Whisper My Name

by Celia Crown

  I pinch the bridge of my nose with closed eyes, “I know, but—”

  No, she shouldn’t be involved in our relationship. I let her rummage through the cabinets to find something to eat, then I excuse her to the front as I want to be alone.

  I want Lolita, to feel her soft body in my arms and the whisper of my name in my ears. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, rubbing them to ease the pain in my heart. Turning around, I lean back onto the counter with a long sigh with my chest stretching over my shirt. The fabric is thin with my tired muscles eating up the fine lines of the shirt.

  The door that leads out the back to where the garbage opens with a resounding smack, it startles me as I set my eyes in a glare. My alert mind race to face the intruder as a very pissed off Kelly stomps through the kitchen.

  Her fiery eyes set the wrinkles around her eyes even more noticeable.

  “I should be a fucking detective.” the first thing out of her mouth is that and I’m stumped as to how to respond to that.

  She crosses her arms defensively, “No matter how much I like you, I adore Lolita even more. I also know the real her, she’s not some manipulative whore who only wants to get into your pants.”

  I mimic her arms across my chest and stand guard, the repulsion I feel hits my gut when this woman has the balls to put Lolita and whore in the same sentence.

  “You don’t know anything,” I snap back at her.

  Her nostrils flare, “It’s this stubbornness that is driving Lolita away!”

  Talking to her about Lolita is not going to help me, she’s on her side and is completely biased.

  “If you would just fucking listen, or get to know the whole story then you wouldn’t be a miserable asshole to Lolita!” she screams, frustration is evident in her hair pulling.

  “There’s no story!” I shout back, “I saw her kissing another man!”

  If possible, Kelly becomes more livid. “He kissed her.”

  “She didn’t push him away.” I know what I saw, she had her hands on his to pull that man closer.

  Kelly clicks her tongue, she has a fit of boiling dry rage. “You of all people should know Lolita has a reaction time of a sloth.”

  I open my mouth to defend my darling, but I caught on to what I’m about to do and close them quickly.

  “If you came in then you would have seen her hand flying to his face. It was a very crispy slap, she smacked the devil out of that boy,” she explains with a grave sigh.

  “What are you talking about?” I push off the counter, stepping closer to the older woman.

  Bafflement dance in my eyes as I hunt for answers distraughtly. I recall seeing her kissing quite passionately with the other man, it’s a kiss that I would give her.

  Kelly breaks down the story for me, “He was a fan of hers, too excited to meet his idol that nerves got the best of him and he stupidly thought lip-locking with his idol would get her to see his devotion and idolization.”

  My heart drops to my stomach, the blood that’s pumping in my ears is an orchestra band blaring their instruments at me. I misjudged Lolita, she didn’t do anything wrong. I am the fuckup here, I jumped to conclusion too quickly and I blamed her for the insecurity devil dancing on my shoulders.

  “Fuck.” I knock the back of my hand to my forehead, it would do me good to bash some intelligence in me.

  How could I fix this disastrous mess that I made?

  Kelly drops her hostility and simply comments, “It’s okay, this is Lolita. She’s already forgiven you, she’s just blaming herself.”

  Guilt open its mouth and sinks its maws on me.

  Black dots connecting at the edge of my sight, the tunnel vision blurs my focus as my heart pounds with protests and longing.

  I throw myself out of the kitchen, not hearing the words of my cashier as I stumble through a hoard of paying customers. Some yell at me for stepping on their foot or bumping into their shoulders, most are confused as to my franticness.

  I rip the door open and slam into another person on my way out, I’m too focused on getting to the shop next door and see Lolita again. I’m not sure how she would react to seeing me, I was the one to tell her to leave.

  I berate myself, cursing up a storm at my impulsivity.

  I run inside the dark shop, seeing the usual bright open sign on the window flashing and dancing is dark. There’s no sign of her on the bottom floor, just empty chairs and tossed magazines on the coffee table.

  My throat dries as I look up to the flight of stairs, my heavy feet carries me up. Each step weights on my chest, taking every breath with thorns stabbing into me. My eyes adjust to the dimness in the hall, I remember the room Lolita sleeps in—where we slept in.

  My steps falter. It’s like desecrating her safe place with my presence, I wonder if she would be happy to see me or if she wants to see me. I was and still am the bastard that pushed her away, called her dirty and ultimately shut her out when she gave me her fragile heart.

  I shut the fucking door to her face. I carelessly told her I didn’t want her anymore.

  Inhaling, shaking the jumpy nerves from my skin. I will win her back; whatever she needs me to do, I won’t complain. If shit luck has it that she doesn’t forgive me, I won’t be able to let her go. I will give her space and I will find a way back to her side.

  My hand turns the doorknob, it’s colder under my palm as I unlock the door.

  The room is littered with paper with unfinished drawings on them, sketches of multiple concepts that don’t live up to the artist’s expectations are thrown to the side. My darling is sitting on the middle of the floor, a sketchbook in her lap as she furiously scribbles another outline of what she has in her mind.

  I smile, giving her back to the door means that she’s too trusting and too vulnerable. My Lolita has no concept of danger even in the comfort of a familiar place she thinks it’s safe.

  She’s not truly safe, the door was unlocked when I got here; anyone could have gotten up here and took her.

  She hadn’t heard the door open or the loud bang of the front door when I came crashing in. The impatient brute in me becomes one with the logical side, and I want to lift the tiny girl up and beg for kisses that would soothe the frightened beast.

  I’m scared that it’s too late.

  “Darling.” I kneel behind her and I see the jump in her shoulders, “Please look at me.”

  Her thick hair falls over her shoulder, blocking her face as she shifts away from me. It hurts to know that the trust between us won’t be the same again, and I’m the one that put that rift there.

  “Can we talk?” I ask, my voice is soft and patient.

  It’s not fair for me to ask that when I wouldn’t give her the chance to talk to me. I know I’m selfish, I’m always like this; this selfishness only got stronger with Lolita in the picture.

  “Please.”

  Chapter Nine

  Lolita

  I don’t have to turn around to know that the hair standing up on my arms is a direct correlation of the man kneeling behind me.

  The moment Jackson walked through that door, I knew it was him. No one can have this kind of effect on my body; the summersaults in my belly, the sudden shaking of my hands, and the shuddering heart in my ribs.

  I can’t find it in me to face him, my eyes are too red to be decent right now.

  The drawing book in my lap feels exceedingly uncomfortable, the coarseness of the paper and the hard edges of the pencil is all too noticeable suddenly. My nail scratches the surface of it and I stop when it got annoying, my casual doodles is half-finished.

  I put the drawing book down along with all the scattered sketches of unfinished art splaying around me, the pencil rolling to the side and the papers flutter with my movements.

  Someday I would have to face him, someday I would forgive him, but I’m too hurt right now.

  I have to be an adult and face my problems, even if the problem is a towering six-foot-something giant who stole my heart
like a thief. I kind of want it back, let it heal for a while before giving it back because I’m a masochist who rather let him have all of me than to have him forget about me.

  Love makes people do foolish things, like mentally swooning over his muscular thighs.

  I have no dignity.

  My butt wiggles as I slowly turn to face him, my knees dig painfully onto the floor as my hands fist in my lap.

  “How are you?” he asks, as gently as possible so it doesn’t make me want to run out the door.

  I murmur quietly, “I’m fine.”

  I let the conversation go and fade away, the silent room is too big and too small simultaneously. I shrink back away from him and stare at his kneeling thighs, he’s closer than I expected.

  “I didn’t go back,” I blurt out in one breath.

  Jackson answers back, “I know.”

  He sounds solemn and tired, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip.

  Jackson isn’t here for small talk as another pause follows, the determination in his voice shocks me to the core. The way he speaks is strong, no hesitation in his intonation as I listen on.

  “I’m sorry, darling.”

  My breath hitches at his apology, a whimper comes tumbling out before I could stop it.

  I miss him.

  I miss the way he calls me darling, the way his velvety voice talks to me, and the way he would hold me like he’s afraid I’ll turn into dust.

  “None of this is your fault. I saw that man kissed you and I was so angry. I thought I was someone disposable to you. Shame on me for thinking so low of you. Forgive me, Lolita.” the berating tone snaps at himself, barring its defensive teeth at Jackson as I soak in his words.

  This was because of that?

  The man that kissed me was a fan who didn’t understand social etiquette and he wanted to show me how much he admires me by kissing me. I was too shocked to even move; my mind was processing how someone could do this while smiling like an idiot after and asked for an autograph too?

  My hand went to his face like a strike of lightning and Kelly had banished him from the shop, she told him that he was not allowed in her parlor ever again.

  I stammer with a sniff, “I’m sorry, I’ll be faster next time. I-I’ll—”

  “Lolita. Stop.”

  Jackson’s hand opens, it’s a gesture that’s supposed to be supportive and welcoming. “Anything you want, I’ll make it up to you. I miss you so much, darling, I’m sorry.”

  I can understand his perspective of things, but this can’t be easy. As I sit here, thinking of how we can’t go back to the beginning or continue where we were as if nothing had happened. How can I overlook this incident where I found out that the man I love doubted me and didn’t trust me, he had so little faith in me that it hurts.

  “It’s okay, it was a misunderstanding,” I say, leaving it at that, I’m not sure what else to say.

  “Then why aren’t you looking at me?” he points out, I swallow thickly.

  My eyes are glued to my knees, they are impossible to be covered in the shorts or the graphic shirt I wore to sleep. I went to bed at two in the morning after listening to some angsty music like the main characters on the bus with rain dripping down the windows.

  I cringe inwardly when I think back, that was very humiliating.

  If I don’t have the cause of death as a literal heartbreak, then humiliation would be it. I honestly thought I was going to die with snot and tears clinging to my face, my heart was so tired from all the emotional turmoil that it was possible to stop beating to take a rest.

  I was dramatic, but I had the rights to.

  “Because I’m scared. I’m scared you’re not real and the real you don’t want anything to do with me.” I whimper, blinking the tears back.

  I risk a look at Jackson, he’s still the same; strikingly gorgeous with fluffy black hair, mesmerizingly deep eyes, and strong jawline filled with stubbles.

  Deep down, I wonder if I suffered more from this misunderstanding than him. He doesn’t look too bothered by it.

  I add hurriedly, “Please don’t be mad.”

  Not sure what I’m apologizing for, but it’s something to fill in my rambling.

  “No, I’m here. I’m not angry darling, I’m upset at myself for being weak. This past week was hell and I never want it to happen again, you suffer by yourself and I want to make it up to you.” he smiles, my heart race with hope.

  I shake my head, “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

  I drop my eyes down to his neck, a tattoo peeking out from the collar of his shirt, it’s one of my designs and I feel a spark of proudness in me. The shirt stretches over his broad shoulders, pulling taut at his chest as my eyes glide down onto his arms. They are filled with all my handiworks; every piece is unintentionally linked together in a sleeve of intricateness.

  “I want to earn your love back,” Jackson said.

  I do love him. I love him so much, but it’s painful to know that he would think so low of me. I would never cheat on him, I thought he knew that, but it seemed that it wasn’t the case.

  I was the one in too deep.

  “Your tummy hasn’t had dessert in a week, do you want some?”

  I could hear the unspoken question; may I have another chance?

  I know that he knows it’s a low tactic, but I peek at him and nods. Jackson is my weakness, he can ask me anything and I would do it.

  “Can I have some? I don’t know if you still want me to eat your desserts. I saw the lemon pie,” I murmur, my nose itches as I remember back the day where everything went wrong.

  His rejection is still raw in my soul, I offered him all of me and he cruelly shut the door to my face.

  His massive chest gives a chuckle that doesn’t match his sincere voice, “That was awful of me, Lolita. I want you to know something, I make these desserts only for you and you can have them whenever you like. They are yours.”

  A nagging feeling in my head tells me to look up at him because I thought he was going to say more. He holds my eyes, baring his heart to me as he leans in to whisper to me.

  “I’m yours too.”

  My mind short-circuits, leaving me drowning in my feelings. Happiness exploded in me, throwing confetti and stars in my eyes as his smile lights up my gloomy world.

  Jackson is forgiven long ago. No matter how unreasonable he was, I wasn’t truly mad at him. All I cared about was finding a way back to his side.

  Resisting the urge to push away those crinkles in his forehead, I see the toll this week has on him. The bags under his eyes are dark, those stubbles lining his sharp jaw is heavier, and the tenseness in his muscles.

  “Can I touch you?” Jackson cracks a small smile.

  I nod wordlessly.

  I anticipate the warmth of his hand, goosebumps pop on my arms as the hotness comes in contact with my cheek. My body misses the caresses he would mindlessly do when we were together, he likes to cup my cheek as if he wants to kiss me.

  He brushes the stray hairs that stuck to my lips, pressing down on the plumpness of them and my tongue sweeps out instinctively to wet my lips. His dark eyes get drawn to them, it gets his thumb wet as he applies more pressure.

  Jackson strokes my cheek lovingly, the affection in his eyes is evident.

  Tears swell in my eyes, he wipes the droplets away with both hands. I choke back a sob. He’s here, and he’s touching me again. This week without him is a torture, I was beyond terrified that he will leave me forever.

  My chest shudders painfully as I hiccup wetly.

  “Touch me, darling.”

  I shake my head, digging my nails deeper into my thighs. They tremble with the same tension as my body. His cold words ringing in my ears, striking down my confidence and imprinting them in my heart.

  “Do not touch me with your dirty hands.”

  I look back down at my hands, “I’m dirty.”

  His hands stop their stroking of my skin, he halts so promptly that his entire body
jerks. He resumes their caressing, lifting my head up to his as my eyes have a frame of blurriness to the edges.

  “You are not dirty, Lolita,” Jackson said, his unwavering gaze softens. “You are the most beautiful.”

  I choke a sob.

  I briefly developed a compulsion of constantly washing my hands. I would scrub them hard and I wouldn’t stop until they were raw, my skin was dry and cracked. Kelly had to put a stop to this madness with a thick layer of chamomile lotion.

  Even her soap dispenser is chamomile scented.

  My hands are in no condition to work on inking a client’s skin, Kelly gave me the week off. She saw how distracted I was and the shaking in my hands was too obvious. Clients thought they did something to offend me when my tears flowed down my cheeks; they were kind to reschedule another appointment and those who couldn’t wait got Kelly’s skills.

  “Don’t cry, Lolita.” he wipes more tears off my face, I must look gross to him.

  I didn’t even brush my hair today, I wasn’t expecting anyone so I just stayed in my room to finish some sketches.

  “Listen to me,” he gathers my divided attention, “I love you. I love you with all my heart. If you can’t ever forgive me, I understand, but I won’t give up on you.”

  Hope and anxiety flap its wings inside my tummy, causing havoc all around as a hiccup jolts the last remaining stubborn tear to fall.

  His confession makes me open my mouth to say that I love him too and he doesn’t have to fight for me because I’m already his. Nevertheless, my words are eating each other to let the winner come out and none of them won.

  “I want to take you on a date,” Jackson’s lips curve into a soothing smile, my frayed nerves are crackling again.

  This man is going to be the death of me if his smile doesn’t shoot an arrow through me first.

  “Can I have your tomorrow?”

  My delicate heart decides to flatline, my brain blanks out with his words echoing, and the first thing I did was to whine out my answer.

  “Yes!”

  I huffily pout at him, and he laughs deeply.

  Chapter Ten