Pretty Scars

by CD Reiss

  He told me to take my time, and I did because he was there. He made me laugh, reminding me that bleakness and sorrow were temporary. And when I told him I had loved the man I lost the night we were attacked, he held me without judgment or jealousy.

  Peter asked for nothing until I was well enough to accept him into my bed, then he asked for everything.

  I gave it to him out of gratitude, and I kept giving him everything out of guilt. I always knew that, but I never accepted it. And when I ran away in my sloppily planned trip to Belize, I felt more guilt than relief.

  The air warmed after noon, and the snow turned to rain, soaking the cold to my bones. The wool coat couldn’t protect me from freezing rain. I had to find shelter.

  Looking up at a stone lion covered in three inches of melting snow, I felt a sense of relief. I could find refuge in what Peter had taken away.

  I carefully climbed the salted steps of the library, where I could feel at home in the presence of things I didn’t know.

  I hadn’t gotten the Fischer Prize. That went to Andrea. I’d used the loss as confirmation that I hadn’t deserved the nomination in the first place. That I wasn’t that smart, just curious enough to be credibly named. I had curiosity and passion where I should have had brains and ambition.

  After roaming the library like a starving woman in a supermarket, I found the psychology section deep in the reference section. The librarian had taken one look at me and let me through to the private stacks.

  Pretty Girl Syndrome struck again. My cross to bear was the shame that it was so easy to carry.

  Two people sat at the tables, surrounded by piles of books, heads down, working on papers and projects that absorbed them completely. Wishing I could be them and know the things they knew, I unbuttoned the coat and walked down the rows, letting my fingers run over the spines. A Sociology of Mental Illness, Cognitive Social Psychology, On Aggression. I could read them. All of them. I could absorb the information and know things. The hows and whys of the mind. The stories we told ourselves, the connections we made, the hundred ways it could all go wrong. I pulled out The Fantasy Bond, Processes and Disorders, and The Social Animal. Though The Mind and Memory made it abundantly clear I’d reached the limit of what my arms could carry, I still wasn’t done.

  Placing the books on the table and sitting, I opened The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat to a random page.

  Somewhere in the middle of reading about Anna O., the first woman whose life had been changed with talk therapy, a thought that had been born and raised in my unconscious became a fully formed adult in my conscious mind. It was stubborn, irrefutable, and as accurate as simple arithmetic.

  I allowed my mind to say it.

  I was leaving Peter.

  The how of it wasn’t known, but the decision couldn’t be changed.

  “I am leaving Peter,” I whispered to myself, giving the thought a form outside my mind.

  There it was.

  My hand shook as I turned the page. The words swam before my eyes. I was caught in a whirl of terror over the consequences of a truth that led to action.

  I closed the book and headed for the comfort of the quiet rows of books. The Divided Self, Group Dynamics, and Color Cognition lined up like soldiers waiting to be deployed.

  When I reached for Ghost in the Machine, I heard a book fall behind me. Turning, I saw a man on the other side of the stacks, rushing away. I picked up the book.

  Freud and the Psychology of Music.

  A piece of paper stuck out from the title page. I slid it out.

  Practice. 8am. 56th St.

  The point was the man, not the book.

  “Gabriel!” I shouted in the quiet room.

  I ran after the man. Camel coat. Hat. Trouser cuffs stained with snow. I was stopped short by the guard.

  “Those don’t circulate, ma’am.”

  Confused for a moment, I realized I still had books in my arms. I gave them to him and ran outside. The snow had stopped and the man in the camel coat was gone.

  Chapter 22

  VENICE, ITALY - 1993

  St. Mark’s Basilica was packed with tourists, but I saw him right away, reading a book as he leaned against a fence surrounding the column of the winged lion.

  “Ciao,” I said.

  “Ciao,” he replied with a smile, folding the book closed. It was written in Italian.

  “Good book?”

  “Si. I’m brushing up.”

  So far from the disapproval of our families and the familiarity of school, we looked at each other as if seeing the other for the first time. He was the same but different. Older. Or maybe more complete. Existing outside my memories, without mental landmarks, bathed in Mediterranean sunlight, he was more real and yet more pleasingly mysterious.

  He tried to hold back a smile as he looked at me.

  Was it the same for him?

  I turned away, suddenly self-conscious.

  “The light here suits you,” he said.

  “I need a shower. I just got off the plane. There were two stops.”

  “You must be tired.”

  “I was, but now I’m kind of awake.”

  He looked at the ground by my feet, but it was all pigeons and stone.

  “Is this your only bag?” He took my carry-on.

  “I don’t need much.”

  Just him and a slinky bit of white lingerie. I must have blushed thinking about it, because he bit his lip and looked at me as if he wanted to eat me alive.

  “I hope you didn’t get a hotel,” he said, putting his arm around me.

  “I didn’t.”

  I would have needed a credit card to book a hotel, and my cash was limited.

  “Good.” He guided me to an archway that led outside the plaza. “Because I have a twin bed and a bathroom down the hall.”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’m going to feed you,” he said, then leaned down to whisper in my ear. “Then I’m going to fuck you.”

  He fed me little square pizza slices at an empty café. We drank espresso from tiny cups we’d rubbed with lemon rind. He told me about his program mentor, who would only speak to him in Italian. Gabriel imitated his teacher’s frustration with how he held his bow until I buckled with laughter. I told him about the African safari I’d never go on and made a joke of my parents’ disapproval.

  We pretended that this was who we were. Two people in love with our choice of innumerate futures.

  I thought I’d experienced happiness in my life. But every birthday and Christmas in my childhood was a dress rehearsal for those hours in a Venetian café.

  Squeaky clean from the shower, I padded down the pensione hall in a silk robe and slippers, my hair up in a towel. He was waiting for me outside his room, leaning on the doorjamb with his arms crossed, watching to make sure I made it twenty feet unmolested.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  “Tons.”

  I went into the room, and he followed, closing the door. He hadn’t been lying about the twin bed. It was made with white sheets, a blue blanket, and a single pillow. He had a sink with two faucets, a mirror, and a little space for his razor and soap. A table and two chairs, dresser with his violin case on top. Narrow French doors led to a balcony overlooking a winding street.

  And him. In jeans and a navy T-shirt, the most beautiful thing in the room, watching me as I put my toiletry bag on the table.

  “Stop,” I said.

  “Stop what?”

  “Looking at me like that.”

  I let my hair loose from the towel, and he sucked in a breath as it fell over my shoulders. He brushed my hair away from my neck, letting his fingertips linger.

  “How should I look at you?” He kissed my cheek with cautious tenderness. “I can only see the most beautiful woman in the world.” Moving his lips down my jaw, he brought my skin to life. “Or is it that I can’t believe you want me?”

  He moved the robe away from my shoulder so he could kiss my collarbone. If
he expected an answer, he wasn’t getting one. Words had left me. I was made of breath and need.

  He leaned away, taking me in from toes to lips.

  Timid, ashamed of both my desire and my inexperience, I couldn’t move. He reached for the belt of my robe and, with one finger, released it. It opened, sending a chill past the fabric and revealing the center of white lace garter.

  “What are you wearing?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d like it.”

  He slid his fingers under the robe, along my shoulders, pushing it off me. I was suddenly ashamed at my preparation.

  “Oh my God.” He took half a step back, eyes eating me alive.

  I swallowed. I needed him to tell me what to do, but he just stood there with his jeans bulging.

  “You like it?”

  “Is this how you wanted me to look at you?”

  It wasn’t. Not a minute ago. I’d imagined something more neutral, but his hunger was exactly what I needed. Muscles flexing involuntarily, eyes drinking me in until my skin was textured with goose bumps and my clit was rubbing against the damp crotch of the panties, his gaze was a physical thing.

  “I don’t know what to do now,” I said.

  “Whatever I tell you.” He smirked. “I like to be in charge.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I’m going to make this good for you.” He bit his lower lip. “You’re going to come so hard when I suck your clit, your pussy’s going to be jealous.”

  I laughed, releasing a bit of the tension but none of the desire.

  When I reached for his jeans, he took my hands away and opened his fly himself, taking out his erection with relief, as if releasing an animal from a cage.

  He was huge. Thick and longer than his fist could hold. My lungs released a breath so fast, I squeaked.

  His smirk got wider. “I’ll go slow and easy. It’s going to be worth it.”

  “Okay.”

  With his free hand, he shifted my bra strap off my shoulder. Then the other. Languidly, he undid the front bra hook and I spilled out. He ran the back of his hand over my body, pushing the bra to the floor, bumping my hard nipples along the backs of his fingers.

  “I’m going to suck these,” he said. “Tell me to stop if it hurts.”

  He bent down, taking his hand off his dick to play with one nipple as he sucked the other. It tickled at first, but then the pleasure came as if a thick electric cable connected my breasts to the skin between my legs. He sucked harder, pinching the other side, twisting and pulling. I put my hand behind his head to draw him closer.

  “You like it,” he said as he switched sides.

  “I like it.”

  “You’re fucking magic.” He stood, leaving my wet nipple to tighten in the cool air. “You ready to come?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sit.” He led me to the edge of the bed and sat me down, running his hands over and between my thighs, pushing them apart. Out of habit, I resisted, and he looked down at me. “You want to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Then open your legs, little bird.”

  The command sent a shudder up my spine, and my legs opened for him. He pulled my knees up, and I fell backward, leaning on my locked arms. He unsnapped the panties. I was exposed, vulnerable, throbbing under the pressure of his gaze.

  He stood straight, letting his pants drop to the floor. His dick had a drop of wetness at the tip. If he wanted me to, I’d taste salt in the dense liquid and feel the thin, hot skin on my tongue.

  But he didn’t want me to. Not yet. He peeled off his shirt, revealing taut muscles and glowing olive skin. He put his hands between my knees and pushed them apart as far as my body allowed and kissed the inside of my thigh, the outside of my vulva, the dark, damp places where my bones joined.

  “Please, Gabriel, please.”

  “Please what?”

  “Lick it. Do what you said.”

  He spread my lips apart. “As beauty commands.”

  Ever so gently, he ran his tongue from my opening, lightly over my clit, and back.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  He did it again, flicking my nub, then sucking. My arms couldn’t hold me up. I dropped to the bed and wove my fingers in his hair. Over the horizon of my breasts and belly, he looked at me with an expression of confidence in the delights he was about to deliver.

  Flattening his tongue against me, he watched my face. Sucked. Flicked. Sucked harder. He spread me open, watching me. “You want to come?”

  “Please.”

  “I want to hear you.”

  I nodded but didn’t have a moment to say a word of agreement before his tongue committed fully to its task. I came into his mouth, arching and twisting with my eyes closed, crying out so loudly, all of Venice must have heard.

  When it was too much, I pushed him away, laughing and panting. I opened my eyes to find him kneeling between my legs and sliding on a condom.

  He seemed even bigger than before.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, bending over me with one elbow on the bed. “Easy does it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Open wide.”

  I didn’t realize I was clamping my legs shut around him. I opened for him, and he guided himself into me, breaking barriers slowly, gently pushing forward until I thought I was stretched to the limit.

  Eyes tightly closed, jaw clenched, he stopped for a moment. “You’re okay?”

  “Yes. Please.”

  He groaned and buried himself inside me, opening his eyes when he was down to the root. “Thank God for the condom,” he said with a grin. “I’d be done already.”

  I cupped his jaw, smiling with him as he moved slowly, deliberately.

  Through the wall, loud pop music played, making me realize how thin the walls were.

  “I think I was too loud,” I whispered.

  “I always want to hear you.”

  He pushed deep, pressing himself against my clit and moving to stimulate it, over and over until I felt the swell of pleasure rise again. Shifting his hips, he increased the pressure, moving with the music as if he couldn’t help it.

  “Carrie,” he groaned as he bent his head. “Fuck.” He picked up his head. “I want you to come again. Here.” He put his thumb to my lips. “Make it wet.”

  I opened my mouth and took his thumb, not knowing what he was planning but trusting him with my body.

  “You’re so sexy.” He pushed his thumb in deeper, then drew it out. “Wetter.”

  I gave him everything I had until he was satisfied, then he reached between us, where our bodies were joined, and ran his wet thumb over my clit. I grabbed the muscles of his back, digging my nails into him as if I needed purchase against the shockwaves of pleasure.

  “Gab—oh.”

  “Look at me.”

  I tried to keep my eyes locked on his, detailing the thickness of his lashes and the shape of his parted lips, but as the orgasm swirled and coalesced, my eyes craved darkness and closed. I bucked and twisted with the motion of his thumb, biting back a scream.

  His thumb moved away, but his body was still connected to mine, thrusting against me, still slow but less methodical, jerking out then slamming into me. He moaned in a note I’d never heard before. A groan of vulnerability. Exposure.

  A full surrender to the moment. To me.

  His orgasm unmasked him and attached him to me forever.

  Chapter 23

  NEW YORK - 1995

  It got dark pretty early in New York, which made me feel perfectly fine about dipping into the six-pack of Sam Adams Drew kept in the fridge. It was cold and bubbly, only semi-pissy, and a dead weight in my stomach. Three in, one after the other, and I was high as a kite, swimming in depressive nostalgia and waiting for my sister or her man to come home.

  Adam Brate had seen me in the limo window and done nothing. He wasn’t Gabriel.

  The man in the library wasn’t him. I was hysterical. Imagining things.
r />   Gabriel was dead. Completely and utterly dead.

  And I was leaving Peter anyway.

  “Daddy won’t approve,” I said to the talking head on the muted television. “Oh, boo-hoo-hoo for you, Declan Drazen.”

  I picked up the phone for the hundredth time and put it back in the cradle for the hundredth.

  One more beer.

  I popped open the fourth bottle and dialed the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Andrea?”

  “Carrie? Is that you?” Her voice carried over the miles between New York and Boston on electric waves of excitement and love. “Len!” she called. “It’s Carrie!”

  “Hey, Carrie.” I could barely hear him, but he was there, and I remembered why I’d dialed her number instead of Peter’s. What they had was what I wanted. It was what I deserved.

  “How’s the baby?” I asked.

  “Kicking like crazy. How have you been?”

  We’d spoken on the phone but hadn’t seen each other since my wedding, a little over a year before. She and Lenny had eloped. Peter and I had had an event that was reported in the society pages.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” On her side, a door snapped closed and it got quiet. “What’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing.” I threw myself on the couch.

  “Are you drunk?”

  “Hell, yes!” I tipped the bottle to my lips and drank.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Hey. You remember that guy? Gabriel?”

  “Duh?” She knew about what had happened in Venice. She’d spent a weekend that July wiping my tears and going out with Peter and me.

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know.”

  “And Peter, my husband, he’s an asshole anyway.”

  “What happened?”

  “He likes to…” I got up. The room swam, so I stopped in the middle of it. “I’m leaving him.”

  “Oh my God.”