Never Enough (24 page)

I didn’t look away from the garbage can until our doorbell rang, snapping me out of my daze. I made my way down the stairs, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone. The person outside started knocking, annoying me even more.

I swung open the front door.

Marcus.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he grumbled.

“Then don’t say anything. You’re pretty good at that,” I snapped. I didn’t invite him in. If anything, I gave the door a slight push closed to give him the hint.

“Yeah, well, I just came to say I’m sorry. I meant that it was good that Claire’s getting some help. I’m sure it’s been really hard and confusing for you.” He turned to leave.

He knew how to make me feel like crap in two sentences flat.
Crud.
He was a good guy for tracking me down, even when I’d been such a bitch. And I knew none of this was his fault. I guess it was just easier to take it out on him than on myself.

I walked outside and down the driveway in my socks, until I stood at the edge of our street. Marcus had made it across to the other side already.

“Hey, putz!” I yelled.

“What?” he asked, without making any effort to laugh or retort or come back.

“You want to make me some coffee? I could use some help.” I motioned my head back toward the house.

Even with the distance, I could see him crack a grin. He started to walk toward me.

I waited for him and then led the way to the kitchen without a word. I was mentally forming my apology, because he definitely did deserve one. Marcus opened Mom’s coffeemaker, looked inside it, then closed it again.

He turned to me. “I should make you dinner.”

“Yeah. Sure,” I said, caught off guard. “Can you cook?”

“Kinda,” he said.

“Mom said she left something in the fridge, so we could just heat it up,” I told him, in an attempt to let him off the hook if he hadn’t really meant
cook
cook me dinner. I tried to act like I wasn’t practically hyperventilating at the thought of him making dinner for me—a real date if there ever was one.

I braced myself for him to take back the offer.

But then he said, “Let’s go to my place. I’ll cook for you there.”

We rode the elevator to Marcus’s third-floor apartment in silence. He had
explained on the way that his mom was called into work and his dad always bowled until ten on Wednesdays. It seemed like he’d really thought this through, and maybe it hadn’t been a last-minute invitation. Maybe the reason he’d been short with me at the Arts Club was because he was nervous.

He pulled a key from his pocket and slipped it into the lock. We both stood there for a second, staring down at it like we had to work up the guts for whatever we might get into inside. The lock clicked open. My heart pounded hard against my chest. I could hardly believe Marcus was finally bringing me here.

I followed him into the dark hallway, and even when
he flipped on a light, the yellowy glow didn’t do much to brighten the beige walls. We kicked off our shoes and he led the way down the hall. I expected to end up in the kitchen, but instead we stood in his bedroom.

It was small, more like an office. I was willing to bet the knee-high cabinet at the end of his bed was put there because his bed didn’t quite fit his long legs. An old-looking computer dwarfed a small desk beside the bed. It definitely didn’t look like this place suited tall and lanky Marcus, and I tried to picture him coming back here every day. Sitting in his chair. Sleeping in his bed. Thinking about being in Marcus’s bedroom made my heart speed up.

“I just have to change,” he said, and lifted his shirt over his head so quickly I didn’t have a chance to back up and give him some privacy.

He grabbed a short-sleeve shirt, but stood there for a few seconds, looking at me. Or letting me look.

A dark red mark stretched across his chest. One of his arms was covered in bandaging.

I covered my mouth. “Oh, Marcus.” I reached out my hand, but I didn’t actually want to touch anywhere it might hurt. I drew back my hand.

He pulled the new shirt on, covering his injuries.

“It’s exactly what you think,” he said. “My dad. It’s been happening for a long time.”

This new intimacy between us felt scary. Fragile. And I didn’t want to do anything to break it. I took a few slow breaths, then said his name again.

He cringed and turned his face away, like I’d slapped him. “Just . . . give me a minute.” He blinked hard a couple of times. We’d gotten this far, and I would let him take his time with this if that’s what he needed.

I scanned his room again, in an attempt to take the pressure off. I looked again at the computer desk in the corner, his bed covered with a plain navy comforter, the picture of us on his small dresser . . .

Wait. Picture of us?
I picked up the frame to study it.

Marcus had taken the family print I’d given him from Claire’s grad and cropped out the rest of the family and Claire’s friends. I smiled at that, wishing I’d thought to do the same thing. Marcus and I looked good together, despite our height difference. I remembered what he’d said about me being his whole life, and it didn’t escape my notice that there wasn’t a single other picture in his room. I held the photo to my chest, wishing I could hold him close instead. Or do something to show him how I was here for him. No matter what.

Marcus cleared his throat behind me. “I’d better get started on dinner,” he said, swishing past me out of the room.

By the time I put the picture back in place and caught up
to him, Marcus was bent over, pulling casserole dishes out of cupboards in the kitchen.

Was he going to avoid the subject now? He brought me here. He showed me the bruise. He must want to talk about it.
I moved close to him, but he reached for a drawer on the opposite side. That’s when I noticed the pinkness on his neck.

I swallowed. I’d never seen Marcus embarrassed before. Even when he’d been teased at school. Even when we’d almost kissed.

“So, uh, what are we making?” I wanted to show him somehow that I would give him all the time and space he needed.

“
We
are not making anything, Loey,” he said, perfectly composed. “Sit down over there.” He motioned to a bar stool by the phone.

I allowed myself a small smile at the renewed thought of him cooking me dinner. And in the next few minutes, Marcus fell into his element. He cracked eggs open single-handedly while whisking with his other hand.

“Wow, where’d you learn to cook?” I asked.

“I didn’t,” he replied.

“Coulda fooled me.” Every sentence made the room feel lighter. “Maybe you should be a chef or something. Or start baking food for Armando’s café.”

He muffled a laugh, but I got the sense that he’d thought about it.

After sliding a casserole dish into the oven, he turned to me in the small kitchen and just started talking.

“For years I was too young to get out of here by myself. Then, as I got older, I started to question my mom on why we had to stay with him.”

I nodded, afraid to interrupt.

“He threatens her with a lot of things.” Marcus breathed out a humorless laugh. “I don’t believe him anymore, but she still does. He mocks the idea of us going to the police and getting a restraining order. He tells us we could never make it without him. My mom says she’s afraid for Uncle Armando. He’s not really allowed to be living here. In the country,” Marcus added.

A silence settled between us as I thought this over. “But if Armando knew things were this bad, or that he was the reason—”

“I know. It’s just an excuse, anyway. My mom’s just too afraid to be on her own after all these years.” He softened. “She was only sixteen when she married him, and she’s never done anything without him.”

“That’s no excuse!” I tried to rein in my volume, but I couldn’t believe this. “How could she just sit by while her son gets the crap beaten out of him?”

Marcus stayed calm. He’d obviously been over and over this in his mind. “She doesn’t know about most of what he
does to me. He does it when she’s not around. He thinks he has me under his thumb because of that, but what he doesn’t know is that I’m only waiting for the right time, when Mom’s ready. I don’t get much time alone with her, but I’m trying to get her used to the idea, now that I’m older.”

I shook my head, hoping he could see he was being blind. “She’ll never be ready.”

His jaw clenched and his eyes hardened.

“If you told her about everything he does,
maybe
,” I said, “but otherwise, why would things change? I mean, how long has this been going on?”

He nodded, knowing my question was rhetorical. “I’m almost eighteen. I can leave soon.”

“But
will
you leave your mom with him if he’s abusive?” I knew Marcus. I knew the answer as I watched the realization settle in on him. Age had nothing to do with this and he knew it.

“Look, I’m scared too, okay? My dad makes the money, he pays the bills, and he knows how to calm my mom down. She . . . freaks out sometimes.” He took a big breath. “I can’t do all that, and she’ll blame me for not being able to take care of us.”

“She won’t blame you for wanting to be safe,” I said gently. “You need to tell her. You need to tell somebody what’s really going on.”

He balked. “I thought that’s what this was.”

I swallowed. “I’m not enough, Marcus. We need to actually
do
something. We need to get you help.” I hesitated, and then said, “But we can do this together.”

We stood there like that for a long time. There were things I could say about getting his mom into counseling, or going on financial assistance, but I sensed something had changed in Marcus. Maybe he’d just felt too alone to act on any possible solutions before.

There seemed to be a hint of hope in his eyes.

Seconds later, a key rattled in the door. I darted a look at Marcus but his eyes stayed fixed on the hallway that led to the entry. He took a step in front of me, and I knew it was a protective gesture. I slipped off my stool and inched behind him further.

The door opened, knocking against the wall with a thud.

“You home?” a gruff voice called. I tried to swallow, but my entire mouth, my entire face, had gone numb.

“I’ve got a friend here,” Marcus called out, and his voice was surprisingly light. His tensed hands gave him away, though.

I heard his dad grunt before he came into view. “You’re not entertaining on our budget, I hope.”

My eyes darted to the oven, where the timer Marcus had set was ticking down. I couldn’t breathe.

“Nope,” Marcus said, his voice still light.

His dad was exactly what I expected in some ways—dark, growly face, big, muscular arms and hands—but not at all like I expected in others. I guess I’d assumed he’d be a drunk who forgot to shave and comb his hair, but this guy looked pretty respectable. He wore a short-sleeve button-down shirt with a tie, and his hair was trimmed right up over his ears.

He glared at Marcus and tilted his head to the side, trying to get a better view of me.

Marcus protectively took half a step sideways to continue blocking his view, but I did not want him to get in trouble over me.

“Hi,” I said, ducking around Marcus. “I just stopped by to ask Marcus about some stuff . . .” I was about to say “for the Arts Club,” but then remembered what Marcus had said about Armando and didn’t want to say anything wrong. “For my job,” I said. “At my parents’ restaurant.” I hoped his dad knew Marcus could cook and this might seem believable.

He nodded, but his eyes stayed squinty, like he didn’t trust me.

“She just stopped by,” Marcus repeated. “I thought you were bowling, so she wouldn’t disturb you.” It bothered me how much Marcus cowered around his dad.

His dad raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, I shoulda been bowling,” he said, as if it was Marcus’s fault he wasn’t. He came a step closer and whacked Marcus on the chest in what I might
have mistaken for a playful gesture if I hadn’t known better. Marcus didn’t flinch, didn’t move a muscle, though I saw his knuckles whiten at his sides. “Can’t bowl with a screwed-up hand, though, can I?” his dad added.

Silence filled the small kitchen. I needed to get out of this place. But I couldn’t leave Marcus here, not with his dad.

“My friend was just leaving,” Marcus said, as though he could hear my thoughts. I noticed how he hadn’t used my name, and I decided I wouldn’t volunteer it either. He reached for my hand and tugged me past his dad. I hoped we could come up with some sort of a whispered plan, but his dad grabbed a beer from the fridge and followed us all the way to the door. He watched me bend down to put on my shoes.

I tied them slowly, trying to think of something—anything—I could do to help. Marcus’s dad obviously wasn’t in a good mood, and I suspected the knock to his chest was just a prelude.

“Can you walk me home?” I asked Marcus. “It’s getting kind of dark.”