whatever delights might come my way.
It means not checking my phone.
It means not wondering if Mom is getting along. I know I sorta promised I’d drop in during the week, but Anna smacked me right out of that. Mom has been fine on her own for months, and essentially on her own for decades while my father was alive, seeing as he was never home. She can make it another six days.
It means not sweating my job. Caspian didn’t want to help Mom, so he gave me an extended sabbatical. The minute he agreed to that (and left me to do all the work), he forfeited the right to bug me about coming back.
It means accepting that I never take time off from some obligation or another, and that a human being cannot live under constant stress. “Taking a vacation doesn’t just help you; it helps everyone because there’s more of you to go around afterward,” Anna told me. And she was right.
So as I recall last night, and battle my knee-jerk reaction to feel like a fool who was taken advantage of, I remind myself that I chose to do it.
Marco didn’t exploit me. I got mine — twice, in fact, which was something I didn’t even know I could do. If there was any exploiting done, then we exploited each other.
I believe it for a while — but then I get out of bed and brush my teeth and start to wonder what I should do with my day. That’s when my thoughts turn to the brochure of services.
And I think, I should get a massage.
My resolve to decide and enjoy starts to fail me. I don’t know Marco, and he might be a real prick now that he’s got what he wanted — what he maybe always wanted, meaning I was right about his behavior here in my room.
I try to stay strong, but doubt wants to claim me.
I was raised to be a good girl, even if that often meant Dad’s wrath and Mom’s ever-present guilt.
And I was raised to be responsible. To be strong.
I was, I realize, raised to believe that pleasure is for the weak. Caspian obviously took the same lessons, given the twisted shit that gives him pleasure. Pain is pleasure? Thank God I didn’t inherit that little psychological quirk.
There’s a knock on my door.
I open it and see a silver tray in the hallway, with no servers in sight.
It must be in the wrong place. Delivered to me by accident.
I inhale as I stoop to see whose it might be, and the scents of a delicious breakfast strike me. I smell butter. And cinnamon. Probably French toast.
I’d have to lift the sliver lids to see for sure, but I get a good feel for what’s under them and it makes me want to order my own breakfast. Perhaps this exact breakfast, because whoever screwed up this delivery has inadvertently brought me exactly what I didn’t even know I wanted most in the world.
There’s a tall, thin vase in the tray’s center. I’d wager it’s genuine crystal. Just big enough inside for a single thick-stemmed flower. A large yellow lily is in it now, petals fully opened like an exploding firework.
There’s a folded piece of paper taped to the vase — a receipt or a note. Either way, it should tell me where this breakfast belongs.
I flip the note open and see my name. I stand upright, unfold the lush paper with its smooth lines of black ink, and read the rest:
Lucy,
Enjoy breakfast, then meet me
at my cabana by the pool at noon.
Bring your swimsuit.
Marco
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
M ARCO
I GO BACK AND FORTH all morning, toggling between pleasant anticipation at seeing Lucy again and dread for the same.
I arrive at the Indigo after dragging my unusually sluggish ass out of bed, and immediately hit the gym, harder than normal. Partly because I need to wake up, and the blood flow helps startle my brain from last night’s hazy dreams that still refuse to retreat. And part of it is probably due to a subconscious desire to look a bit more impressive today — I remember reading somewhere that when a man’s competing for sex, he’s driven toward
It means not checking my phone.
It means not wondering if Mom is getting along. I know I sorta promised I’d drop in during the week, but Anna smacked me right out of that. Mom has been fine on her own for months, and essentially on her own for decades while my father was alive, seeing as he was never home. She can make it another six days.
It means not sweating my job. Caspian didn’t want to help Mom, so he gave me an extended sabbatical. The minute he agreed to that (and left me to do all the work), he forfeited the right to bug me about coming back.
It means accepting that I never take time off from some obligation or another, and that a human being cannot live under constant stress. “Taking a vacation doesn’t just help you; it helps everyone because there’s more of you to go around afterward,” Anna told me. And she was right.
So as I recall last night, and battle my knee-jerk reaction to feel like a fool who was taken advantage of, I remind myself that I chose to do it.
Marco didn’t exploit me. I got mine — twice, in fact, which was something I didn’t even know I could do. If there was any exploiting done, then we exploited each other.
I believe it for a while — but then I get out of bed and brush my teeth and start to wonder what I should do with my day. That’s when my thoughts turn to the brochure of services.
And I think, I should get a massage.
My resolve to decide and enjoy starts to fail me. I don’t know Marco, and he might be a real prick now that he’s got what he wanted — what he maybe always wanted, meaning I was right about his behavior here in my room.
I try to stay strong, but doubt wants to claim me.
I was raised to be a good girl, even if that often meant Dad’s wrath and Mom’s ever-present guilt.
And I was raised to be responsible. To be strong.
I was, I realize, raised to believe that pleasure is for the weak. Caspian obviously took the same lessons, given the twisted shit that gives him pleasure. Pain is pleasure? Thank God I didn’t inherit that little psychological quirk.
There’s a knock on my door.
I open it and see a silver tray in the hallway, with no servers in sight.
It must be in the wrong place. Delivered to me by accident.
I inhale as I stoop to see whose it might be, and the scents of a delicious breakfast strike me. I smell butter. And cinnamon. Probably French toast.
I’d have to lift the sliver lids to see for sure, but I get a good feel for what’s under them and it makes me want to order my own breakfast. Perhaps this exact breakfast, because whoever screwed up this delivery has inadvertently brought me exactly what I didn’t even know I wanted most in the world.
There’s a tall, thin vase in the tray’s center. I’d wager it’s genuine crystal. Just big enough inside for a single thick-stemmed flower. A large yellow lily is in it now, petals fully opened like an exploding firework.
There’s a folded piece of paper taped to the vase — a receipt or a note. Either way, it should tell me where this breakfast belongs.
I flip the note open and see my name. I stand upright, unfold the lush paper with its smooth lines of black ink, and read the rest:
Lucy,
Enjoy breakfast, then meet me
at my cabana by the pool at noon.
Bring your swimsuit.
Marco
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
M ARCO
I GO BACK AND FORTH all morning, toggling between pleasant anticipation at seeing Lucy again and dread for the same.
I arrive at the Indigo after dragging my unusually sluggish ass out of bed, and immediately hit the gym, harder than normal. Partly because I need to wake up, and the blood flow helps startle my brain from last night’s hazy dreams that still refuse to retreat. And part of it is probably due to a subconscious desire to look a bit more impressive today — I remember reading somewhere that when a man’s competing for sex, he’s driven toward
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