by Sunniva Dee
The National Sexual Assault Hotline,
at 1-800.656.HOPE (4673)
NADIA
“Baby,” I croak before I open my eyes. I stretch beneath our sheets, writhing at the sound of the alarm clock. Awakened from dreams colored by our past, my first thought goes to my husband. “Turn it off, babe? Please,” I say.
The alarm keeps beeping, beep-beep-beeping. It’s annoying and chased by my customary just-awake confusion. “Jude, you know how much I hate that sound.”
I’m at home in our apartment in St. Aimo, Los Angeles. Slowly, it registers that the alarm is for me, not him. I turn to face him, whine softly, but he doesn’t give me the response I crave: a chuckle and a kiss while he playfully commiserates with me.
“Oh sweetie,” he usually murmurs. “I’m sorry you have to leave for school. Maybe you should play hooky and stay in bed for a rubdown? I’ll rub… all the way down.”
I always crack a smirk then, reading between the lines. He would leave us mumbling heated words and gasping for air if I surrendered.
Deep in my belly, something contracts. Something bittersweet and beautiful that hurts, because today, again, he doesn’t react.
I slide from the covers and sit on the edge of the bed. My head feels heavy. It needs support, and for a second, I’m struck by how alive my hand is when I cup my cheek with it.
Soon, I find the courage to rise.
The bathroom door is closed, but I go to it anyway. “Do you remember when you first came to our church?” My words stutter, sleep-exhausted. I exhale and lean my forehead against the door. “Your eyes were bright with fear as you entered the Heavenly Harbor between your parents. You were lanky, a gangly fourteen-year-old, a little boy big enough to have gotten yourself into trouble.”
My throat produces hard lumps so easily these days. This one I muscle down. I control the sadness accompanying it and let a small smile filter out instead. “Oh Jude baby. We didn’t know then, of all the adventures to come.
“I remember sitting in the pews between Mother and Father, head twisted at the creak of the door. You entered on a lull between psalms.
“I didn’t know. We didn’t know.”
I sniff, an attempt at stanching the tears.
The wood of the doorframe cools my cheek. Presses into it as my memories brighten. “Your skin,” I mumble. He’s quiet behind the panel. The shower has stopped—in our bathroom or in the one above us, I’m not sure. If he’s moving, he’s not making a sound. Perhaps he’s listening to me.
“Fine veins shone blue at your temple beneath your too-long hair.” I snort out a wet laugh. “And the sun reached you through the stained-glass window, spilling the rainbow over your face.”
I roll my forehead to the side against the door. “Funny how your parents picked our church because ‘Heavenly Harbor’ sounded like the right kind of place. They wanted the best haven for you.”
Not long ago, my Jude would have grinned at this. He’d pull me in, golden bangs falling over me and tickling me while he ran his nose up mine. He’d croon, “Oh and weren’t they right. I found my haven—in you.”
I’d push him good-naturedly, not allowing fear of the future to ruin our love. “But you’d be safe at home with your parents if they hadn’t crushed on the name of our church.”
He’d kiss my nose, groan, and say, “Right, and I wouldn’t have a beautiful wife.”
“A child bride,” I teased once.
“Nineteen is a fine age. Get them early.” He winked, knowing well he only held two months on me.
We were young. Married. And so on the run.
I was born to modest parents in Buenos Aires. Until I was seven, life tore along like a flawless football game. Love abounded, and unlike some of my classmates, I never went hungry.
On weeknights, friends knocked, asking me out to play, and on the weekends, my big, close-knit family on Mom’s side worshipped my cousins and me. I remember laughter. Heartfelt, lingering hugs. Daylong meals and sleepovers with hose-downs in my grandparents’ backyard when we became rowdy from the summer heat. I remember wet smooches from aunts and uncles, my tías and tíos. Secrets shared with cousins, fights when Diego, Mariana, and I disagreed, and smacks from our mothers when the disputes escalated.
We played in tree houses we built and rebuilt in the city park while the public grill simmered, the aroma from our family parrilla the only thing able to draw us away.
My parents struggled to make ends meet but didn’t involve me in their adult concerns. With dedication and modesty, my father paid rent on our home, month after painstaking month. My friends and I all grew up in studio apartments within rundown, wooden buildings on the water, but even the colors of our houses—bright blues, reds, yellows, and greens—hinted at nothing but abundance.
Never did I identify the Vidal family’s poverty. Such a concept, such gloom, exists only when compared to outlandish cornucopias I didn’t encounter in La Boca.
I was an only child for longer than most in my neighborhood and rejoiced when Mom’s belly began growing. To touch it, to see my brother swell into an eight-month piece of art made my child heart inflate with bliss. He ballooned my mother’s shape and caused happy grins on my father’s face. Yes, life was good in La Boca. Life was good.
My parents did not drive a car recklessly to get themselves killed. They took a chance on a quarter-mile crosswalk on an avenida in Barrio Norte, en route for the zoo. The Lord knows why I was not with them. Onlookers said a Coca-Cola truck sped up at the sight of them braving such a busy road. The driver’s plan had been to scare them, but instead it hit… hit—
Grief roars as loudly in seven-year-olds as in adults. I cried for my parents. For Ariel, the baby brother I’d never meet. I sobbed over dress-up games I’d never force him to play, and my tears became the Sin Flood as my grandparents on my father’s side moved me into their house.
Life comes with expenses, the cost sometimes steeper than the reward. I lost my parents and my brother. Then my neighborhood, the contact with Mom’s family—cousins, aunts, uncles, and my grandparents.
Soon, I’d lose my country.
I jump when knuckles rap on the front door.
“I’ll get it,” I breathe to Jude. Silence walls me from the bathroom as I walk into our tiny den. There’s still seventies-style, deep red carpet under my toes. We own our creep-in; Jude bought it outright before his parents cut him off and popped the savings they’d set up for him in a trust fund. “Misuse,” they called it. “Hasty teenagers.
“As much as we love Nadia,” they added.
The carpet stays for now—we can’t afford to replace it. Instead, I’ve painted the walls a matching, faded red and the window frames a warm mahogany. Jude accepted it because “it’s Nadia.”
“I love everything you,” he said back then.
I hear Zoe like she’s inside already. Paper-thin walls and ceilings strip privacy away, leaving only the most laid-back tenants to renew their contracts in the leased apartments.
“Come on, Nadia!” she shouts.
Out of habit, I let my gaze scan our place before I go to open: the bathroom, teetering between the sleeping alcove and the den; the nonexistent hallway; the front door swinging straight into our tiny living room. It’s tidy. Presentable. Just that one sock of Jude’s collecting dust on the bathroom floor. The distance is short between where I stand and the entrance. It takes me seconds to crook my fingers around the chain link. I unhook it and allow her to enter.
Blue eyes dim at the sight of me. “Get dressed,” she says.
My eyes go to the wristwatch I rarely pay attention to. “It’s four thirty in the afternoon—it’s not the morning, and I’m not supposed to go to work.”
“Yeah, sweetie,” she whispers, like she feels bad for me, causing a lump to ferment in my throat.
“Don’t do the pity thing,” I say.
Zoe. When I started working at Scott’s Diner, she quickly became my friend. In the beginning, I w
as her awkward, inexperienced acquaintance, but we grew close, and she has since picked up the pieces of my sanity in more ways than I could have imagined.
Zoe. She’s always here for me. Sometimes, I wonder about her patience. She’s not a saint, and yet her patience is saintly. Sometimes, I want her to just go away. Like now.
“I’m not coming wherever it is,” I tell her, but she brushes my bed-hair away from my face and nods.
“Yeah, you are. Concert, remember? We’re going to see Luminessence tonight, and even better, the hot Swedish guys in their opening band, Clown Irruption.”
I feel my head move from side to side, rejecting our former agreement. Zoe stops it with both hands, holding my face still, and I close my eyes.
“No, you’re not backing out of this. The tickets are already paid for.”
“We’ve seen both bands before.”
“Precisely.”
I’m not following her logic. Been there, done that is my take on this.
“Plus, you promised,” she says. “It’s in the freaking arena, and they’ll be selling beer and wine.”
“We sell beer and wine at Scott’s.”
“—and work there. And it’s not a concert. Nadia, Nadia,” she tsks.
The sigh sieving out of my lungs depletes me of energy. I want to go back to bed. I shoot a longing gaze behind me to crumpled sheets and indentations in pillows. See the sweet depression in Jude’s where his head should be next to mine right now.
“No, don’t even think about it. Let’s. Get. Dressed.”
“Who says that?” I mutter, trotting back to the bedroom. “Preschool teacher much? No need to include yourself in the ‘getting dressed’ part.”
I shoot her a onceover that reveals studiously straightened, shiny, blonde lengths surrounding her doll face. Nose pointy but small, still powdered to perfection in the blazing L.A. afternoon heat. Pink miniskirt, silk top with ruffles accentuates her boobs in the front, and her stilettos are so tall only Zoe can pull them off. Today, they’re a bright, Melrose Place gold.
“Yay, she’s being testy. Now, we’re talkin’,” Zoe says. We rifle through the small closet I share with Jude. My clothes outweigh his, but neither of us has a lot. I don’t want to think about how beautifully folded his are. My heart drops, recalling how they’ve become fewer, month by month. I make a mental note to keep that from happening.
Jude.
In the end, Zoe and I settle on an outfit she thinks is too dark and I think has a too-deep neckline. My husband bought it for me. I’ve worn it a couple of times, but it’s not me.
“Shut up,” Zoe says. “Your waist is crazy narrow, and this dress really shows off your curves.” Her critical eye scours my backside before she scales to my head. “Okay, so those long, chocolate locks of yours will need a twirling. Hmm.”
I don’t like the look on her face. Zoe pinches her mouth with two fingers and blows air into her hand, getting ready to shoot me The Truth.
“I’m done watching you get thinner. And thinner and thinner. Something has to be done. You don’t have a butt anymore either, and guys love a good butt.”
“Guys? I’m married,” I say.
Zoe’s head snaps up from the shoes she’s holding, and blue eyes ten shades lighter than Jude’s ignite with fury. “But he’s not doing it for you now, is he?”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—I’m sorry.” Zoe’s pitch slinks low and repentant from next to me in the cab. It took her long enough.
“You’re mean. I should have stayed at home,” I say, but her hand goes out and pets my cheek, fingers feminine-smooth, silky soft and different from Jude’s.
“What good would it do though, sweetie? You need to live a little.” She means well, and I love her. She needs to stop talking.
“You fucking live.” My outburst is unintentional and leaves Zoe momentarily speechless. The taxi driver turns up the radio, some country song melding with the smell of Wunderbaum. Who decided car fresheners were worthy of an invention anyway? I feel sick.
“I am living.” Zoe’s voice lowers through the words. “We’re going to a concert. We’ll have drinks. Dance, Nadia. Remember dancing?”
“I don’t want to dance.”
“Bull. Once we’re there, the crowd will be fantastic. Everyone will be on their feet, probably rushing the front of the stage and mosh-pitting.”
“Oh no,” I mutter as her short, black nails go to her mouth for a quick nibble of happy-jittery energy.
I stare out the window. Let my eyes first fix then give up on each palm tree passing us. Zoe is the life of the party, a quirky, charming blast to be around in this mood. Just—you have to be in the mood too. I hope she calms down.
I should go home.
“Emil…” Zoe hums. “He’s so freaking hot. Kisses like a pro too.”
“Emil who?” I ask because it will make her talk about something besides mosh pits.
Her jaw drops in exaggerated surprise. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the lead singer of Clown Irruption? He squirms up there on stage, all smarmy and slinking around his microphone. All sweaty, and then—”
“Ew,” I say.
“Oh come on, ‘sweaty’ is like sex. Or, like, sex is sweaty.”
I groan. “I’m not comfortable talking about this, Zoe.”
“Which you need to get over and I’m helping. Did you see when he was singing that one song, the super-sad, really beautiful song, how he massaged his bulge on the mic stand? I swear he’s got a full-on joystick. Maybe I’ll volunteer to help him with it.” She yells the last part, because the driver has notched the radio up to concert level, despite the tune being slower than a psalm.
Zoe bounces closer to me. Leans her chin on my shoulder so she’s sure I can hear her when she says, “You notice that? The driver”—she wheeze-shouts now—“is a fellow prude of yours!”
To read more, click here.
BO
Sex is a dance with her. A slow tango where skin flows over skin. It is slick readiness, a quiet welcome. It’s smooth, warm, right, and all wrong.
There’s no move she makes I don’t preempt. When it’s new, I follow. When I’m different, she forms to me. She was the ground I walked on. The air I worshipped. The first years together she was my everything.
With Ingela, sex is love. It is guilt over not giving her what she’s worthy of.
This girl. She deserves so much. And I?
I don’t have it all.
The way she looks at me. It’s knives sharpened and twisting in my gut because the extent of her love is beyond my capacity. I tell her again, for the seventh time in five years, what the answer always must be:
“Ingela, I can’t. You are the best person I know. You deserve someone with the chops to love you hard and forever. I’m not that man.”
Again, I’ve reduced her to this; her body, the one I just took to the skies in ecstasy, wracks with grief. This is why tonight is the last time we break up. I hate myself. I have to accept that I can’t make her happy.
It’s time I quit chickening out, quit running back to her over a bleak fling and whenever I need solace. To me, she’s comfort and familiarity. I’ll never stop loving Inga.
But to her, I’m still everything.
CAMERON
The chase is over. Right here, right now, this is it. Even if it only lasts thirty seconds, the rush of what I’m about to do floods me and makes me feel. It’s so intense, every muscle in my body goes rigid with anticipation.
The air is sharp and early-morning raw. I stare out from my post on an overhang off Firam Peak. Let my eyes judge the steep drop into the ravine on the backside of the mountain. Jagged granite walls form unpredictable patterns that crash to the bottom the way I will soon, and a light dusting of snow contrasts starkly with the somber stone.
I shake my arms. Not to relieve the tension but to make sure I’m nimble and ready. I didn’t invite my friends, Dan and Marek, along today. I’d be better off with someone el
se around, of course, but nothing compares to the thrill I experience as I step forward alone. I’m on the edge now, in every sense of the word.
I draw in a breath of icy oxygen. Crack my fingers inside my gloves and adjust the strap on my helmet. I’m ready.
It’s so easy to plunge off the cliff. All I do is heave up on my toes and extend my arms. A light bend at the knees and I’m off, flying.
Ah, yes. I fly.
So good.
The wind howls around me. I’m fast—I’ve jumped a dozen times into this ravine so the speed doesn’t surprise me. When we started base jumping, Dan and I would heave ourselves as far out as we could to stay clear of the rock walls during the free-fall. With the velocity you take on, the smallest miscalculation will throw you against the ragged stone, toss you around, and beat you about like a rag doll. It’d be hard to survive.
It gets boring, though, to be careful every time. Which is why, at this point, to get that rush—the woozy bliss inundating my brain for hours afterward—I simply tip off the edge.
The wingsuit I wear is advanced technology. I stretch my arms out to the side, the fabric spanning open at my sides. A familiar sting of disappointment sings through me as I realize I’ll never fly without the squirrel suit. I can’t even begin to imagine the drug it would be to base jump with no security equipment. Straight to death, of course. I chuckle to myself at the thought.
I’m reaching the white ravine floor too quickly. Fuck, I’m lightning fast. The parachute on my back is a click away, but I postpone it, postpone it—
I’m on top of the world!
I’m so fucking alive while I plunge to what could be my last moment on Earth. I curl my body into a somersault and shout my rush out in an echo against the surrounding rock.
“Wooh-hooh!”
The ground shoots up toward me. No one, no one is here to help—or hear—if I hurt myself.
I pull the strap of the parachute. It deploys in the nick of time. Again, I’ve done it. I’ve survived by calculating the fall correctly. The parachute slows my speed so I tumble onto the snowy blanket with minimal impact to my legs. Somehow I’m lame enough to hit the snow with an arm under me, and my ring finger snaps—the same one that gave up in Italy a year back when I raced down a pine tree with my legs on each side like a fucking cartoon character. It’s a miracle my balls are intact.