Chapter 29 Cass

After the night I showed up at Marcus's apartment, we set a fifteen-straight-nights streak where I came over and we screwed each other until we were too tired to move. On the sixteenth night, we had every intention of keeping up our streak, but I convinced Marcus to watch The Silence of the Lambs, and then neither of us felt particularly horny after that.

On the seventeenth night, Marcus took my hand and rushed me through his apartment as soon as I arrived. We made a gold medal dash to the bathroom, where he proudly showed me an empty drawer he cleared out just for me. I had barely caught my breath when he pulled me into his walk-in closet, where he had sectioned off three feet of space and had cleaned out an entire set of three drawers. A fourth drawer contained a dozen brand new lingerie sets, true to his word. I was honestly so moved by the entire gesture that I sucked him off right in the closet.

Before long, I knew Marcus's body almost as well as I knew my own. I memorized the freckles on his shoulders and I had kissed each one of them. My tongue had traced his collarbone on more than one occasion. I even knew where to suck on his neck to make him swear out loud while I was riding him.

And he knew exactly where to press his fingers adjacent to my clit to make tears form in my eyes. His lips had worshiped the dimples on my back, just above my ass, more times than I could count. There wasn't a single inch of my body that he hadn't kissed at least once—not a single inch.

But even with the mind-blowing sex, the highlights were the mornings after. Groggily, but hand in hand, we walked Frank together in the sunrise hours. When we returned to Marcus's king size bed, we would read Reddit posts together on his iPad or he would make a pot of coffee before bringing me a cup while Frank and Sammy slept soundly at my feet. Some days we lay together in the dark as the sun gradually peeked through the curtains, with Marcus's hands running over my bare skin and his lips on the column of my neck as he whispered to me. He told me I was too gorgeous for him to comprehend. I told him that no man had ever transfixed me quite like he had.

At work we were professional—if not standoffish. We would arrive separately and leave separately, sometimes not even bothering to greet each other in the morning or say goodnight at the end of the day. It became a game to us—a test of how well we could throw people off our trail. That game was our primary form of entertainment in an otherwise uneventful due diligence process.

And every day, I tried not to look at him even though we both knew I was always looking at him. He made it so hard. All he had to do was drum his fingers on the table, and I would remember all the places those fingers had pleasured on my body. He would run his hand through his brown hair, and I would think of all the times I pulled on that hair when I was coming. He would chew on his thumbnail when he was deep in thought, and I would recall the times his thumb had parted my lips—mouth and pussy. For once, my infallible memory was a blessing. I had an endless stock of vivid, lurid memories of Marcus Fitz, each more indulgent than the last.

Those indulgent memories that we created together extended far beyond the physical. Even before we got together, Marcus had awoken a competence kink in me that I never realized I had. His shrewdness. His attention to detail. His organization. His ability to poke holes and prepare for the worst. What was once a deep professional respect shifted into an outright fascination—if not a matter of pride. Nobody was more capable than Marcus Fitz; the fact that he wanted me made me feel chosen. Worthy. Special .

And still , I quickly ascertained that like me, Marcus was so much more than meets the eye. Each day was something new: a due diligence of our own. He observed me with curiosity, his mind turning as he slowly uncovered more about me. Contrary to my nature, I let him. It was a stretch, one that often left me uneasy. But Marcus was patient, tactfully following the facts like little breadcrumbs I left behind for him.

One morning, he was getting dressed for an early meeting while I lazed in his bed with Sammy on my chest. From his closet a few feet away, he looked me up and down, raised an eyebrow, and said, "Question."

"Typical."

Marcus nodded his chin at Sammy and me. "That cat hates everybody except for you. She had been in the shelter for eight months by the time I got her, and she scratched the shit out of me for half a year. You two are as thick as thieves now, which I appreciate—but I would be lying if I said I wasn't suspicious."

Smugly, I scratched the top of Sammy's head, and she purred gratefully in response. "Where's the question, Fitz?"

"Be honest: Are you a serial killer?" he quipped. "Because I feel like you two are connecting on some, like, evil wavelength. Like a game recognize game kind of thing."

"You got me," I replied facetiously, nodding. "I'm just here to murder you. I'm waiting until you marry me and leave all your assets to me, so I can kill two birds with one stone. Getting rid of your annoying ass and paying off all my debt at once? That's the dream, baby boy."

Marcus chuckled as he pulled a polo shirt over his head. "I like you so much I would probably just let you murder me. I'd be completely fine with it." He walked over and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the wall, adjusting his collar as he briefly stared at himself.

"Oh great. I was going to do a subtle, ‘ I can't believe you don't trust me ,' act like in Scream . But now that you're cool with it, let's go big and spectacular. I'm thinking something really complicated like in Saw ."

" Saw III . I'm in." Marcus took a few steps towards the bed so he could lean over and high-five me, which should have been cringe-inducing for both of us, but he just made it look so damn adorable.

Smiling, he strolled back into his closet and emerged a few minutes later wearing a pair of well-tailored slacks that did incredible things to the lean muscles in his legs.

"You look amazing," I informed him, wondering if there was any way I could persuade him to skip this early meeting and to get back into the bed.

"Thanks." Marcus gestured at his outfit. "I'm put together but still casual, right? That's always the look I'm going for." He turned and looked at the mirror on his wall again. "When deep down, I'm never casual."

"Casual people are boring," I told him. "I like that you're type-A plus."

Once more, he walked over and leaned down to kiss me.

"That means the world to me coming from the grandest overachiever I've ever met. Seriously. I thought you were the most intimidating person in the world when we were in college."

I sat up and stretched, letting the sheet fall from my chest and making Sammy reluctantly slink over to the end of the bed. As soon as my bare breasts came into view, Marcus's eyes homed in on them. His cheeks flushed pink and his pupils practically dilated as his gaze went straight to my nipples.

"Relax," I warned as I pulled the sheet back up to cover myself. "You have to go to work soon."

Marcus's focus shifted back to my face and a frown took over his expression. "Fuck work. Due diligence ends in sixteen days." Ignoring my narrowed eyes, he climbed over me and kissed me deeply. I let his lips mesh with mine before I broke the kiss, urging him to slide over. Much like his cat, Marcus climbed off me with reluctance.

When he was lying next to me, he swiftly tugged on the sheet and exposed my breasts again. Before I could cover myself, he began to absentmindedly finger one of my nipples—and I just couldn't bear to stop him.

"I wasn't actually an overachiever," I mentioned after luxuriating in his touch for a few quiet seconds. I faced him. His head was on my pillow, cheek flat against the silky white fabric. When he heard my voice, his eyes blinked open and his fingers stilled.

"Hm?"

"You said it a few seconds ago," I reminded him. "You said I was an overachiever." I shook my head. "It probably came off that way to you, but I actually didn't work that hard."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious." I rotated my body so I was on my side, turned in his direction. "School was easy for me. I didn't study very often. People just assumed I did because I was doing so well, but in reality…I was insanely bored, Marcus."

Silently, he frowned as he took in my confession. That frown danced between confusion and disbelief in a tango that lasted only a moment before he said, "Back the fuck up and tell me how the valedictorian of an Ivy League school didn't study very much."

It had been years since I admitted this to anybody, but I found the words teetering on the tip of my tongue. They wanted to come out for Marcus. Those words were champing at the bit, just yearning to introduce themselves to him. That urgency didn't surprise me. For years I'd held these words back, imprisoning them in the recesses of my identity. Marcus was different though. I had trusted him with everything—with my body and my heart. Of course these words would recognize that. Of course these words would want to become yet another one of his firsts.

"If you had to call it something," I said slowly, looking up at the ceiling as I tried to conjure up the right way to put it, "I suppose you could say I was…a prodigy. Maybe I still am, by some accounts. I don't know."

Marcus's hand flinched on my breast. His frown deepened before it relaxed. "Really? That's not a metaphor. You mean that literally."

Without another word, I nodded. Then I had to force myself to look away again and fix my eyes on the ceiling. I couldn't witness the moment when he saw me for what I was. A parlor trick. A show pony. A waste of a curse that so many others called a gift.

"As in…" He shook his head after a beat. For once, he was at a loss for words, and that hit me harder than any reaction I had received before.

"This was a mistake."

"No," he objected hastily as he hoisted himself up on his elbow. "I'm not reacting. I'm just trying to process this the right way. I don't want to say the wrong thing, Cass, and you know how I feel like I say the wrong thing—"

"Just say the wrong thing then," I cut in, frustration rising. That wasn't right though. I couldn't get mad at him for being honest. I forced myself to collect my thoughts before I nodded at him. "Just say the wrong thing and trust that I'm going to forgive you if it hurts me."

Marcus paused, but I could tell that my guidance offered him some mild relief. After a few more seconds had passed, he wet his lips with his tongue and earnestly asked, "Are you a genius?"

Then it was my turn to shake my head. "No. Hardly. Well…maybe. It truly depends on your definition. To put it simply: I remember everything—and I mean that in a literal sense. I can truly recall anything in exact detail."

"Everything?"

"Everything," I confirmed. "The medical term for it is hyperthymesia. It's rare. And relatedly, I have a fairly high capacity for processing in my head, which is probably a result of that infallible memory. In tandem, those skills make it easier for me to do a lot of things that some people find hard."

While Marcus's unreadable expressions were usually endearing to me, his mien in that moment anguished me. He was staring at me with his green eyes unblinking and his gaze moving over my face. To my relief, he eventually slid his hand over and began to gently run his finger over my forearm. That touch kept me on earth. That touch brought me back to the bed and to the sheets, instead of spiraling fifty feet above us like my mind so often did.

"You don't have to be comfortable with it," I said. "I sure as shit don't feel comfortable with it."

"Can you show me?" he asked. "I know it probably makes you feel really different when people ask you to do that, but I'm just curious."

"I'll always make an exception for you. Can you ask me something? Pick a day or a topic or…"

"Econ 100, freshman year. We were both in that class. Tell me what happened during the second lecture."

I paused for a moment, thinking back to the lecture. I could see it clearly, one end of the lecture hall to the other. I could recall the smell of the old wooden seats and the way the light filtered in through the glass windows on the left side of the room. "It was Tuesday at 9am in McCosh 50. The professor wore a white button down and navy slacks with black shoes, which I thought was a daring sartorial decision. We talked about the basic law of supply and demand. That was the day that while he was trying to draw the supply curve in red and the demand curve in blue, his red marker ran out. He tried to use green, but that one was dead too. So he told the grad student sitting in the front row to get him a new one. She was wearing olive Hunter rainboots and black leggings, which was what every basic bitch wore—me included. Should I keep going?"

"Do you remember who asked a question about monopolies?"

"You did," I replied, not missing a beat. "Balcony, second row on the left side. Your voice wavered when you spoke, but the professor was nodding the entire time and he told you that you were putting all the right pieces together. You remember that?"

Marcus's lip curled at the side. "It was the only time I ever raised my hand in lecture. I was so nervous afterwards that my hands were shaking."

I couldn't help but kiss his forehead when I heard that. Then silence settled between us—a much needed silence.

"So you remember everything," he reiterated after a few minutes. "Every word I've said to you. Every time you've looked at me. Every time we've kissed. You can remember in detail."

"I can."

"Cass," he murmured as his hand came up to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. "You're amazing."

"Don't," I warned, loathing the way my stomach tightened involuntarily when I replayed his words again in my head. And again. "Don't say that. I hate that."

"What?"

"I hate when people compliment this. I hate when people tell me I'm amazing and special because of this fucking thing." I shook my head and I kept shaking it, wishing that some of the memories would just fall out. "This has caused me so much grief and has screwed with my head over the years. I can't have you doing that."

Marcus's lips parted like he wanted to say something, but he quickly pulled it back. He placed his hand on my shoulder and rubbed it, his palm warm against my skin. He surveyed me before he respired heavily. "You must hear so much noise all day, every day," he finally said.

We could leave it at that. He didn't need to know how right he was—that my brain could be this unceasing, untamable parade of colors and sounds and images. Some if it was salient; other parts were useless and mundane. But all of it was there.

"I won't compliment that again, Cass. I promise. I know it probably kills you to have people constantly tell you what you are and how great that is, without ever realizing the cost of it."

As he was speaking, I knew he was speaking from empathy—from a shared understanding of the pressure to fit the mold of expectations. Once that connection became apparent to me, it took me a few seconds to realize a tear had welled in the corner of my eye. Before I could reach up to wipe it away, he did it for me. He ran his thumb under my eyeline and caught the tear, brushing it off my skin before it moved down my cheek.

I added that to the list of things his thumb had done—parted my lips and wiped my tears.

"This is why you hate hearing compliments," he realized after a few more seconds.

"It's also why I watch the same horror movies over and over again. It's easier if I don't add more to the mix."

He put a hand on my cheek and nudged me to look at him. His eyes homed in on mine and he held my gaze. "Look, I've said this before and you had a…how shall I put this… adverse reaction to it: You need a therapist."

If he hadn't just delivered a masterclass in male empathy, I would have rolled my eyes at him. "First of all, again, fuck you."

"Happily—if you're ready for a quick one. But bear in mind, I do have work soon."

I forced myself not to smile at his joke, even though I really did want to. Instead, I shook his hand from my cheek. "And secondly, I would love to go to therapy. But I can't."

"You can. Everyone can—and should."

"No. Here's what happens: You go online and Google ‘good therapists near my office,' and you end up with, like, ten thousand results. Then you start reading reviews and people only review when they're unhappy—and of course, the reviews aren't representative because nobody likes to talk about needing therapy. So then you're reading these depressingly bleak reviews about therapists who have let people down, so you start feeling even worse. And maybe, maybe you find someone who looks good, so you think about contacting them, but of course they're not covered by insurance. So then you start fretting about money. And then you get over the cost of it and you decide to just go for it, but there's no way to request an appointment online. You have to call them. So then you remember you're a twenty-eight-year-old woman, which means you're from a generation of people who will stop at literally nothing to avoid speaking on the phone. That means you have to get ready, right? You have to practice. So you write out everything you want to say when you request this appointment, and you start to really get into your feelings. And then you muster up the nerve to call, finally , and then you realize they only take calls from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon—precisely when you're at work and precisely when you can't just call for a therapist. So then you go to the private accessible bathroom and try to make a call, only to get a voicemail. A fucking voicemail. And then, you hang up because you didn't practice leaving a message, and by the end of this whole experience you don't have a therapist and you actually feel even worse."

When I finished speaking, I was literally out of breath and my heart rate was skyrocketing. Marcus was staring at me with his fist in front of his mouth and both eyebrows raised. After a pregnant pause, he inhaled slowly and exhaled in a focused, measured push. His expression softened.

"Do you need a hug?" he asked.

"I really do," I responded, just as I flung myself into him.

Marcus wrapped his arms around me, encompassing me. He kissed the top of my head and said, "I can refer you to my therapist if you want."

"There's no way you and I should share a therapist."

"You're probably right." He ran his hands over my hair. "Look, I don't know what to say or how to be helpful—yet. But I will. Before then, I just want to thank you for sharing with me. I know you don't share much, so it means a lot to me."

There it was—that sweet Marcus Fitz unicorn charm.

"You're too freaking good to be true, you know that? Can you just say something annoying so I don't have to feel so grateful to have you?"

"Of course. I got you." Marcus released me from the hug and looked me right in the eyes. "Just so you know, between you being a prodigy and a savant, and you being a serial killer…I probably would have put my money on serial killer."

I couldn't hold back a laugh. "Perfect," I told him as I kissed him, smothering his lips with them. "That was perfect."