by Everly Lucas
But Ben…my Ben. Okay, still not mine, but I get the feeling he would be if I could only quit cock-blocking my own happiness. And tonight, I came so close to making that happen. The breathless anticipation before our almost-kiss ranks among the top five moments in my whole twenty-five years of life. Maybe even top two—it was that yummy.
Then I went mental and screwed everything up, because that’s what I do, apparently. It’s my thing.
There is something seriously wrong with me. Two months ago, I wanted to stay as far away as possible from every man on the planet, forever and ever amen. Not an easy task, but I was motivated. Now I have two men I’m dying to get up-close and personal with, but I can’t do that with either of them because I’m fucked in the head.
Oh, and because that situation isn’t disastrous enough as it is, let’s toss in the fact that those two men are best friends. Like, lifelong best friends.
How could I not want them, though? Taken separately, Ben and Andy are amazing men, and whatever lucky bitches end up with them better appreciate the shit out of them every single day. But the two of them together? That’s something else entirely. They complement each other so well, like they’re each a better person for having the other in his life.
No wonder their bond is so tight. But is it unbreakable? Even if nothing happens with me and one of the guys, I might create a rift between them just by being in their lives. It’s selfish for me to stick around if there’s even a chance of that.
“Ugh!”
Oh, shit—did that just come out of my mouth? Yep. I’ve just upped my status to Most Pathetic Loser in All of Philly. Quite the achievement.
I pull the cord at Forty-Third Street and walk the five blocks to my apartment, clutching my mace because it’s after one o’clock and I’m not an idiot. As soon I walk in the door, I text Ben that I made it home okay, then silence my phone and stick it in a drawer. If he tries to say anything sweet or uplifting or remotely Ben-like, I’ll have a complete, blubbering breakdown. And then I won’t be able to do what needs to be done.
Every word I said to him tonight was true. I’d hidden that truth from even myself because I couldn’t acknowledge the fact that I’m the one who caused all this damage. I was hating Cameron more than he deserved in order to hate myself less. Self-preservation is a very real, very necessary thing.
I hadn’t blocked everything out. I still remembered doing things most people would consider slutty, to say the least. Cameron certainly felt that way, which he made sure to tell me on a regular basis.
But it goes deeper than that—so deep that, when I unearthed the truth at Ben’s tonight, it felt like finally breaking the surface after clawing my way out of my own grave.
And there I go with the morbid again.
Thing is, it wasn’t the whole truth. But making the full confession to Ben, face-to-face, would’ve ended with me in the fetal position in his shower, under scalding hot water, trying to get clean again. I’ve never tried to explain it to myself, let alone someone else, and I wasn’t about to attempt it with Ben’s saintly face looking back at me.
There are so many thoughts crowding my head, it hurts. The only solution is to rip them all out. Saying out loud what I hadn’t even been able to write in my diary—that I did this to myself—was both freeing and frightening. I’ve been locked in a cage of my own making for so long, I have no clue how to live outside of it.
The door is wide open, now, but am I brave enough to walk through?
I have to be. If I shove this back in my mental lockbox—if I even can—I’ll despise myself for being such a fucking coward, and I’ve already had enough self-loathing to last a lifetime. Plus, Ben is going to want more of an explanation, and what am I supposed to tell him? “Nope. That’s all I’m going to say on the matter. Moving on!” I highly doubt that’ll fly.
I change out of my dress, turn off the lights, and climb into bed with my laptop. Nothing else. Just me and the keys. There’s no way my thoughts can escape without ending up on the blank page.
It’s time.
Confession
Dear Diary,
It’s all my fault. And when people do you wrong, the only way to move on is to forgive them. This is me trying to forgive myself.
It started my first weekend at college. I had a sheltered upbringing in a small town a couple hours west of the city. It was just me and Mom, and though she was never strict, I’d always been a good girl. So leaving for school came with a sense of freedom. It was a fresh start. There was no one from my old life here. No one who knew anything about me. What better time to figure out who I was, instead of who I’d just happened to become?
There was no alcohol involved. No drugs. Just hormones and a hot guy. We met at the orientation mixer, hit it off, and found a dark hallway to make out in. At some point, I felt a third hand on me, and when my eyes flew open in shock, I caught the first boy winking at his friend. A normal girl would’ve been offended, and I was, for maybe a split second. Next thing I knew, I was moving that third hand to my breasts.
There was no sex, only kissing and touching, but it was eye-opening. An awakening. I’d never experienced anything so intoxicating. Never been so turned on in my life.
The rest of freshman year was fairly tame. I got together with those same guys a couple more times in the fall, and things went a little further but not much. By winter break, one of them had dropped out and the other got a girlfriend, so I was cut off from my source. I wanted more, but I didn't know how to seek it out without looking like a slut.
One night that spring, I went to a club with a few girlfriends. The dance floor was packed, so we climbed up on one of the platforms, dancing with each other and showing off for the crowd below. A guy from school joined us, pressing up behind me and growing hard against my ass. When his hand slid up my skirt and his fingers slipped inside me, I felt a hundred eyes on me and came almost instantly. He was getting me off right there, in front of everyone, but I wanted more.
I took him by the hand and grabbed a condom from one of the bowls on our way to the mirrored wall at the back of the club. Judging by the look on his face, the last thing he’d expected was for me to ask him to fuck me in a room full of people, but I didn’t need to ask twice.
To anyone watching, it looked like we could’ve been just grinding on each other like everyone else on the dance floor. But that’s only if they weren’t paying attention. Most were, and I realized then that I wanted them to.
Now I had two drugs, and I was shameless about my cravings for them. The guy from the club wasted no time bragging to his friends, and word spread around the guys at school that I was down to fuck. It sounds strange, but I felt powerful—getting what I wanted, when I wanted it, and on my terms.
It was a rebirth. This was the new Claire—the real Claire—and there was no going back to the way I was before.
By junior year, I had a reputation. It was well-earned, of course, so it didn’t bother me. I no longer needed to put effort into finding what I wanted—it found me. Often. In fact, it became expected of me. And that’s when I began to resent it.
My memories up to this point are hazy, most of them blurring together in some sort of hedonistic montage. But they’re there, and they always were. These are the memories that never left—the ones that made me feel deserving of Cameron’s daily dose of bullshit.
But they’re not what broke me. They’re not what tore through me—tore me apart—tonight at Ben’s. They’re not the memories I’ve been hiding from, the ones that have my hands shaking as I type this.
The shift occurred that same year. It was so gradual, I can honestly say I never noticed it. I went from wanting to fulfill my desires to feeling obligated to fulfill them in order to please others. Sex was supposed to be something I did for me, but it ended up being all about what I did for them.
I have no idea how many men I slept with that year. I stopped counting when the numbers became a source of shame. I never said no to the guys who came to me o
r tried to stop them. No one forced me—no one but myself. I grew to hate myself a little more each time I let someone touch me, fuck me, when I didn’t want them to. I never wanted them to anymore, but they didn’t know that.
Rape is such a strong word, but it’s the only one that comes close to describing what I did to myself every single time I had sex. I was saying yes when I wanted to say no. Every time a man moved inside me, I lay there hating every second of it and screaming at myself to make it stop.
I could’ve made it stop.
Why didn’t I make it stop?
I met Cameron when we shared a class first semester of senior year. He’d heard about me, of course. At that point, I doubt there was anyone who hadn’t. He even told me, straight up, that he wanted to save me. It was music to my ears because there was nothing I wanted more than to be saved from myself.
He represented a way to reconnect with the old Claire—the pure Claire. He was my rewind button.
He never let me forget my past, though, taking every opportunity to tell me how sick it made him. It made me sick, too, so how could I argue or deny it? He’d tell me how amazing I was and how much he loved me, and that it was only my promiscuous history he found dirty and contemptible. But it was me who did all those things he hated, so it was me he found dirty.
At first, sex with Cameron was like redemption. This was a man who loved me, who didn’t expect anything from me I wasn’t willing to give. But there’s only so many times you can be told how shameful you are before you begin to resent sex, altogether.
After we moved in together a year ago, things got exponentially worse. I didn’t want sex, at all, anymore. He never pressured me, but he was my boyfriend, so I felt obligated to do it and ended up forcing myself to please someone else, all over again. There was no escaping it. I felt hopeless. By the end, I hated Cameron almost as much as I hated myself. That’s when I left him.
The worst part in all of this is the long-term damage I caused—that I ended up with this crippling fear. A fear that if I let myself want again, I’ll end up right back where I was before, like an addict after years of sobriety. In my warped brain, any kind of physical contact with a man is inextricably linked to the expectation of sex. For me, nothing could be more terrifying.
So that’s how I became the worst version of me, yet. Since I’m on an honesty streak, I’ll admit that I miss who I was those first two years of college. I was doing what I wanted. I was absolutely free. Now, I can’t even remember what free feels like.
I want Ben. I want him so much, my heart aches just thinking about him. What I don’t want is to be exactly who I was back then. For all of Cameron’s faults, and for all he put me through, I do believe he loved me, in his way.
I want to be loved again, but the way it’s supposed to be—not some bastardized version of it. But how do I tell a man about my past or the desires that made me lose complete control of myself? How can I ask him to accept things about me even I haven’t been able to accept?
I’m afraid, confused, and so unsure of myself and where I go from here.
But this confession…it feels good. So fucking good.
Breathe, Claire.
Copy. Paste. Send.
Eighteen
Ben
My hand covers my mouth. All the blood has drained from my head and my lips are numb, but I can’t tear my eyes from Claire’s email as I read it again. And again. It's the worst form of torture, but I need to try and understand, even though I’m sure I never will.
I can't fathom the level of self-hatred she writes about, especially in someone like Claire. To me, she’s everything good and light and beautiful, all wrapped up in a dazzling package with a fiery red bow.
My mind replays every interaction we've had, from that first day in the park to last night, but with the added knowledge of what's been behind her reactions. Knowing I triggered such powerful, negative feelings every time I touched her makes me sick to my stomach. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought, but it never came close to what I just learned.
Last night, I could hardly sleep. After seeing her with Andy, coming so close to kissing her, and helplessly watching her fall apart, no amount of Ambien was going to shut my brain off for long. It was an hour ago that I finally gave up, poured myself a cup of coffee, and sat down to check my email.
The coffee sits cold and untouched on my table, and I haven’t moved from my seat.
She didn't write this for me, that much is clear. But she wanted me to see it. Wanted me to know. Did she think she owed me an explanation after last night? I never would've pressured her to tell me anything she wasn't comfortable sharing.
As much as her confession claws at my heart, the fact that she trusts me enough to share her deepest secrets and darkest shames gives my tenuous hopes something to cling to. To hold tight and never let go. She chose me, out of everyone in her life, to bare her soul to. It’s a privilege I’ll never take for granted.
Over the past month, I’ve developed a strong urge to murder whoever made Claire the way she is. But she says the blame is hers. If she truly believes that, and if saying it helps her heal, then I won’t fight her on it. But if you ask me, all those men who saw her as easy prey—who used her—get to share in that blame. That includes her ex, who’ll be lucky to go to bed tonight with the same number of balls he woke up with.
When I saw him at Andy’s unveiling, I couldn’t comprehend how that moon-faced, post-pubescent Abercrombie reject managed to land a woman as far out of his league as Claire. But it all makes sense, now. He found her when she was at her most vulnerable and did his best to keep her that way for years. Someone who genuinely loved her would’ve done whatever he could to lift her up. Instead, Cameron tore her down, reaping the benefits of her pain. Castration is the least that fucker deserves.
She said she felt hopeless, but she left him, started a new life on her own, and stepped way out of her comfort zone by forming a friendship with me. And she opened up to me about her past and her insecurities. She wouldn’t have done any of those things if she had no hope. She is, by far, the most resilient person I’ve ever met.
If Claire is ready to reclaim herself, to be happy again, I'm going to be there for her in whatever way she needs. It's love she craves? She has it. She's had it since the day we met, when we stood in the pouring rain and I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing her again.
The sun has only just come up, but I don’t want her believing for a second that her confession made me think any less of her or that my feelings for her have changed. They haven’t.
No, that’s a lie. Knowing she’s been through hell and come out with her kind, loving, compassionate nature still intact…how could I not love her beyond reason?
I need to see her—now—so I text her as I head upstairs to get ready.
What are you doing today?
She responds just a few seconds later, leading me to guess she found sleep as elusive as I did last night.
you tell me.
You’re meeting me at the park. I’ll be under our tree.
now???
Okay, yeah, it’s a little early, but I need to see her. And I need her to see me and have no doubt she’s a cherished, necessary part of my life.
Yes, now. I’ll bring you a Dr. Pepper.
sold!
bring two :D
An exclamation point and a big smile at six a.m.? I’m doing something right, already.
My eyes are fixed on the piece of grass I’m twirling between my fingers. After fifteen minutes of watching her bus stop like a stalker, I had to find something to distract myself with. I tried reading an article about a hospital expansion project in Point Breeze, but after every other sentence, I’d check my texts, calls, and email, just in case Claire tried to contact me and I somehow missed it.
Propped against the large maple with my elbows resting on bent knees, I watch the blade spin back and forth, again and again. My attention will stay right here. This is all I’ll foc
us on. That is, until her full laugh lets me know she’s finally here.
My head pops up and… Good. Fucking. God.
Who is this woman? It can’t be Claire Templeton—not in that denim miniskirt showing off her long, shapely legs or the cherry red tank top that fits her like a second skin. And have her breasts always been this full and round? Breasts can’t grow that much overnight, can they? Maybe it’s the way she’s standing, with her shoulders back and her body free of tension.
She’s barefoot, holding her sandals in one hand and combing her fingers through her wild red hair with the other. Her eyes are bright, and her smile is electric.
I’ve never seen her look so alive.
“A whole cooler of Dr. Peppers? Honey, you shouldn’t have.”
I look over at the open cooler by my side, which was forgotten the second she came into view. Well, that explains her wide grin. She grabs one of the chilled bottles and joins me on the blanket, tucking her legs under her.
I watch her in wonder. There’s nothing left of the defeated, lost woman from her letter, and very little of the frightened creature she’s been every time we’ve been this close before. This woman is weightless. She’s free.
Claire takes a sip and presses the sweaty bottle to her chest. Tilting her head back, she gives her pale, slender neck the same treatment. Condensation escapes from between her warm skin and the ice cold drink, trickling down her chest and disappearing into her cleavage. When she looks at me again, there’s a seductive, naughty gleam in her eyes.
Claire isn’t just free, she’s an absolute fucking vixen. This adds a whole new dimension to a woman I thought couldn’t get any better.
“So, what am I doing here at this godawful hour?” she asks. Her words are playful, but she sounds cautious, unsure.