They fucked, ate, called his uncle, made love, and then spent a very long hour making out in the traditional sense, touching each other as though touch was a game that they just invented. They laughed raucously and summoned every dirty word they could think of while they examined each other like doctors. Every time with Lucas is different; his loving is different in a way that Marlowe can only describe as the difference between fucking and making love. There is no less pleasure in any case, no less affection. But the quality of his silence is different. He never says more than a handful of words; it is only afterwards that she notices the lack, afterwards when she's trying to sort out his intentions like breaking the code of a communiqué.
She enjoys him but she doesn't understand him; she doesn't understand what he's trying to tell her now. He's stroking his fingers up and down her thigh, tickling her skin, but he's soft against her; his breath is deep and heavy, almost weary. What does it mean, his touch hunger? He wants her, but what does he want from her? "Lucas." Marlowe's arms are folded beneath her head; she turns her cheek and rests on her forearm.
"Yes."
"Where is this going?" she asks plainly, quietly. "I mean, what are we going to do tomorrow, or next week?"
"Tomorrow I'm going back to Virginia," he replies, glancing at the bedside clock. It's nine thirty; time is slipping away. "Next week, I'll be back."
"After that. In the long run," Marlowe corrects. She has begun to play that game that women play in the arms of a new lover: she imagines their life together, Lucas and Marlowe, perhaps Lucas and Marlowe Klein. The problem is that she doesn't have any images to match to the idea. And as long as he's touching her, the thoughts won't take shape. Her train is no longer derailed, but it isn't moving; its path is blocked by a heavy boulder with the weight of a man. "Tell me a story about us," she asks softly. "I need to hear it."
Lucas slides off of her body and settles with a grunt next to her. When Marlowe turns her face to his, he brushes the hair out of her eyes so that she can see him clearly. "A real story or a made up story?"
"A real story?" she repeats, blinking. She is looking for a fable, something to believe in; she isn't aware that there is a real story to tell.
Lucas runs his fingertip down the length of her nose and then traces the outline of her mouth; his eyes darken, solidify. He is always and everywhere a realist. He has a story, a plan that he has been building over the past few days. But he hesitates; he learned something today from her reluctance to meet his uncle. For whatever reason, she isn't entirely ready to hear what he has to say. "I'll tell you a real story about us if you tell me one."
"Okay," she replies, both anxious and excited. "You first."
Lucas quirks a brow. "What happened to 'Ladies First'?"
Marlowe snorts. "I'm not a lady anymore. I ain't nothing but a hoochie mama, hood rat, hood rat, hoochie mama," she sings crookedly, laughing low in her throat.
"What?"
"Nothing," Marlowe replies, snickering. "Tell me the story."
Lucas sighs. "Alright. In my story, I transfer to Fort Myer and I move in here with you, or I get a place and you move in with me. And we get married, if you want to, or not if you don't. That's it," he adds when she stares blankly at him.
"You want me to move in with you," Marlowe says carefully, seeking confirmation.
"I want us to live together in whatever way you prefer. I'm not good at long distance relationships. Ask my family," he says dryly.
Marlowe goes quiet, trying to think. Lucas' hand has slipped down to her hip. He also has trouble thinking when he's touching her, but he needs to now. He needs a link with her to quiet the anxiety in his gut while he waits.
"You don't see your family a lot," Marlowe says more than asks.
"No. Only on Labor Day weekend, if I can."
"Why?"
Lucas shrugs. "I don't think about them." He pauses and reaches deep down for an explanation that will make sense to her. "My parents live in their own private world. My sisters are like that too, being twins." He laughs shortly. "I guess I'm like that, too; I got it honest, right? The thing is that none of us were ever close. When I left home, I didn't miss them and they didn't miss me. They're fine without me, so . . . that's that."
Marlowe sighs sadly, compassionately. Lucas' voice is carefully neutral and even, but he's holding her hand now, linking his fingers with hers. "I'm sorry," she says.
"Don't be," he replies gruffly.
A crease cuts between Marlowe's brows. That's the closest he's come to sounding cross since she's known him.
Lucas glances at her and then looks away. He wants Marlowe but he doesn't want her pity. Pity is an emotion that keeps men holding on to fallen friends, crying over corpses when their own lives are in danger. He can't afford to get attached to pity at this point in his life, to waste energy on things that can't be undone.
"I just can't even imagine what that's like, that you don't even miss them." He must be exaggerating, she thinks. She has lived at a distance from her family for years, and they have often been second in her thoughts to other concerns. But they are still in her thoughts. "How can you be like that and then be so different with Roderick and Tamara and me?"
Lucas shrugs. "That doesn't matter. You guys do."
"It doesn't matter?" she repeats incredulously.
"You don't understand, Marlowe." He pauses, sighing again. "It doesn't matter because it's a dead issue. It's not going to change - trust me. I'll take you with me on Labor Day; you'll see."
Marlowe frowns slightly. The finality of his tone runs against her grain; she would never say such a thing about her own family. Things always change, particularly when you least expect them to. "Have you ever heard of 'keep hope alive'?" she asks, laughing awkwardly. "I mean, if my parents were still alive, I would at least hope for a good relationship with them."
"That's my point. Hoping hasn't brought anything back from the dead yet, has it?"
"Uh, ouch." Marlowe shifts onto her back and jack-knifes into a sitting position. She sucks in a breath trying to soothe the nerve that he pinched, but it's too late. She throws her legs over the side of the bed and scrambles up.
"Marlowe," Lucas calls, his calm tone belying his anxiety. It's happened often enough that he says something brutally honest that cuts someone to the bone. This is why he tries to be careful; this is why he worries about fucking up. He rises from the bed when she doesn't respond and walks up behind her. "I'm sorry."
"Forget it. It's fine," she says curtly, yanking a t shirt over her head. She needs clothing now; she needs protection.
"Hey," he says, touching her shoulder. It is a moment before she spins around with her shoulders thrown back, her chin up, her eyes carefully blank. The shade has been drawn again. "Marlowe - please. I'm sorry."
"You know what? You shouldn't be sorry because it's the truth, right? But like I said before, it still hurts. And I would cut out my . . ." she stumbles over tears. "Damn it!" she spits, swiping at her cheek. She heaves a breath. "Look, Lucas. We are really different, okay? So different, my head is spinning right now. You cut your losses; I hold on to mine for a long time, maybe forever. That's all I have left right now," she blurts, throwing up her hands. "The memory of what I lost. So I'm gonna cry about it and be upset and wish that it was different everyday until I die because that's my experience. That's my life," she says hotly, thumping her chest. "But you don't understand that. Nothing has been taken from you, has it?" She isn't just talking about her parents now; that terribly too small word slithers out of her subconscious like a poisonous snake. It's fast acting venom strikes fast and hard.
The subtext hits Lucas in the head like a brick. He followed the shift in her posture, in her voice, the way her face closed up and darkened like a door slamming. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he is outside. He knows the sharp edge of that accusation; he has been sliced and sliced again for not suffering enough. You don't understand, Lucas. You're cold. You're untouched. "Marlowe," he begins quietly, calmly. "Marlowe," he repeats, frowning deeply. He doesn't know what to say. There is no beginning that can bring an end to this argument.
And because she knows as much, Marlowe throws up one hand to stop him before he can even begin. "Forget it. I'm sorry too." She lets out a deep sigh of resignation. "I don't understand you; you don't understand me. We're different. That's just how it is."
Lucas is taken aback. Everything that has passed between them, everything personal and specific, has just been run over by a train called 'difference' that feels swollen with freight all out of proportion to it's actual cargo. That is how venom works: it swells the bite to an unnatural and ominous size, making the wound too tight to open and impossible to heal. "We're not that different. And even if we are, we can work around it."
"Work around it?" she cries. "You just told me that you don't work around things. You just forget them. I can't do that!" It's happening again, a change, a shift. Only this time, she's moving. She's moving deeper into something impenetrable in her nature that is totally beyond his reach.
"You can," he protests quietly. "I understand that sometimes you have to live with a fucked up situation that you can't do anything about. That's how it is every time I go into an operation. But I have to make a decision to worry about the things I can change. I have to fight for the people I care about; I have to fight so God and history know where I stand. I have to forget everything else," he insists. "I can't hesitate, wishing it was different, or I'll lose my life. What are you losing, Marlowe, while you're waiting for the impossible to happen?"
It's a question, but it comes out sounding like a threat. Marlowe's mind races back to his story, to the things he wants from her. "So I'm just supposed to cut my losses and shack up with you, huh?" Bet everything; forget the rest. "It's not that simple, Lucas. It's not that easy."
"I didn't say it was easy. But you still have to make a decision," he says flatly, his eyes glittering. "I told you what I want." What I need, he should say, because it's not just a whim. "Yes or no. Make a decision."
Marlowe rolls her eyes around in her head, biting her lip. She draws blood. "I don't know," she exclaims. "I need to think about it. I can't decide right now."
Lucas stares at her for a long time, searching her, branding her. "Call me when you can."
