“No,” I answered.
He let that slide and told me, “I want to be clear.I don’twant to come on strong.”
“Well, you’refailin’,” I shared.
At that, he smiled.
I felt my throat close.
With that smile, the cynicism and sly went right out of hiseyes.
They were twinkling at me.
Twinkling at me.
“You mistake me,” he said softly.“I don’t want to come onstrong.I don’t want to take this at a pace you aren’t comfortable with.Notwith what happened to you, but you should understand, I wouldn’t do that evenif that hadn’t happened to you.So you’ll set the pace.Just as long as thereisa pace.”
“And ifIdon’t want there to bea pace?”I asked.
“Then I’d like the courtesy of you sharing why youwouldn’t.”
“And I’d like the courtesy of you notmakin’me do that,” I shot back.
He studied me a second then looked beyond me.
Again, he changed and he did it taking another step awayfrom me, his face closing off so much, the cynicism and sly didn’t even comeback.
He gave me nothing.
“I see,” he murmured.
I shouldn’t ask.
I really shouldn’t ask.
I asked.
“You see what?”
“You know who I am.”
“Yeah.You’re Marcus Sloan.”
He shook his head.“That’s not what I mean and I believe youunderstand that.”
I did, right then.
And what I understood made me laugh.
It just poured out of me.
And I guessed I really needed to laugh because I did it sohard, I bent over with it, wrapping my arms around my belly.
When I got myself together, still giggling, I straightened,lifted a hand to my eye and swept it across the wet under it, hoping myhilarity didn’t mess up my makeup seeing as I’d had to wring miracles toconceal the fading bruises that morning.
“That’s funny,” I told him unnecessarily.
He didn’t find anything funny.He still looked closed offbut also there was a hint of transfixed that I didn’t get.
