by Неизвестный
"It's not like that," I tell him, but I know he doesn't believe me, it's in the hardened set of his jaw, his steely eyes. "Kent, please, listen. He loves me --"
Turning away, he counters, "And you think I don't?"
And you think ... "Kent," I sob. "I don't know what to think." My thoughts are bound out in a whirlwind that threatens to swallow me whole, a twister that will tear me to pieces in its wake. Too late, I think. Oh God, too damn late. Quietly, so he won't hear the emotion that chokes me, I whisper, "I'm in love with him, too. I think ... I think I should just leave."
Kent spins around, anger clouding his face. I'm about to apologize again, somehow that has to help, when he pegs the empty mug at me. I try to shield myself but it hits my elbow with a dull thock! and then falls to the ground, shattering on the stones at my feet. Ceramic shards cut into my ankles as I jump back, he threw that at me, my arm stings and my hand's gone numb and he actually threw it ... "So it's like that," he mutters, anger hardening his voice. "Just up and leave, don't give a damn about me. Find someone new to fuck and move on, is that it?"
I shake my head, no. "It's not --" I try, but he flicks the hose at me, thumbs the nozzle on, and a splash of cold water hits me in the center of my chest like a bullet. I look at him in shock -- this isn't how it's supposed to go. This isn't what I hoped for, what I wanted. After two years together, we can at least reason this out, right?
Apparently not. Kent's not listening to me. Another shot with the hose, this one higher, I feel the spray fleck my neck and chin, and he tells me, "So leave already. Get your shit together and get the fuck out of here, if that's what you want to do."
I don't want it to end like this. "Kent --"
He turns away, veins in his neck and face standing like cords beneath his skin. "I'm through with you," he says.
I turn and race for the house.
I burst through the screen door and into the kitchen, tears that I refuse to cry blurring my vision into a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that mean nothing to me. Kent's words still echo in my ears -- and you think I don't? Jesus, what the hell was I supposed to think? He's never said he loved me, he does nothing to drive the point home, he thinks a halfhearted fuck and a place to live is enough to show me he cares? How could I not fall for Luke, when he can't stop touching me and he holds me tight long after we both come, and he tells me he loves me? How can I not want to hear the words?
Through the living room, down the hall, I push into my room and slam the door shut behind me, fuck. This isn't what I wanted, the hatred I saw in Kent's eyes, the anger and disbelief and pain. I assumed he knew what was going on, I've dropped enough hints, I've told him outright it's his drinking that pisses me off, that was our last fight, how could he still manage to look so damn incredulous and hurt when I told him I love Luke?
And if I truly don't love Kent anymore, why does my heart feel like it's being torn in two?
Luke's still in my room, rummaging through the drawers of my dresser. On the freshly made bed are a few t-shirts, folded into a neat stack on the covers. I catch a glimpse of my folder full of ads beneath the shirts, and somehow that makes this all real, that makes it hurt worse. That Luke would think to pack that, when Kent doesn't even know about it ... I sink to the edge of the bed and rub my elbow, which stings from the mug Kent threw, and struggle not to cry.
"How'd it go?" Luke asks me. When I don't answer, he turns and sees me, and something in my face makes him drop the jeans in his hand and come to my side. "Marcus," he murmurs, taking me into his arms -- so strong, so young. What are we going to do? Where will we go? I have nothing and he doesn't really have all that much more. Somehow I always thought I'd be farther than this by now. Concern laces Luke's voice as he asks, "What happened?"
I can't speak above a whisper, and my words are muffled against Luke's shirt. "He told me to get out," I tell him.
He sits back, cradles my face in both of his large hands, and studies me until I can't bear the look of love staring back from those purple eyes, I'm not used to it, I have to look away. "Marcus," he sighs. The tenderness in his voice is enough to bring a fresh onslaught of tears. Gently he kisses me, his lips barely touching mine. "I'm right here. We're in this together, I'm not leaving you."
I pretend his kisses, his hands, will make everything alright.
Jeans and socks and boxers, t-shirts, shorts, button-down shirts that Luke favors, I take everything out of the dresser, the closet, pile it all on bed. "I'm not sure we can take this much," Luke tells me, picking up each item of clothing to fold it to one side. "When I left my house, I just had the clothes on my back. This ..." He gestures at the bed with a bewildered expression on his face. "I don't think we can carry it all. Do you have a bag?"
"No." My reply is terse -- I'm all cried out. Kent wants to end things like this? Fine. I'll play his game, I'll be the villain, fine. Let him think I've wounded him, let him ignore my own scars, two years of living with a man steadily drinking himself to death, that's worn me down more than I care to admit.
But you're not mad at Luke, I remind myself. No, I'm not. With a sigh, I whisper, "I'm sorry, I'm just ... on edge, I guess. I don't mean to take it out on you."
From the corner of my eye I see Luke frown at me, but he nods and murmurs, "I know." Then he goes back to folding my clothes -- there are a lot of them.
Digging through the dresser drawers to make sure I have everything, I tell him, "Maybe we won't take it all, I don't know. This is still sort of new to me."
Far off I hear the slam of the screen door when Kent comes into the house, heavy boots clomping on hardwood floors, and before I can even think, the door to my room is kicked in and Kent is there, glaring at me. His red face and chest make him seem angrier than God in the Old Testament, he looks positively livid, and my fear comes flooding back. "Marcus!" he barks, my name in his voice, it almost brings me to my knees. But he notices Luke, standing wide-eyed at the bed with my clothes in his hands, and without another word Kent turns and storms from the room.
Luke and I exchange a worried glance. "What's he want?" I ask, as if he might know.
With a shrug, Luke looks at the open door, the empty hall beyond. "Maybe you should go find out," he tells me.
I don't want to know. Kent's still too damn furious to talk reasonably -- I don't like him in this mood, I don't like that I'm the one who put him in it, but Luke's right, I should find out. As I hurry after Kent, I hear door hinges screech in protest as he shoves through the screen door. I follow him out to the porch, sure he'll just troop back to his market and there are already one or two cars pulled into our drive, I won't be able to talk to him there, if he even wants to talk.
So it's a surprise when he stops, leans out over the railing, and glares at his market, his shoulders bunched in anger. "Kent?" I ask carefully. You okay? I almost ask, but wouldn't that be a stupid question? Of course he's not okay, I'm leaving him. When it's obvious he's not going to speak first, though, I ask, "Did you want to talk to me, or something?"
"You're leaving," he says, his voice unnatural and strained. "Just like that."
He told me to get out, didn't he? "You said --"
"What, you've been packed for this?" he asks. He doesn't look at me, just stares out at the few customers already milling around his plants. "All ready to go, is that it?"
I shake my head, a gesture he doesn't see. "No, I ... this is just as sudden for me, Kent, you have to believe me. I love him."
That gets a bitter laugh. "Love," Kent mutters, like he might have heard the word once but he's not quite sure where. "You just met him, or was that a lie, too? How long have you been fucking around with him?"
Leaning against the post, I cross my arms and study the dusty wooden slats beneath my feet. Now I'm the cardboard cutout, I'm the cowboy silhouette. I can see Luke on the other side of the screen door, hovering in the darkness of the kitchen, listening to us, waiting to see if he has to step in. "I met him the way I told you I did," I say to Kent, who rol
ls his eyes and doesn't respond. "The day you went into town, I found him in the barn."
"And you fucked him then?" Kent asks.
I tamp down the anger that boils beneath my skin. "No."
Now Kent looks at me, and his eyes are bleary with something a lot stronger than the coffee I gave him this morning. With the mug broken, I bet he just drank straight from the flask in his pocket, it's probably empty now. So this emotion held in check, I have the alcohol to thank for that. "Did you fuck him?" Kent asks softly.
I want to lie to him. I want to shake my head and tell him no, just to preserve something between us, just to keep the hurt from his dark eyes. But I see Luke watching us, watching me, and I can't do that to him, I can't deny him like that. Slowly, I meet Kent's gaze and nod. "Last night," I whisper.
Kent's eyes close in defeat. "I'm sorry," I say, just to fill the silence that stretches around us like a shroud. "Kent, I'm ... I love him." It's the only excuse I have.
Turning away, Kent laughs that short, bitter laugh of his again, the one I don't like because it sounds nothing like the man I've known for the past two years, it's a stranger's laugh and it scares me. "So you keep saying. But I'll tell you something. I don't really believe in love," he tells me.
I feel his words hit me in my chest, pierce my heart, I don't really believe ... so I've been wasting my time with him? Lying to myself that he really does love me? "You don't ..." I start, but I can't finish the thought, how can he not believe in love? "You mean you don't ... you never loved me?"
His hands grip the railing so tight that his knuckles turn white. "I care for you," he says, speaking low as if he's afraid someone will overhear him. When he looks at me, I see that despite whatever's coursing through his system right now, whatever came out of his bottle, he's probably more sober at the moment than he has been in days. "Don't get me wrong, Marcus. I like the way you keep the house, and you have a great ass, I've told you that. But you don't get me worked up or anything. I'm just not into it."
I'm not comprehending this. "Into what?" I want to know. "Kent, I'm not sure I'm hearing you right. Not into what? Into me?"
With an uneasy shrug, he looks somewhere behind me as he recalls, "You're the one who came to me, remember? I was just going to let you stay for a bit, you have a good head on your shoulders and I need someone like that to help me out here. I need someone like you to keep the money straight, you know I'm not good with it." Tell me about it, I think, but I don't say that out loud. Instead, I bite my lower lip and tell myself I'm not hearing this -- he doesn't love me? "I hadn't had a piece of ass in a while," he continues, each word another nail driven deeper into my heart. "You were willing. Before long, I thought it was all you wanted, and if it kept you here, then I'd do it. I'm not like you, Marcus. Sure, I like to get off but it's not a daily thing for me the way it is for you."
I glance at Luke on the other side of the screen door and think I can see his thoughts written out in the shadows that drape his violet eyes. He's just saying this to make you feel like shit, that's what he'd tell me if he could, I can almost hear the words in his voice inside my head. He's mad that you dicked him over and he's just doing this to get back at you. It's childish, he doesn't mean it.
The problem is that I know Kent, I know he's not one to waste words. He means this, every single thing he's telling me now, he means every word of it. "I mean nothing to you?" I ask, incredulous. Then why the mug this morning, why the hose? Shit, he should be happy I'm leaving. "Kent --"
He sighs and takes off his cowboy hat, runs a hand through his dark hair, wavy with sweat. Then he sets the hat back on his head, a little crooked, and I fist my hands to keep from righting it. "I like you, Marcus," he tells me, but like isn't love, is it? "I care about you, don't get me wrong. If you get sick, I worry. If you're hurt, I get upset. But I'm not ..." Trailing off, he looks out at his market and when he speaks again, his voice is so low, it's almost a whisper. "I liked the partnership we had here. You working the house, the money, it let me do what I really wanted to be doing. If I ran this stint alone, I'd have no time for the plants. I'm worn out as it is when the day is done. If I had no one helping me, I'd be dead."
Because he's been frank with me, I feel no fear when I tell him, "You keep drinking like you do, you'll be dead before you know it."
I expect an angry retort, a slap across the face, anything but his slow, thoughtful nod, that closes my throat with tears, just when I thought I'd never cry again. "I'm not thrilled about what's happened," he murmurs, and I have to wipe at my eyes, I don't want him to see how he's gotten to me. "I don't like being lied to, Marcus. It makes me think I can't trust you, and you're the one in control here. You realize that, don't you? You have the house, the money, everything in your hands. If you start lying to me ..."
"I meant to tell you," I mutter. I rub my eyes and take a deep sigh, lean back against the post, stare at the ceiling fan that's turning in a lazy circle above us, barely stirring the air. "I didn't -- I told myself I wouldn't and then I just couldn't help it, Kent. I'm weak against him. You're right, I need someone twenty-four seven, someone to hold me and touch me and kiss me, and when you wouldn't, then I couldn't stop myself --"
He holds up a hand to cut me off. "I don't want details," he says.
I duck my head, embarrassed. "Sorry."
For a long moment we're both lost in our own thoughts. Two years, I'm thinking, two years lost to this man, trying to make him love me, trying to convince myself he was someone I loved. I thought I knew him, but he just used sex to keep me here? I didn't even think he'd think of that, I have to admit it makes him stronger in my eyes, makes him almost calculating and sinister. He likes the way I keep his house and his books, he knows I wanted attention so he gave me as much as he could to keep me interested. He doesn't love me ... he cares for me, though, I tell myself, and there's that at least. If not love, then at least he felt something for me. And it was enough to piss him off when I told him about Luke.
Out in the market, someone calls for Kent, and we both turn to look at a woman and her husband by the register. She's waving frantically while her husband picks over tomatoes. "So now what?" I ask quietly.
Raising his voice, Kent calls out, "Coming!"
But he doesn't move. "Kent?" I prompt.
Instead of answering, he asks, "Where are you two headed?"
With a slight frown, I admit, "I don't know yet."
More silence. I'm about to mention my sister in California when he reaches into his pocket and draws out his wallet, battered leather held together with a rubber band. Opening it, he takes out a worn fifty dollar bill, folds it in half twice, and holds it out to me. When I don't move, he sort of shakes it at me. "Take it. For your help this week." With a nod at the screen door, as if he knows Luke is standing there listening in, he adds, "His too."
"Kent," I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger, hard enough to make brightly colored dots dance behind my eyelids. "You don't have to do this."
He slips the bill between my fingers, forcing it into the palm of my hand. "Just take it already, will you? Take it and go."
As he passes me on his way to the steps, I catch his arm and wait until he looks at me to whisper, "Thanks."
He looks over his shoulder at Luke. "I seriously thought about asking you to stay," he tells me, shrugging my hand off of him. "I need someone here to help out with all the shit I don't want to do. But you lying ... I can't have that, not if you're messing with my money and shit."
"I never," I assure him. "You know it."
He shrugs, like it's not really much to him one way or the other now. I guess it's not. "I can't trust you anymore," he tells me.
I know. I watch him cross the yard, his back so dark that it's almost burnt, his jeans hugging his ass and thighs, his cowboy hat cocked low over his eyes. From here he looks like everything I came out west to find, but he's not. Behind me, the screen door creaks open, slaps shut, and then warm hands find my wai
st, strong arms wrap around me, this is what I want, this boy holding me tight, Luke. I turn in his embrace and give him a sad smile. "So now what?" I ask.
Hugging me close, he buries his nose in my hair and says, "I told you, Marcus. I'm cool with whatever you want to do. Just don't leave me behind."
I lean back into him and savor the lips on my neck, the breath that tickles beneath the collar of my shirt. How can I give this up? "I told you I wouldn't," I murmur, turning to kiss his cheek. Down in the market, the customers seem to have multiplied, and Kent moves among them like a western hero, someone I once thought he was. "How far can fifty bucks take us?"
"I've got some money, too," Luke reminds me and I kiss him tenderly, I love kissing him. My hands smooth across his stomach -- despite the early hour and all that's happened this morning, I want him already. "Where do you want to go?" he whispers against my mouth.
I've made my choice, there's only one answer to that question for me now. I tell Luke, "With you."
THE END
Copyright © 2004 by J. M. Snyder
Please do not copy or reprint without permission.
Author: [email protected]
Website: http://jmsnyder.net