Unmaking Marchant

17

SURI

“Okay, you said not to say it, but I’ve gotta say it. Suri, I think the odds are really good that you have lost your mind. Like…really lost it. Or maybe been abducted by aliens. Is that what happened? You’re the freakish, robotic, sex-obsessed—”

I squeak. “C’mon, Lizzy! No! This is not about sex.”

She laughs. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying!”

“And that’s how I know you are. Your voice goes up and gets all squeaky, and—”

“It’s not! It’s not about sex! It’s about…freedom.”

She laughs even louder. “Being free to be Marchant’s little bunny?”

“Is that why they call it the fluffy bunny ranch? I thought bunnies were Playboy.”

Lizzy snorts. “There are actual bunnies, Suri. Look outside.”

“Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m really not.”

I frown at the phone. “How did I miss that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Hmmmm…I’m not sure I believe you.”

“I know I don’t believe you! You’ve had sex with him. I can hear it in your voice. And it’s okay—really, I’m the last person on earth to have an opinion about that. But…seriously, Suri, be careful. Marchant is… He’s Marchant. He’s done a lot of not smart things lately and I just don’t want to see you caught up in that.”

I cross my legs. I’m sitting on his cozy couch, staring at his bed. “I’m not getting attached. Cross my heart and hope to die. This is just a fling, you know? Something fun.”

“You need something fun.” See? This is why Lizzy is my BFF.

“So Hunter is…better?” I ask her. “He seems to be adjusting?”

“Sort of. I mean…he’s being really nice, and he hasn’t left or called off the wedding or anything—”

“I knew he wouldn’t!”

“But he’s not himself.”

“Like how?”

“Just not himself. It’s hard to explain. Trust me. He is being weird. But he is still here, and so I’m hoping we can work out…all the other.”

“You guys are like salt and pepper.”

“Salt and pepper?” Lizzy says. “Wasn’t that a band when we were in elementary school?”

“Cinnamon and sugar?” I offer.

“Yep,” she says. “Like cinnamon and sugar.”

We talk for a few more minutes, during which she urges me to befriend some of the women here, and during which I ask if she knows what Marchant’s tattoo means.

“I didn’t even know he had a tattoo,” she says. But she promises to ask Hunter.

I hang up feeling strangely satisfied. Then I hear the front door open.

MARCHANT

I’m looking for the Adobo seasoning when she walks into the kitchen. I can feel her standing there, looking at me, and I don’t like it.

I wish I’d never volunteered to make burgers. I did offer to make burgers, didn’t I? Now I can’t even remember what I said to her.

It’s like going to talk to Dr. Libby took me back four days. I feel like I can’t fucking think straight. I feel like shit.

“You’re going to have a lot of ups and downs in your life. That’s normal for everyone.” That’s what she told me.

But it’s bullshit. Nothing about me is normal. I did a good job of hiding that for fucking years, but then it fucking fell apart.

I’m not normal, and I don’t belong around people who are.

I don’t mean in matters of business.

Or maybe I do. I’m used to thinking I do a damn good job with this place, but I fucking burned it to the ground this time. Literally. Someone could have died, and it would have been my fault. Someone could have died because I don’t belong around normal people. Not even in business. Especially not when it comes to business.

Maybe I should tell Suri Dalton to go. Maybe I should sell this fucking place.

“Marchant?”

I stare at the cabinets in front of me, wondering where the fuck I keep my spices. I need to season the patties on the pan in front of me, but I don’t remember where I keep my spices. Because I’m not normal. Normal people don’t sacrifice a slice of their memory to get their mind back in order. Normal people don’t have to do that.

I wish, for a long moment, that I remembered even less than what I do. That I remembered nothing.

The tattoo on my side tingles.

Libby wanted to talk about that today, too, but I said no. No fucking way. I can’t go there.

“Um, Marchant?”

I turn around, ready to snap her head off, but I get one long look at her and I just can’t. Her hair’s all smooth and shiny, and she’s wearing another one of those goddamned dresses. This one is plain looking, and kind of peach-ish colored. It fits her curves just right, outlining her small, pert tits, and I can see her bare legs from the thighs down. Her toenails are painted pale purple. I want to suck them. Instead, I drag my eyes back to her face and mutter, “What?”

“Um, hi.” She gives a little wave and smiles in a way that makes me feel unsteady. “What’s up?”

I blink a few times, trying to clear my head so I don’t look like a dumbass. “Just working on dinner.” I feel awkward as hell. I mean, really. What am I, her husband?

“Are those burgers behind you?”

“Yep.”

“Would you like some help? Chopping tomatoes or washing the lettuce or something?”

I rub my face, because I still feel half asleep and foggy. I don’t need her help, don’t even know if I want her close to me. But I say, “Yeah, why not.”

I pull a chopping board from a cabinet, a knife from a drawer, and a head of lettuce and a few tomatoes from the refrigerator. “There ya go.”

I turn back to the burgers, and I finally remember I keep seasoning in the cabinet closest to the refrigerator. That loosens me up a little, so I start to hum before I realize I probably sound off-key. I don’t have a good voice. Never have.

“So, the site has come a long way,” she says.

I look over at her; she’s standing on the other side of the oven, looking up at me through a strand of her pretty brown-blonde hair.

“Umm. Yeah.” Fuck me. I try again, hoping to pass as human this time, but all I sound is terse when I say: “It’s coming along.”

“Bad afternoon?”

I blink at her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, but you seem kind of like you had a rough day.”

I do? Of course I fucking do. I run my fingers through my hair: my go-to gesture when I’m about to lose my shit; one that no doubt makes me look like the strung out junkie I led her to believe I am. I heave a deep breath and cut my eyes her way. “You probably shouldn’t be staying here.”

“I shouldn’t?” Her hazel eyes widen just a little.

I shake my head. “I don’t share space well, and I don’t like making small talk.”

She opens her mouth, and a big, hot rush of guilt spreads through me. “I’m sorry,” I say. “That was really fucking rude.” I find myself telling her, “I had a shitty day, okay? I don’t want to talk about it. And thanks for your help with the—” I wave at the small spread of tomato slices out in front of her— “condiments or whatever.”

Condiments isn’t the right word, and that bothers me. Specificity is a thing I’ve always valued, and I can’t be specific because I can’t remember words I’m looking for.

The ECT was a bad decision. One I only made because…I wanted to forget my fuck ups. Naturally, I remember all my painful secrets clearly, and what I don’t remember is my way around the kitchen.

I season the patties while an uncomfortable silence fills the space. I steal glances at her hands to see the moment when she’s finished cutting tomatoes. When she is, I say, “There’s a TV over there by the table. Why don’t you turn it on and find something to watch? I’ll finish this.”

If she thinks anything of my suggestion, she doesn’t say so. She just sits the knife down on the edge of the chopping block and gives me a neutral-looking sort-of-smile before walking over to the small TV stand beside my dining table and turning on the TV. She sits down in that way she does things: elegant and smooth, like, I guess, the kind of girl she is. She flips channels while I finish seasoning the burgers and walk outside to my waiting grill.