escaped from the dressing room. “You should be so lucky!” she called. “I need something to wear when I go out to dinner with my parents next weekend. They don’t like it when I wear jeans around them, no matter how expensive the jeans are.”

I heard the words, but I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to duck down and hide in the large, cable-knit sweater I was wearing. Marcus had just walked through the front door of the shop, and was now looking around, casually scanning the clothes racks and (presumably) identifying potential clothing he wanted to purchase.

“Iz?” I heard Susie ask faintly. “Are you still out there? Please tell me you’re out there, because I want you to look at this dress and I’m not going to go wandering around the store looking for you.”

“Yes, I…um…” I stuttered, looking around desperately for a place to hide. I wasn’t sure how I felt about what had happened between Marcus and me the previous night, and I certainly didn’t feel ready to face him in person. I wasn’t even sure how I would act, or what I’d say.

Suddenly Susie was behind me, in all her blue sequined glory, tugging at my arm gently with her cold hands. “Iz? What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, glancing over my shoulder. I motioned with my head toward the front of the shop, where Marcus was still standing, looking like a Greek god come to life.

“Shit,” she muttered. “Well of all the timing in the world, of course he comes in here when you’re hung over and wearing your most comfortable sweater ever. Get in here.” Without waiting for a response, she grabbed me and dragged me into the dressing room, which was covered in clothing and shoes. She glanced around, stopping at several pieces of clothing before settling on an A-line skirt, which had been far too big for her. She grabbed it, darted out of the room and snatched a blouse from the rack in front of us, and was back in a snap.

“Put these on,” she said breathlessly. “At least that way you’ll look decent, and he’ll think you’re picking up some clothes. You’ll score some extra points in your favor.”

I looked at her, shocked, and wondered if she’d lost her mind. “Are you kidding? I’m not going back out there. I don’t want to talk to him, regardless of what I’m wearing! A fancy skirt isn’t going to make me feel better about what happened!”

She gave me a new version of
the look
, then muttered, “Izzy, you don’t really have a choice. He’s here, you’re here, and you’re bound to see each other. I know it’s not ideal, but you’ve got to keep it together. Now get into these clothes quick, before that sales woman comes and reprimands us for sharing a dressing room.”

I groaned, but acknowledged the logic in what she was saying, and began to struggle into the clothes, muttering rebellious threats under my breath. The skirt was slightly too snug, of course, and was uncomfortably tight around my hips. The blouse was a bit larger, but was still exposing more cleavage than I was comfortable with.

Still, at least the articles of clothing were an improvement on the fisherman’s sweater and faded Levi’s I’d been wearing a moment earlier.

I glanced in the mirror at myself, then turned and looked over my shoulder at the rear view.

“You look great,” Susie encouraged. “Like you just rolled out of bed and happened to get dressed in something sophisticated. Stop worrying so much.”

I grinned in spite of myself, and let her fuss at the buttons of the blouse for a moment longer.

“Finished,” she finally said, giggling. “Now what are you going to say to him? Repeat it for me.”

“Make casual conversation,” I repeated, remembering what she’d been saying while I was getting dressed. “Tell him we’ve come shopping for the next year, and ask him how his day is going. Pretend like nothing happened.”

“Right, exactly. Act casual. Be charming,” she confirmed. Then, with a shove, I was out of the dressing room and standing in the hallway. I walked toward the mirror and stood there, twirling back and forth, and pretending to think about the skirt.

Before I knew it, Marcus’ reflection appeared in the mirror behind me. He was smiling, a radiant smile I’d never seen before. “Well, well, well…” he breathed against the nape of my neck. “Looking quite sharp in that skirt, Isabel. I must say, it suits your physique,” his eyes moving down my neck and landing on my exposed cleavage.

I felt myself starting to blush. “Oh, hello Professor Wellings,” I said quickly. “What a surprise. Susie and I are just shopping for some clothes to compliment our wardrobes. She’s in a…one of the dressing rooms,” I finished lamely, wanting the ground to swallow me whole that very moment. My dialogue sounded nervous and rehearsed.

“Well I’m always a fan of a girl with good taste in clothes,” he said, sliding closer to me. I gulped. I hadn’t been counting on seeing him at all, much less talking to him, and the way he was looking at me made me feel like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. I glanced down at the $200 skirt again, pretending like I was making up my mind, and tried to get the butterflies in my stomach under control.

“Well I certainly have taste,” I teased. “The bigger problem is that all the nicest clothes are designed for women with little or no curves.” I turned back and forth in the mirror, examining how the items of clothing clung snugly to both my breasts and my behind.

“I don’t think that looks bad at all,” he noted quietly. “In fact, I think I’ll buy the outfit for you. Think of it as a ‘starting off the new school year with a bang’ gift.”

I stared at him, shocked. Was that pun intended or was I reading into his word choice? Either way, I was wearing over $400 worth of clothing! “But, I –” I hesitated, resisting his generous – and potentially very disrespectful? – offer.

“No arguing,” he interrupted. “It’s a gift from your thesis advisor. It’s rude not to accept gracious gifts from those that are happy to give them.” He grinned at me after this unlikely statement, and I found myself grinning back. How could I help myself? The man was charming and gorgeous, and now he was buying me expensive clothing. A little voice in the back of my head tried to remind me that maybe these ‘gifted’ clothes represented a dirty little secret, but the louder voice hollered, ‘go with it, you’d be an idiot to turn this stunning man down!’

What could it hurt?

***

The next two weeks were a blur. Before I knew it – before I’d even decided that I wanted my life to turn in this very direction – Marcus and I were spending all of our time together, attending independent film festivals and museum openings, staying up late into the night drinking wine and discussing the finer points of philosophy and its impact on the modern world. Marcus had a mind like no one else I’d ever met, and talking with him about philosophy, literature, politics or even local news stories was like being in one of his lectures – I learned so much and remained engaged every second I was in his presence. I always came away from my time with him feeling like I had gained so much useful knowledge. I contributed to the conversations as well, with plenty of thoughts and questions of my own, but Marcus was far more experienced than I was, and he never let me forget that imbalance in our relationship. Even when I thought I understood exactly what he was saying or explaining, he’d go on to point out the reasons why my assertions were invalid, pushing and pushing until my mind was saturated with knowledge.

It was an amazing feeling, but it was also overwhelming. He was just teaching me, I realized, but there was a part of me that felt like he looked down on me, or thought that I wasn’t quite enough for him. Maybe it was because we always ended up in the bedroom. I would cook an elegant meal, pair it with the perfect wine, and then sit with him, discussing this or that, until he no longer was interesting in talking. Then he’d stand up, scoop me into his arms, and take me straight to the bedroom upstairs. When he was done making love to me, he’d usher me quickly out of the house, looking furtively around to see who might be watching.

I never had the opportunity to meet any of his friends or colleagues. And he ducked out on me more than once, taking a phone call and then suddenly standing to leave in the middle of dinner. When I had built up enough courage to actually say something about it, he practically snapped my head off, sending me home without another word. I didn’t hear from him for days afterward.

I went home that night heartbroken, to find Susie scooping ice cream directly from the container and watching E.R. on the couch. She took one look at my tear-streaked face and scooted over to make room for me. I walked to the kitchen, grabbed a spoon and sat down next to her, curling up in the fetal position.

“What’d he do?” she asked quietly. She knew exactly where I’d been, and this wasn’t the first time she’d seen me come home in tears after a trip to the academic house, as we called it.

I waved her off at first, leaning over to scoop up some ice cream and to get my thoughts together. She knew what was going on between Marcus and me, of course, and she’d made it clear from the start that she didn’t approve of it. I could list several reasons for her disapproval, though I’d always felt that there was something she wasn’t telling me. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give her another reason to dislike him.

Still, talking about it would be better than keeping it all in, and I wanted some sympathy. “It’s just the way he is around me,” I started. “We talk about everything, and it’s always so…well, serious, really. Why did Plato depend on others to document his dialectical process? Why wasn’t Aristotle more accepting of women? What will happen when Hong Kong is returned to China? It’s such an adult relationship, and he’s so different from any one else I’ve ever been with.”

“But…” she led, knowing that there was more.

“But he treats me like…like I’m less than him,” I said numbly. “It’s like he’s just teaching me, the entire time. And then he gets tired of the discussions and leads me to his bedroom, and we have sex. And then he practically kicks me out right afterward. It’s like he’s just done with me, that’s the end of it. I never get to meet his friends, I never get to actually go
out
with him. I’ve never spent the night. It just feels…”

“Like he’s hiding you?” she asked sympathetically.

I looked up gratefully. “Yes, exactly. But, why? Why would he be dating me, but hiding me at the same time? Do you think he’s embarrassed of me?”

Susie pulled me in for a hug, tucking my head against her shoulder. “No Iz, how could he be embarrassed of you? You’re gorgeous, and smart, and you’ve got a great future ahead of you. I’m sure it’s not that.”

“Then what?” I asked, sniffling. “I mean it’s not like I’m asking him to marry me or even hinting at getting really serious with him. I just want to feel like I’m important to him, I guess.”

Susie pulled back and looked me in the eye. She wasn’t necessarily the right person to go to for advice at this time – she’d dated a string of half a dozen guys in the last month, and wasn’t remotely interested in getting caught up in a serious relationship – but she was my best friend, and knew me better than anyone else on the East Coast. I trusted her to help me find a way through this mess. Even if the solution wasn’t one I was eager to hear.

“Izzy,” she said quietly. “I don’t think you should take him as seriously as you do. I know you don’t like to think about it, but this is probably just a fling to him. I’m sure he has a lot of other stuff going on. He probably doesn’t mean to be the way he is, but - ”

“But what?” I interjected, frowning. “Susie, do you know something I don’t?”