by Lia Riley
“You expect people to let you down.”
“Not you,” I growl back.
“Not yet.” She flops to the mattress, deflated, and throws an arm over her eyes.
“I love you. No way am I going anywhere.”
“Please go, get out. I can’t stand you in here, seeing me like this, popping pills, researching medical fucking marijuana because I can’t deal.” She draws her knees up, curls into a fetal position. “It’s shaming. I can’t stand myself.”
I lean toward her, stroke her hair. “Let me try to—”
“I didn’t live up to what I wanted to be in Africa and hate myself for it, okay?” She wriggles away. “I can’t give you my best. This shitty, weak self is all I’ve got to offer. You don’t understand. Things work out for you. When you try, you succeed.”
She is wandering so far from right. I’ve crashed and burned a good many times. “Listen, Talia, about when I was Down South—”
“I don’t want a pep talk.”
“You need me.”
“What I need is a brain transplant.”
“Sweetheart.” I jump off her bed, circle the room, lost. “I understand you’re wired differently, but to me that’s not a bad thing.”
“Why?”
“You are the only person who’s ever accepted me, even at my worst.” Jesus, I’m exposing my every weakness here and she can’t even meet my eyes. A vein pulses in my neck. For so long, I shut myself down, believing it was the safer option. Talia opened me up, to life, to hope. She gave me courage to believe. Why can’t I do the same for her? My mouth dries. I need to do better, try harder. “Your heart is big because you understand hurt. Who else would have ever believed in me? Trusted that I could get out of my own way and be the guy you deserve?”
“I don’t want to understand hurt, Bran.” She rolls away. “I’d give a limb to stop thinking. But there’s no way to escape my mind. Or undo how I fucked up by joining the Peace Corps. I wasn’t cut out for it and now everyone knows. I keep getting these sympathetic ‘it was for the best’ messages.” She grabs a pillow and shoves it over her head. “All I want to do is never feel anxious ever again and no one can give me that, least of all myself.”
“What about going to Santa Cruz for your graduation ceremony? You worked hard to get there. Why not take some time to focus on what you’ve achieved. Celebrate? Remember, great things are done through lots of small steps.”
She stills. Maybe I’m getting through.
“Stop trying to untie my knots.” She begins to cry, great sobbing wracks. “I just want to be left alone. Do I have to fall on my knees and beg?”
I’m at her side in two quick steps, all frustration evaporating at the sound of her weeping. “Hey! Calm down, please, you’re going to make yourself sick.”
“I want you to go downstairs.” Her voice is muffled under the pillow. “Leave me alone.”
That sentence, it’s a knife to my gut. “Let me fix this.”
“You can’t whip out a tool belt and go to work on me! It doesn’t work that way.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I touch her leg. “Talia—”
“Go, go, go, go—” She grips the pillow, chanting the word.
I came up here to try to make a connection. Instead I’ve pushed her even further into her OCD spiral. Fan-fucking-tastic job. When I pull her bedroom door closed it takes every ounce of willpower not to slam it off the hinges.
I’m out. Alone. Not enough to help her. Scott glances from the television as I barge through the living room. He’s only made the problem worse with his enabling excuses, not challenging the status quo. If I wasn’t here, how long would Talia be allowed to haunt the bloody shadows in some sort of half-life?
It’s doing my head in, but I’ve got to stay. She needs me and I won’t let go.
I throw on my runners, hit the empty street, and push hard. I lose track of the distance after ten kilometers. I run and run but can’t escape Talia telling me to leave. The sidewalk peters near the freeway. I prop myself against a lone tree and stare out, concrete in every direction. Cars speed past—all these people with someplace to go. What am I doing? For such a smartass, I’ve got no answer.
I throw back my head and scream at the overcast sky. My girlfriend won’t speak to me. I have no money. I owe ten grand to my dad because I spent everything I had on getting to South Africa. Family money was strictly a no-go for me, until Talia got sick and I needed to be with her here, in America, where I can’t work. Or do school. Or do anything but climb the walls and avoid e-mails from my dad about the Lockhart Foundation. He’s all business, all the time. I get that’s how he functions but an occasional How the hell are you doing, mate call would go a long fucking way.
I’m stuck at this invisible crossroads, unsure which direction to take. So in the end, I do the only thing there is to do: I run back to the house.
Upon my return I fill three pints of water and drink them in quick succession. The liquid hits my gut, leaving me nauseated, and I wander to the veranda. There’s a scuffle from the cage in the corner. Chester the chinchilla. My furry mate. My comrade-in-arms. What the? Is he doing what I think he’s—
The fucking chinchilla is self-fellating. I don’t know where to look.
“Bloody hell, don’t mind me mate.”
Chester carries on like I’m not even there.
I fall on the futon and slam my foot against the lumpy mattress. I don’t know what to do, but I’ll be damned if things can’t get much worse.
Chapter Five
Talia
Crib sectionals are stacked against my bedroom’s far wall. Correction—not mine—this ten-by-ten patch of real estate belongs to the Sea-Monkey. Dad’s replacement child. He’s rebooted his family and is up and running with a new system. I’m like a virus.
Jessie finished painting the future nursery a shade called “Lemon Twist.” “Morning-After Curry” is more apt. Poor kid, it’s got plenty of nauseous hours to look forward to in here.
Jesus, listen to me. I sit on a throne of assholery.
There’s a creak outside my door. Bran? My thighs clench. My emotions for him are all over the map. It’s amazing that he’s still here. I can see him trying, putting himself out there, being vulnerable in the hopes I’ll do the same. But all my good is being eclipsed by ugly, black fear and malignant shame, and I hate he sees that; I hate it so hard.
There’s a feminine giggle out in the hall, followed by a muffled groan. Oh, hell no. Jessie and Dad are making out? Clearly they touch each other, Jessie’s gigantic womb is proof enough, but I don’t want to hear actual evidence. A wall bumps. I eye the window, seriously considering leaping out Superman-style. I’d rather plummet to the earth than listen to my dad get jiggy.
There’s more furtive laughter, followed by audible shushing. A door slams with a little too much force.
It’s not that I want my dad to be miserable and alone, but the fact his relationship is so relaxed and happy? Their brightness only makes the rain cloud I’m trapped under all the darker and more dismal. A faint noise of running water starts down the hall. Bran must have gotten in the shower, because Dad and Jessie have their own bathroom in the master suite. A sob breaks from me, a single, sharp wrenching note. Oh God, please don’t let me crush him under my mountain of crap until his love is squeezed away.
After he stormed out earlier, I bit off all the new growth on my fingernails. Then I gnawed an angry sore on the inside of my bottom lip. Then I cried in the closet, next to a stack of tiny cloth diapers. Finally, I canceled my appointment with a local doctor to get the written documentation necessary for obtaining medical marijuana.
My outburst at Bran was crazy town, and I don’t want to live there anymore. I tip my head back and offer my next breath to the universe, imagine it spiraling to the sky, leaving the atmosphere, carrying my confused longing to the invisible stars. I can’t see starlight right now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. That’s how my feelings
are for Bran. I can’t feel…anything…in this awful place, but I know love is inside me, locked away.
When we were together in Australia, I felt attuned to him. Sure, we had our share of discord, but I became pretty dang skilled at sensing his rhythms. Lately, it’s like I’m forgetting the words to a familiar song. What-ifs, my old enemy, keep paying insidious visits. What if he doesn’t even want to be here? I mean, why should he? He lives for activism, the thrill of grabbing a cause, righting wrongs. I’ve forced him into this quiet, midcentury house, where he paces the halls like a captive panther. He’s not the type to chill in the suburbs indefinitely, go to the mall for fun.
Imagine him in line at Mrs. Fields Cookies.
For me, this Sacramento suburb, Bankside, is the perfect place to hide. No one questions me about taking the cop-out route from the Peace Corps, choosing early termination. Sure, malaria is a good reason on paper, yet I can’t shake the fact it’s an excuse. I secretly didn’t want to be teaching English as a Second Language for the next two years, and it’s like my body decided to up and do what my brain would not. It got us out of there.
But where am I? Not home. Not even close. The idea of going to Santa Cruz for graduation, getting asked by everyone what I’m up to. What’s my next plan? Holy Christ on a cracker, that’s a torture I’m not ready for.
My phone buzzes. S’up, homeslice? It’s a text from my friend Sunny. There’s a person who doesn’t stress. She spends her days chilling at the beach, works a hassle-free job at an organic grocery store, and bed-hops around town. Sure, she got a degree in art, but she’s not having any sort of existential, what-am-I-doing-with-my-life dramas. She lives in the moment, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.
How’s the thunder from down under? ;)
She checks in every day, and so does Beth. But I’ve asked them not to visit, not yet. Made excuses that I was too tired, too sick, when really I’m just overwhelmed and embarrassed. They are both going places, and here I squat at Jessie’s house like a big ol’ failure to launch.
All good, I respond. Because what do I say? My sex drive has taken a one-way vacation to Pluto? I can’t bring myself to talk to my boyfriend, let alone engage in a whole body dialogue. I roll over and muffle my groan. At this point, I’m not even sure what would make things better. I want to reach out to Bran, but I am trapped in this revolving door. Every time I push, I end up exactly where I started, a place of self-loathing and life doubt.
Haven’t heard from you in a while.
I fire back an airy response. I know, sorry! Been busy. Watching puke-colored paint dry and shutting out my boyfriend.
Busy? Yeah, right. Busy with bow chicka wow wow. I want to see you soon, okay? I miss you xxx
LOL. Miss you too! I hit send and throw my phone onto the rug.
Shit, I have to chill out. Otherwise I’ll do something stupid, like count heartbeats. That’s one of the worst rituals because it means I can’t stop looking inward. Can’t escape my own body even when I wish to flee my flesh like Peter Pan’s wayward shadow.
Double shit. I forgot to take my medication tonight. Nice one. Because nothing says “I want to cease being a pathetic loser” more than spacing the thing that has a chance in hell of curing me.
The problem is that my pills are in the bathroom, where Bran’s currently showering.
Stop being a whiner, sneak in and sneak out. He’ll never know you’re there.
I tiptoe down the hall. There’s no light under Dad and Jessie’s closed door.
The shower is still going full throttle. I turn the knob slow to minimize the noise. The orange pill bottle is on the counter. I’m going to get away with it.
“Talia.”
Bran’s voice rumbles from behind the shower curtain.
Damn. I close my eyes. “Uh, yes? Hey there. Hello, hello.”
“You need me?” His words come out gruff like he’s expecting to be rebuffed.
Yes.
No.
I don’t know.
Here’s a guy who still needs convincing of his own lovability, and I’ve put a prison glass partition between us.
“I’m all good.” My accompanying laugh is hollow. “Forgot to take my pills.”
He doesn’t respond.
Maybe I should give him a kiss, couldn’t hurt. I mean, it’s a normal part of the girlfriend job description. I can’t remember the last time I did it—which is so fucked up and a testament to how far underground I’ve gone. I’ve been a terrible girlfriend. I’ve got to get things under control—a large task, but a kiss is a start. I pinch the shower curtain and pull it aside.
Bran stands, back to the spray, regarding me with glittering, hooded eyes. My gaze drops over the bare chest that my mouth and hands are so intimately familiar with, and lower still, past his flat stomach. He’s got a hand working his dick in a rhythm so private, so personal, I feel like I should cover my eyes. Apologize. Get the hell out.
He doesn’t stop. Or look away.
His irises are an impossible green, like a thermal pool, hot, dangerous. You know you shouldn’t touch, what will happen if you do. It will scald. You won’t even be left with skin. But this is the kind of look that overrides good judgment, despite, or maybe even due to, the danger. Even though I was the original architect of this safety fence, I’m tempted to jump the rail and burn.
His top teeth jut out, far enough to catch his lower lip and bite down. Yearning compresses my capillaries. Slit my wrists and rubies will spill forth.
He increases the pace, his heavy-lidded gaze one part desire and one part amused. His mouth crooks in a slow, wicked smile.
Cheeky.
He knows exactly what he’s doing.
He doesn’t ask me to join. He doesn’t ask me to leave. His eyes don’t swerve from mine. “I love you.” A low huskiness threads his words.
A hot surge fires through my hips. “I’m not sure I deserve it.”
“You do, but I’m not loving you for you alone. I love you for me too.” His groan carries a hoarse note as his dick slides through his grip, root to tip. I know how it feels, having him inside me—like I went to the lost and found and discovered the exact thing I was missing.
My fingers twitch. It would be such an easy thing to reach out and touch. I’m Sleeping Beauty, my desire an evil Maleficent. His next noise is raggedly intense, dragged from a secret location that’s strictly ours. I’m the only person who takes him to this place. He’s the only one who takes me to mine.
Typical Bran. Right when I think I’ve hit the depth of my longing, he does something like this, the ground splits, and I uncover whole new caverns of wanting.
He thrusts harder and my knees turn traitor. I sink to the tub’s edge and sit on my hands, not trusting myself to touch, 100 percent unable to avert my eyes. Nerves knot in a bundle between my legs.
His free hand reaches to clench his hair. His throat is red from the water’s temperature and his own mad want. He’s still not looking away and I’m not looking away and somehow without him laying a single finger on me, this is the most erotic moment of my entire life. His teeth tighten their hold on his lips as his ribs start to rise and fall. His abdomen pulls in, every muscle in his beautiful body tightens.
“You’re gorgeous.” I mean the word to the moon and back. He’s nothing like Michelangelo’s David—too short for starters, and his dick’s too big. With that near-black hair and perfect skin, he’s a fallen angel, one who raged out of heaven, but isn’t quite at home in the darkness. He spreads his feet farther, bracing himself. His second toes are the longest. The top of his nose is a little too broad. It hasn’t been broken, a surprise given his propensity to deal with big feelings through his fists rather than words. His lips are a shade wider than they should be, but the exact perfect shape to fasten on my body.
“Fucking hell.” The urgency of his feral growl crashes through my stomach as if a mountain of cymbals collapses.
Steam cloaks us. He locks his hand around the back of
his neck. There’s no possible way his abs can tighten more. I fixate on his navel and it relaxes me a fraction. Proof he’s human. Not a strange creature conjured from my own personal Garden of Temptation.
“See how I want you.” His agonized whisper is barely audible over the water lashing the tiles. His hips lose their slow, lazy tempo. He pounds himself deeper, harder.
An intense ache spreads from my belly through my breasts. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be turned on. Muscles tighten within my sex. I’m fast remembering.
“Want. You. So. Bloody. Much.” He always sounds like this right before he comes, as if it hurts, like I’m pressing on a wound that’s too much to bear. “Damn it, Talia.”
I can’t look away as he loses himself in a blaze. I’m a prism, refracting his light. His features spin through a kaleidoscope of emotions starting at brutal need and ending with an unexpected vulnerability. My fear about the future disperses so quickly it’s hard to believe only minutes ago it felt inescapable. Bran isn’t some scary what-if. He’s a fact, a truth to hold on to against all life’s uncertainty. Why have I been so afraid he’ll see me as a walking disaster? He knows what it’s like to mess up, to feel like a failure. I need to reframe my question. Rather than asking what if Bran gets sick of me, maybe I should ask, what if we’ve worked our asses off, and finally have a shot at a real forever?
He falls to his knees and grabs me before I can take a breath or do anything but throw my arms around his lean shoulders. Water soaks through the white cotton of my pajama pants until I might as well be naked too.
“Show me the way back to you.” He buries his face in my neck, drags his lips to the place behind my ear, the headwaters for all delicious shivers.
“I want that so much.”
“I’ll do whatever it takes, go off the map.”
“You will?”
“We’re already there.”