by Pratt, Lulu
And, okay, maybe it also had to do with what she’d said before, about me not wanting a relationship. Wait, don’t turn on me yet, hear me out. I do want a relationship, absolutely, but, if the night terrors and living with parents thing didn’t give you a hint, I wasn’t sure I was ready to be in a serious partnership with someone. In my mind, I was damaged goods, a thing too broken to thrust upon some unsuspecting woman. Cybil deserved better than my messed-up ass. She deserved the world.
If I stayed with her on that floor for even a moment longer, I’d do anything she wanted — more sex, a relationship, matrimony. I’d be putty in her hands. So we had to get up, and fast.
I leapt to my feet, beginning to tug on clothes. Cybil looked on, mildly disappointed though understanding, then crawled across the carpet to begin grabbing her own items.
“You bring a lotta girls back here?” she asked, the question somewhere between casual small talk and deeply invested inquisition.
I tamped down a grin, not wanting her to know I heard the aggressively nonchalant tone she’d donned.
“None,” I replied truthfully. “In fact, this might be the first time I’ve ever brought a woman to the shop, period.”
She pulled on her top and in the same voice, replied, “Oh cool.”
I affectionately rolled my eyes in her direction, and jeans on, I crossed to where she was standing to take her once more into my arms.
“Hey,” I murmured. “You’re special.”
She looked downward, embarrassed. “I was just curious, not—”
“Cybil, you can be honest with me. Always.” My arms tightened around her chest.
She exhaled, and her black eyes, one with a small freckle near it, found mine.
“Fine, fine, maybe I was a little more than curious,” she admitted. “Maybe I was… jealous. Or like, I want this to be our spot. Does that make sense?” She covered those gorgeous eyes with her hand. “Of course it doesn’t, never mind, I’m—”
“It does,” I interjected. “And it is.”
“I’m normally not this insecure,” she said, her voice a touch petulant.
I chuckled, “I’m sure.”
“It just feels like… like there’s so much to lose.”
My voice dropped lower, and my fingers traced her arched spine. “I know exactly what you mean.”
She smiled up at me, and my heart contracted. I wanted to hold her here, forever, in the safety of this room, in this space we’d make sacred with our love. The moment lasted several beats, and then she pulled slightly away. I felt immediate loss as she left my arms.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s get me to my car, and then you can go back to inking L.A.”
“Deal.”
At that point, we were both fully dressed, so I took her hand in mine and led her through the curtain, through the front room, through the front door and out of the shop. We were on Sunset Boulevard. Fitting, given that the sun was just setting. It picked out the lighter streaks in her hair, which looked to have been the product of many hours on a beach. She was a California girl, through and through.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, crinkling her nose.
“You’ll laugh.”
“What, what is it?”
“I was thinking you looked like the kind of girl they used to put on L.A. posters in the ‘60s. You know, the ones where they all have surfboards and cool Ray-Bans and it’s like Endless Summer…” I trailed off, embarrassed.
But Cybil seemed genuinely pleased. “Thanks,” she replied, and then with a laugh, “though none of those girls were ever Asian or even half Asian. Actually, they weren’t really anything besides bleach blonde and white.”
I said, “Then maybe we’ll reshoot you like one of those girls.”
“Did you just offer to basically paint me like one of your French girls?” she asked, her tone incredulous but delighted.
I was confused. “Huh?”
She snorted, then waved me off. “It’s a Titanic reference. You know, the movie.”
“Oh, gotcha.” I paused, then added, “We didn’t watch that much in the military. I’d say our staple was Rocky.”
“Not Apocalypse Now?” she questioned. “Seems like an oversight.”
I shook my head. “No, we were looking for movies that, um, distracted us. From what was… happening.”
Her eyes went wide. “Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have — that was stupid.”
“It’s okay, really. I don’t mind talking about it. Not with you, anyways.”
She leaned up against a car on the sidewalk, presumably her own. I wondered if the surface felt hot against her skin, as she’d felt hot against mine only minutes earlier. Her eyes went from wide to squinting as she attempted to avoid the glare of the sun off the pavement. Something about her relaxed posture, her lack of fear for my past, made me want to continue.
I ‘fessed up. “Actually, it — the military, or whatever — is why… is why I wanted you to leave.”
“Um, what?” Her voice was open, curious, but definitely confused.
This wasn’t going to be easy. I clarified quietly, “I didn’t want you to stay longer, because then I’d have to kick you out at night, because I can’t, or won’t, sleep with people besides my parents.”
Her brows furrowed so far they appeared to cut her forehead, and I quickly added, “I mean sleep as in doze, snooze, rest. Not the, uh, other kind.”
She said. “But I still don’t understand.”
I gulped back nerves. “I have PTSD from my time in the service. And I get night terrors. So I can’t share a bed with someone else because they’d be terrified by my terror. If that makes sense.”
She nodded slowly, chewing on the information, her gaze distant. I waited for a moment, then asked, “Is that okay?”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “We’ve all got demons. Some are just bigger than others.”
I smiled. “Thank you for getting it. That means a lot.” I breathed deeply, “That said, I have been told that yoga helps with the… issue and I am willing to give it a chance to see if it helps.”
She returned my smile. “Anything for you, Cash. I can help you, if you’d like, with the yoga.”
With that, she kissed me, long and hard. It wasn’t the frenzied, hungry kiss from earlier, but rather a kiss that said ‘I see you, and you matter.’ How could she pack all of that into one physical motion? I kissed her back, tasting salt on her lips.
“I’ll see you later,” she whispered around my lips. “And give me my phone and your damn phone number.”
We exchanged contact information and I opened her car door. She slid inside, giving me a final wink before putting on her seat belt and tearing off into the distance.
I sighed, content and scared of my own radical honesty. These were big steps for me — ones that needed to be made, but were nonetheless scary. Maybe it was time to be scared of something beside the past.
But meanwhile, I’d kept my parents waiting for far too long. I grabbed my cell out of my pocket and dialed. My mom picked up immediately, clearly having been waiting on the other end. They’d kept busy at a nearby bar. I told her they could come back. I walked inside, and within five minutes, my parents had returned.
“Hey,” my mom bellowed, walking through the door. “We’ve been sipping whiskey and—”
“Wondering about your lady friend,” my dad finished. “Where’d she go? We wanted to say hello.”
“Uh-uh, wasn’t gonna happen,” I replied.
“You’re no fun,” my mom pouted before sitting down on a nearby couch. My dad joined her, slinging his arm around her shoulder. I moved behind the desk, anxious to appear busy and maybe, just maybe, avoid this conversation.
“So what’s she like?” my dad asked innocently. “She’s cute.”
“Mm-hmm,” I answered, doing my best to look distracted. I sifted through some paper on the desk, avoiding their eyes.
“Come on, Cash!” my mo
m entreated. “Give us some details, anything!”
I sighed. My eyes still on the desk, I began, “Well, her name is—”
And then I stopped abruptly.
“Her name is what?” my mom pressed.
But I was no longer considering telling her about Cybil. Because, in the pile of paper on our desk, I found a large manila envelope with a familiar seal — a government seal. Slowly, I fingered its already-torn edges, and lifted it above the desk, so that it was visible to my parents.
“What is this?” I asked quietly.
My mom’s eyes darted to the floor, my dad’s to the ceiling.
“How long has this been here?” I questioned.
My mom mumbled something incoherent. She’d already read the letter, that much was clear. Why hadn’t she said anything? I got plenty of communication from the military about various benefits and opportunities. She opened all that mail, as she was better at dealing with red tape to get me the help I needed. So why hadn’t she told me about this one?
“How long?” I asked again, growing impatient.
She scratched her forehead. “Well, Cash, it’s been there just a couple of days.”
“And what does it say?”
This time, she refused to respond, instead staring at the floor.
“Fine, I’ll read it myself.” I took the paper out from within the envelope and quickly scanned the lines.
“You can’t take it,” she said as I read.
It was a job offer.
This requires a little bit of background for a ‘civilian,’ as people in the service would call them. Your military contract is for four years. After that, you’re free to go do as you please. Sometimes, you’ll get discharged, either honorably or dishonorably, but that’s not important — generally, you’re there for four years.
Now, after that time, the military isn’t really going to come looking for you. Maybe you’ll go looking for them. You want a second tour, you need different health insurance, etc. But you’re not under any contract to them.
The exception to this rule is, well, me and others like me. If you have a special set of skills that the military values, they might send you another job offer. Only this time around, they’ll usually give you a pay bump and a promotion, just to sweeten the pot. You have, I imagine, heard about the U.S. military’s outrageous budget, so you might also draw some conclusions about just how nice that pay bump can be.
I’d been told by those in my area of expertise that the military might come knocking on my door once more, but I doubted it very much. I’d served well, done my duty, so on and so forth, but I’d never been particularly gung ho about the whole thing. A job was a job, you know? Maybe it sounds sacrilegious to question the military as an institution, but that’s me — a blasphemer. Besides, unless you’ve been on the inside, you’re not really in a position to judge.
Oh, what did I do in the military? Sorry, that’s off limits. Let’s just say there aren’t many out there who can do what I can. The offer reflected as much. The pay raise was immense, enough to save the shop ten times over. There was only one thing to do.
“Mom, I have to take it,” I replied at last.
“Absolutely not,” she hissed, her voice going shrill. “You’ll do no such thing, Cash.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Listen, I’m not thrilled at the prospect of going back, but it’s the only way we can save the shop. I’ll do four more years, then you will have a secured retirement. It’s what’s best.”
My dad, perhaps a little offended, said, “You let us worry ‘bout that. We’re the parents here, not you. We can take care of ourselves.”
Yes, I’d cut down to the quick of his pride. He was a man’s man, in the sense that he absolutely insisted on self-sufficiency. Personally, I found this attitude taxing and idiotic. But that’s a conversation for another time.
“Hon,” my mom said more quietly. “We don’t care what we have to give up, we can’t lose you for another four years. It’s too long. What if… what if we don’t have that kinda time?”
“Hey now, don’t talk like that,” I replied. “You’re fit as a fiddle.”
“We’ve lived hard lives,” my dad muttered.
“Yes sir,” my mom chimed in. “And however long I’ve got, I wanna spend it with you.”
I shook my head. “Please don’t guilt me, I’m just trying to do what’s best for this family.”
“What’s best for this family is you staying put!” my dad cried, rising from his seat. “I will not lose my son again!”
His cheeks were flaming read beneath the white mustache. It took all I had to stand my ground. He can be an intimidating man when he feels like it, a far cry from his usual teddy bear self.
My mom tried again. In a desperate whisper, she said, “And what about that girl you just brought ‘round? What’ll she think of it?”
Cybil.
Throughout the entire conversation, I’d been trying to keep Cybil out of my head, to make the decision unemotionally, considering only the facts. But how could I be cold and unfeeling when it came to her? She had already become my weak spot, the chink in my armor. With the verbal mention of Cybil, though, the floodgates had burst open, and my mind flooded with questions.
My head was awash in high-frequency feelings. I’ll try to boil them down to simple thoughts, but it’ll be messy nevertheless. Thanks for bearing with me.
The place I went to first was, inevitably, the question of was I doing what I always now seemed to do? Was I taking this job and, by extension, running away from even the possibility of love? I’d become an expert at dodging emotionally taxing things, and Cybil certainly qualified to be under that heading. She was… she was… ugh, here I go again, failing to say everything incredible that I want to say about her. Fill in the blank for yourself.
The second question was equally horrifying, in that I already knew the answer.
If I took this job, would she wait for me?
No.
Or at least, she shouldn’t. We’d known each other for, what, a week? That wasn’t enough to justify waiting four years, no matter how deeply our feelings for one another ran. I couldn’t allow her to waste her life pining for me, especially when there was no guarantee I’d come back in one piece, or come back at all. And this is all assuming she’d want to wait, and that I’d have to talk her out of it. That in itself was pretty damn presumptuous.
This led me to the third question, the one that everything really boiled down to. Who did I prioritize? My parents, the people who raised me? They’d helped me get this shop because they wanted me to pursue my passion. They let me, an adult man, sleep in their home because I was so fucked up by the war. Even now, they were falling on their sword for me. I had to do right by them, and that meant taking the job.
Or did I prioritize Cybil and the future we might have together? I loved her. It’s that simple. I loved her in a way I’d never loved anyone before. I’d kill for Cybil, or just as quickly die for her. My feelings for her were expansive and terrifying. If I left, what we had would fall apart. Or at least, she’d move on. I knew I’d be stuck thinking about her, and what might have been, for the rest of my days.
So what’s a guy to do? Save your family, or get the girl?
Chapter 16
Cybil
“YOU’RE, LIKE, glowing,” my co-worker Mistie cried as I walked through the door. “Are you using a new face oil? Did you start taking tantric healing classes? Girl, you’ve gotta let me in on the secret.”
I giggled and shook my apparently glowing head. “No, none of that.”
She arched her perfectly shaped eyebrows, and replied, “So you’ve found a lover?”
Damnit, how did everyone always manage to read me like a book? Was I that obvious? Yeah, my inner voice replied. Well, that and your constant blushing.
Ugh, if only I could control how my facial capillaries constricted. Even as I was having that thought, the capillaries constricted once more, letting Mistie know th
at she’d been right on the money.
“Oh my God!” she squealed. “You do! Tell me everything. Guy, girl, genderqueer? Are they into toys? Have you seen a shaman together?”
Mistie was so well-intentioned, and so, so nosy. While I appreciated that her questions didn’t assume anything about me and my preferences, I didn’t love being interviewed about my sex life at work. Sometimes Dandelion employees, and okay I’ve been guilty of this too, assumed that because we did yoga together, we were like, bosom buddies. It’s just kind of the vibe.
In the politest tone I could muster, I replied gently, “It’s a little early, I don’t really want to talk about… that person just yet.”
This was nearly the polar opposite of the truth. All I wanted to do was talk about Cash. His lean musculature, his gorgeous hair, the way he grinned at me, as though he knew everything there was to know about me, and liked each bit of it. Oh, and I wanted to talk about the fucking awesome sex we’d had.
But this was my workplace, and I wasn’t about to do any of that, much to Mistie’s disappointment. She stamped her foot, in either mock or serious anger, and sniffed, “Well, never mind. Sorry I wanted to support you on your journey of love and compassion.”
I considered racing to reassure Mistie that I understood and respected her intent, but that would’ve been patently false. She just wanted gossip, and my memories of Cash were too precious to be water cooler fodder.
“Bye!” I waved in her direction, not even bothering to wind down the conversation. Perhaps spending all that time with Cash really had me a more confident person. I was beginning to care less and less what people thought of me. What a nice change of pace.