Page 11 of Marcus: Sins of the Father

“Guess we all do.” He looks out the window as a tractor-trailer pulls in. “If that guy gives you anymore trouble, or if any guy does, you call me, understand?”

“Marcus, you’re over an hour away.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Your time is filled with the club.”

“You needed me, I’d find a way.”

The look in his eyes tells me every word is true. There are those butterflies again.

Sonya returns with two red plastic tumblers filled to the top with crushed ice and cola. She sets them down and slides two paper-wrapped drink straws from her apron and puts them on the Formica. “Be right back with your food.”

I grab one, unwrap it, and jab the straw in my drink, stabbing at the ice.

“Tell me about yourself.”

I glance up at him. With other men, a statement like that would always make me feel like I’m on a job interview, but with Marcus it’s different. I find myself wanting to tell him, as long as I don’t reveal too much. I’d hate to scare him away right off the bat.

When I talk about my family, it always seems to shut men down. I’ve seen it a dozen times before. Suddenly, there’s a wall between us. “What do you want to know?”

***

Marcus—

I lean against the leather seat, fold my arms, and smile. “You tell me something personal about you, and then I’ll do the same. Fair?”

“Fair.” She tosses the folded paper aside. “I like the theater.”

I tilt my head, frowning. “Like a movie theater?”

“No, like the kind with a stage, silly.”

My brows lift. “Like Broadway?”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

“How’d you find that out? Were you in drama class?” I want to know everything about this girl.

“Yes. But it started before that. My father used to love to take me to musicals and plays and operas.”

“Really?”

She nods. “Do you really want to hear about all this?”

I hate that she’s questioning the fact that her life would be interesting to me, to anyone. I want to squash that doubt in her eyes, and I can’t help wondering who put it there. It’s so at odds with the strong woman who told me she was Mount Everest. On the other hand, I’m thrilled she’s sharing with me something she feels so vulnerable about. “Absolutely I do.”

She sucks her lips into her mouth for a moment as if trying to decide whether to share. “I remember one of the first operas he took me to called The Forbidden Marriage by Kristoff Sarkov. I thought it was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen. I couldn’t understand a word, of course, but the emotion in the way they sang told the story.”

I can’t help grinning at her animation. “Tell me about it.”

“There was this one scene where the lead, Alessia Ricci, wore this silver dress that was to-die-for, and she carried a clutch. That’s where she hid their rings. It had these beautiful sparkling beads all over it, and her shoes were these strappy little heels. To me, she was like a princess. That’s the day I decided I was going to be a librettist.”

Her voice lifts, and I see the joy in her eyes as she talks about her passion.

Sonya returns and sets two plates in front of each of us as we both shove our coffees aside.

“Enjoy,” she says, setting two rolled up sets of silverware down and the check.

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