Free Making a Scene by Amy Valenti Page A

the
time.” I sounded forlorn and broken to my own ears, and I didn’t
like it.
    His light,
rhythmic stroking of my hair didn’t falter. “Is something else on
your mind?”
    The blonde
woman’s face flashed into my mind. I shoved the image away.
“No.”
    Marc drew
back, trying to get a good look at me, and childishly I sat up,
hugging my knees to my chest. I knew I was acting like a spoilt
toddler in the face of his concern, but it felt like my only
defence.
    He touched my
shoulder, but let his hand fall away when I only tensed up more.
“It’s pretty clear you’re hurting right now. It’s my responsibility
to take care of you when you’re like this. I can’t make you accept
aftercare, but I’m not gonna give up without trying. Not when it’s
obvious that something I’ve said or done is getting to you.”
    Tears trickled
down my cheeks, but I locked my sobs within my chest, breathing
shallowly. Why did he have to be so reasonable? So caring? If he’d
just act like a monster, I’d have somewhere to direct my anger and
hurt, but he wouldn’t even lose his temper, damn him.
    Marc sighed.
“Nell, if you can’t level with me, I can’t dominate you.”
    For a second,
disbelief surged through me. I wanted to get mad, but I knew he was
right. My shoulders slumped as I nodded. “I understand.”
    I sensed his
hesitation, but then he moved to sit behind me. While I battled the
maelstrom of confusion, love and distress raging through my body,
he slipped his arms around my waist and rested his forehead on my
shoulder, simply waiting.
    Say
something.
    Not knowing
where to start, I took a round-about approach. “How come this is
the first time I’ve seen your bedroom?”
    Marc didn’t
raise his head, though I sensed he was trying to contextualise the
topic of conversation. “Because we always end up in the dungeon,
and the bed there is closer.”
    It made sense.
I could hardly argue with that.
    “When I came
over… I saw her leaving as I arrived. Has she seen your
bedroom?” Almost as soon as I’d said the words, I regretted them.
Vocalising my jealousy made me realise how insecure I sounded.
    Marc pulled
back. Was he surprised, offended, pissed off? I wished I could
tell, but I didn’t dare look at him.
    “Nell.” When I
kept my head bowed, he took matters into his own hands. I cried out
with surprise when he dragged my legs around, spinning me so I was
facing him.
    He cupped my
face in both hands. “Look at me.”
    I reluctantly
raised my gaze to meet his worried, hurt expression, and my heart
skipped. Even before he spoke, I knew I’d jumped to the wrong
conclusion.
    “Are you
talking about Serena?” Met with my blank expression, he continued,
“Blonde, tall. Drives a blue Prius.” Seeing the recognition in my
face, he gave a small, humourless smile. “She’s my sister,
Nell.”
    “Oh.” It was
all I could think of to say. Relief flooded through me, but then
subsided in an instant as a memory struck. “But your dad called you
his only child. On Monday, when he—”
    “He disowned
her.” Marc got up from the bed, and terror struck me. Was he about
to throw my clothes at me and order me to get out of his house? I
wouldn’t blame him.
    He drew a
photo album from a shelf and returned to the bed, flipping through
the pages as he sat down. Having found what he was searching for,
he handed the album to me. “There. That’s us, back when we were
teenagers.”
    I studied the
picture he’d pointed to. Marc was easy to recognise, though his
hair was almost military short, his features more youthful. He was
standing beside Elliot Cassidy, his father, who still looked
unapproachable even when in a relaxed setting.
    On the other
side of him was a teenage girl in cut-off denim shorts, almost a
head taller than Marc and probably a few years older. Despite her
dark hair, I recognised Serena immediately. She must not be a
natural blonde.
    Next to her, a
woman who was clearly Marc and Serena’s mother