Nodding, I embellish my answer. I could do that with her but not with Marshal.
As soon as my friend appears at the bottom of the stairs and sees me, he reaches for my hand, tells his mom we are leaving, and tugs me outside.
We don’t say a word as we get in his truck.
He stares out the windshield as if he knows what I’m going to say. The sounds of the road amplify as we drive out of our neighborhood. I’m not sure where we are going, and I don’t care.
I am with my best friend.
Finally, we pass through the rusty old posts where the gate used to be, at the lake.
With voices near the water, he takes my hand and we walk into the wooded area, our shoes crunching the underbrush. It isn’t until we make it to the edge of a recently planted cornfield that we stop. Marshal sits on the grass with his knees bent and his elbows resting on top before he plucks a long piece of grass from the ground and plops it in his mouth.
His silence is wearing on me as much as my uneasiness at what I’d done.
It is as if my skin is stretched and itchy, not allowing me to sit. Instead, I cross my arms over my breasts and use the toe of my shoe to dig into the soft ground.
As the long grass dangles from his lips, such as a 1940s movie star’s cigarette, Marshal finally speaks. “You did it with Todd, didn't you?"
I won't lie to Marshal. I never have. My answer is barely above a whisper. "I guess."
His lean body stiffens and his bicep pulses. "I'm going to kick his ass."
I stand straighter as my voice returns. "Why? It's not like you haven't done it with...well, everyone."
"But I'm a guy. It's what guys do. I swear if he runs off his fucking mouth about you, it'll be the last damn thing he ever does."
I scoff. "He won't. Plus, if he runs off his mouth, he's a lying piece of shit."
I like Todd, but I also know how guys can be. I know how Marshal can be.
My best friend’s gaze leaves the field as he stands and reaches for my arms. As he stares into my eyes, he asks, "Are you okay?"
I shrug. "Yeah, I'm fine. Not much can happen in ten seconds."
His expression of anger morphs into a smile growing bigger by the second. It's contagious and soon I'm smiling too.
"Ha," he says. His eyes narrow. “Are you serious?”
I nod. With the tension floating away in the spring breeze, I sit next to where Marshal had been sitting and look out at the baby corn.
“Well, that’s good to know,” Marshal says, taking a seat beside me. “I guarantee that when I let him know that I know that little bit of information, it'll keep him from talking trash about you."
"Little is right." Marshal’s smile encourages me to continue with my heart growing lighter by the second. "I mean, I don't have a lot to compare it to, but yeah, little is about right."
I wasn’t even that honest with my girlfriends, but with Marshal it has always been easy.
Even now.
With Marshal, it isn't a matter of telling him about my past. I don't have to. He knows it all.
As I lie in Marshal's arms, in his bed, and with his steady breathing in my ear, I force my thoughts to go to my ex-fiancé. I'm still upset about Jack.
And hurt.
And mad.
And surprisingly calm.
It’s as if a weight I didn’t realize I was carrying is gone.
There’s no doubt that the thought of telling my parents the wedding is off fills me with dread; however, I’m also shocked to realize that having that complete thought, coming to terms with canceling the wedding, leaves me relieved.
There is still shock and pain—I think that’s normal—but there’s also liberation.
I'm not sure if this feeling of freedom will last, but while it’s within me, I decide to savor it, to lie in Marshal's cocoon and enjoy the liberty.
Maybe I was rushing the whole marriage thing.
Maybe I'm not ready for that.
Those thoughts and more move in and out of my mind as I finally ease myself from Marshal's bed.
He's still sound asleep, his broad bare chest moving with his breaths.
I hold back a giggle. He should be asleep for a week after last night.
Holy shit!
I never knew a guy could keep going on and on like that. And I never knew that I could come more than once, more than twice—shit, somewhere around five, I lost count.
Over the years, I've listened to Marshal's stories of sexual expertise. It isn't that I thought he was lying. I just figured he'd embellished—exaggerated.
Stifling a groan as I take a few steps and feeling the fantastic stiffness in my legs and tenderness in my core, I make a mental note never to doubt him again. And...I add sexual stamina to my list of things Marshal Michaels has never lied to me about.
After cleaning myself and getting dressed, I check one more time on Marshal. He needs to get up for work, but it's still early, only a little after six. After what he did last night, he deserves to sleep until his alarm rings.
Quietly, I grab my phone and purse and leave him be.
For only a moment, I consider giving him a goodbye kiss, but I don't. After all, he's my best friend, not my lover nor my fiancé. I'll let him sleep.
In the car, I finally turn on my phone.
Fifteen voicemails and thirty-seven text messages. All but one from Jack.
The other voicemail is from my mother.
One message is what normal people leave.
Fourteen voicemails and thirty-seven text messages isn’t normal.
It’s pathetic.
Without listening or reading, I hit the call button.
Jack’s groggy voice answers. "Samantha, what the fuck?"
"Really, Jack? I walk in on you and Ellen, and you're asking me what the fuck? You were with her, in our condo, in the bed we share. You were so busy that you didn't even notice I was there."
"Samantha, listen, it's all a mistake. I love you."
"Get out."
"Excuse me?" he asks.
"Get the hell out of the condo. I need to get ready for work, and I don't want to see you."
"No, we need to talk. Where did you spend the night? I've been worried."
Asshole.
He wasn't worried about me when he was busy screwing that slut.
My neck stiffens as I hold back the tears. The sadness and hurt I felt earlier are now replaced by anger, and I'm embracing it. "It's none of your business where I was. You forfeited the right to be worried. Get out of the condo. Don't make me call the police. If I do, I'll have you dragged out of there. Do you want your clients to see that on the morning news?"
"Samantha, you're blowing this out of proportion. I don't give a shit about her. I love you. We're getting married."
"That's where you're wrong. I left the ring for a reason. Take it with you. You have fifteen minutes. Whatever is left of your shit will be available on eBay in a day or two." I disconnect the call. As I do, I realize that my hands are shaking. It's not grief. The trembling is exhilarating, similar to the rush of adrenaline after running a race.
I don't really plan to put his shit on eBay. Hell no, that would take too much work. The dumpster will be sufficient.
Twenty minutes later, after getting a giant coffee in the drive-thru, I open the door to my condo. An overwhelming scent of flowers fills my lungs. Bringing my hand to my nose, I stand in disgust at the room filled with roses. All different colors. Red. Yellow. White. Lavender.