Wait for me, p.4
Wait for Me, page 4
One corner of his mouth curls into a relieved smile. “Miranda adored you. And so did my dad. He’s hard to please. And he actually gave me the go-ahead, which is why I came down here to tell you in person.”
I search his face. Go-ahead . . . for what?
Marcus takes a breath. “Would you like to join us in Turks and Caicos for New Year’s? Normally, it’s just a family thing, but my dad said it’s okay if I invite you along.”
I blink at him. “Huh?”
“Turks and Caicos?” He smiles hopefully. “It’s an island in the Caribbean?”
“I know where Turks and Caicos is,” I say slowly. My heart’s banging for a different reason. “I’m just . . . wait, really?”
“You don’t have other plans?” Marcus looks crushed. “I should have asked before just assuming . . .”
“No,” I interrupt. “And, I mean, if I did, I’d cancel them.” It’s starting to sink in. I vaguely remember reading an article about the Coleman compound in Turks and Caicos. It is literally that—a compound. With like twenty bedrooms and a staff.
“Th-Thank you,” I stammer. “That would be wonderful—if you’re sure.”
“’Course I’m sure.” Marcus beams. “I’ll pay for everything. The flight—all of it. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” Then his smile turns coy. “And actually, that’s not all. This is also presumptuous—so you can totally say no—but my father is going to call you.”
“Me? Why?”
“He wanted to take you up on interning for the company.”
I rear back. “Take me up?” I repeat slowly.
“Didn’t you send him your resume? He said you did.”
“I . . .” I pause. Did I? I’d sent out tons of resumes for internships at the beginning of this year. The problem is, tons of other people want an internship in publishing as well. Half the time, when I call about an internship role, the role has already been taken.
“Look, you can tell him no—I mean, the book side is so commercial, and I don’t know if it would interest you, and the magazines are great, but if you want something brainier—”
“Hold on a second,” I interrupt. “Of course I want to. The big reason I’m still in New York at all is to snag an internship in publishing.” I’d thought long and hard about leaving the city after everything happened with my dad and Fran. Starting fresh somewhere else. Getting rid of all the toxicity. But being close to the field I wanted to eventually work in outweighed that. Doing something in publishing is my dream.
“Well, then, great.” Marcus shrugs good-naturedly. “He’ll get in touch.”
Then I realize that maybe I sound too happy. Like Coleman Media is the only reason why I’m dating Marcus. I don’t want to be seen as an opportunist. “Are you sure, though? I mean, I’m sure there are more qualified people . . . with better resumes . . . I don’t want to jump some sort of internship line.”
Marcus shrugs. “Don’t feel guilty. And besides.” He touches my cheek. “He thinks you’re very qualified. Which I’m sure you are.”
My heart flutters. I try to understand what I’ve just been presented with: an amazing New Year’s trip . . . and the promise of an internship. An in. Don’t get me wrong, that first day I met Marcus, after I went home and googled him and found out who he was connected to, I did wonder if maybe I could hit him up for a contact inside Coleman. But it didn’t feel right. This, though . . .
This could change everything.
“So now are you glad I came down to your funny little pet store?” Marcus asks as he pulls me close.
“This store isn’t funny,” I say, mock offended. “And you’d better not think I’m quitting if I start interning. Even if I get a job at Coleman, I’m still loyal to Pet Planet until my dying breath.”
“I love a woman who’s loyal,” Marcus teases, squeezing my hands.
Love. And then, even better, he leans in to kiss me. I lean in, too, feeling my body relax, letting the mix of adrenaline and euphoria mingle in my veins. Our lips touch, and I shut my eyes. But then . . .
You’ve been a bad girl.
The voice rockets through me. But it isn’t Marcus—or Marcus saying it now, anyway. It is a man’s voice, though. Maybe his. In the future. Or in the past. Something I’m forgetting. Something my subconscious is warning me about.
I feign a cough so I can break away. Is that it? Should I be scared?
“Casey?” Marcus sounds worried again.
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. No. No. I will not freak out. There’s got to be an explanation for this.
I regain my bearings and wrap my arms around Marcus’s neck again. “Sorry,” I tell him. “Just a tickle.”
We lean to kiss again. But the moment our lips touch, I feel a snap of electricity. This time, I see something—a memory?
A hand sliding around your waist. Someone pulling you backward. You try to scream, but someone’s hand is pressed over your mouth. And a voice in your ear. A man’s voice.
Maybe Marcus’s.
“Shh. You’ve been a bad girl.”
I let out a whimper and break away once more. What the hell is happening?
“Casey,” Marcus is saying from what seems like down a long, long tunnel. “Casey. Are you okay?”
I stare down at myself. I’ve shot away from him, now standing pressed up against the wall across the room. My lips are trembling so badly I can’t form any words. I’m suddenly afraid that the vision I saw, the vision that somehow implanted itself in my brain just now, is going to happen. I expect Marcus to shoot forward and grab me just like in the premonition. I expect him to silence me with his palm. I’m ready for him to tell me that I’ve been bad, even though that makes absolutely no sense.
“Casey,” Marcus says again. “What is it?”
I can’t let that happen. I need to save myself. “I-I have to go,” I sputter.
And then I run.
“This stop, Southold!” a voice calls.
A woman conductor in a fitted navy suit appears at the front of the Long Island Rail Road car, unlatches a door, and opens it wide for the exiting passengers. Cold December air spills down the aisle, stinging my face. I pull my scarf over my nose.
The car empties. When I look around, I’m the last person in the seats. As if reading my mind, the conductor eyes me as she shuts the door.
“Avon Shores is next. Twenty minutes.”
I nod like I know where I’m going. But really, I don’t have a clue.
It’s later in the afternoon, nearly evening. I’ve spent the past few hours walking the city streets, trying to calm down. I couldn’t bring myself to go to my evening class. I even considered going to the campus Health Services, but I didn’t know how to explain what was going on. I’ve also ignored the persistent phone calls from Marcus, hating that I don’t have the strength to answer or the words to explain.
You’ve been a bad girl. And the vision—what am I to make of that? Was that Marcus? Am I having a flashback of something I’ve repressed—with him?
Or am I seeing the future?
It can’t be real. It must be some kind of flare of anxiety, my brain playing tricks on me as a means of self-protection. I think of the girls at the party: Bronwyn’s long eyelashes and silky blond hair; Shay’s tiny dress. I think of the whispers she and Shay exchanged when I walked away. It’s going to be an uphill battle trying to prove my worth to Marcus’s crowd. Maybe I’m scared and am trying to protect myself. The person I loved most in the world—my mom—left me, and I don’t want to repeat the experience with anyone else.
Maybe Pippa’s right—maybe this is stress. As I walked, I thought about the five exams I had in the next week. Between working and Marcus, I wasn’t as prepared as I wanted to be—and I’m usually someone who’s very, very prepared. Maybe my subconscious is making up outlandish lies to divert my attention from Marcus for a while so I can study.
That had to be it.
Still, I was too scattered to go back to the dorm. I needed somewhere quiet, somewhere I could think. As a sign for 31st Street came into view, I hit on the idea of taking a trip to one of the beaches on the Long Island Rail Road. The water and waves always calmed me, and the beach would be dead this time of year. A change of scenery would help me focus on studying. It was perfect, actually—I was carrying my textbooks anyway, and my laptop; the rest of my materials were online. And no one can fault me for wanting to study.
It was the nerdiest college getaway ever.
At the station, when I looked at an LIRR map to peruse my options, the answer came. Avon Shores—Avon is my mother’s maiden name. It felt like a sign. It’s a small seaside community popular in the summer. Standing in line for a ticket, I looked up motel options, and lo and behold, there was one called the Wayfarer, on the same block as the beach, that had vacancies.
It felt preordained.
I had enough cash saved from Pet Planet to afford a few nights. I booked it on the spot. Done and done.
Now, the train clacks on, rushing toward a beach I know nothing about. I fidget nervously with my scarf. Another worry strikes me. I reach for my phone, and this time, I call Pippa.
“Oh thank God, you’re alive,” she blurts.
“You’ve been texting me this whole time. Of course I’m alive.”
“That could have been your kidnapper posing as you. You ran out of the store like you were possessed! I was worried!” She pauses. “What did Marcus say? If he’s hurting you, somehow, I’ll kill him.”
“He’s not hurting me.” Yet, I think. But then I push that thought away. It isn’t true.
“Listen,” I add. “I need you to be my alibi for a little bit.”
“Alibi? Are you going to commit a crime?”
“No. But I’m going to text Marcus about leaving the city. I’m going to say I’m overwhelmed with finals and need some time to study—which is true. I’m also going to say you offered for me to stay at your parents’ beach house in Jersey to study.”
“My parents don’t have a beach house in Jersey.”
“I know that, but Marcus doesn’t. Just go with it. I’m actually going to Avon Shores instead—on Long Island.”
“But why do you have to lie, Casey? This makes me think you are hiding from him. And what am I supposed to say about not telling him this in the first place?”
The train sways, and I hold on to the handle on the top of the seat to steady myself. “Say I asked you not to. I just needed a few days of really buckling down, and I was afraid he’d be a distraction. I’m not hiding from him. Really.”
“Are you sure?” Pippa sounds worried. “Why can’t you tell me about what he said?”
“I just need to get hold of my anxiety. It’s a huge deal that I’m dating Marcus. I’m losing track of classes. I need to get my head together.”
“But all alone? Are you sure?”
I’m not really sure about anything. I’ve also never taken a trip alone. But I try not to worry about that. “I’ll be fine. I promise. Anyway, will you do that if he calls again? It’s just for a day or so.”
“Just . . . you’d tell me if it was something serious, right? Something with Marcus?”
“I promise.”
Pippa sighs. “I’ll keep your secret. But I want you to explain yourself as soon as you’re ready, okay? Let’s just hope Avon Shores is everything you’re looking for.”
“Let’s hope,” I agree, just as the sign for Avon Shores comes into view.
Here goes nothing.
The disguises I wear aren’t limited to just when I’m in Manhattan. On the train, I’m impersonal, efficient, patient Casey. A girl who knows her own mind. It helps drown out the nervous thrum in my gut.
As I’m getting ready to leave the train, a response comes through from the text I’d sent to Marcus. I’d told him the canned excuse I’d talked through with Pippa, but he doesn’t seem satisfied.
Sure we can’t talk about it? Sure everything’s fine?
I answer
Totally. Sorry, I always get like this about exams. Be back soon! Jersey sure is pretty this time of year!
I punctuate it with some x’s and o’s.
I don’t like lying. I’ve told Marcus other truths, even sad truths, about my mom’s accident; and about my cold, unforgiving stepmother; and about how Fran had nudged me out of the house this summer.
Marcus has been forthcoming with me, too. He’s told me all about his old girlfriend, Caroline, who he’d dated since they were both fifteen and in boarding school. They wanted different things, he told me, though he didn’t elaborate on what those things were. He also said his father didn’t like her. Why, he’d never known.
He told me about the loneliness of growing up with a distant, resentful mother and a workaholic dad. His mom isn’t in New York anymore—Faye took off when he was twelve. Apparently, she lives in Europe now. Life was hard for him with just his dad. He always worried his dad blamed him for his mother leaving. He also was never sure if his dad completely respected him. This one time, he told me, his father had given him these engraved letter openers he’d had specially made by some samurai sword maker in Japan. Roland Coleman was giving them out as corporate gifts, but he had too many, so he said that Marcus could have a few of them “to give out to people he wanted to impress.” Marcus had been so flattered that his father had entrusted him with letter openers made by a samurai sword master. He only gave one away and kept the rest, figuring they’d appreciate in value. Later, though, when his father visited his apartment, he’d spied the coveted boxes and asked why Marcus still had them. Marcus said he felt they were too valuable to give away. His father had let out a cruel guffaw. “You bought that line about the samurai sword maker? I picked up those things from a wholesale store in New Jersey. Just slapped on a different label.” He’d shook his head in disappointment. “If you were an ice fisher, I bet I could sell you ice cubes.”
Marcus had been so hurt, he told me. So humiliated. Often, he told me, he feels like he has no family in his corner—except maybe Miranda, who really does care about him like he’s her son. He even said that once, about a year or so after his mom left and when his dad was traveling all over the world on business and leaving him alone with various nannies, Marcus had the family’s driver take him down to where Miranda lived in Greenwich Village. He sent the driver away and stood outside Miranda’s brownstone, working up his nerve. He wanted to ask Miranda if he could move in with her. She wasn’t married and had no children, but she’d always treated him so kindly. Maybe she’d like to adopt him.
But then he chickened out. It was a dumb idea, he thought. She’d most certainly say no. So he took the subway home, and that was that.
If he could admit those sorts of things, I have no reason to doubt he’s being anything but honest with me now. He wants me as part of his life. He’s a good person. And what do I do? Sneak away. Lie. Conceal.
But then, it’s for the greater good. Because what’s happening now, in my head? The voice, those visions? I need to come back when I feel steadier. When I’ve studied. When I’m ready to face life again.
I pull my bag higher on my shoulder as I step onto the train platform. The air is dead silent except for the sounds of the whipping wind. Since this is the end of the train line, there are a few trains sitting idle on other tracks. I climb the stairs and assess the empty ticket booth and shuttered newsstand.
When I step out on the sidewalk, a line of dark shops greets me. They are all summer-themed—Rick’s Surf Emporium, Sand & Sea Accessories, and then an Italian ice shop with a sign in the window that reads “Reopening in June.” A deli on the corner boasts a few shabby Christmas trees lined up where fruit bins would normally be. I’m surprised when I intuit correctly that the shop after the deli will be one that makes and sells fudge. But then, it’s a beach town. It’s probably a prerequisite that there’s a shop here that makes sugary stuff.
I’m the only person at the crosswalk. It seems kind of silly to even wait for a walk sign, as there’s no traffic. I look at my phone, trying to find where the Wayfarer motel, where I’ve booked my room, might be. The map app directs me to walk east.
The town seems to be built on a grid system, the streets running straight and true, the stilted houses painted muted pastels. As I’m crossing another road, I catch sight of someone stepping out of a building down the block. It’s a lanky guy with an explosion of dark curls. He doesn’t see me, doesn’t even look my way, but something jolts through me. It’s almost like I know him. Except that’s impossible.
I pull up my collar and march on, trying to shake it off.
The Wayfarer Motel is made of dingy white stucco. There’s a dented Coke machine next to the front entrance and a shabby gate that presumably leads to a pool. I’m dubious as I go through the door marked Office, as it’s hanging crookedly on its hinges.
In the office, a woman with stringy blond hair wearing a T-shirt from The Big Lebowski movie printed with the saying “The Dude Abides” works the front desk. The TV she’s watching, tuned to Dr. Oz, is one of those old, bulky units with rabbit ears—I’ve rarely seen one up close. I have sunglasses on, which I hope will make me seem older, but she doesn’t bother to ask for ID anyway—only for the cash.
As soon as I hand it over, I regret it. The lobby smells like mildew. Do I want to spend a night here?
“Strange time to be taking a beach vacation,” she says as she places my twenties in a drawer, perhaps reading my mind. “You shoulda gotten a place at the other side of the island. Better views.”
“This is an island?” I ask, surprised. I hadn’t noticed that on the map or when I’d come in on the train.
“You didn’t notice the causeway bridge? Train goes right past it.” She turns her back and peruses a wall of keys. “But like I said, other side is better. Walk over there if you can stand the cold. That’s where you find the houses for the big bucks.” She hands me a key with a smirk. “Givin’ you the honeymoon suite upstairs. Great view. Three nights. No upcharge.”
