What Love Isn’t

Chapter 2

Friday took forever to arrive. I changed my outfit four times, finally settling on a dark green dress that my mom said brought out my eyes, paired with my favorite leather jacket. I straightened my hair, then decided I liked it better wavy. I put on makeup, wiped it off, put it on again.

"You look beautiful, honey," my mom said, appearing in my doorway. Carol Morrison was petite and blonde, with laugh lines around her eyes and a tendency to worry about everything. "Is this the boy you've been texting all week?"

"Mom, we've just been talking."

"Uh-huh. And you've been smiling at your phone constantly." She came into my room, perching on the edge of my bed. "Tell me about him."

"His name is Marcus. He just transferred here. He's really smart and funny, and he actually listens when I talk, and..." I trailed off, feeling my cheeks heat. "I really like him, Mom."

"I can tell." She smiled. "Just remember—take things slow, okay? You don't have to rush into anything."

"I know. We're just going to dinner."

"And if you need me to pick you up early, for any reason, you call me. No questions asked."

"Mom, I'll be fine."

"I know you will. But humor your paranoid mother anyway."

The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped into my throat. "That's him."

"Go on. I'll get the door and embarrass you appropriately."

"Mom—"

But she was already heading downstairs. I grabbed my purse and followed, arriving in the living room just as my dad opened the door.

Marcus stood on our front porch in dark jeans and a button-down shirt, holding a small bouquet of daisies. He looked nervous, which somehow made him even more attractive.

"Hi," he said, his eyes finding mine. "You look amazing."

"Thanks. You too." I was acutely aware of my parents watching this exchange like it was a tennis match.

"These are for you." He held out the flowers. "I wasn't sure what you liked, but daisies seemed... I don't know. Happy."

"They're perfect." I took them, breathing in their fresh scent. "Mom, can you put these in water?"

"Of course." My mom took the flowers, but not before giving Marcus a thorough once-over. "I'm Carol, Julia's mom. And this is her father, David."

My dad stepped forward, and I watched Marcus's face carefully. Some guys got intimidated by my dad—he was tall and broad-shouldered, with a handshake that could crush bones. But Marcus met his gaze steadily, shaking his hand with confidence.

"Nice to meet you both. I'll have Julia home by eleven."

"Midnight is fine," my dad said. "Just drive carefully."

"Yes, sir."

We made our escape before my parents could ask any more questions. Marcus's car was a slightly beat-up Honda Civic, but it was clean inside, and he opened my door for me before going around to the driver's side.

"Your parents seem nice," he said as we pulled away from the curb.

"They're okay. A little overprotective sometimes, but they mean well."

"My mom's the same way. She made me promise to text her when I got you home safely." He glanced over at me, smiling. "I told her I was taking out the most beautiful girl at Riverside High, and she said I better not screw it up."

"Your mom sounds smart."

"She is. She raised me on her own after my dad left, so she's pretty much my hero." There was something in his voice—a vulnerability that made me like him even more.

"That must have been hard."

"It was. But it made us close, you know? It's just been the two of us for a long time." He reached over and took my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah," I said softly. "It's okay."

Dinner was perfect. The restaurant was small and cozy, with checkered tablecloths and candles on every table. Marcus ordered in Italian, which made the waiter smile and me feel like I was in a movie. We talked about everything—his old school, my family, our favorite movies, our biggest fears.

"I'm terrified of being ordinary," I admitted, twirling pasta around my fork. "Of living a small life and never doing anything that matters."

"You could never be ordinary, Julia." Marcus said it with such certainty that I almost believed him. "You're going to be a writer. You're going to tell stories that change people's lives."

"How do you know?"

"Because I can see it in you. The way you talk about books, the way you notice things... You have something special." He reached across the table, taking my hand again. "I knew it the second I saw you."

"You mean when I was dumping juice all over the sidewalk?"

"Especially then. You laughed at yourself. Most people would have been mortified, but you just laughed. That's rare."

I felt something warm unfurl in my chest. No one had ever talked to me like this before—like I was someone worth studying, worth understanding.

"Can I tell you something?" Marcus said, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.

"Sure."

"I was really nervous about moving here. Starting over at a new school senior year, not knowing anyone... I was dreading it. But then I met you, and suddenly it doesn't seem so scary anymore."

"Really?"

"Really. You make me feel like maybe this could be a good thing. A fresh start." He paused, his dark eyes searching mine. "I know we just met, but I feel like I can talk to you about anything. Is that weird?"

"No," I whispered. "I feel the same way."

And I did. Sitting there in that little Italian restaurant, holding hands with Marcus Chen, I felt like I'd found something I didn't even know I was looking for. Someone who saw me—really saw me—and liked what he found.

After dinner, we walked through downtown, past the closed shops and the coffee place where James and I usually studied. The night was cool, and when I shivered, Marcus immediately shrugged off his jacket and draped it around my shoulders.

"I should probably get you home," he said, checking his watch. "I don't want to piss off your dad on the first date."

"Probably a good idea."

But neither of us moved. We stood there on the sidewalk, and I was suddenly, acutely aware of how close we were standing. Marcus reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek.

"I really want to kiss you right now," he said quietly. "But I don't want to rush things."

My heart was hammering so hard I was sure he could hear it. "You're not rushing."

He smiled—that slow, devastating smile—and leaned in. His lips were soft against mine, gentle and questioning. I kissed him back, my hands finding the front of his shirt, and felt the world tilt sideways.

When we finally pulled apart, Marcus rested his forehead against mine. "I've been wanting to do that all week."

"Me too," I admitted.

"Good." He kissed me again, quick and sweet. "Come on. Let's get you home before I get in trouble."

He walked me to my door, holding my hand the whole way. On the porch, he kissed me one more time, slow and thorough, until I felt dizzy.

"Can I see you tomorrow?" he asked.

"I have to work in the morning, but I'm free after two."

"Perfect. I'll text you." He squeezed my hand. "Sweet dreams, Julia Morrison."

I floated inside, closing the door and leaning against it with a ridiculous smile on my face. My mom appeared from the living room, trying and failing to look casual.

"So?" she said. "How was it?"

"It was perfect, Mom. He was perfect."

"I'm glad, honey. He seems like a nice boy."

"He is." I hugged her impulsively. "I really like him."

"I can tell." She smoothed my hair back from my face. "Just remember what I said, okay? Take things slow."

"I will. I promise."

But as I lay in bed that night, replaying every moment of the evening, I knew I was already falling. Fast and hard, with no idea how to slow down.

My phone buzzed: Made it home. Still thinking about kissing you.

I typed back: Me too.

Tomorrow can't come fast enough. Sleep well, beautiful.

I fell asleep smiling, Marcus's jacket still wrapped around me, smelling like his cologne and possibility.