“I think from time to time, there have been questions about . . . inconsistencies in things you’ve said,” he answered carefully. “But I’ve never heard any real suggestions that . . . you know.”
“Yes,” I said. “I guess that’s something. But . . . they’ve probably figured it out. Hell, I lied to Simon within minutes of seeing him. In the car coming from the airport.”
“What did you say?”
He was hearing me out. He didn’t really want to know, but he thought I wanted to get it all out into the open, so he was helping, like he was rinsing out a wound.
“I told him I saw the Colosseum,” I said. “From the plane.”
He gave me that look I’d seen on his face a hundred times: kind but puzzled to the point of incredulity.
“Why?” he asked.
“Well, there’s the million-dollar question,” I said. “I don’t know. Because . . . because, unlike Simon, who probably goes there for lunch, I have never been to Rome. I’ve never seen the Colosseum, and I really wanted to, and I thought that if I looked really carefully out the window as we came in to land, I’d spot it, and that would be, you know, something. But I looked, and I looked, and I had to lean across this guy who had taken his shoes off and they stank, and he kept looking at me like I was going to steal his wallet if he fell asleep or something, and I couldn’t see it. I don’t think we came in over the city at all. Or if we did, I was on the wrong side of the plane and . . . anyway. I didn’t see it, and I was disappointed, so I started imagining what it would look like from above and—”
“You liked that version better than what had actually happened,” he said.
There was a weariness in his voice, but he still sounded compassionate, like he was indulging a child, and when he smiled it was a real smile that made me want to throw my arms around him and hold him forever . . .
“It just slipped out,” I said. “I was talking to Simon, and somehow the made-up version of my flight sounded better, more real somehow, though I know that sounds stupid. Is stupid. And before I knew it, I’d told him I’d seen the Colosseum from the air. Then I told him I had recently been to Vegas and he asked me about the hotel . . .”
“You’ve never been to—”
“I know. I think he knew I was lying. If I got away with it, it was because he would have asked himself why anyone would lie about anything so ridiculously unnecessary and obviously untrue and, therefore, wouldn’t have reached the logical conclusion: because Jan is a pathological liar.”
“You’re not,” Marcus cut in.
“I am, Marcus. You know it more than anyone.”
“I shouldn’t have said—”
“I’m not looking for an apology,” I said. “You were right. Especially about Wilmington. That was unforgiveable.”
“Nothing is unforgiveable. I started the course the following summer.”
“No thanks to me.”
“You were upset.”
“That’s no excuse for anything and you know it.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Marcus, don’t let me dodge what I did. I have to face it.”
“Four years later?”
“If that’s what’s needed, yes.”
“I could have made the point more constructively,” he said. “Less publicly.”
I shrugged and breathed out a voiceless laugh.
“Yeah,” I said, “but I had it coming.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment and then I, gazing around the room and out through the great picture window, said, “Jesus, Marcus. How did we get here?”
He shook his head.
“Damned if I know,” he said.
“And you’re the professor,” I said mockingly.
“Don’t you start,” he remarked with a wan smile, like we were old allies against the world. “I wish they would . . . I mean, is it intended to make me feel small and irrelevant, to remind me that I’m just a teacher, not some big-shot academic and certainly not anything interesting like a fucking hedge fund manager or whatever the hell it is that Simon does? Jesus.”
“Maybe it’s a kind of jealousy.”
Marcus laughed, a short and single bark without a lot of amusement in it.
“Seriously,” I said. “They have money, but I don’t really know what they do with their time when they aren’t working. They don’t seem to have interests, hobbies, do they? Work, gym, clubbing, mixing with the fashionable . . .”
“With celebrities . . .”
“Going to parties . . .”
“Buying fancy cars . . .”
“Made of gold . . .”
“With platinum tires.”
“What was my point again?” I said.
He laughed again, for real this time.
“You were saying how shit their lives were and why they’d be jealous of a high school history teacher.”
“Right,” I said. “Got a bit off track.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and gave me a little squeeze.
“For real though,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah,” I answered. “Me too.” I hesitated, then asked the question that had been on my mind since I arrived. “What do you make of Gretchen?”
“Well,” he replied, seriously, “she’s down with OPP.”
“Oh my God, that was excruciating.”
“That would be the word.”
“She seems quite taken with you,” I ventured. “Did you know her before?”
“Met her the day we got here. You know as much about her as I do.”
I decided to leave it at that, merely nodding thoughtfully.
“Come on,” he said, getting to his feet in a showy way. “Come get something to eat. If Brad is to be believed, they have created the Mona Lisa of burgers.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said, but I stood up.
“No one does,” he said.
“Marcus,” I said, taking his hand on impulse.
“What?” he said watchfully, even warily.
“I don’t lie to you, you know,” I said. “Not anymore. And I won’t. Ever.”
The wary look deepened, complicated; then he nodded once and smiled.
“Food,” he said.
So we ate. It was good too, and with Marcus giving me encouraging smiles between bites, I managed to put my little meltdown aside and enjoy the evening for what it was. The burgers were half beef and half lamb, and Simon had mixed garlic and oregano into the meat, serving them with tzatziki sauce on the side, while Melissa had whisked up a Greek salad with fresh local cucumbers, tomatoes, and kalamata olives, topped with the best feta cheese I had ever tasted.
“Gotta say,” said Melissa, “Greek cuisine is kind of limited, but what they do, they do well.”
“Hey, what’s with the they?” said Simon. “This was all us.”
“OK, we do it well,” said Melissa. “I guess we’re honorary Greeks.”
“Cretans,” said Brad.
I shot Marcus a look, but he didn’t react, merely laughing as Simon exclaimed in mock outrage.
“Who are you calling a cretin?”
“I never even thought of that!” said Gretchen, delighted. “Is that where the word comes from? Is it, I don’t know, racist?”
“Cretans aren’t a race,” said Brad.
“Neither are morons,” said Simon.
“I thought it was pronounced krehtin,” said Marcus.
“Really?” said Kristen, making a face.
“Yes,” said Marcus. “You’ve never heard that?”
Kristen shook her head, and Marcus gave her a puzzled look that lasted a fraction longer than the moment merited.
“Check it out, Brad,” said Simon. “We beat the professor on vocabulary!”
“Yes!” said Brad, pumping his fist. “F for the teacher! See me after class, young man!”
Marcus acknowledged the joke with a self-deprecating smile, but I noticed the way his gaze slid back to Kristen. It was an odd look, appraising, watchful.
“So tomorrow: shopping?” asked Gretchen.
“Shopping!” Melissa sang out, raising her glass. “There’s supposed to be some really cute leather stores in Rethymno.”
“Ooh, leather,” said Simon. “Looks like my lucky night.”
“Shut up,” said Melissa.