Well Written

11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

Kane

M arcus is staring at me like it's a challenge.

I don't like it.

Or, maybe I do like it, but I hate that I like it? I hate how it reminds me of that summer. I hate that it causes my chest to swell with heat, and my heart to pound heavier against my ribcage. I hate the betraying stiffening forming between my legs. But most of all, I hate that he thinks he still knows me, and I hate that he might not be wrong.

"I didn't like Heartless Heights because—" I take a deep breath. Marcus likes the truth, and honesty is important to me too. But right now, I don't feel as if I'm talking to Marc. I feel like I'm talking to Carsen V. Lovett. My favorite author. And suddenly, being honest, feels extremely intimidating. "I don't like it because it felt undeveloped. Or— I don't know, maybe that isn't the right word. It felt forced?"

I flip through the pages of a mental thesaurus, trying to find the word to convey what I mean. I'm not a writer, like Marcus. I don't have a way with words. When I speak, the only thing the people around me feel is sadness. And not in a profound, tugging on your heartstrings way. More of a "this poor, pitiful dude" way.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that it didn't feel like you ."

I stare up at Lovett— I mean, Marcus— nervously. But the anxiousness turns into irritation as a loud laugh erupts from deep within his chest.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask defensively. Marcus wipes a tear from his eye, then turns away from me. His shoulders move up and down, which tells me that even though I can't hear it, he's still laughing. "What's so funny?"

He shakes his head.

"Nothing," he chuckles, turning to face me. Small wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes. "It's just— some things never change."

Something in my stomach sinks, and even though I know Marcus didn't mean anything by it, the sentence bothers me. I don't disagree with him, necessarily, but I want to. I don't want to be the same exact person I was back then. I don't want to be in the same exact place.

"I've changed," I say, but it feels like a failed attempt to convince only myself.

Marcus looks down at me, those soft blue eyes glowing with endearment. Then, he smiles.

"Only in the best ways."

My heart palpitates violently as I stare back at him. I want to ask him how he knows that, since he's barely seen me for a day. But even more, I want to ask him what that means. I want to know what he sees in me. I want to know what makes me worthy of his time.

But Marcus doesn't give me the opportunity to ask. Instead, his gaze shoots to the top of the stairs again, and a mischievous smile stretches across his face. Then, he takes off, barreling up the spiral staircase like a bolt of lightning.

Despite my confusion, I begin to race after him, not even thinking to hide my curious smile as I chase him.

"Really?" I call out, though the faux irritation is obviously so, given the laugh that follows. "Marc, that's completely unfair!"

"What's unfair?" he yells back childishly, his feet still moving. I blow out an exasperated breath, slowing down but still maintaining a running pace.

"You got a head start!"

He throws his hands up, stopping on the very last step to look down at me. His eyes shimmer as he smiles at me, his chest heaving from the impromptu cardio. As he gets closer, I notice the small droplets of sweat beading at the crown of his head, and I remember the way Marcus smells when he sweats.

It's a salty, and sweet, but also musky aroma. A scent, for some reason, I miss even more than the stray love letters and arguments about hibiscus snow cones. If they made a candle that smells like Marcus Fraund, the shelves would be empty.

When I round the final curve, Marc steps onto the main floor, and as my foot hits the top step, that sweet, nostalgic scent fills my nose. It washes over me, the hairs on my arms standing up like their reaching for it. Desperate for it.

I'm so busy soaking in the scent that I don't realize, until this moment, that I am completely and utterly winded. My chest heaves and I lean over, placing my palms on my knees as I pant heavily.

"Not as young as we used to be," Marcus chuckles breathily. I nod, continuing to gasp for air.

"Jesus Christ." I blow out a heavy breath. "Was it always that long?"

He smirks. "Were you always that slow?"

I shove an elbow playfully into his side, and Marcus chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

I love the way it flows, a mesmerizing grey gradient. It's adorable, and I wonder if it still feels as soft as it used to. If it smells like the product he always used.

"Look," Marcus points through the window, at the sun setting over the sea. It causes the ocean to glow a deep orange color, and makes the clouds blush. He reaches for the door to the balcony, and pushes it open.

As we step outside, the wind funnels into my ears. I look to Marc, his styled hair blowing into a greying mess on the top of his head. I like seeing Marcus messy and imperfect, because I know how much he hates it. It was all he ever thought about back then; pleasing the people around him. That was the only good thing about him leaving. I knew he wasn't going to run off and go to law school, like his parents always wanted. He was going to write.

And he did.

"It's cold!" Marcus shouts over the wind. I smile at him, and nod, but neither of us moves. "Has it always been this beautiful?"

My head turns to look up at him, but he continues to stare out at the scarlet ocean. His jaw is square and pronounced, his lips curved and pale. And as I watch him admire the view in front of us, I realize that he might not be so different from the man I loved back then. The only thing that's changed, is that now, he loves himself too.

It's a dangerous realization, because if that's what stopped us before, what's going to stop us right now?

"It has been," I answer. But what I'm taking in before my very eyes is infinitely more beautiful than the ocean view. Marcus places his hand onto the railing, right next to mine. The side of his palm touches me, but I don't pull away, even though I know I should. In fact, I do the complete opposite. My hand slowly creeps closer, my fingers carefully intertwining with his. His skin is soft, and warm, and the pulsing, tensing sensation between my thighs returns. Marcus' jaw tenses, but he doesn't pull away either.

"I think about it too, sometimes," I say, before I even have the chance to process it. "About what would have happened if you stayed."

Marcus looks at me, and though his mouth doesn't budge, something in his eyes makes it feel as though he smiling.

"Yeah?" he asks, so quietly that I have to read his lips. I nod.

"Yeah."

"And?"

My chest tightens, and I fix my gaze back onto the ocean. "I don't know," I admit. "I think you would have continued to please your parents. You would have given up writing, and gone to law school, and there wouldn't have been any room for me in that life."

My throat bobs as I swallow, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Marcus' chin tilting down, his gaze moving to his feet.

"You're probably right," he says. His hand turns over so that his palm is rested against mine. Then, his fingers slide into the spaces between mine, and he tugs me gently so that my body is against his. I feel his warm breath against the top of my head. I smell his sweet, musky aroma filling the air around us. My heart begins to thrum violently in my chest, and before I even know what I'm doing, I look up at him, cupping his cheek with my spare hand.

"What about this life?" I ask. Then, I push myself onto the tips of my toes, and press my lips against his.