Yours to Bare

by Jessica Hawkins

  I smile to myself. Every time I’m with him, I become more confident that he knows me. And he’s asking for more. “No,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “I’m on antidepressants.”

  He scans my face. “Okay. That’s not so rare these days. Kendra, my ex, went through that phase.”

  “It’s not a phase.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply it was. I just meant lots of people take them.”

  “About a week ago, I decided to stop. I’ve been weaning myself off them. Rich noticed because my mood’s been a little erratic, and he and my dad don’t approve.”

  Finn nods slowly. A strand of his hair falls over his forehead. I have to stop myself from pushing it back into place, from running my hands through his butterscotch-colored locks. “It’s not really their decision, is it?” he asks. “It’s between you and your psychiatrist.”

  I wasn’t involved in the decision to start treatment. I wouldn’t have any say in stopping it. Finn believes I should have that right, though. He’s a good man who would see me as a partner, not a puppet. “My psychiatrist listens to my dad. He says our sessions are private, but I don’t believe him. They decide together, and I’m supposed to go along with it because he’s a doctor.”

  “Then you need to find someone else. That’s a delicate relationship. If you don’t trust your doctor, it can’t work.”

  He makes it sound so simple. He almost makes me believe it is simple. For that, I want to hug him. “The thing is . . .” I can’t believe I’m saying this. It’s something I haven’t said aloud to anyone other than Doctor Lumby, a thought I’ve been trying to avoid. “They’re right. After almost ten years, I don’t even know who I am without them. I don’t know if I can control myself.”

  Finn’s mouth drops open. “Did you say ten years? How old are you?”

  I look away. It does sound like an alarming length of time, even to my own ears. It just shows how fucked up I am. “Twenty-five.”

  Finn puts his hands on my shoulders, encompassing them. “Look at me.”

  He waits until our eyes meet again.

  “Taking antidepressants is nothing to be ashamed of. It doesn’t change how I feel about you. But why the fuck does a fifteen-year-old need to be medicated?”

  “I’m troubled. I make bad decisions.” Am I really prepared to go back to that place without any armor on? I’ve been worried I’d lost myself somewhere in the last decade, but maybe that part of me needs to stay gone. “Without treatment, I make mistakes. I’m dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Finn asks. “Let me get this straight. You made a mistake when you were fifteen, and you’ve been on antidepressants ever since? Do you really think you’re the first teenager to make bad choices?”

  “It’s not that cut and dry.”

  “It’s extreme, Halston.” He runs a hand through his hair, moving it off his face. “It doesn’t sound right.”

  After ten years of hearing the opposite, my instinct is to defend my dad. He didn’t know what else to do with me. I was reckless. Finn’s validation is too heady to resist, though. It was an awful mistake, but maybe I’ve changed. He’s right—I was just a kid. “I don’t want to keep taking them. I’m just afraid of what’ll happen if I don’t, and I know Rich is too.”

  “This is what you fought about?” I nod, and he puts an arm around my shoulders. “Come on. It’s cold. Let’s go up and you can tell me the rest.”

  I let him walk me to his building, his body heat warming me instantly like I’ve taken a pull of strong liquor. I try to inhale him, but it’s too cold to smell anything. Even without his scent drawing me in, even with him knowing I’m a head case, even though I’m biting my tongue to keep from insisting we get coffee first, I make a decision—I’m going to sleep with Finn. Rich won’t find out. And if he does? I’m not sure I’d feel whatever I’m supposed to. Maybe we really are through. It’d be strange; he’s always been reliable. Breaking up with him is like losing a safety net, but maybe that’s a good thing. Finn could be my chance at the kind of passion I’ve only dared to write about.

  Finn keeps his arm around me through the lobby, up the elevator, and to his door. He unlocks the apartment, guiding me in with a hand on my middle back. The heat is on. He takes my scarf and coat, shakes off the snowflakes, and hangs my things with his jacket.

  “Want something to eat?” he asks.

  I unzip my boots and leave them at the door. I’m not very tall, even in heels, so I have to tilt my head back to look up at him. “I’m okay.”

  “Drink?”

  I thought you’d never ask. I nod hard. “Definitely.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and set my handbag on the counter.

  He opens the refrigerator. “I’m a little disappointed you changed out of those tights.”

  He’d noticed. I’ve had them in my underwear drawer for years, but today was the first time I’d pulled them out. “You didn’t even get to see all of them,” I say.

  He closes the fridge and turns slowly. “No?”

  Any traces of the wintry night fade. My body warms as Finn’s eyes travel downward. “There are little bows at the tops of each leg. Right under my ass.”

  His expression darkens. I’ve seen desire in his eyes before—like when our knees touched on the windowsill at Lait Noir or when he almost kissed me on the couch. But now he’s no longer trying to hide it. “That’d make a good photo.”

  I haven’t stopped wanting Finn’s camera lens on me, even though he told me in the park we couldn’t do it again. “You posted,” I say.

  He nods. “A couple hours ago.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to look yet.”

  He gets his phone from his back pocket and hands it to me. “The code is 2008.”

  Getting his password to unlock the screen feels like a form of intimacy, but I try not to look too excited about it. I pull up the photo, and my mouth drops open. “You have fifty more followers.”

  “Are you keeping track, Serenity?”

  I blush hearing the handle I use on all my social media, @suhr.enity. In the excitement of wanting to see him, I’d forgotten that we’d never actually connected online outside of e-mail. “How’d you know the message was from me?”

  He arches an eyebrow. “Lucky guess. Where does Suhr come from?”

  I look at the screen. “My mom’s maiden name.”

  “Did you consider any other ‘Suhr’ words?”

  I glance up. “Like what?”

  “Suhr-ender.”

  My insides tighten. He says it like a command, or an idea he’s just had. Is he suggesting I give in to him for a night? How would that feel? “Friends and family follow me on that account.”

  “And? Surrender’s inappropriate?”

  Inappropriate. God. There’s that word again. This time, I’m the one acting like a prude, not Rich. I’m not exactly wild, but have I become boring? No. A boring person wouldn’t be here right now.

  I return my eyes to the picture. “Nobody commented on the last two posts,” I say. “Do you think that means they didn’t like what I wrote?”

  “No,” he says. “In fact, the one with your fingers in your mouth has more likes.”

  He’s right. It does. I hand him back the phone. “Maybe that’s because of the photo, not the caption.”

  “It doesn’t mean that,” he says. “I got a message just before yours complimenting the captions.”

  “Seriously?” My face splits with a smile. “From who?”

  “Just some random girl.”

  “What’d you say?”

  “I didn’t answer, but I updated the description to say ‘My model and her words are anonymous.’”

  My model. Mine.

  “Is that all right?” Finn catches my eye. “I know keeping your identity secret is important to you.”

  I can see the headline in my mind now:

  “George Fox’s sex-fiend daughter at it again! Poses for racy photos online.”

  “It’
s good,” I say quickly. “I still want that.”

  He returns to the fridge. “All right then. I’ll leave it.” He holds out a water bottle. “Want a tour?”

  I don’t want to seem like a freak by insisting on the coffee he promised me, it is eleven at night after all, so I take the water. It isn’t easy. When I’m uncomfortable, I cling to my patterns, as Rich says. Being here is out of character for me. This isn’t work or home or my dad’s or Rich’s place. And Finn certainly isn’t Rich.

  I follow him down a hall to one of the closed doors. He opens it, gesturing me in before him. It’s dark, the lights dimmed just enough to make the room glow. A desk by the window is topped by an enormous computer, both opposite a small couch. Photography equipment is assembled in a corner, including a camera on a tripod. I avoid looking at the prints on the wall because I’ll immediately judge them. It’s automatic, and I want to think of Finn as the man who made me sexy, not the mediocre, flat photographer I’d thought he was when I’d first looked at his work.

  “Should we take another?” he asks.

  I spin around. “Now?”

  “No, not now. Or, maybe now. If inspiration strikes.” He half-smiles, almost smirking.

  I wonder, if I were wearing the stripe-y tights, would inspiration have struck us down already? Would he have crossed the kitchen, impatient to see the bows? Lifted up my skirt and bent me over the counter for a better look? I curl my hands into balls, an ache forming between my legs. I don’t know what I want more, to fuck Finn or pose for him. “If you were to feel inspired . . . what might you do?”

  “Hmm.” He circles me, looking me over. From every angle. I fight the urge to cover myself or hide. Finn hasn’t given me any reason to be self-conscious. His perusal is both intoxicating and distressing. I want him to drink me in, but what if he doesn’t like how I taste? The hair on my skin prickles as I wait for his assessment. “The white collar of your blouse makes you look so sweet.” He says sweet with an edge that weakens my knees. “Like a good girl. It makes me want to turn you bad.”

  My legs are going to give out, and he hasn’t even touched me yet, not even close. He’s put enough distance between us to ensure I couldn’t even reach out and grab him if I wanted.

  “You can do that with a photo?” I ask. “Turn me bad?”

  “I can certainly try.”

  I nod breathlessly. I want to say, “Try! Please try!” but I don’t trust myself to speak without begging.

  He stops in front of me and picks up something from his desk. “Do you have words for that?” he asks, holding my journal out to me.

  I didn’t even notice it before. I take it. The feel of the leather is the only thing that’s ever come as close to comforting me like my mother’s embrace once had. I open it and flutter the pages, playing the edges like the strings of an instrument. My hands tremble, and I’m certain Finn notices.

  I only know what I’m looking for once I find it. “Here,” I say, giving it back to him.

  He shakes his head. “Read it for me. It sounds so much better from your mouth.”

  I’m already blushing profusely. I’m sure he notices that too. “I hate reading it aloud.”

  He grunts. “Then don’t, not for anyone but me. Don’t read it, don’t show it, don’t even mention it to anyone else. Just me.”

  My heart thumps. He wants exclusive access to this part of me. I want to give it to him, but that means stepping outside my comfort zone. Sharing my journal is more baring than his eyes on my body, than having my photo taken. I think I could strip down to nothing with less effort than it takes to read to him.

  “Please,” he says.

  My fear melts, just a little. He wants this, and don’t I owe it to him for loving my words enough to want to hear them? Luckily, the passage I chose is short and clean. It’s fairly innocuous—until you really start to think about it . . .

  “‘Make me a woman,’” I read. “‘Let me be your girl.’”

  I keep my eyes on the page, but I feel his gaze on me. Is he waiting for me to continue? That’s all there is. The meaning isn’t obvious at first, but I thought he’d understand. If he doesn’t, that choice will sound weird to him. It’s not the sexiest line, I admit. And maybe too nuanced for what we’re doing.

  I open my mouth to tell him I can pick out something else. I don’t speak, though. This caption feels right for the moment. I’m not sure if I’m more nervous that I’ll have to defend my choice or that he’ll like it and want to use it. When it feels as if a full minute has passed, I close the book, squeeze the leather for reassurance, and finally look up.

  “Perfect,” he says.

  “Perfect?”

  “It’s subtle, like your words, and at the same time, straight up sex.”

  “You get it?”

  “She wants to be handled tenderly, almost like a child. To surrender to someone more powerful than her. And when she does, when he has his way with her, then she’ll be a woman.”

  My heart is in my throat. I shouldn’t’ve doubted that he’d understand. Not everyone would, and maybe that makes it a bad choice for a caption, but Finn does. “I think every woman feels like a girl and a woman at some point during sex.” I pass the book back to him. “You don’t think it’s too vague? Or weird?”

  “Obviously not.”

  I don’t understand why that’s obvious until I drop my eyes to his crotch. I look away just as quickly, but not before I notice the bulge in his sweatpants.

  “C’mere,” he says.

  Butterflies light up my insides, an eruption of fluttering wings, as if I’d spooked a bird sanctuary. This is it. I’m going to do this. Finn will be the fourth man I’ve ever slept with, and I don’t want to mess this up. I want it to be right, to be good, better than good.

  I walk to him, closing the space between us. He reaches up and moves my hair over my shoulder, resting it against my back. He looks at the neckline of my blouse, his eyes trailing the curve of my neck up to my mouth. He never meets my gaze, but circles around me, so he’s at my back. “It’ll be simple,” he says. “Just undo the top button of your blouse.”

  He leaves me where I am. I look over my shoulder. He turns the camera equipment around. My thoughts jumble. I don’t understand what he means. Or what he’s doing. Or why I don’t go stand in front of the camera instead of him moving everything to face me.

  I look forward again and my eyes land on the couch. The couch? He’s aiming the camera there? If he thinks he’s going to record us having sex, he’s delusional. He saw how hesitant I was about taking photos while fully dressed, does he think I’d let him video us while he strips me, lays me down, kisses me?

  It occurs to me—I don’t know. I have no idea what he expects, because I don’t actually know him at all.

  I asked to come up here. I read to him from my journal. Maybe I’ve made him think I’m looking for danger, thrills, sex. Aren’t I, though? Isn’t that what it would be to record something so intimate? Dangerously thrilling, taboo, wrong?

  I inhale sharply as I imagine performing for the camera—and then him watching me after I’ve left.

  “Doing okay?” he asks.

  I look back at him. “Are you . . . are you going to record it?”

  “Record what?”

  “Us?”

  He stops fiddling with the camera to stare at a spot on the floor. He seems to think hard about his next move, then comes over and looks me straight in the eye. “Halston?”

  I try not to fidget. “Y-yes?”

  “We’re never going to do anything—anything—that makes you uncomfortable. I wouldn’t record something like that without talking to you first. To be honest, it never crossed my mind.”

  I exhale a long breath, relieved. Or am I? A small part of me likes the idea of Finn savoring this later. “Good,” I say.

  “And another thing.” He looks me over. “We’re not going to sleep together.”

  This time, I know exactly what I feel. Disappointment
. “We’re not?”

  “No.”

  I try to pinpoint what might’ve happened the last few minutes to extinguish his desire, but my mind is reeling too fast. It wasn’t easy for me to decide to do this. Did I imagine his interest, from the earlier fire in his eyes to the bulge in his pants? “Why not?” I ask.

  Even though I’m already looking at him, he lifts my chin slightly with his knuckle. “Don’t lie to me. Ever. I’ve had enough secrets and sneaking around for one lifetime.”

  “When did I lie?” I ask. “Everything I told you was true.”

  “You didn’t break up with him.”

  “We . . . we’re as good as—”

  “That’s not enough. That affair I had was a nightmare. I won’t do it again.”

  “Then why’d you bring me up here?” I ask, embarrassment igniting my temper. I’m already as uncomfortable as I’ve been in a while. I don’t need to be spurned after I’ve put myself so far out there.

  He sighs. “I believe you if you say you’re not in love with him—”

  “I’m not.”

  “But on this one thing, I won’t budge. I will not sleep with you unless I know you’re mine. Really and truly mine, until there’s no chance you’ll ever go back to him. Until he knows it’s over too.”

  My entire being aches for Finn, as if I’ve been holding off my need since the night I met him on the sidewalk, and just now let it flood me. Only to be rejected by him. “I want to be yours. Isn’t that enough for tonight?”

  He takes a few steps back, rounds the camera, and looks through the viewfinder. “Come closer.”

  My pulse beats at the base of my throat. I walk toward him until he holds up his hand, until I’m close enough that my face won’t be in the photo. I take the hem of the V-neck sweater I’m wearing over my blouse and pull it off. I look slimmer without it. My hair frizzes with static, so I smooth it back in place. I drop my sweater at my feet.

  “Just the top button,” he says.

  My nails are bare, like a good girl’s would be. I unbutton the collar while he photographs me. I watch his hands around the camera, big, strong, skillful. I raise my chin to expose my neck and continue down the middle of the blouse, all without instruction.