by R. C. Martin
I feel empty. Empty and cold. Empty and cold and alone.
My body is mine, again. I don’t have to share it anymore...
“I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay, because I know that’s a stupid question.” My eyes travel from my flat belly across the room to my brother, who has just closed himself inside. “In fact, you don’t have to say anything at all. I just needed you to know that I’m still here.” I nod, because it’s all I can manage. “I called mom and dad to let them know. I hope that’s okay.” I nod once more. “Dad wanted me to wish you a happy birthday.”
My breath catches in my throat at his words. I woke up in the middle of the night with labor pains. The baby wasn’t supposed to come for another two weeks. At four o’clock this morning, I was too busy freaking out to consider the date. Now that I think about it, I realize that it is my birthday. With that thought comes all the others that I’ve been trying to hide from.
The sob that spills from my mouth comes without warning. I don’t see Roman make his way toward me, my vision blurred by my sudden onrush of tears. I do, however, feel it when he climbs into the bed with me. He pulls me into his arms and I go willingly, clutching onto him like he’s the only thing keeping me from drowning.
“I’m here. I’m here, Daph. It’s going to be okay.” I cry so hard it hurts. I want so desperately to believe him, to believe that it’s all going to be okay, but I don’t know that it is. I’m completely unaware of time as he holds me. Soon, or perhaps not so soon, his reassuring voice lulls me to sleep. The last thing I hear before I slip into the bliss of unconscious is, “I love you, Daphne. You did the right thing.”
July 2015
I sigh wistfully as I stare out the window of his big, black, Ford F-150. Not that there’s much to see, as everything is shrouded in darkness, but it relaxes me nevertheless. As I peer out at the shadows of trees, I playback the evening we’ve just had. It was a beautiful day for a wedding. I don’t usually care for such occasions, but this one I wouldn’t have missed for anything in the world. Avery was the perfect bride and her groom was a fine accessory.
I can’t remember the last time I went to a wedding. I know I’m at that age where a lot of my peers are choosing to say I do, but I run in a pretty small crowd. I’ve been lucky enough to avoid the monotony of marriage ceremonies. It’s not that I have anything against marriage—or even weddings—I was just never that girl who dreamed of my wedding dress before I got around to losing my first tooth. I’m not holding out for Prince Charming and I don’t fantasize about what I’d like my future engagement ring to look like. Of course, I won’t judge a girl for dreaming of those things, so long as she doesn’t judge me for not dreaming of them.
Some days I think I’d like to get married; though, I’m not sure if that’s a desire that was instilled in me as I grew up under my parents tutelage or if it’s something my heart truly longs for. I have my days when I think I’d be alright if I never got married—so long as the man I loved was still around to keep me company.
Or maybe that’s just me fooling myself into believing something that seems safer than the alternative—safer than the risk that if we were ever anything more, we might break. We’re already fragmented souls and the two of us together might never be able to make a whole.
Pushing such thoughts aside, I smile as my head fills with images of Trevor and myself out on the dance floor. He’s not a dancer. Not at all. It’s actually one of the few things he’s not good at. Who am I kidding? Neither am I. Yet, in spite of our lack of ability, we got caught up in the moment and we couldn’t help but join in on the revelry. Those newlyweds and their charm clearly cast a spell on both of us. I’m not complaining, though. I had a marvelous time.
“What are you thinking about over there?” he asks casually.
With my gaze still trained out the window I reply, “Just remembering. I had fun. Did you?”
“Surprisingly, yeah.”
His response makes my smile turn into a grin. Weddings aren’t his thing, either. Although, I think it has more to do with his lack of enthusiasm for suits than anything else. Even still, he got dressed up and accompanied me without any grumble. I think that makes me pretty lucky. I’m sure there are plenty of girls whose boyfriends wouldn’t be so accommodating; and yet, even without the title, he’s that good to me.
“Thank you. For coming.”
“You’re welcome.”
I would do anything for her. Escort her to a wedding. Fix a leaky faucet. Buy her a box of tampons. Hell—I’d hide a dead body for her. She’s that important to me. Almost since the moment I laid eyes on her, when she walked into my shop three and a half years ago, she kicked open the door to my soul, invited herself inside, and made herself comfortable. For me, there was no fighting it. By the time I realized she had made herself at home, it was too late to try and push her out. More importantly, I didn’t want to. Simply knowing she’s alive makes it easier for me to breathe.
There’s something about being known that makes me feel like I’m here for a reason bigger than myself—even if that reason is only for one person. After I lost Grams, the only someone I had left who knew who I was—really knew—was Rett. I don’t have him anymore either. So much of me just vanished without them. The only thing that seemed to tether me to this world was my art. Every sketch, every drawing, every tattoo, they were pieces of me laid bare for people to see; for people to know. But it wasn’t enough. Even Harvey, my best friend and business partner, has always been an arm’s length away. He’s well acquainted with my work. He trusts it. He trusts me—but there’s a level of familiarity we’ve never reached. Who’s to blame for that doesn’t matter. Not really.
But Daphne…Daphne sees me. She knows me. She understands me. She accepts me.
And I know her.
Our relationship isn’t conventional. I gave up trying to explain it to people a long time ago. All I can say is that it works for us. She takes what I can give and I take what she can give. No more. No less. The truth is, we’re two battered people whose souls have been ravaged by the world. We decided a long time ago that we wanted to love each other but not attempt to fix one another. I don’t want to be her band-aid. I don’t want her to be my addiction. To put that expectation on either of us would be to break us and we refuse to accept that.
I’m not her boyfriend and she’s not my lover. We’re friends. Tonight, I was her wedding date. When she sighs happily and peers out the window into the darkness, I’m happy to admit that I’d endure a million more weddings just for her.
We don’t speak for the rest of the trip back to her place. It’s a comfortable silence permeated by the low hum of the tunes that my bluetooth picks up from the playlist on my phone. It’s not even midnight when I put my truck in park, a fact which Daphne seems to pick up on.
“You should come up. Have a drink with me. We’ve got beer in the fridge. I know we’ve got something stronger, too, if you prefer. Come on.” She hops out of the cab, leaving me no time to object. She knows, given the chance, I wouldn’t dare deny her. To deny her is to deny myself. As I follow her along the sidewalk and then up the flight of stairs that leads to her second story unit, I take in the view she offers.
She’s tiny—lanky arms, little breasts, narrow waist, no ass, stick-figure legs—but I wouldn’t wish her to be any other way. It’s part of what makes her indisputably Daphne. She’s wearing a strapless bohemian designed dress that clings tightly around her chest and flows freely down to the tops of her wedged shoes. It’s patterned with dark teal, plum purple, scarlet red, and burnt orange. She’s a woman who craves color.
The second she unlocks the door and crosses the threshold, she sets her feet free and drops a few inches. Her dress drags across the carpet as she makes her way directly to the kitchen. I close us in and follow. Their living space is currently under Logan construction and the kitchen is one of the only habitable places right now. All the furniture in the living room we pass through is covered in clear pla
stic tarp to shield it from the fresh paint on the walls. They were beige a few days ago. Now they’re taupe. If you ask me, it’s just a weird shade of green, but Logan was quick to set me straight on that one.
“LG? You home?” Daphne calls out, flicking on the light in the dining room before stepping into the attached kitchen and doing the same. I shrug my way out of my jacket and fold it over one of the dining room chairs before joining her. I lean back against the counter beside the sink, crossing one leg over the other as she pulls out two bottles of beer. “Looks like it’s just you and me,” she says, popping off the tops of both. She starts to hand me one and then pulls back. “Sorry, I didn’t ask if—”
I stretch my arms out and reach for her, taking hold of her waist as I pull her beside me. I then snag one of the bottles from her hand. “Snapshot is perfect. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replies, relaxing against me. I watch as she brings her drink to her lips and takes a long pull. It makes me smile. “What?” she asks, coming up for air.
“Thirsty?” I lift an eyebrow at her, amused.
“It’s just so fucking good!” she says with a laugh. “I swear, there’s nothing like a wheat beer on a warm summer night.”
“I can’t argue with that.” I tap the neck of my bottle against hers and then we both take a swig. She closes her eyes and hums a sigh as she relishes the taste.
God, she’s beautiful.
She doesn’t see it like I do. She thinks her brown eyes only stand out when they are coated in makeup, and she finds her hair so unremarkable that she’s always dying her bangs a different color. Right now, they’re maroon. She also straightened her waves for today’s occasion. I like her loose locks better. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate her artistry and the way she chooses to express herself, but she doesn’t need all the extra. To me, she’s always been more than the sum of her parts.
What I love are the bits and pieces of her that tell her story; the marks I’ve made. Like the piercing on the left side of her lower lip—always adorned with a hoop—and the one on the right side of her nose—decorated with a simple stud. Then there’s the ink that she will forever carry with her. I gave those to her. Every single one. My appreciation isn’t some twisted possessive type bullshit, either. I just know they all mean something to her. It means something to me that she has trusted me to give them to her.
She hates needles, so it’s a big fucking deal.
“Hey, can you stay?” she asks abruptly, pulling me from my thoughts.
I pause, even though I don’t have to think about it. Given her good mood, I know she’s asking because she plans on offering me another drink. We crash at each other’s places if we start drinking or if one of us is having a shitty day. It works. She’s not my lover, I’m not her boyfriend, but sometimes it’s nice to have the company. I don’t do sleep overs with other women. It might make me a bastard, but I’m not comfortable with strings. Cuddling after sex is too intimate. Besides, I pick my sexual encounters wisely. The girl ends up using me just as much as I use her. Simple as that.
With Daphne, it’s not like that. It’s innocent. We just sleep.
I finally answer with a nod and she smiles. “Good.” She pulls away from me and heads back to the fridge, grabbing two more beers. She hands them to me, in addition to the one she’s still drinking, and grabs two fistfuls of her dress, lifting it up off the floor. “Let’s take this to my room. If we stay out here too much longer, we’ll get high off of paint fumes. Since drugs aren’t our thing, I thought we could go settle in front of an open window.” She looks over her shoulder and offers me a wink as I push myself away from the counter and follow her down the hallway to her bedroom. “I’m going to wash my face. Be right there.”
As a graduation/congratulations on landing your first big-girl-job, Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz gave Logan the funds to remodel our condo. In the last two months, I’ve seen more color swatches than I ever knew existed. I’ve also been trapped in one too many girl’s nights that were actually just opportunities for Logan to make me do a bunch of online shopping with her.
At least she filled me with wine first.
I get it that she’s been trying to include me, since I live here too, but she’s the one with the designer’s eye. She really doesn’t need my help. Anything she puts together will be sensational. The guest bathroom, also my bathroom in which I now stand, is proof of that. It used to be all white, which was fine. Now it’s aqua blue with white accents. I must admit, it’s very sleek and cool; I like the extra color.
She wanted to start small, so she did the two bathrooms first. She then moved onto the spare bedroom, which has always been a study space for the both of us. Now, it’s a full-fledged office. I couldn’t stop her from buying new desks and shelving units. It’s set up so that one side of the room is a mirror image of the other. It’s amazing, of course, with a sophisticated yet whimsical feel.
Currently, she’s in the middle of updating our living room. She’s also trying to decide whether or not to do her room or the kitchen next. So far, she hasn’t gutted anything or knocked down any walls, for which I am grateful. We did both get new bathtubs, but it was less of a headache than I thought it would be. Any major demolition would be overkill.
Then there’s my room. I refuse to let her touch it. I love it. I have since the moment I laid eyes on it. In the last four years, I haven’t changed a thing—save the addition of the corner bookshelf, to house my collection, and the bench seat, which extends below the big window that takes up most of the far wall. Even that she was sure to tie in to the rest of the room. The overall design is more elegant than I would have ever created for myself, but it’s feminine without being dainty. Somehow it connects with the truest part of me.
She’s that good.
The walls are painted a deep shade of navy with white crowning. Every piece of furniture is white. The iron bed frame, the twin night stands, the bookshelf, the dresser, and the ornate framed mirror that hangs above it. Oh, and the chandelier.
Yeah. That girl loves her light fixtures.
My bedding is also white. The obscene amount of pillows piled at the head of the bed are a mix of gray and yellow, or both. The curtains that drape on either side of my window are yellow, too. The pillows that line my gray cushioned bench-seat are navy or yellow with gray and white floral print. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her she did a smashing job the first time she put together my space and that I do not need anything new! Her generosity was too much to begin with. So far, I’ve been able to keep her out of my sanctuary.
I twist my bangs back away from my face and pin them in place before washing off today’s makeup. I feel completely plain without it, but it’s also refreshing to be rinsed clean and I know present company doesn’t mind. Speaking of which, I’m glad I get to keep him for the night. I love it when that happens. We don’t exactly make a habit of it, but I always sleep better cocooned in his arms. It makes me feel like I’m his. I guess in some ways I am, even though I’m not. I certainly don’t belong to anyone else. I can’t imagine ever being with anyone else—even if being with Trevor without actually being with Trevor one day breaks my heart.
I shake the thought away, aware that I’m starting to think too much. He’s here, now, and that’s what he can give me. Besides that, it’s more than anyone else gets. This is how it is between us. It works.
I stop just inside the doorway of my bedroom, caught off guard by what awaits. Or should I say, who? I have to stifle a small gasp at the sight of him—not because I’m startled by his change in appearance, but because he leaves me breathless. He’s so damn mesmerizing I can’t help but stare. Every. Time.
At this point, I think it’s safe to assume I’ll never get used to the masterpiece that he is, and that’s more than fine.
It’s quite apparent that he has endured the confines of his dress attire for as long as he can stand it. I can’t mourn the lost image of him all spruced up, not when I have the image of
him all stripped down to admire. All he has on is a pair of gym shorts. He keeps a pair stowed away in my dresser for nights like these. He’s sitting at the window, which he has opened, with one leg straddling the bench and the other bent in front of him so that he might rest his beer atop his knee.
Trevor isn’t built like an athlete. He isn’t bulky with muscle. He isn’t lanky, like me, either. He’s made up of lean, toned lines that whisper of the physical power that makes him all man. But his inner strength? All the vulnerable and fragile pieces of him that make him so strong, the pieces of him that I love so much, that’s what catches my eye.
He wears his heart on his sleeve. Literally. The world might not know it, but I do. I know that every inch of ink that covers his beautiful skin tells his story. The tattoo on his left arm stretches from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder and spills over his heart. I can’t see it now, because of the way he’s sitting, but I know he’s got script tattooed down his left side across his ribs. Finally, his right arm is adorned in a half sleeve. I say finally not as a way to express finality, but simply the end of his list for now. It wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn that he’s dreaming of more.
“Daph! Your beer’s getting warm!” he yells, his gaze still directed out the window.
I grin, partly because I love how he knows I hate it when my beer gets even the slightest bit warm; partly because he hasn’t noticed me standing here staring at him. “I’m right here,” I say as I continue to make my way into the room. I speak softly, but I startle him just the same.
“Shit, Wings—” he mutters, spitting out his nickname for me as he jumps. He has to snatch up his beer as his leg shoots out in front of him. I laugh and grab my half empty bottle from off of the edge of the bookshelf where he’s lined up our reserve. “How long were you standing there?”
“Not long,” I lie. I sit opposite of him, bending my knees and propping my feet up.