Page 17 of This Thing of Ours

She noticed the markings on her wrists, scrubbing the soap over the abrasions. She never did see Peter again after Derek had saved her, but by that point, she’d been so traumatized, any man coming near her had been terrifying. Lashing out, repeatedly, had earned her the restraints. She didn’t regret the marks on her wrists. Not one bit. Proved she was still a fighter—that Peter hadn’t broken her.

With only the occasional lap of water breaking the quiet, a sudden panic seized Gabby’s chest, and she called out, “Marco?”

“Yeah?”

A gust of air blew past her lips. “Just checking.” She transferred the soap to her other hand, and she scrubbed at her right arm. “Will you talk, so I, um, know you’re still out there.”

Endless moments of silence met her request until she heard his throat clear. “I’m not good at conversation.”

Gabby held back a snort of agreement. “I don’t care what you talk about. I just want to hear your voice, so I know you’re still out there.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Gabriella.”

“Please, Marco.”

There was another pause of silence before she heard a thump against the door, which she imagined was his head tipping back, followed by his voice. “I had a dog once. A mangy mutt, mostly skin and bones. I’d found him in an alley. We weren’t allowed pets at our apartment, so I stuck him under my jacket to sneak him in. I named him Fred.”

“Fred?” she asked, captivated. He rarely spoke and never about himself.

“We had a piece of shit TV. Old and out of date. Only got a few channels, and the ones we did get were mostly static. But one station came in clear or at least clear enough to see the picture and hear the sound. It played mostly old shows, the ones in black and white—Andy Griffith, Leave it to Beaver, shit like that. I liked I Love Lucy the best. Always tried to watch it when it was on. I’d remembered an episode where Little Ricky brought home a dog. Lucy had to hide it from her landlord. She ended up naming him Fred. I’d figured our situations had been similar and did the same... I had him a month.”

A few beats of silence passed before Gabby asked, “What happened to him?”

“Came home one day and he was gone. My dad said he was sick of feeding an extra mouth. I never knew what happened to him.”

There were a few more beats of silence where Gabby stared into the water, seeing nothing. “How old were you?”

“Seven.”

She sucked in a breath. “So young.”

“What?”

She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Where was your mom?”

“Gone. Dead. I don’t know. Just knew she was never there.”

The silence stretched again, but this time neither filled it. After a time, Marco said, “You almost done?”

“Yes, just a few more minutes.”

Gabby rushed to wash her hair then when she had finished, she drained the tub and turned on the shower to rinse herself clean. After drying off, she realized she had no clothes. Wrapping herself in the towel, she cracked the bathroom door. Marco was all she could see through the gap, leaning against the jamb, arms folded across his chest.

“I need clothes.”

His eyes drifted down before returning to meet her gaze. After the story he shared, she wasn’t sure what she expected, but his hard eyes and tense jaw weren’t it. “I’ll be in the living room.”

He didn’t give her a chance to argue before he was out of view, and a few seconds later, she heard the soft click of her bedroom door.

She dug comfy clothes from her dresser, slipping into fresh undergarments, a baggy shirt, and leggings. She wasn’t looking forward to Doctor Greene’s visit but knew it was unavoidable. After refusing to see her parents, the least she could do was give them assurance from the doctor that she was okay.

Her bed called to her, but she didn’t give in to the allure of soft sheets and a fluffy comforter. Instead, she headed to the living room and the only person she really wanted to be with.

She found Marco slouched on the couch, head tipped back with his eyes closed. He hadn’t heard her enter and she was able to take him in at her leisure. His tie was undone—the ends trailing off either side of his chest—as were the top three buttons of his shirt. No longer crisp, the white cotton showed its day’s wear, wrinkled in front where she’d clutched it and a slight shadow of dried sweat under his arms. At some point, he’d rolled up his sleeves and untucked the hem from his slacks. She’d never seen him so disheveled.

His neck was bared, his Adam’s apple prominent, with the dark scruff on his jaw trailing down the underside of his chin before transitioning into smooth, olive skin. She’d think he was asleep if not for his hands, clenched into fists, resting on the cushions to either side of where he sat.

She hadn’t made a sound, but he must have sensed her presence because his head suddenly popped up, and he speared her with his eyes. He didn’t say anything as they followed her as she moved farther into the room and took a seat at the far end of the sofa. Tucking herself into the corner, she planted her feet on the cushion and pulled her t-shirt down over her legs. Her chin hit her knees and rested there. His eyes didn’t leave her.

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