Chapter 35 Cass

I pulled my jacket closer to me as I ascended the steps out of the subway, wishing I had worn something warmer. Now that I didn't have a job, my mind was wandering. It drifted to thoughts and memories as usual, replaying conversations and occurrences in stark detail. By the time the afternoon rolled around, I realized I somehow lost track of the world.

That wasn't a rare occurrence. I could travel so deep down into rabbit holes that I would forget to keep tabs on the sunlight. I'd emerged to darkness before, wondering where the hours went.

There wasn't much darkness in my world now that Marcus was a part of it though. I should have been flat on my back with anguish at that point. My career was off kilter. My future was uncertain. My prospects were low. And yet, none of that brought me down quite like it should have.

When I entered the coffee shop where he asked me to meet him, he was at a table in the back corner, adjacent to a wall of peeling band posters, flyers, and job notices. He waved at me, as if I didn't see him. Adorable.

He stood when I approached him and brought me into an embrace when I was close. The hug lingered longer than it normally would. My body relaxed against his as I took in the smell of his cologne and the warmth of his chest through his sweater. His hand came up to rest on the back of my neck, softly patting my hair before he planted a kiss on the top of my head.

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to see you," he murmured before he pulled away from me. He slid a chair back for me and motioned for me to sit. "What do you want to drink?"

"Black coffee."

"Okay, give me a second."

Marcus slid past the table to put in my order at the counter, where he waited. As he stood there, I allowed myself a moment to study him. To memorize him. My eyes followed the bend of his knee as he tapped his toe against the wood floor of the coffee shop. His green eyes stayed on his phone, where he scrolled with his right thumb and chewed on the tip of his left. After a couple of minutes, the barista handed him my coffee and he strolled back over to the table, his focus still on his phone.

"Thanks, handsome," I said when he put it down in front of me.

"Of course."

"Everything okay?"

Marcus looked up. "No, it's a clusterfuck," he responded with a measured exhale. "But I want to put it aside for now."

"You don't have to."

He shook his head. "Fuck it," he said. "I'm going to be dealing with this for the next six months, so there's no point in trying to boil the ocean today. Plus, this might be the last time we can see each other for a long time, so I don't want to waste it by trying to respond to emails."

I paused with my steaming cup of coffee just an inch from my mouth, my lips curled into an O as I blew on it. "I'm sorry, what?"

"My lawyer said it's important for us to put some distance between us in case I get implicated in what Alex did. She said it's a possibility you might get implicated by association."

"Marcus fucking Fitz, you're not breaking up with me in a coffee shop . What the hell. This is not an episode of Friends , you jackass."

"Are we dating?" He grinned. "This is great news. I had no idea. I've got to say, I'm thrilled with this development. That might be enough to overshadow the fact that I just went from being worth nine figures to being worth basically nothing overnight."

"Focus, please."

Marcus's handsome face didn't waver. He was resolute. He was certain.

He was in love with me.

"I'm not breaking up with you. Not now, not ever. It's going to take a lot more than an FTC investigation, the total disintegration of the company I dropped out of college to start, the demise of my only real friendship, and total financial ruin to keep me away from you." He leaned back in his seat and tilted his head to the side. "Huh. I've got a girlfriend. You know, I've never actually had a girlfriend before."

I paused, holding back a smile as I watched Marcus appraise me with a smirk on his face. His expression was boyish and genuine.

God, I loved this guy.

"Well, since you're new to being a boyfriend, I can offer you some pointers," I quipped. "For one, it's customary for boyfriends to tell their girlfriends they're pretty and brilliant every hour, on the hour. And you should also probably send me flowers on a weekly, if not daily basis."

He brightened. "You like compliments now?"

"I like them when they come from you," I admitted.

The moments that followed felt fleeting. His broad smile gradually drifted away from his face, leaving me colder by the second. I knew something was coming—something I wasn't going to like.

"I can't see you though," he said. "Not for six months."

My unsteady stomach curled up into a snarl. "I hate that idea."

"But if it's what it takes to make sure that you don't go down with the ship, I'm going to do it." He covered my hand with his.

Fuck, I hated this idea.

I really, truly hated this idea.

"Are you going to be okay?" I asked, even though that felt like an idiotic thing to ask. Neither of us would be okay.

"I'll still call you," he replied. "Probably every day. Texting. FaceTime."

"We can't see each other though," I reminded him, even though he knew. "Which means, we can't touch each other. That's one of the best parts."

"Not the best part though," he said as he rubbed his thumb along the back of my hand.

I put down my cup of coffee and shifted in my seat so my body was oriented towards his. I sensed he had more to say. Sure enough, he tensed his grip and gave my hand a squeeze.

"I wanted to say this in person and wasn't sure if I would have a chance for a long time." His gaze went to my eyes. "I've had a lot of ups and downs in my life so far. Parts of it have been really hard—if we're being honest."

"I know," I murmured as I rested my other hand on top of his.

"I'm still trying to figure out who I'm supposed to be and even what I'm supposed to be. I've struggled with that for most of my life." He shook his head, still not breaking eye contact with me. His face was so certain. "Not with you though. You're…"

Marcus trailed off as he finally looked to the side, his eyes moving over the floorboards as he collected his words. When he focused on me once more, I had to appreciate just how beautiful he was. Young. Bright. Earnest.

My everything.

"What were the odds of you and me going to the same college when we were eighteen?" he asked. "Low, right? And what were the odds of you walking into my office two months ago?"

"Incredibly low."

He nodded. "Well, sometimes I just think we were supposed to end up together. We screwed it up the first time, but something in the universe wanted us to have a second chance." Marcus lifted a shoulder, adding levity to such a serious notion. "I think if there's anything I've learned from you so far, it's that everyone gets a second chance. Everyone deserves that."

"Agreed. Nobody gets it right the first time."

He took a deep breath just like he did whenever he was going to say something bold and terrifying and beyond his comfort zone. But he always said those things because he was resilient and resolute—more so than any person I had ever met before. "Look, I have to fix this and it's going to take me a while. But I wanted you to know I'm not going to let us blow this again. Never."

Never .

"I'm not going to be with you for a while, but you are the most important thing to me. If you ever feel like I'm not giving you what you need, just tell me. I'll fix it. It's what I'm good at, Cass. I take messy situations and I clean them up."

"I know."

"And you're good at seeing what other people can't. You're so good at seeing people for who they really are. I hope you can help me with that. Help me remember I'm not just a kid who messed up. Help me remember I'm persistent and I'm capable and I can handle this. Can you do that?"

I didn't respond. Instead, I leaned forward and placed a hand on his cheek. His skin was smooth, warm to the touch. My thumb traveled over his cheek bone, tracing a slow path to his temple. I leaned forward to kiss him and the contact was soft. Reverent.

"I love you," I told him, my lips brushing against his as I spoke. "Always have."

He smiled. "I love you too. And—" He pulled his face back from mine to glance down at his Apple Watch, and said, "it's three o'clock, so we only have nine hours until midnight. Do you want to go back to my place and have sex for like, nine hours straight?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

***

One Week Later

Marcus: I miss you.

Marcus: I miss you so much.

Marcus: I've been thinking about you all day.

Marcus: Are we being stupid?

Marcus: Actually, don't answer that. If you say yes, nothing could stop me from calling an Uber right now and coming to see you.

Me: I miss you too.

Me: I think we are being stupid, but I can think of one thing that's going to stop you from coming to see me right now.

Marcus: Try me.

Me: My parents are sitting in my living room.

Marcus: OH.

Marcus: Oh shit.

Marcus: Should I come over?

Me: Why??? That would make this so much worse.

Me: What would I even tell them?

Me: "By the way, this is my secret boyfriend who's probably going to be investigated by the Federal Trade Commission any day now."

Marcus: So…that's a no?

Me: You're ridiculous.

Me: Anyway, I have to go. I've been hiding in the bathroom for five minutes now and they're probably getting freaked out. Love you.

Marcus: Before you go, just be open minded. I do think they love you. Not as much as I do, but they really do love you.

Me: Sure.

Marcus: No, I mean that. You're the one who said to me: Paying back the debt won't solve the problem. The problem is so much deeper than the money.

Marcus: Anyway, love you too.

I had endured only one week without Marcus and I already knew I never wanted to be apart from him again.

When I emerged from my bathroom and walked back to the living room, my mom and dad were still sitting stiffly on my used IKEA couch, crowded together on one cushion like they were huddled for safety. My father's attention was squarely on the oversize Libra hoodie I was wearing over leggings and I could practically read his mind: That's not the kind of outfit you wear if you want to be successful, Cassandra.

I woke up this morning to Bethany sitting on my bed and shaking me with both hands. Her eyes were practically wild with confusion and the alarm on her face led me to believe that we were facing the onset of a zombie apocalypse. To my surprise, Walter and Felicity Pierson were standing in my living room.

"Can I get you anything?" I offered as I padded over to stand in front of them.

"What do you have?" mom asked.

"Water," I said. "And that's about it. I could make a pot of coffee. Oh, and I have every liquor on the planet. Bottom shelf, though, which I assume is a problem."

I was baiting them at that point, delivering the kinds of responses that had historically riled them. To their credit, neither of them commented, although they were visibly refraining from doing so. My father had even clenched his hand into a fist that rested on his knee.

"We're fine," he answered, speaking for both of them as usual.

I took a seat on Bethany's pouf, which I immediately regretted because I found myself a few inches lower than my parents. The symbolism, naturally, wasn't lost on any of us. I was small around them, as usual.

"How'd you find my apartment?"

"Google." There was a tinge of pride in his voice. It was the kind of pride that could only come from a man who read a paper copy of the Wall Street Journal every morning one day realizing that his phone had access to the internet.

My eyes drifted to the window behind them. It was an overcast morning in New York with clouds blocking the sunlight and covering the neighborhood in a soft haze that clashed with the traffic din outside. The weather was similar the last time I saw them six years ago, in an apartment not much bigger than this one.

"You know my next question." I returned my attention to their faces, swapping between the two of them. Dad would speak first, I assumed. Mom would nod silently, regardless of what he said.

"It's been a long time, Cassandra," he said after a beat.

"And that's why you're here?"

"We're…concerned," my mother finally said.

"Because I got fired?" I liked the way they both had to look away from me when I said that. "You don't have to worry. I'll get another job and I'll start sending the money I owe you—"

"We don't want your money," my father interjected.

"You sure wanted it six years ago," I reminded him. "Should I get the invoice? I still have it. It's actually framed and hanging above my toilet."

I wasn't messing with him either; there was a framed printout of the invoice that my father sent me for the three months I spent in law school. It was mounted in a sleek gold frame I bought at Michael's, and I ran a Windex wipe over the glass every time I cleaned the bathroom.

"That was…that was a mistake."

"By who?" I drew my knees towards my chest. "It was incredibly intentional. Didn't seem like a haphazard mistake to me."

"It was just to prove a point. I truly didn't think you were going to—"

"Dad, you're a lawyer," I snapped. "You know better than to send out documents without genuine intent."

His chest rose and fell as he inhaled sharply and released the breath a moment later. "We're simply here to make sure that you're okay."

"I'm great," I declared as I climbed to my feet. "I'm going to find a new job, just like I always do. I've had plenty of practice, after all."

Their silence spoke volumes. My mom's brow furrowed as she watched me rise.

"Oh, Google didn't tell you what I had to do when you cut me off?" I questioned facetiously.

"Cassandra—" My father began to raise his hand to interject, but we were way past those days in our relationship.

"First job I got was a part time receptionist job at a gym. Somehow, that included me disinfecting weights and lifting machines when there was down time, go figure. That really wasn't cutting it though, so I also got a job at CVS, and when that wasn't cutting it I started tending bar at night."

At this point in my diatribe, my father had probably stopped breathing from surprise. He drew his hand up to rest on his stomach.

"Then the gym where I was working cut back on staff, so I went to a temp agency. They got me a filing job at Davenport-Ridgeway, which thankfully turned into a full-time job after the temp job ended. That was a huge relief. I finally had dental insurance again. What—mom really didn't tell you any of this?"

"She told me you found a job," he answered. "I really didn't know that—"

"And that would have changed something?" I asked.

He was quiet before his shoulders sank. That meant "no" in his book.

"Once Trevor dumped me, I went to business school, which I'm sure mother told you about. I paid full ticket price, for the record. So, on top of owing you and mom about a million dollars, I also owe the federal government and two private loan providers around one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. So crazy, right? That's like chump change for you."

My father lowered his jaw like he was going to speak, but no words came out.

"If I haven't made it abundantly clear," I went on, "I will be fine ."

"But are you happy?" my mother asked.

I managed to keep myself from laughing out loud at her question. Instead, I kept my face in a frown. "Are you serious right now? When has my happiness ever mattered to either of you?"

"Don't be like that. Everything we did—"

"Where was my happiness when you two made me read legal books in the second grade? Where was my happiness when I missed summer vacations because you two sent me to meet with tutors in Switzerland?" I turned away and shook my head. "Where the hell was my happiness when you cut me off just because you didn't like my boyfriend? Do you have any idea how insane that was?"

"You have no idea how special you were. We were just trying to—"

"Screw you," I snapped. "You don't think I know how special I am? I go to bed every night wishing I were just normal ."

My father flinched when he heard that. "Don't say that."

"Why not? What good has any of this ever done for me? You have no idea what it's like to have your mind turning a million miles a minute, having to watch people slog through things that come easily to you. There were countless times I had to sit there and watch the two of you go through these inane conversations trying to remember the names of books or foods or movies, and if you had just asked me I could have cleared it up for you in seconds." I brought my hand up to my forehead. "Why are you here? Why are you really here?"

"I'm here to apologize," he responded, which was nothing short of a grenade toss.

I paused, hand still on my forehead. I felt my heart leap at those words—words that he had never said before.

"What for?"

"I was wrong," he said, speaking slowly. "I made a mistake and I know that now. I've known that for a long time. And when your mother told me you lost your job, I was truly just worried you weren't going to be okay. Then I remembered you were more than okay six years ago, and you were much younger and had never worked before…" He let out a sigh. "What can I do now, Cassandra? What can I do to show you I want to be your father again?"

I stared at him, watching as he turned his eyes on me.

"Really?" My voice came out soft and weak. I hated that. I hated that so much. I wasn't soft. I wasn't weak. Ever.

"I'm sorry," he said, leaving it at that. Two words. Two simple words I had waited years to hear.

There should have been more fanfare. There should have been glitter and sparklers and confetti and a performance of the national anthem by Whitney Houston's hologram.

There was none of that. It was just two simple words that bore the weight of one family's six-year estrangement.

"Fuck," I murmured, which of course made them both flinch again. I let out a breath. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" he asked, his face falling.

I shook my head. "You've been my father the whole time. You just weren't a very good one," I said. "But the funny thing is, you and mom were right about Trevor. He was a waste of space."

That wasn't a lie; it was an olive branch.

"I now realize I didn't separate from you two because of him," I continued. "He was just there while it happened. The real reason why I broke away from you was because I needed to figure out who I was."

They both stared at me, silence rising between us. I knew what they wanted to ask: Was I able to do that?

"It's a work in progress," I admitted. "but I'm getting there. I found someone who has actually helped me with this a lot. Honestly, you two probably would have loved him."

"Would have?" my mother inquired.

"It's complicated." I walked over to my small kitchen table and fell into one of the seats. "It's just so freaking complicated."

To my surprise, my dad got up and walked to the table as well. He pulled out one of the mismatched chairs and sat across from me.

"Look, Cassandra," he began, "this has all been…challenging. And I don't have a right to make excuses for my mistakes. I have to own them. But it sounds like the biggest mistake I made was making you feel like you were trapped."

I nodded and my eyes remained on his face.

"The money that you've set aside for us," he continued, "I've never cashed it, as I'm sure you're aware. Where are you keeping it?"

"Just a checking account."

"I want you to use it," he instructed, "for yourself. If you're out of work, you probably need it right now. How much do you have left on your business school debt?"

"A shit ton."

"Pay back your loans, use it on rent or food or your phone—maybe all of it. Just use the money. You earned it."

I inhaled sharply. "If I use that money, it means I've forgiven you. I don't know if I've done that yet."

"If that's the case, this was always about money—and I don't think that's quite right. It wasn't about the money, was it?" my father asked.

"No," I admitted.

"Then let's take money off the table and talk about the invisible debts we owe each other. Obviously, your mother and I have come up short as parents. How can we make up for that?"

My father had brown eyes like mine—eyes that could have been too big for his face but were precisely right. I knew from experience that those eyes so often betrayed the emotions he sought to hide. As he stared at me, I knew he was being sincere.

"Dad, it's not just you who has come up short. Over the last few weeks, I think I've realized I…" I trailed off as I tried to find the words. I was so bad at this—I was so bad at putting words to feelings. "I think I owe it to myself to try to work through what I've been going through."

"What are you going through?" he asked.

"You know, I got fired last week, and I feel nothing over it. Nothing. I just don't know how anyone like me can just feel so aimless all the time." I shook my head. "To be honest, I think I need therapy."

They were both quiet for a few seconds until my mother leaned forward from her spot on the couch and said, "I go to therapy, darling. It's so helpful for me."

Surprised to hear that, I frowned. "Since when?"

"Six years ago."

As that realization washed over me, I looked between their faces. Those faces hadn't changed in six years. The memories I held of them could have mixed seamlessly with the present.

It was consistent. I liked consistency. I needed it.

"To be honest, the hardest part for me is just setting up an appointment and going. I get so overwhelmed with it. There are too many ways for me to overthink it and to back out, ultimately. And now I'm going to lose my health insurance, so then there are out of pocket costs, so money is a factor—"

"Cassandra," my dad cut in.

I stopped speaking and looked up at him. Comforting eyes met mine. I probably shouldn't have been so taken aback to see that, but more importantly, I appreciated them.

"We can help you find someone," he offered. A wry grin followed. "We're good at Google now. And I rented a car, which your mother said was a stupid idea in New York, but I—"

"Walter, please." My mother waved him off in a manner that was so arrogant and wealthy and typical—and almost endearing in a way it had never been before.

"Let's find you someone to talk to," he said, nodding encouragingly. He put his hand over mine. "Let's do that together."