I ponder his words, letting them sit in my thoughts.
“Did youlike-likeher, Marlon?” I ask.
“I did! I’m sure - I’m sure I did! Of course I did. She’s my first girlfriend, the first one I put an effort into courting, and going on dates with.”
His hands leave the steering wheel, and begin to pick at his pants.
“I just feel like I need to prove to her that I can be a good boyfriend. Better than before.”
Marlon slumps against the car chair, relaxing the tension in his muscles after his explanation. I somehow try to reconcile this vulnerable side of Marlon with the devilish, troublemaker I’ve known all my life.
The urge to reach over and comfort him somehow; to pat his hand, to caress his shoulder suddenly seizes me. I don’t act on it though. Should I…?
Another ping sounds from Marlon’s phone, and I watch him glance at it reluctantly.
“We’ve started talking again, after ages,” Marlon says, answering the unspoken question on my tongue, “Very safe territory. We’re both guarded, I can tell. But, I want to try and see her. Meet up with her somehow. Maybe if I can talk to her in person again, we can fall back into our old dynamic. It can feel a little normal and less forced.”
“Marlon,” I begin, wrapping my thoughts around my words before I say it aloud.
After all, I don’t have any relationship experience, but I’ve seen enough evidence in front of me to know that this can only work if Marlon is truly, 100% in it.
“You sound like you want to prove you’re a good boyfriend, for thesakeof proving you’re a good boyfriend rather than, you know, wanting to be with Christine.”
His brows bunch together, and while he’s glared at me before, somehow this expression flusters me. In this moment, I don’t want to discourage or annoy him, for the first time ever.
“I do want to be with Christine. I - It’s stupid,” he groans, pressing his forehead to the steering wheel, “I can’t believe I’madmitting this all to you. But I kind of want to know what it’s like to love properly as well, Garcia.”
The words pang like a bell, striking my lungs. I had never expected him to be like this.
“You know, I see my parents, I see your parents. I see everyone else around me falling in love. Why couldn’t I do it properly? Did I love wrong?”
Marlon meets my eyes, and they billow with a sort of desperation, a gleaming innocent hope that, for a moment, feels like I’m staring into my own reflection. In that second, I realise that he’s being genuine. He truly wants to win Christine back, to prove to her that he’s somewhat different.
“There’s no right way to love,” I murmur, “We all have our own ways of loving. And you’ll find your own.”
His eyes brighten, “You think?”
“I think you can. You’re clearly genuine about this, or else I wouldn’t be feeling this sorry for you,” I joke, an attempt to soften the mood. It works. His lips stretch into a smile, and it is not his usual smirk, not the one laced with underlying trouble, but a true smile.
It strikes me like a thunderclap that comes unexpectedly amidst a sunny day.
“How?” he questions.
“Well…I guess you can start with the little things. Like it’s the beginning all over again. Like, asking her to catch up after uni one day, or taking her out to her favourite spot. Buying her little gifts she enjoys. Show her you’re thinking of her, instead of voicing it.”
Marlon is listening to me intently, nodding along, like what I have to say is actually valuable, despite the sudden dawning of imposter syndrome. He doesn’t have that glint of mockery in his eyes like usual. Without the mischief, he is almost like a softbreeze. Calming, lingering. Comforting. The light from the lamp illuminates the brown in them.
I cough, glancing away, feeling as though the eye contact had lingered longer than intended.
“You’re definitely perceptive in this, Garcia,” Marlon says, after a moment. His tone is lighter now, playful. Back to normal.
"Well, Iamthe expert between us,” I joke.
“Ugh, yes, little miss obsessed-with-romance-books all your life. God, I still remember how you’d read your books while we were meant to be studying back when we were like 14, 15,” he reminisces, and I gasp at his misleading recollection. I slap at his arm.
“Excuse me, you were the one who wouldn’t help me out with my homework!” I exclaim, accusingly, and he chortles.
“That’s because I knew you were smart enough to do it on your own, obviously,” he drawls, “Why would you have even needed my help?”
