Page 62 of Reckless Hearts
But I’d never wanted anything as much as I wanted Marcus.
And I’d gotten him and had him for those brief, glorious months.
I’d feared rejection, but the reward had definitely been worth that risk.
And I’d applied that same philosophy to my life since then.
A student fellowship that only fourth-years usually got? I was going to apply as an upstart second-year. The best lecturer in the department who hardly ever took on PhD students? I would ask her if she’d consider being my supervisor anyway. Applying for a post-doc position at a new university when I was competing against all the people who’d done their PhD in the department? It was worth a shot.
I was still the same guy I’d always been, slightly socially awkward, someone who’d choose a night in with a gooddocumentary over a wild party, still prone to spouting random animal facts at inopportune moments.
I just had more courage to put myself out there for the things I really wanted.
After all, I’d obtained the unobtainable once, so who said it wouldn’t happen again?
But I don’t get a chance to say a single word to Marcus now. Saskia’s called away and a guy I vaguely recognize from Saskia’s law school days materializes, slapping Marcus on the back like they’re old war buddies. He launches into a story about a university party they both attended. Marcus focuses his charm on him, not even glancing in my direction.
After standing awkwardly for a minute, I use my parents entering the bar as an excuse to slink away.
Well, I survived it. My first interaction with Marcus in seven years, and I didn’t totally embarrass myself. That’s got to count for something.
When I reach my parents, Mum immediately starts fussing with my collar, lamenting how I never iron my shirts properly. Dad takes a break from perusing the wine list to ask if I’ve considered a haircut recently.
There’s nothing quite like criticism masquerading as parental concern.
Twenty minutes later, it’s time to move to the restaurant. Saskia directs people to their tables with the precision of an air traffic controller.
I find my assigned seat at a table with Mum, Dad, and a smattering of aunts and uncles I haven’t seen since last Christmas.
Marcus is seated at the next table over, which can only be described as the cool kids’ table. Saskia presides over it like a queen holding court with Marcus as her knight.
It’s like going back in time, being back at university again.
I force myself to look away, focusing instead on Aunt Mildred’s detailed account of her recent knee surgery. But even as I nod along, asking appropriate questions about recovery time and physical therapy, I work hard to prevent my eyes from drifting over to Marcus.
When our main courses are delivered by the waitstaff, it quickly becomes apparent I made a strategic error in ordering the crab. Because on my plate are four whole crabs, their beady eyes looking up at me in judgment.
The waiter sets down some implements next to my plate, which I blink at. They look like miniature medieval torture devices. Apparently, I’m supposed to use these to extract the meat.
It’s okay. I can do this. I’ll just approach the whole thing like the scientist I am, experimenting to find out the best process.
I grab the most threatening-looking tool, clamp it over one of the crab’s claws, and squeeze the handles.
There’s a loud crack, and suddenly, a spray of shell shrapnel flies across the table.
A piece ricochets off a wine glass, pings against a fork, and somehow defies the laws of physics to land directly in the cleavage of my mother’s dress.
Mum lets out a shriek. She stands, doing what can only be described as an impromptu flamenco as she desperately tries to fish out the invading crustacean from her bra.
The whole restaurant stares at us.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say desperately. I half-stand but soon realize there’s no way I’m going to help my mother retrieve crab shell from her cleavage.
And that’s definitely a sentence I never thought would cross my mind.
“Mum, are you okay?” Saskia rises to her feet. Meanwhile, my father is almost doubled over laughing.
My mother fishes around in her cleavage and pulls out a piece of shell the size of a guitar pick. She holds it up triumphantly.
