Ella James - Unmaking Marchant

Marchant must be really tired. He slept through the police officers’ drop-by, as well as a visit from the window repairwoman. Combined, both visits lasted less than two hours, but still, I’m surprised he didn’t wake up.

Now that I’ve taken some painkillers and figured out how to move without jarring the left side of my chest too much, I’m feeling a little more human. It still hurts to climb back into bed, but it’s where I want to be.

I was asleep when Marchant climbed into bed beside me, and before that, the house was filled with his security team and the doctors who stitched my neck up and put a big sticker on my cheek. Which means we haven’t had a single moment alone since he told me…what he told me in the middle of the night.

I watch his face carefully as I settle on my pillows. When he doesn’t move, I scoot a little closer. There’s a big, annoying pillow between the two of us, so I move it. I take my time sidling closer and closer to him. It dawns on me that he might not want this, but I’m having a selfish moment. I just want to feel the warmth of him.

As I press myself against him, I long to feel the safety of his arms around me. Then he stirs a little, and his arm loops over me. It hurts my chest a little, but it feels good, too.

On impulse, I scoot even closer, pressing my cheek against his lightly bearded one.

“Oh, Marchant…”

I shut my eyes and kiss him lightly on the neck. Very softly, I whisper, “Please be nicer to yourself. You’re a good guy.”

Tears glitter in my eyes as I think about leaving here soon. After what happened this morning, I know there’s no way he’ll let me stay.

Just like I know that when I go, I won’t be coming back.

He’s so shut off from everyone, and he thinks what he thinks with such conviction…I’ll never be able to change his mind if I’m not nearby. I barely have a foothold now, but at least I have one.

I watch his right hand, lying on his chest. It rises and falls evenly, which means he’s still asleep. I take the risk of wrapping my arm around his hips.

It’s hard to think about the meaning of the tattoo under my arm. I picture a younger Marchant, confused about what’s happening to him and anguished over what he perceives to be an unforgivable mistake.

“Please be easier on yourself,” I whisper to his sleeping face. “I can’t stand to leave you like this.”

I think of all the time we’ve spent together in the days I’ve been here. He hasn’t always been the perfect guy, but we’ve had fun. More than I expected, that’s for sure. More than I’ve ever had with…well, with most people.

How funny that is. I wouldn’t have thought. But as I look at his closed eyes and his bearded cheeks, I feel like I know him. I feel like’s mine.

The realization makes me flush. I feel raw and off balance, elated and sick. And it dawns on me. “I think I love you.”

My sleeping beau opens his eyes.

MARCHANT

I’m having a dream where Suri is telling me she loves me. I’m lying in some clouds, but I can feel her wrapped around me. It’s amazing.

And then something jabs me in the inner thigh. A knee? A foot?

“Marchant,” someone hisses loudly, “wake up. I miss you.”

And it’s weird, because that sounds like Suri, too.

How many Suris are there in heaven?

I crack my eyes open, and I see only one. She has a bandage on her cheek, and— Okay, not dreaming. I remember what happened earlier today and sit straight up, feeling like an idiot for nodding off.

I reach for her face before I tell myself that’s not appropriate anymore and draw back my hand. “You doing okay?”

She nods, and I realize I might as well have touched her. She’s pretty much wrapped around me, and she’s smiling at me sweetly. “I just missed you. Sorry I kinda woke you up.”

Heat suffuses me. My eyes ache with unshed tears—because I remember dreaming that she said she loved me. And I’m pretty sure I dreamed it, but I realize I wish it had been real.

I’m so overcome by my feelings, I can’t do anything but stare at her.

She runs a tickling finger across my forehead, then proceeds to trace the top of my ear. “You sleep okay?”

I swallow. Nod. I clench my jaw and drag a shaky breath in through my nose.

“I’m glad you climbed in bed with me,” she says.

And for some reason, that simple statement is what does it. The first sob sneaks out with some punch, and I roll over on my side, away from her.

I cover my head with my arms. I’m such a fucking freak—but my self-loathing doesn’t stop the tears.

I want her and I can’t have her. Hurts so fucking bad. Confusion roars inside me. I told her why I stay away from everyone and she’s lying here in bed with me, as if she didn’t hear any of it.

A second later, she’s wrapped around me from behind, pressing her cheek against my back. She’s rubbing my arm. Stroking my hair. She’s whispering my name.

“Marchant…it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. Everything’s okay. You’re okay…”

What I am is helpless. I can’t stop this shit from pouring out of me. It’s like every negative emotion I’ve held in since college is gushing out my eyes.

Even when I regain some control, my body jerks in weird, uncontrollable shudders. My breaths sound loud and wet and messy.

“Like a fucking toddler,” I mutter—although I can’t even really manage that. My voice sounds broken.

“No you’re not a toddler.” She kisses my neck. “You’re just a man, Marchant. Like every other man.”

She’s stroking my back as she says this, and I think I know what she’s trying to impart. I shake my head.

She snuggles in a little closer and begins to stroke my back. “I want to tell you something. I want to tell you something no one knows, and it’s about Adam.”

My muscles tighten a little at the mention of her ex, proving I’m a pigheaded idiot for her.

“Most people think Adam and I broke up because we realized we weren’t right for one another. Really? We broke up because Adam has a drinking problem, and when drunk, he liked to call me names. Not fun, sexy names; real names. And one night, when we were in the pool behind my house in Napa, Adam was drunk and he grabbed my wrist and I fell and knocked a tooth out.” Her hand comes around me and grabs my hand, and she brings it to her mouth. This causes me to turn a little toward her.

I feel embarrassed by how I might look, but she doesn’t seem to notice as she guides my hand into her mouth. “You feel this tooth? It’s fake.”

I get the nerve to turn around and face her fully. She’s got a pillow propped under her ribs, and I feel like shit knowing that I’m the reason why. Someone attacked her in my home, and I wasn’t around to protect her because I was in the basement, feeling sorry for myself.

It’s inexcusable.

Her hand comes under my chin, and I raise my eyes to hers. “Marchant, I’m okay,” she murmurs.

“I’m that obvious?”

“Not always.” She smiles a little, and I remember what we’re talking about. Her ex, Adam. Abusive Adam. Someone needs to kick his fucking ass.

“You’re obvious now, too. You think you need to beat him up? No. You don’t.” She runs a slender finger over my eyebrows; it feels so good I calm a little. “I’m done with Adam. I’m telling you this because, Marchant… Adam is not bipolar. He’s got two living parents—both great people. But he wasn’t good for me.”

“What point does that prove?”

“What I’m trying to say is that you have to take life on a person-by-person basis. Everyone is different. Lizzy’s mother has a drug problem. She’s been diagnosed bipolar before, although I don’t think she is. But if she was? Are you just like her? Larry Flint is bipolar, I’ve heard. I don’t think Saddam Huessein was. It doesn’t define you. Surely you don’t think it does?”