Chapter 14: Heartbeats Or Footsteps?

             My dad didn’t bother hiding the annoyance and irritation on his face when he came home and found Marshall lounging around our house after Diana insisted he stayed for dinner. “You again,” he grumbled. “Do I have to put a barbwire fence around my house for you to stop coming around?”
            “For your daughter sir,” Marshall replied smugly, “I’d crawl across ten miles of broken glass just to see her.”

            I rolled my eyes at him, but apparently my dad got a good laugh out of his remark. “Really now?” He chuckled. “Because I’d love to see a demonstration.”

            I turned to face Marshall from where I had been reading my script in the living room, personally interested in what he would say next but unfortunately, Diana decided to peek in from the kitchen at that moment and relieve Marshall from a likely ill-fated future.

            “Oh you’re back!” Giggling like a love struck 14 year old, Diana rushed up to my dad before laying a kiss on his cheek. She even popped back her leg the way they do in those romantic comedies I watch every once in a while. They never make any logical sense to me, but when I’m having a really bad day I like to pop one in the DVD player and criticize the director and the actors for doing a bad job. Typically it makes me feel better. “I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad. Did you get Marshall something for his eye like I asked?”

            “Like what? A box of man-the-hell-up? Diana, that kind of thing fades with time. There’s nothing you could do about it medicine wise. Just suck it up and stop getting into fights with people. But seriously, whoever gave him that black eye did a really good number on him.” Then he knowingly – and rather openly – winked at me. “I’d say it was a job well done.”

            “Don’t encourage her,” Diana muttered, sparing me a glance. “Anyways, dinner is almost ready so come help me set the table up, okay sweetie-pie?” 

            I watched in absolute disgust as my dad rested his hand on her behind. “Okay sweetie-pie,” he cooed back and I almost – if only my nails were longer – scratched my ears off because I felt so vandalized. Why did they have to do that? Why did they have to do that in front of me?!

            To my dismay, it only gets worse during dinnertime, and it takes every nerve and willpower inside of me not to do the exact opposite of eating at the table. It was like Diana was hell bent on grossing me out, and I couldn’t eat my salad in peace even if I was blind because of that annoying coo she did every time she leaned in to spoon-feed my dad.

            “Here you go sweetie-pie. Say ahh~”

            My dad chuckled. “No it’s okay sweetie-pie. Really!”

            “Oh come on. Just one more bite.”

            “He said it’s okay!” I shouted, slamming my fork down. “Don’t you see he’s got arms?! He can do it himself!!”

            Everyone at the table stopped mid-action to stare at me. Even Marshall, who had been sitting quietly beside me devouring Diana’s hearty meal – which I easily passed up for something that wouldn’t clog my arteries – looked up in surprise at my random outburst. “Why are you always so angry?” He murmured, but looked away when I shot him a glare.

            I cleared my throat after, stole Marshall’s fork, and in one of my best acting performances, played out the scene I witnessed throughout dinner. “Here you go sweetie-pie, say ahh!” I waved the forked meat in front of Marshall’s face but he kept his mouth shut, shifting his gaze uncomfortably from me to my dad.

            “Do- Do I have to?” He murmured.

            I batted my eyelashes at him, copying Diana’s exact technique before giving him a tiny pout. “Oh come on,” I whimpered in a soft purr. “Just one more bite!”

            “Your acting is so real it’s scary,” Marshall sobbed, but then offered his mouth to me in hesitation anyways.

I stuck the fork inside his mouth and when he closed to chew, I grabbed his napkin and dabbed it all around his face, albeit a little overdramatically, before slamming my palm on the table and causing everyone to jump. “See how creepy that was,” I shouted. “That’s you guys! That was you guys right there!” Then I took my own fork and violently stabbed a piece of lettuce before shoving in into my mouth.

            We all ate in silence after that.

            Eventually though, after the whole ordeal was over and the dishes were loaded into the dishwasher, Diana gave me the kitchen back and I was finally able to perform what I had hurried home to do: bake. Since we were running low on time – or at least I was from my daily schedule – Marshall decided to do most of the baking and show me the ropes so I could do it by myself tomorrow night when he wasn’t around.

            “See, for flour, you have to sift it. Are you taking notes in your head?” I nodded and watched him play around with the sifter with such concentration that someone could have easily mistaken him for a professional. After he added a series of ingredients into the mixing bowl, he grabbed two eggs in one hand, and in one smooth movement, cracked both of them at the same time before throwing the shells in the waste bin.

            Somewhere in between mixing everything together and scooping it out of the mixing bowl onto a clean cookie sheet, Marshall began to hum, and then shortly after, sing. If I was being absolutely honest, he was a terrible singer. Absolutely dreadful. But for some reasons, I liked the raw edge in his voice, how he was completely tone death – untouched – like an uncut diamond.

            “So don’t you worry your pretty little mind. People throw rocks at things that shine. And life makes love look hard. Something. Something. Hm. Hm. Hm. This love is ours.” I laughed after – just tiny, barely audible chuckles – but Marshall must have heard me because he stopped and spun his head in my direction. “What?” He laughed. “Is my singing really that bad?”

            “It’s pretty bad,” I told him and watched him slap another spoon of batter on the cookie tray. “But I guess that’s okay since I can’t bake and you seem really good at it.”

            “So are you admitting there’re things that the great Camila Jones can’t do?”

            I crossed my arms in front of me, slightly disappointed for whatever the reason at his abrupt remark. “I never said I could do everything,” I retorted. “Or that I was perfect. I never once said anything like that. All that I’ve ever said was that I was me. I won’t put myself down or be humble about my abilities, but I’ve never said anything about being perfect.”

            “I’ve never said anything like that about you either,” he laughed, which caught me slightly off guard, but managed to calm my impending rage. “People always say you’re beautiful and you’re talented and you have impeccable grades at school, but I’m not interested in things like that. I don’t want to know the things about you that the rest of the world already knows. I want to know what your weaknesses are – things you wouldn’t normally tell other people.”

            And maybe it was because he didn’t have his eyes on me, but I didn’t feel weird talking to him, and everything that I wanted to say poured out naturally. It was something that I’ve never quite experienced before – having someone ask to know more about me. Usually everyone I come across already have a predetermined idea of me whether they like me because of it or they hate me because of it.

            “Like things I suck at?” I asked just to confirm.

            “Sure. Whatever goes.”

            I tilted my head and thought about it. “I can’t swim,” I said slowly. “I’m impulsive and can’t control my temper. I can’t bake. Um… I can cook pretty well, but I only know how to make five things. I can’t sew. I can’t knit. And I hate doing housework so my dad does everything.”

            “Really? I love going to the beach.” He turned to me and smirked once he placed the cookie batter inside the oven where they were going to sit for the next 15 to 20 minutes. “Though I’m not sure if I like it because I like swimming or because I like picking up girls.” I gave him a hopeless sort of look and he laughed it off as he continued. “I also know my way around the kitchen and surprisingly, I can sew and knit really well, but you’d have to see it to believe it. I don’t hate chores, but I don’t like them either except vacuuming. It’s the only time I can sing without people telling me their ears are bleeding. How about things you’re good at? You know, besides the acting and stuff.”

            I shrugged since there wasn’t much that I was bad at if I put a decent amount of effort in it. “I have a really good memory,” I said.

            “I don’t even remember what I ate for breakfast,” he mumbled.

            “I’m a perfectionist.”

            “I’m a procrastinate…ist.”

            “That’s not even a word,” I grumbled.

            “Well being a perfectionist isn’t really a great quality either.”

            I just moved on instead of having another pointless argument with him. “Um… what else? Oh. I used to play the piano. I was pretty good at it while my interests lasted.”

            His eyes lit up. “Really? I used to play the piano too!”

            “You’re really in touch with your feminine side,” I told him.  

            “It’s not feminine,” he retorted. “My dad coaxed me into taking lessons when I was four because he promised me it would help me pick up chicks at birthday parties.”

            I couldn’t even believe my ears. “You were slutty even at that age?” He rolled his eyes at my remark. “Well, are you any good at it?”

            “What? Playing the piano? Well, I don’t want to brag, but I’m like the reincarnation of Mozart or Butch.”

            “Bach,” I corrected. “I don’t even know how you got Butch. And you’re lying.”

            “You got me. I sucked at it.” He laughed after. “But it’s cool though.”

            “What is?”

            “That we complete each other.” The corner of his mouth lifted into a bashful, boyish grin. “It’s like I’m the white keys and you’re the black.” And I’ve criticized just enough chick flicks to know this is usually where the girl is supposed to hear those heavy footsteps stomping across her heart, but I don’t hear anything, and I don’t feel anything. And when the honesty of the moment settled over me, I turned away from him and looked toward our dirty bowls and spoons soaking in the sink.

            “Do you think everything I’m doing right now is futile?” I asked.

            “What do you mean?”

            “This whole trying to fall for you thing. Do you think it’s all just a waste of time?” The question must have surprised him because Marshall couldn’t seem to react to me, and could only stare at me with steady silence. “Remember how we first met and you told me what the first rule to love was? That I can’t pick who I like?” I took a deep breath before letting it all out and sinking my hands into the warm water of soap and dishes. “Maybe you were right all along. Maybe I’ve just been stubborn and–”

            “And what?” He interrupted me by touching his fingers to my collarbone and then dragging it up my neck, pulling my chin towards him as he pulled me close and towered over me. “Do you want to know what the second rule to falling in love is Camila?” He asked, and when he does, his eyes pierced into me with such aggressiveness, such intensity, that I find it hard to breathe. It’s like he’s a completely different person, his gaze a tsunami of blue and green that seems to drown me 3000 metre deep in water, to a world where time sits still and the only thing I can hear is my own heart beating in the background.

            “Lesson number two,” he began, and he’s so close that I can feel his breath pressing against my lips, “is that everything happens for a reason. I know I said you can’t pick who you fall for, and I still stand by that, but maybe that’s not the case between us. Maybe everything that’s happened that’s brought you where you are, to this moment, standing right here, is because you were meant to fall in love with me.” And in that moment, when Marshall’s strings of enchantment seem to paralyze my body and numb my thoughts, it was almost impossible not to believe him.