by Lilah Pace
The phrase drunk tank earns him a glare from the worker behind the reception desk, but it takes more than this to repress Geordie Hilton. He grins as the two of us head out, as if daring the day to knock him down.
When we get into my Civic, he immediately syncs his phone with the sound system, an old habit from when we were dating. I never minded, because Geordie has great taste in music and introduced me to artists I wouldn’t have discovered otherwise. At the moment I also appreciate the moment it buys us—the opening for us to talk. “How are you doing?” I say.
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Geordie pauses, phone in his hand. PJ Harvey’s bass beat begins to thump through the speakers. He glances over at me, his usual cheeky smile slightly . . . bent. “Don’t suppose you’ll let me get off with ‘fine, thanks. ’”
“Not this time. ”
He leans back in the passenger seat. Even the pale light of this overcast afternoon reveals the dark circles under his eyes, the new hollows in his cheeks. Geordie has gone from being wiry to being too thin. Only his floppy brown hair remains as rakish as ever; everything else about him is cast in shadow.
Finally Geordie says, “One day at a time. That’s what they keep telling us here. Over and over, until you think you’ll slap the next person who lets those words come out of his mouth. But they repeat it for a reason, don’t they? You really can’t look any further ahead. You try to get on top of things today, and leave tomorrow until it comes. So that’s what I’m doing. ”
We’re silent for a long, awkward pause. Finally I manage to say, “The withdrawal—was it terrible?”
“They say I got off lucky. I didn’t go through DTs, which is the part of withdrawal that actually kills some people. ” He sighs. “Me, all I had to deal with was vomiting, nausea, a bad case of the shakes, and a three-day-long anxiety attack. Imagine that party, if you will. But as of now, drumroll, flourish of trumpets, I have been sober for two whole weeks. Please, hold your applause to the end. ”
“You’re trying to make it sound like it’s not a big deal. ” I smile, partly to cover my horror at the thought of Geordie as sick and weak as that. Mostly, though, I’m smiling out of pride. “But you’re beating this. You really are. ”
He shrugs. “Two weeks. No more than that. ”
“No less than that either. ” Surely the first few weeks are the hardest. Then again, I don’t understand how addiction works; it’s not one of my demons. I don’t want to take Geordie’s struggle for granted. “When I talked to you about this, I honestly didn’t believe you’d accept that you had a problem. Instead you took action, immediately. That takes a lot of courage, Geordie. ”
He laughs ruefully. “You’re not the first person who ever brought up my drinking. Just the first one I could hear. ”
I wonder who spoke to him about it in the past. How many friends or lovers might have fallen by the wayside because Geordie wasn’t ready to face the truth? “Then I’m glad you heard me. ”
“All right then, enough of my dismal story. How are things with Arturo and Shay? I can’t believe I haven’t seen wee Nicolas yet. ”
“We’ll change that,” I promise as I put the car into gear and pull out. “It’s crazy over there of course, but the baby’s so adorable. You just want to pick him up and smell his head. ”
“Smell his head?” Geordie shakes his head in disbelief. He’ll see. “Did you go home for Thanksgiving?”
“Yeah. ”
He grimaces. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. How many extra hours in therapy did that require?”
“It wasn’t bad this time, actually. ” I can’t tell Geordie why things were better, because while he knows my family stresses me out, he’s never known the full story behind it. The fact of my rape is one I’ve shared with only a handful of people. So he couldn’t know what Jonah’s defense meant to me. “Dad’s recovering well; I wound up only staying a couple of days because Mom said they were finally getting ‘back in their routine. ’ Anthony and Chloe went on some kind of trip, so it was just my parents, Libby, and me. ” Finally I could’ve spent time with my family without Anthony, and this is the year my mom doesn’t demand I stay as long as humanly possible. Figures.
“Your sister and her husband went on holiday at Thanksgiving?” Geordie asks. “Left their daughter behind?”
“I know. It’s weird. ” Especially given how hard a guilt trip Chloe gave me about coming home for Thanksgiving this year. Then again, she laid down that ultimatum before she finally heard Anthony admit part of what he’d done to me. No doubt neither of them wanted another confrontation so soon. It feels good knowing that, this time, they blinked first. “We had a low-fat, low-sodium meal because of Dad’s heart condition, ugh. But I sneaked Libby out for pecan pie the next day. So that pretty much counts as my best Thanksgiving in the past decade or so. ”
“Beats the hell out of mine. I mean, my family, we’re Scots, so it’s not like we ever made a big deal of it even after we’d been living over here for a while. Sometimes Mum would buy a turkey at the grocer’s. End of story. But this year, I was at Mullins for the ‘celebration,’ and no, you cannot mock me for those air quotes, for they are well earned. If you ever want to taste the actual flavor of depression, I’m here to tell you, it’s reconstituted mashed potatoes at an alcohol-rehab facility. ”
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By now I’m giggling. “Was it that bad?”
“Says she who’s never eaten reconstituted mashed potatoes. Tastes like fake butter and failed dreams. And oh! They served some monstrosity called a turducken. ”
“What are you talking about? Turducken is delicious. ”
Geordie gives me a look. “Then why have I never heard of it before? What kind of animal is that even supposed to be?”
“They call it that because it’s a chicken stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a turkey. ”
“That’s supposed to be a holiday meal? Sounds more like a botched experiment by Doctor Moreau. ”
It feels so good to laugh like this again. Geordie and I were always more friends than lovers, which is why we’re able to have this second act to our relationship. He needs a friend right now—and, in a smaller way, so do I.
As if he’d read my mind, Geordie said, “Did Jonah come home with you for Thanksgiving? You said he’d been down to New Orleans with you before. ”
He speaks precisely, politely. It’s not that Geordie is jealous of Jonah, exactly; our breakup was mutual. But accepting the next guy is probably always awkward.
Or it would be, if Jonah were still in my life.
“He didn’t. ” I despise the sudden brittleness in my voice. It makes me sound like my mother. “We’re—taking a break. ”
Geordie gives me a sidelong look. “Is this a Ross-and-Rachel break? Or the more permanent variety?”
The only way to stop sounding like my mother is to do something she never does—tell the absolute truth. “I wish I knew. ”
We fall silent, and the music on the stereo takes over. Geordie pats my arm once. It’s an awkward gesture, but I appreciate it anyway. These days, it helps to remember that I’m not alone.
• • •
Between my counseling session, picking up Geordie, and dealing with students’ last-minute, panicked e-mails about their impending final projects, I keep my mind occupied throughout the day. It’s when I go home at night that my imagination begins to wander in dangerous directions.
I live in the odd little zone between South Congress and First Street, which ought to be one of the most desirable spots in the city. But most of the houses here were built long before the restaurants and clubs came, before average homes had foyers, cathedral ceilings or master suites. We have small yards and wire fences. We have driveways instead of garages. My neighbors are a mix of older couples hanging on, would-be gentrifiers who always have a project in progress, and college students who hang obscure flags or beer signs in their windows.
My place is a notch above its surroundings, loca
ted close to my landlord’s grander house, which is one of the older ones in this area. I’ve wondered if it was intended as a guest house, or even servants’ quarters. No matter why this was built, I’m glad it’s mine. I love my tiny house of white brick, with tons of bookshelves (all of which I’ve filled) and a freestanding fireplace that doesn’t get much use. Bedroom, living room, the smallest kitchenette in the world and an even smaller bathroom—that’s it. When I’m in here, I feel like I’m in a snug little nest safely above the rest of the world.
Though, once, I let Jonah break in.
As I sit on my love seat, my e-reader dangles in my hand, almost forgotten. I can’t see the words on the screen, not while I’m remembering that night.
We always set the rules of the games in advance. Different encounters, different force, different ways. Once he pretended to be a not-so-good Samaritan, offering to help me change a flat but raising the price of his assistance second by second—from putting my hand on his cock all the way to spreading my legs for him in the backseat of his car while he fucked me senseless. Another time—he pretended to be a stranger at a charity event who tricked me into going backstage, then took me while he kept one hand firmly gripped around my throat. Each encounter was different. Each fulfilled a different kind of fantasy.
The night he broke in here, he mocked me. Humiliated me with my own sex toy. I fought him, cursed him out, and it didn’t make any difference. Jonah forced me to suck him off; he came in my mouth for the first time. By then I’d already had two orgasms myself and was . . . limp, almost weak in the aftermath. But I still relished drinking him down. He could’ve fucked me all night if he wanted. I wouldn’t have taken us out of the game. I would have been his victim, his slave. Just thinking about him taking control makes my pulse race. I feel it in my gut, in my throat, and between my legs.
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Jonah, I think, flopping back onto the white cushions of my love seat. Why can’t you get past this?
But that’s not a fair question. We don’t always get to choose our own limits. If he can’t live out our fantasies after knowing what I’ve been through, then . . . that’s it.
The end.
I never let myself think that before. Despite the silence between me and Jonah, I’ve believed so strongly that we would find our way back to each other—that what we shared together would be more powerful than what was done to us. My belief alone isn’t enough, though. Jonah has to believe that too, and maybe he doesn’t.
That night on campus in my mind—the hope and desperation that must have been radiating from me, the hunger in his gaze as he checked out my short skirt, then the haunted look as he pulled away, unwilling to go any further.
Is that the last time we’ll ever be together? Is our ending so stunted and sad?
We deserved better than that. Both of us.
Tears well in my eyes. I haven’t let myself break down about this even once because I was so determined to believe Jonah’s withdrawal was a detour instead of a dead end. Now, though, I let it out, curling into a ball for a good long cry.
As I sob into the crook of my arm, I tell myself, let it go. But it’s too much to let go of. The weight of the fantasy, the guilt, my anger toward Anthony, and most of all Jonah and everything we might have been—so much more than partners in a fantasy—it’s more than I can lay aside in a night.
I do my best, though. I cry until I’m out of tears, and I lift my head from the damp cushion only to crawl into bed. By then my head aches from sobbing and exhaustion drags me down within seconds, into a sleep too deep for dreams.
The next morning, I awaken with still-swollen eyes and a dull dread at the thought of muddling through this day.
Which is why it’s so shocking to check my phone and find a message from Jonah.
He’s sent back to me the first words I sent to him: Let’s talk.
Three
As I drive downtown that evening, I’m so nervous I can hardly pay attention to my surroundings. Maybe I should’ve called a cab. I pull up a mellow playlist, hoping the soothing tones of Norah Jones will calm me down.
But who am I kidding? Calm is not on the menu for tonight. I’ve missed Jonah so much, body and soul. It feels like I’ve waited years for this moment, not merely a few weeks.
We can work through this, I remind myself. Jonah finally sees that too. If he hadn’t, would he have reached out to you like this? You two have another chance. Don’t blow it by freaking out.
Just as I think this, my phone rings, and I patch it through the car system. Maybe it’s Jonah; I feel a stab of fear that he’s going to call the date off, say he can’t handle it after all.
When I hear who it is, however, I smile. “Vivienne, darling!”
“Hiya, Kip. ”
Kip Rucker is our fine arts department secretary. He’s seventy percent ruthless efficiency, twenty percent sass, and ten percent omniscience. Even his new, red-hot romance with a bartender named Ryan hasn’t shaken his ability to turn around, transfer, or otherwise control pretty much anything at the University of Texas at Austin. It’s as if he has both Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner and Sauron’s all-seeing eye.
Luckily, Kip likes me.
“You are going to worship the ground I walk upon,” he continues. “Assuming you don’t already, which you should. ”
“Of course I do. So why am I going to worship you even more?” I continue as I steer toward downtown Austin.
“Tanisha, my friend in the registrar’s office—”
Virtually everyone at the university is Kip’s friend . . . or, at least, owes him a favor.
“—she’s putting together the schedules, and thanks to my advice, a certain someone only has two class days per week next semester, and not a single reason to be on campus before one P. M. ,” he finishes with satisfaction. “The adulation may now commence. ”
“That’s fantastic!” I laugh out loud. “Oh, God, is this the part where you say I have to give you my firstborn child?”
“What on earth would I do with that? All I ask in return is your undying gratitude, of course. And a favor should I ever require one. ”
“You’ve got it. ”
“Any plans this evening?”
“Nothing in particular. ”
I wish I could bite back the words as soon as I’ve said them. Lying to Kip never works. “Ohhhh,” he says, maddeningly knowing. “The combination of dishonesty and hesitation intrigues. Either you’ve found someone to make Jonah Marks jealous, or the elusive Mr. Marks has come to his senses of his own volition. ”
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“We’re not having this conversation yet. ”
“Aha! He has come to his senses. ” I can just imagine Kip’s face—half-expectant, half-ravenous, like a cat about to pounce. “Tell me all. ”
“There’s not much to tell at this point, I swear. Don’t you have a hot boyfriend of your own to spend time with?”
“Come to think of it, I do. But don’t think this gets you out of explaining the entire thing the very next time I see you. ”
“Good night, Kip. ” I disconnect the call, and I realize I’m grateful for that brief interruption. Hearing from Kip was exactly what I needed to stop worrying. Now I can allow myself to look forward to this evening with Jonah. To talking with him again.
I can allow myself to hope.
• • •
We meet in the same hotel bar where we first got together to negotiate our arrangement. This is where we set our limits, where all the boundary lines are drawn.
Maybe we can demolish a few boundaries tonight.
Some hotel bars seem to be designed for conventions—long tables perfect for a dozen boisterous strangers wearing name tags, cutesy plastic drink menus in bright orange or green on every flat space. But this place? It’s meant for seduction. The lobby bar area is broken up into white-walled, nearly separate rooms lined with low couches the color of cream. Earth-toned pillows and carpet, plus th
e enormous blazing fire, give the space a sort of Arabian Nights feel.
Sunday night would be quieter here regardless of the week. Since this is the end of the Thanksgiving holiday, tonight I have the bar to myself—until Jonah walks in.
His dark V-neck sweater hugs the striking dimensions of his body—the wide shoulders, the long, slim waist. His wheat-colored trousers suggest his muscled thighs rather than revealing them, but suggestion can do a lot. His gray eyes sweep over me, reminiscent of the cool appraisal he’s given me so many times, always driving me wild.
Tonight, though, his gaze is shadowed. Raw.
Although this conversation is definitely just that—talk only, no games, no sex—I dressed to remind Jonah just what he’s missing. Tight black jeans, a nude camisole to create the illusion of bare skin beneath my slightly sheer red top, sky-high heels: The kind of thing that would normally turn him on. But when I sense the sadness within him, I feel foolish for believing a sexy outfit could fix anything.
Our problem isn’t a lack of attraction. Merely being in the same room together sets us each on fire.
Our problem is that this fire could burn us both down.
Jonah leans close enough to me that I think he might kiss my cheek, but he doesn’t. He sits just next to me, our knees almost brushing. I am so near I can smell the scent of his skin. When I breathe that scent again, it hits me how badly I’ve missed that. Him. Us.
“I’m sorry,” he says. Jonah’s not big on hellos or good-byes. “The other night—coming onto you like that—it wasn’t fair. ”
“It would have been, if you hadn’t stopped. ” I want him to know that it’s all right to touch me. More than all right. Begging for it, he said to me, and right now, I’d fucking beg if I thought it would help. It wouldn’t.
“Don’t. ” He can no longer look me in the face. Instead his gaze falls on the bottle of wine I ordered for us—pinot noir, the deep red of it brought out by the firelight just beyond. Two glasses wait.
“I went ahead and ordered,” I say, slightly flustered by his silence. “I hope that’s okay. ” We both know he doesn’t give a damn what we drink.
Jonah continues, “I should’ve said hello like a normal person. Walked you to your car. But the sight of you in that skirt—out there all alone—”