Forgetting Sylva

In

Marcus lifts me, and the feel of his arms around me is so familiar I almost want to cry, a little. Because I have missed him so much it hurts, and now that he is back, it hurts, too. This should have faded already, I think, this strange feeling of displacement. But something has changed, and he is still here, and I don't care if I feel as if I'm about to cry every time I see him, if it means that he's near me.

 "So," he says, bringing me to the couch and setting me down carefully before taking a seat beside me. "Yesterday was a bad day?"

"A horrible, terribly catastrophically good day," I say, and he looks at me, puzzled.

"Those are two completely different things. On the range of crazy, you just sounded about ten." Marc pushes his hair from his eyes, and I smile a little.

"We both know I was never normal," I say.

He rolls his eyes and turns on the TV. "I'm going to guess this has something to do with Lance," he says, and there is a strange note in his voice. He stares at the TV resolutely as he flicks through the channels, and I watch him, my eyes slightly narrowed. Absently, I touch the bruises along my side, and they flare with heated pain, but I am used to it, by now. Used to it, but still not quite able to bear it. I put my hands on either side of me; one on the arm rest, one on the cushion beside me.

"I sense disapproval," I say. His jaw tightens and he stabs at the buttons on the remote. "Come on, Marc," I wheedle. "We talk about everything. This couch is a no judgement zone."

"My backyard is a no judgement zone. The cliff is a no judgement zone. This is your couch, primarily a place of judgement."

"For today, I won't judge," I promise. I wait as he flicks through the channels, not really looking at the television, his fingers rigid on the remote. I wait. And then he turns off the TV, puts down the remote, and turns to face me, crossing his legs on the couch.

"Ok," he says, and there is something in his face that tells me he has steeled himself to say whatever he is going to say. "This is going to sound completely irrational and overbearing and I'm about to look like a completely possessive idiot, but I can't help it; I sort of don't like him. Not because he's a bad guy or anything, but because he's with you. And I don't feel that way about you, Syl. I mean, I love you, but like a friend. Like I love Olive. But..." He sighs and looks down, at his fingers twisted in his lap. "I can't help it. It's just... there. A feeling. And I can't stop it."

"Marcus," I say, after a long moment. "I believe that what you are feeling is called jealousy." He looks up at me, words on his lips, but I continue. "Which is a common trait in many people, including children whose parents get remarried. And also, when a child may get a new toy, a sibling may be jealous, though they don't want it at all. The simple fact of possession is something that needles them."

I crawl across the couch and take his hand, spreading his fingers and slotting them into my own, so that our hands fit together like an irregular puzzle. "Don't feel bad for something everyone in the world feels. Just learn to get used to it and, eventually, you'll be able to control it." I don't mention the fact that we probably don't have an 'eventually' with me involved, but I see it in the slight tightening of skin around his eyes, and the sad tilt to his mouth.

He sighs, finally, and runs his free hand through his hair. "Why are you so wise?" he asks.

"It's a blessing and a curse," I tell him, settling down by his side. "Now find us a movie to watch."

He turns to face the TV, and does. And I lean my head against his shoulder and add this to the limitless box of memories that I don't ever want to lose.