Well Written

9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

Kane

I wish I could tell you that I have no idea what possessed me to ask Marcus Shane Fraund to take a walk along the beach with me. I'm pleading for my brain to come up with a single valid excuse. But the only reason sitting at the very front of my mind is loud, and clear, and obnoxious.

I missed him.

I thought, once I got my apology, that would be it. I thought it was what I needed to move on, to never think about Marcus again. But after he apologized, I still found myself wanting to stay. When he stood up to leave, I couldn't fight the infuriating urge to follow him around like a fucking dog, wondering where he was going. Wondering if I could come too. I don't know if it's nostalgia, or just the fact that sitting there with him in the diner made me feel like I wasn't alone. But whatever caused it, the feeling that "goodbye" was too soon, terrifies me entirely.

White, powdered sand funnels in the space between my feet and my sandals. I stop, sliding them off and bending down to pick them up. But as I do, my foot sinks into the soft sand, and I begin to tip sideways.

"Woah there." Marcus grabs my bicep to steady me, and my heart flutters as his fingertips tighten around me. Those soft, ridged pads, feel just as they used to. Images flash in my mind, ones of those very fingers, playing against my skin like a piano. The pictures cause blood to rush to my cheeks, and the muscle between my legs to harden slightly. Once I gain my footing, I clear my throat, and Marcus promptly lets go.

"So, Oregon State, huh? Was it everything you dreamed of?" he asks, shifting the focus. At first, I'm confused. My head whips to look at him, my brows furrowed and my chin tilted. I didn't go to Oregon State. But then I remember our conversation at Well Written, and my lie comes back to bite me in the ass.

"Yeah," I lie. "It was…" I stop, contemplating my answer. And for some reason, no matter how much I want Marcus to believe that I, too, accomplished my dreams, I cannot bring myself to continue the bluff. I don't owe Marcus shit, I know that. But I want him to know who I am. Who I really am. Not the person I thought I would be, and not the version he invented in his mind throughout the years, but me. Entirely.

"It was a lie," I admit finally. "I didn't go to Oregon State. I didn't even finish Pillar Reef."

Marcus stops walking, his feet parked just a few inches beside my own. He turns, his tall, slender body towering over me. Those crystal blue eyes lock onto mine, and the smell of his vanilla-bourbon cologne is potent and delectable. Sculpted, grey brows knit together, and I can't bear the thought of seeing the disappointment about to fill his face, so I look away.

"Why lie about it?" he asks quietly. I swallow back an aching lump forming in the base of my throat.

"I—" A shaky breath slips from my lips. "I wanted you to think I was successful. Like you."

Silence creeps into the vacancy between us, and I stare shamefully down at the sand. My stomach twists into a knot that tightens every time I inhale. Then, a burst of humorless laughter pierces the silence.

"You think I'm successful ?" Marcus scoffs, clutching his stomach. A glossy coat forms over his eyes as he continues to chuckle uncontrollably.

I frown. "You're a full-time, award winning author."

Still laughing, Marcus shakes his head. "Sure," he says. "If that's what you call success."

"I mean, what else could you want, Marc?"

His laughter begins to die down, and he looks at me curiously. "If you didn't go to Oregon State, what were you up to all those years?"

My lips part, and I want so badly to tell him off. To ask him how that's relevant, and to scold him for laughing at me. But instead, I just answer honestly.

"Nothing. I continued to work at Well Written, and when Old Man Duke passed, I took it over. Clara and I also got married, which clearly went well."

Shame creeps over me as heat begins to flood my cheeks. Here is Marcus, accomplished and handsome and successful. And I have done nothing except divorce my best friend.

"Wait, you and Clara got married ?" His brows shoot up, and I swear his eyes bulge out of his head. I chuckle, still embarrassed.

"Yeah, like I said, that ended well." I shake my head. "It was dumb. I was sad, and she was lonely, and we were best friends. It was a pact, kind of."

Marcus looks at the horizon, the setting sun casting a golden glow across his chiseled cheeks. He sighs.

"Do you regret it?" he asks.

It's not a new question, as I've asked it myself many times. I don't have to hesitate with my answer.

"If I didn't, she probably wouldn't have met Derrick. And in turn, Judah wouldn't have been born, so—" I shake my head again, and a soft smile creeps across my face. "No."

Marcus smiles too, shallow lines forming around his upturned lips. The sunset creates a radiant reflection in his blue eyes, making them sparkle like the ocean waves beside us. It seems, despite the years that have passed, his eyes are aging backwards, because there's a bright glow in them that was never there before. Sure, he's got crows feet and worry lines. But something about him feels more youthful than he seemed at twenty-two.

"Then it wasn't stupid," he says, beginning to walk again.

I follow quickly beside him, a question dancing anxiously on the tip of my tongue. I shouldn't care. I don't care, really. I'm just curious, is all. Anxiously curious. "Well, what about you? Did you get married?"

Marcus stares straight ahead, his throat bobbing as he swallows. "Never found the right person." His hand runs through his hair, and he quickly changes the subject. "Do you know why I don't consider myself successful, Kane?"

"Because you can always be better?" I ask sarcastically. Marcus was always focused on how he could improve. In school, in writing, at work, with his parents. He was never content with himself, so it's no surprise he feels the same about his career.

But Marcus shakes his head. "Because I'm alone , Kane. Completely and utterly alone. You got divorced, sure, but look at all the people in your life who care about you. Judah, Clara, her husband, for fucks sake. I mean, who likes their wife's ex? But he does. He loves you. And that's—" His voice cracks, but he doesn't allow me to get a good look at his face as he walks. " That's success, right there. Because all of this, everything I have, it's superficial. When you're having a hard time, or you're feeling alone, what do you do?"

I don't realize he actually intends me to answer until he turns, and looks down at me. And even with the vermillion sun shining in my eyes, I can see a single tear trickling down his cheek. My throat begins to tighten as I answer.

"I go to Clara's," I say quietly. Marcus smiles.

"Do you know what I do?" he asks, turning to look ahead again. "I write. I create fictional characters to be there for me, because I pushed everyone I've ever cared about, out of my life. So if you want to call my career success? That's fine. But just know that what you have, that family you've created out of care, and love, and sadness, is infinitely more valuable than any award I will ever win. I'm not the victor in all of this, Kane. I haven't won anything. And I'm not looking for pity. I don't want you, or anyone , to feel sorry for me. I did this to myself. But I just want you to know that what I did, leaving everyone like that instead of facing it all, it was the biggest mistake of my life. And no amount of book deals or bestseller lists will ever change that."

Marcus isn't trying to guilt me. He's hurt me, and left me, but he has never intentionally made me feel like I did something wrong.

But as I stand here with him, listening to painful words pour out of his pretty lips, I can't help but feel like it's all my fault. It doesn't make sense. He's the one who turned on me, the one who left. Still, that doesn't stop my stomach from turning into an immovable mass. It doesn't stop the memories of that summer from coming back to me, all the fights, all the pressure I put on him.

My chest begins to sink as I recount those nights, nausea washing over me in waves much stronger than the ones we walk beside.

"It was so fucked up," I cry, pinching the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger to fight back tears. "I should have never expected you to come out before you were ready. I should have let it go. I should've—"

Marcus grabs my shoulder, shaking his head.

"No, Kane. Don't say that. Please, please don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong. I was a coward. It was unfair of me to expect you to keep us a secret. You were proud of who you were. You always have been. And I am so fucking envious of that."

I swallow, an tight sensation tugging at my vocal chords as I take in his words. I have always been proud of who I am, but I was raised to be. Marcus wasn't awarded the same luxury. He was a victim of circumstance, and I might not forgive him for leaving, but I can still mourn his youth.

"You were right to be scared. I mean, look at your parents! Look how they reacted. I—" I sigh, shaking my head. "I just didn't want to feel like I was creeping back into the closet, Marcus. I couldn't go back."

Marcus' hand settles deeper into my shoulder, his smooth palm nesting itself into the crook of my neck. He looks at me, earnestly, and doesn't speak until I finally meet his gaze.

"Kane, the one and only reason that I have nobody in my life, is because I chose to run from them all. I ran from you, I ran from my parents, and I ran from myself. There is nothing you could have done to prevent that. No matter how supportive you were, I was never going to be ready to accept myself back then."

I don't know how to respond to Marcus, because it's not like I can tell him that he's wrong. Looking back at that summer, I can't picture him ever coming out on his own accord, no matter how many times I dreamed of it. It's tragic, really, to hate yourself before ever really knowing who you are.

I understand it completely.

"Can I ask you something?" he inquires quietly. The wind picks up, causing the waves to crash harder onto the shore. Salty ocean water sprays us gently, and I nod, wiping my cheek onto my shoulder. "How have you been? Like, actually?"

I try not to look directly at him, but his presence is magnetic, and I catch myself staring anyway. I scan his eyes, searching for genuineness in his question. His bright gaze doesn't back down.

"Okay," I answer quietly. But when his eyes lock back onto mine, I can tell he doesn't believe me. "It's been bad, lately. But I'm working on it."

"When did that start?" he asks.

"What?"

"You haven't always wanted to work on it," he explains truthfully. "So when did you start wanting to?"

My breath hitches, and I have no time, nor the energy, to come up with an elaborate lie. So I don't. I look at him earnestly, and I tell him the unaltered truth.

"Do you remember that night we went to the lighthouse to look at constellations?" I ask. He nods.

"That was the night before—" His voice catches, and I continue for him.

"Yes, the night before you left. That night, you told me that it felt like life was invented specifically for us."

His brows weave together, and he sucks his cheeks in nervously. "Yeah?"

"I decided to pretend you were right. To start acting like life was created specifically for me to enjoy it. To take advantage of the world around me, and soak in every rain drop, and interaction, and accident. I know it's dumb. Selfish, even. But it's like you said. 'When someone gives you a gift, it's rude to never touch it.'"

God, it's stupid. Humiliating, even, that I've held onto that piece of him for so long. And it's even worse that I've just admitted it out loud.

But I flinch as Marcus brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes, and says:

"You've come a long way, Kane. You know that?"

An awkward laugh slips out of me, and I scratch the back of my neck nervously.

"I don't know. Is it really a long way if I still feel the same?"

Marcus' feet stop moving, planting themselves directly in front of mine. His hands wrap around the back of each of my biceps, and his eyes look into mine intently.

"You're still here," he says. "And you're still trying. So yes, Kane. You've come a long fucking way."

"Welcome to Sully's! What can I get started for you?" The employee smacks his gloved hands together, shooting us a very plastic grin. I glance at Marc, but he isn't even looking at the menu. His arms are crossed over his chest like he knows exactly what he wants. Like he came prepared.

Then, a memory floods into my brain. It takes up each corner of my mind, playing in front of my eyes like a scene from a movie.

We're here, in the same exact spot we are now, only younger. Marc is shoveling a spoonful of pink ice into my mouth, and the second it melts onto my tongue, I cringe, spitting it out onto the white sand beneath us.

"What the fuck was that?!" I asked with disgust. My nose wrinkled, and I kept gagging and coughing, trying to get the heinous flavor off of my tongue.

Marc laughed brightly, the corners of his lips turned upwards.

"Hibiscus."

I spat onto the sand again. "Well it's disgusting."

Marcus' smile transitioned into a subtle smirk, the lines next to his mouth deepening.

"I like it."

"You would."

"Why, because it's gross?"

I rolled my eyes. "No, because if you were a flower, you'd totally be a hibiscus."

Marcus' gaze turned confused, his brows furrowing together. "And why's that?"

"I'd rather not say."

His brow twitched, and a coy smile tugged on the corner of his lip. "Well, you'd be a rose," he said, taking another heaping bite. I shot him an unamused glance.

"Why, because of the thorns?"

An irritatingly sweet smile crept across his face.

"Bingo."

My focus shifts back to Marcus, his finger pointing at the pink syrup behind the counter.

"Can I get a hibiscus snow cone please?" he asks, and when he turns to look at me, the slight upturn of his lips makes me wonder if the same memory popped into his brain.

I consider making a joke about it. Telling him that hibiscus snow cones are an "abomination", and a "threat to society". But Marcus looks back to the employee behind the stand, and I realize that I was foolish to think he'd ever remember a moment so insignificant.

"And for you, sir?" the teenage boy asks. I swallow back the lump forming in my throat, and scramble in my brain to think of a single flavor that isn't the wretched, nauseating "hibiscus". But nothing comes to mind. I just keep seeing him, Marc, twenty years younger, that stupid smirk plastered on his face.

"He'll take a hibiscus as well," I hear Marc answer. My eyes race to meet his in a horrified gaze, and I'm just about to wave down the Sully's employee and beg him to not give me a hibiscus fucking snow cone, when my eye catches on the little crescent settled into the side of Marc's mouth. It's subtle, and nostalgic, and teasing. And I realize that Marcus, is fucking with me.

Laughter bursts out of him like a flame, and he clutches his side, taking in staggered breaths.

"You should see your face!" He wipes a tear from his eye, then doubles back over, letting out a sound that nearly resembles a howl.

I want to frown, I really do. I want to silently display how unamusing I found that little prank, and inform Marc of the uproar that would ensue if I was, in fact, delivered a hibiscus snow cone.

But I can't.

Because Marcus remembered that night, and now, it's all I'll be able to think about.

"I'll take a pina colada, actually," I answer, failing to fight the smile stretched across my lips. The employee, completely unaware, and uninterested of the history behind Marc's laughter, promptly nods, and begins forming the shaved ice.

The wind is fierce tonight. Heavy gushes of air blow against Marcus and I, causing both of us to shiver as we walk along the beach. But that doesn't stop us from continuing to shovel cold, flavored ice shavings into our mouth as we bury our feet in the sand.

"Fuck!" Marcus holds his jaw open, breathing heavily through his mouth and wincing.

"Brain freeze?" I ask, and he nods quickly.

"Sho' col'," he manages to get out, still exhaling warm air to soothe the freezing sensation. Even with his jaw awkwardly hanging open, Marcus looks regal and handsome.

I love the way the shirt he's wearing fits him, and how the color is reminiscent to his eyes. I love how he leaves the top button open, his smooth, hairless chest peeking from beneath. And the way it hugs his arms, like they just barely fit into the sleeves. I love the way his pants sit on his waist, and how they're ever so slightly tight around his hips. It's flattering, to say the least. And I'm just now realizing that I'm staring.

"Do you want to try mine?" I ask, hoping the gesture disguises my gaze. I hold out a little red spoon piled with a mountain of shaved ice. Marcus nods, shakes his head, then nods again.

"I do," he says in his normal voice. The brain freeze must be fading. "But I need to give my brain a break for a second."

"Slow was never your forte," I tease, scooping the bite into my mouth. Heat begins to rush to my cheeks as I realize the suggestiveness of my comment, but it only takes a moment for a different sensation to take over. A freezing, throbbing pain shoots from the roof of my mouth, into every fold of my brain. My head tosses back, and now, I take my turn to mouth-breathe.

Marcus erupts into a ball of low, rumbling laughter. It feels like thunder when the sun is still shining. Deep, and full, but still bright and safe. One thing that hasn't changed about Marcus is his laugh, and I'm more grateful for that than I'd like to admit.

"Clearly, it wasn't yours either," he taunts, and I'd roll my eyes if it didn't feel like I was trapped in an agonizing ice-coffin.

Once my brain begins to thaw, and my clenched eyes open, I realize that Marcus is standing perpendicular to me. His body is nestled close to mine, his arms hovered around my body like a contactless cocoon.

"What are you doing?" I ask annoyedly, taking a step away from him. Marcus waves his hands, gesturing for me to come back to him.

"Protecting you!" he yells back as the wind picks up. I almost pull even further away, but Marcus looks so worried right now, and I have to admit that it's rather cute. I battle the wind as I shuffle closer to him. Not close enough to touch, but just enough to where I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"We should go back!" I suggest, my voice barely carrying through the thick air. Marc shakes his head.

"It's too far!" He points at a silhouette in the distance, and as I squint my eyes, the shape becomes clear. "The lighthouse is the closest option!"

I consider arguing, but as the thought enters my brain, little flecks of sand begin to pelt my legs and cheeks, and I accept the very plain fact that I would rather be trapped in a lighthouse with Marcus, than endure another second of this whipping, stinging sensation.

My eyes lock onto his, and the moment Marc gives me a singular nod, we both begin to run to the lighthouse.

My vision becomes blurry as the wind picks up the sand around us, transforming it's usual clarity into visible puffs of sediment. It feels like someone is slicing a thousand papercuts into the sides of my legs, and as we approach the door, Marcus grabs the rusted handle, and swings it open. It creaks eerily as it closes behind us, and a loud, metallic echo rings through the building.

Then, silence.