Page 7 of The Other Side of Apart

One Month Later

Mei,

I just want to humbly say thank you for dinner last night. Marcus let me taste some of his, even though you put me on a diet because my midsection is getting out of control. But now that I’ve tasted your pineapple curry, no one else’s will do, and that’s just great—I’ll save all that money I was spending on DoorDash. So my budget and my belly thank you.

Yours, Buddha

Ihang my towel on its hook and stand in front of the bathroom mirror, debating with myself. Marcus has been hands-off for a month now, and I want to show him I’m not the fragile girlfrom the hut. I want to show him I trust him. Because I do. He’s not Nick, and I want to prove to him that I don’t see him like that. I need to prove it to myself, too. So maybe I should walk out naked and see if that changes anything. If it says, “I don’t want to be just your roommate.”

Maybe Tension will run out the door. He’s been our loud, obnoxious, third roommate long enough and made himself way too comfortable but…leaving my towel behind could get rid of him. Maybe. Or maybe not. How would I know? Two months ago, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, but we were in a very different place back then, literally and figuratively. Emotionally. All the way back then, we couldn’t stand space between us, and now that’s pretty much all we’ve got, even when space is hard to come by.

I close my eyes. I really need to talk to Marcus about more than the funny things that happen at work or what we want to do on our day off. I need to know what’s behind his emotional wall that came up the moment we got to Seattle and has surrounded him like a fortress ever since. I need to know if he’s feeling trapped like I am.

The steam in the bathroom is too thick and crowds me out, but I haven’t decided what to do, so I opt for the security of clothes. When I open the bathroom door, a trapped cloud of steam follows me out.

Marcus is still in his bed—on the top bunk—reading a book with the cover torn off, his feet hanging off the end.

I talk as I pull my wet hair into a ponytail. “I’m off around seven tonight, and Jerry said he can drive me home, so you don’t have to come pick me up.”

The bed creaks, and Marcus props his head on his elbow and looks over the edge, filling the small space between his mattress and the ceiling. “What if I wanna pick you up?” His smile reachesdown to me, and I curl my toes into the rug, trying not to stare because I don’t want him to read what’s in my eyes.

He’s a constant reminder of what I’m not sure I have, and a temptation for what I want so badly I can’t think straight. When he wakes up and hangs over the edge of his bed to say good morning, I want to run my fingers through his messy hair, but I don’t dare. At night, we talk in our separate bunks about nothing meaningful until way too late, and I stare at the wood slats holding him so far above me. Wonder what he’d do if I climbed the ladder to him. I think of ways to tell him to stop tossing and turning and trying to scrunch himself into his space because there’s room for him in mine. And when he’s in the shower, just behind a flimsy door, I have to distract my hands so they don’t turn the knob.

The distance between us is filled with sticky confusion. He has his motorcycle. No one’s gonna find us. We don’t have to sneak around anymore. He told me he wants to be here with me. He’s mentioned more times than I can count how much it messed him up when we were apart, but his words don’t match his actions, and I’m not sure what to believe now.

“It’s okay,” I respond when I feel his gaze lingering on my back like it always does, and freeze, letting them warm me like sunshine. I grab my jacket and head to the door. “Jerry’s headed home anyway. See you later.”

The restaurant is buzzing tonight, the hum of chatter and shrieks of laughter mixing together and pulling all my noisy thoughts into them. If I wasn’t constantly moving tonight, nostalgia would surely have me wishing for a time before everything that’shappened in the last month. Like the first time I met Marcus and fell instantly in love with him.

I clear another table and head to the kitchen, setting the dishes in the sink area. It’s not that Marcus hasn’t done anything Marcus-y all month. He has. A couple weeks ago, I found notes from “Buddha,” some sweet and some funny. Like the one he made into a tiny sailor’s hat and propped on Buddha’s head that said:Your roommate’s hot, Mei. Can I get his number?Or the one I found taped to Buddha’s hand that was left inside my pillowcase. Didn’t see that one until I laid down and it jabbed my ear:Do you find it weird that I watch you sleep at night? I try not to, but I physically can’t close my eyes. Sorry, not sorry.

Since the day we arrived in Seattle, he’s been the perfect guy. He always lets me shower first. He’s made me dinner at least twenty times, even though he can only make elaborate turkey sandwiches, complicated omelets, and gumbo.

But he still hasn’t touched me except for the occasional foot touch under the table or random hand hold.

I roll my eyes, turning the corner to the break room and hanging my apron on a hook. Washing my hands, I glance at the clock. I wonder what Marcus is doing at the warehouse. I wonder what he’s thinking. Wonder about his prom memories and if there’s another girl squeezing between us—one who was running toward him instead of running away like I did. I wonder if he touched her. He never told me who he went with.

Pressing my lips together, I stop the thought before it spirals. I’m being ridiculous. Things would be different if I hadn’t panicked in the hut. If I hadn’t gone to L.A. If I hadn’t run from his apartment in the first place. None of this is his fault. He’s here, even after everything. Still, I wonder if it’s regret that makes his body tense when he accidentally brushes against me. If anger is what keeps his jaw clenched and his eyes skittish, like I might catch and trap them. Does he feel trapped?

I yank my phone from my satchel and take a seat at the table. Turning it on, I see a text from Marcus.

Marcus: Hey

He sent this twenty-three minutes ago, probably when he was on his break at the warehouse. I type:

Mei: Hey back.

Marcus: There you are!

Mei: Here I am.

Marcus: How’s work?

Mei: Slightly fishy. Yours?

Marcus: Good. Warehouse-y. Lots of cardboard.

I stare at the phone, wondering what I should text back when three dots appear, and I wait for whatever Marcus is texting to come through.

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