You Can Let It Go [ZARRY]

Ten

Harry:

Late Sunday morning and I had jack shit to do. I’d talked to Dad yesterday about my concerns over the dosages prescribed to small towns.

As predicted, he told me not to be stupid. Jeff Azoff’s marketing strategies were all above board, or else the FDA would have put the clamp down on us a long time ago.

But what had we been telling the FDA? I wondered but did not say. I’d nodded my head in agreement like a good little minion, but I hadn’t told Sylvia to forget about her data collection either.

Downstairs, Marcel was reading again by the cold fireplace in the family living room.

He had on a full suit, a driving cap, and argyle socks pulled up to his knees. A smile tugged at my lips. The world could be crashing down around me, but at least I knew how I felt about Marcel. I wished everything else could be as simple.

I started into the room but stopped and pressed myself against the wall around the corner as Zayn Malik passed through wearing his scrubs, probably on his way to Dad’s suite.

“Hi,” he said, stopping in front of Marcel. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Zayn.”

My stomach tightened. Cesar must have told the new hires about Marcel, but that didn’t mean they always treated him the way he deserved to be treated.

“Oh, I say, my good man,” Marcel said, his gaze flickering to Zayn, then back to his book. “A fine morning, isn’t it? Yes, indeed.”

Zayn paused for a second, taking in Marcel’s attire and the unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. “So it is, ” he said. “And what are you reading, if I might inquire?”

“Dickens, old chap. Dickens.” Marcel held the book so Zayn could see the cover.
“David Copperfield.”

“His quintessential work, I daresay,” Zayn said, sitting on the edge of the couch but not near enough to crowd Marcel.

“Bravo,” my brother said. “I heartily agree. Though there are factions who have concluded A Tale of Two Cities or Great
Expectations to be his masterpiece. To that I say, hogwash.”

“Rubbish,” Zayn agreed. “David Copperfield is pure Dickens. I admire how his character names seem to describe their personality.”

“Bravo again! I quite agree. Uriah Heep does sound so terribly odious.”

“Or Murdstone. And Barkis. Is that not the perfect name for him? A lovable mutt, loyal to Peggotty.”

To my utter shock, Marcel reached out and offered his hand to Zayn. “It does my old heart good to meet a fellow Dickensian connoisseur. And your name again, sir?”

“Zayn Malik.”

“Marcel Styles.”

“A pleasure, Marcel,” Zayn said. “But you must excuse me, I’m late for work.”

“Right then. I shan’t keep you.”

Marcel went back to his book, shutting off
any affection or connection as if it had never been.

I watched Zayn’s face closely for signs of derision, but his smile was real. The
warmth in his eyes was genuine. Zayn left the room, and I sagged against the wall.

He’s a medical professional. That’s why he was so good with Marcel.

That’s all.

But I’d seen medicos come and go by the scores over the years, and few had slid into Marcel’s groove so easily and comfortably.