Such Dark Things

by Courtney Evan Tate

  I pause. “I know. But they think that I have to process the past in order to move on to the future.”

  Michel shakes his head a little. “I’m not a therapist. But I don’t agree. I think sometimes the past can just be hurtful. I don’t want you hurt, Corinne.”

  “Thanks, big bro,” I murmur, and I don’t know what to think. Does he know something I don’t?

  “Wait,” I call out to him. He pauses, then turns.

  “Are you afraid of something, Michel?”

  He flinches, almost, and his mouth is grim. “Yes,” he answers simply. “But it’s going to be okay, Corinne. I have faith in that.”

  I just watch him walk away, once again reminded of how very much he is like my husband.

  17

  Now

  Jude

  My brother texts me.

  Just saw Corinne. She looks good. Pale, but good.

  Relief floods me.

  I don’t have to listen to the doctor tell me not to see my wife, but if they think it will help, I’ll do what they recommend. It comforts me to have Michel there holding her hand, letting her lean on him. He’s almost an extension of me sometimes, and if I can’t be there, at least he can.

  Thanks, I answer.

  She’s worried there are things we aren’t telling her, he adds. I don’t like lying.

  My gut constricts. I don’t like it, either, and it seems like that’s all I’ve been doing for weeks.

  We’re protecting her, I answer. She’ll remember in her own time, IF she remembers at all. It’s the way the doctors want it.

  It’s the way YOU want it, my brother answers. I flinch because I can’t deny that it does help me, too.

  “Jude?”

  The sun is shining on Zoe’s hair as she looks at me, and it’s clear from her voice that it’s not the first time she’s said my name.

  “I didn’t hear you,” I say, sliding my phone into my pocket. “Yes?”

  She rustles around in a bag on the picnic table. The breeze flutters the edges of the bag, and she holds it down. “I was just asking if you want a mayonnaise packet for your sandwich.”

  “Oh. No, thank you.”

  She smiles and hands me the sandwich, and the park is completely still. For noon on a weekday, that’s a little unusual. It’s usually busy during the day.

  “You’re distracted,” she tells me as she scoots next to me, the warmth from her hip bleeding into my own. I try to hide my distaste. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here with her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “Issues with my wife.”

  The dismay on Zoe’s face is immediate, but she tries to hide it. I don’t know why she bothers. I know her feelings about my wife.

  “Tell me about her,” she says, taking a bite. “It’ll make you feel better.”

  Talking about my wife to Zoe doesn’t feel right, and I tell her that. She rolls her eyes.

  “We’re both adults, Jude. It’ll help you to get it out. Trust me. You should know that. You’re the therapist.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard the old saying...painters have the peeling houses, gardeners have weeds in their yards, etcetera, etcetera?” I ask.

  She rolls her eyes again. “So you’re telling me you aren’t emotionally healthy?” She chews for a minute. “Well, you are having a lunch date with a woman who isn’t your wife. So maybe I’ll give you that.”

  “Thanks,” I say wryly.

  She puts her hand on my leg, her fingers squeezing my thigh. She moves them upward ever so slightly, and even though I know I shouldn’t, my body reacts. I try not to show it, but my groin contracts, hardens.

  She leans upward, her mouth grazing my jaw.

  “Tell me about it,” she tells me, and her voice is soft. “I won’t judge.”

  “I don’t feel like I can ever talk about it,” I tell her. “I don’t like to discuss it with Michel, because he knows her and loves her. I don’t want him to look at her differently. You know?”

  Zoe stares at me, waiting.

  “My wife is an amazing person.” I make the statement simply. “And I love her.”

  Zoe is silent for a second. “Then why are you here with me?”

  That, of course, is an excellent question. There are a couple of reasons. The most important is that Zoe would ruin everyone’s lives if I wasn’t. She has very subtly made comments that she wouldn’t hesitate. So I have to bide my time until I figure things out, until I figure a way out.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. “I guess I’m just a scumbag.”

  She shakes her head. “No. You’re not. But let’s not focus on that. Tell me more about your wife.”

  I don’t know why she wants to know, and for a minute, I don’t care. Although I don’t even like this girl, it does feel good to talk to someone who doesn’t know Corinne, who can’t judge her, who can’t examine her under a microscope.

  “She was raised in a tiny town a couple of hours from here,” I tell her. “And when she was in high school, her dad killed two people. A woman he’d been having an affair with and her husband. Corinne was there. She was babysitting, and apparently, she saw everything. The trouble is, she doesn’t remember it. She disassociated with it almost immediately. It sometimes happens to people with PTSD when they’ve been through a significant trauma.”

  “That’s terrible,” Zoe says quietly, and her fingers reach for mine. I let her hold my hand, and I stare into the distance.

  “Corinne was taunted terribly while she was still in Stratton Bay. Teased mercilessly by the kids at school, because her dad was in prison for murder, and because she couldn’t remember what happened. They called her crazy just like her father.”

  I pause and take a breath. Zoe chews on her lip.

  “And is she?”

  Her question is hesitant.

  I shake my head. “No. She has some lingering issues, of course. Anyone would. But crazy? No.”

  “But didn’t she... I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry, but I heard at the café that she attempted suicide.”

  Zoe squeezes my hand, and ice shoots through my heart, because the mere words startle me every time. Corinne did attempt suicide. My beautiful, confident wife. It’s something I still can’t comprehend.

  “I can’t explain that,” I tell her. “Neither can Corinne. She doesn’t remember. Her brain is protecting her again, disassociating from everything that might cause her pain.”

  Zoe is sympathetic, her gaze soft, and her grip tight. “God, Jude, I’m sorry. You’re going through so much, because even though she can’t remember, you can. I’m glad you’re talking to me. I’ll do anything I can to lighten your load.”

  She’s quiet for a few minutes. Pensive.

  “Has she talked to you about what happened with her father?”

  I nod. “A little. She knows he was having an affair. And she remembers showing up at his mistress’s house to babysit. But that’s pretty much it. She remembers the blood, she remembers waiting for the police. But other than that, she says it’s like her brain has holes.”

  “God, how miserable for her,” Zoe murmurs. “I can’t imagine.”

  “Yeah. Me, either. I tried to convince her to get therapy for years, but she never wanted to. It was like she was too afraid of what she might discover. But here lately, she kept getting triggered and started having panic attacks. She thought she was going crazy, and then...well, the suicide attempt.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. It’s hard. I’m not going to lie.”

  “So that must be why you’re here,” she suggests. “With me. You’re searching for comfort. Or a distraction.”

  “Let’s not overanalyze it,” I tell her. Because thinking about it makes me sick. The idea of being here makes me sick. I should leave. Right
now.

  Yet I can’t. Because I don’t know what Zoe would do, and Corinne isn’t in a strong enough place to bear it. I just have to wait this out.

  When I look at Zoe again, her eyes are soft, and she’s staring at me, and she reaches for me, pulling me into a tight hug. Her hands rub at my back.

  “I’m here for you,” she tells me. “For as long as you want me to be.”

  I close my eyes and ignore my guilt, my pain, my reality.

  I feel her lips on my cheek, then they meet mine, and I keep my eyes closed. That makes it better, more palatable. I feel less of a prick if I don’t actually look at her.

  Her arms tighten around my neck, and the kiss deepens, and my traitorous body reacts.

  Against my will, my dick hardens. I don’t even like this girl as a person. I know that. I’m getting ready to push her away when...she starts shrieking.

  Jumping up, she waves her arms around like a madwoman.

  “Get it, get it!” she yells.

  I’m confused for a minute until I see the bee buzzing around her head.

  “Stop flailing,” I tell her calmly. “Be still.”

  She stops moving and follows the bee with her eyes.

  “I’m deathly allergic,” she tells me. “Can you kill it? Please?”

  I watch the insect, following it. “Do you have an EpiPen with you, by chance?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m allergic to epinephrine.”

  “Well, that’s an unfortunate pairing of allergies,” I tell her, and I have to admit, I’m doubtful. Part of me thinks she’s being dramatic to get attention. The bee lands on a nearby plant, and I squash it under my foot. It curls onto the ground, lifeless.

  “There. It’s taken care of. You can relax.”

  She goes limp and exhales shakily. If she’s acting, she’s good at it.

  “Thank you. I was stung when I was a kid, then they gave me epinephrine, and I almost died. If they hadn’t figured out I was allergic, I would’ve.”

  “Well, it’s gone now. Don’t worry.” I eye her, and she seems sincere.

  She grabs my hand and we walk back to my car.

  “Thank you,” she tells me, kissing my cheek as I drop her off. “You’re my hero. Can I see you tonight? I could come over. We could watch a movie or something. I was supposed to go to a movie with Chelsie—you remember her, right? But she canceled.”

  “Yeah, I remember her.” Of course I do. “I’m not sure what my plans are tonight. I’ll text you later.”

  She nods, then she’s gone, and I drive home, hating myself the whole way.

  I hate myself. I really do. I don’t know how I’ve let this, whatever this is, continue. I don’t know...but I do.

  It was one moment that pushed me over the edge.

  One moment that led me down this lustful path. One moment that changed my mind about this girl and led me to risk everything just for the sexual thrill.

  One. Fucking. Moment.

  I’m pathetic.

  18

  Eight days until Halloween

  Jude

  I love mornings.

  Of course, I don’t decide that when I’m groaning as my alarm goes off, or as I’m getting dressed in the dark with bleary eyes, or when I’m sucking down quick gulps of coffee to wake up.

  No, I decide that as I’m jogging down my front steps with my dog by my side, as the cold breeze hits my face and I enjoy the silence. It feels like I’m the only man in the world as I stride down the sidewalk out of the subdivision and through the park to the running trails.

  The silence is golden.

  It feels so good every morning to not have to listen to talking. I love my job, I do. But there are days when the endless talking grates on me, getting to me in a way that makes me feel like going postal.

  But every morning, I balance myself again with this.

  A silent jog through silent woods with my trustworthy sidekick.

  I slow my stride down so that my aging sidekick can keep up. We’ll take a truncated jog today so that she doesn’t overdo it.

  Like every other day at this time, the world isn’t awake yet, the horizon is still dark. Orange fingers stretch from the dark ground up to where the sun will soon be. The only noise is the sound of my feet and Artie’s paws hitting the pavement, pounding and clicking, step after step after step.

  I suck in the brisk air and release it in a fog around me, in and out, as I jog my way down the trail. The remaining leaves on the trees rustle drily, and somehow, I find myself aligning the sound with my breathing. In and out, in and out. With each breath, I fall more and more into balance. I feel each muscle in my legs constrict and contract, pushing and pulling, propelling me through the park.

  Then, in the silence, there’s something.

  A foreign noise. Something unusual, out of place.

  I hear them before I see them, and it takes me a minute to recognize the sounds for what they are.

  Sex.

  Artie perks her ears and so do I.

  A low voice murmurs, “Yes. More.”

  A woman.

  Then another woman. “Show me.”

  What the fuck?

  Two women?

  I pick up my pace, and as I crest a small hill, I see them.

  It’s like the Heavens parted and God Himself is smiling down on this park, because two completely nude women are having sex on a picnic table in the broad sight of anyone who might pass. They’re slender and long, with bare limbs and tender flesh, writhing and moaning in front of me. Their nipples are taut and erect in the cold morning air.

  I’m instantly hard, and I pull to an abrupt stop, holding Artie close to my side. She starts to whimper, but I shush her so the girls won’t know we’re here.

  I step back into the trees so they don’t see me and stop what they’re doing. I see them, though.

  Holy shit.

  A brunette kneels over a blonde, her face buried in the other girl’s crotch, her tongue darting out to lick with long strokes, her fingers kneading at the other girl’s thighs.

  “Like that?” she asks, her voice low.

  “Just like that,” the other one answers. Her fingers are entwined in brown hair, pushing her face, pulling it back, then pushing again. “Jesus, Zo. You always know what I like.”

  Zo?

  Startled, I’m frozen, my eyes glued to the scene in front of me. It’s like slow motion, yet fast-forward at the same time. Fingers slide, moans and groans, whimpers, tongues. Pale skin, plump tight flesh, tits and ass.

  God.

  I can hardly swallow my own spit as I watch the girls in front of me, and it can’t be. It can’t be Zoe.

  Yet the brunette lifts her head from between the blonde’s legs and looks over her shoulder with wide eyes, and those eyes hunt for mine. It’s like she knew I was here, and knew I was watching, and it’s definitely Zoe.

  The second our eyes meet, hers narrow in satisfaction, and she smiles.

  Her hair is a long curtain, and she flips it back so that I can see better, and she does it on purpose. She wants me to see her tongue flicking down, she wants me to see her lick, lick, licking. She wants me to see it all.

  I know it.

  I can feel it.

  With another soft smile, she flips around and straddles the other girl’s face.

  “Lick me now, Chelsie,” she says, and her friend obliges, quickly and easily. With slender hands, she cups Zoe’s ass as she buries her tongue inside Zoe.

  Zoe is facing me now, and her eyes are flooded in pleasure, and they don’t waver from mine. She holds the stare and holds it and holds it.

  She squirms and rocks against the other girl’s tongue, whimpering and moaning as the girl reaches up and cups Zoe’s tits. The blonde alternates between pinching and pulling
Zoe’s nipples and kneading at the tender flesh until...until... Zoe arches upward, slamming her pussy into the girl’s face, crying out as she orgasms against the blonde’s mouth.

  The sun rises around her, and it’s like a scene from a movie as the light frames her.

  Zoe couldn’t have planned a more erotic scene.

  She quivers in the light of dawn and then collapses onto the girl, her eyes still glued to mine as their arms and legs entwine, and they clutch each other, their tiny breaths forming ethereal clouds around them.

  “Chelsie, you’re amazing.”

  Chelsie. It’s the girl she’d been telling me about.

  “I know.” Chelsie giggles, reaching over to trail her fingers over the curve of Zoe’s generous ass. “You love me.”

  “I do.” Zoe admits this, and with each word, her eyes search mine. Hunting for what? Surprise? Repugnance? Rejection?

  She’ll find none of that.

  I keep my expression completely empty, but I don’t flinch. I bend down and stroke Artie’s head.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I tell the whimpering dog. “It’s just two girls.”

  Just two girls having sex in a park.

  Chelsie startles at my voice and sits up, her eyes darting around the trees to find me, but Zoe, of course, is unsurprised. She knows full well that I’m here, and maybe that was the point.

  “Zoe, someone’s here,” a voice calls out, and a guy steps from the sidelines. He looks to be homeless, dirty and tattered.

  “I know, Gil,” she answers him. “Thanks for standing watch.”

  This is weird. Too weird.

  I begin jogging again, even though it’s difficult with a rigid dick, and I hope to hell that they don’t see it. Only a freak would stand there and watch that scene, yet I did. And only freaks would lie in the middle of a public park and have sex in front of a homeless guy, yet they did.

  Maybe we’re all freaks.

  I feel them watching me as I leave, and I hear whispers, but I can’t tell what they’re saying. It doesn’t really matter, though. What matters is that I had a real live porn scene unfold in front of me, and the excitement of it was fucking overwhelming. I jog straight for my house, leaving the dog in the kitchen.