by J. Saman
“You fucking bitch,” he snarls. “You goddamn slut.”
I just shrug, turn around and run as fast I can through the living room. One of his pathetic friends is sitting there, not even watching TV or reading a book. He’s just sitting on the chair that’s closest to Jamie’s room, which tells me he was trying to listen to a show. Oh holy fuck, that’s just . . . I don’t even know what to think of that.
I’m just glad I’m leaving.
The front door of the house shuts behind me and the cold, dense fog instantly hits me. It’s the kind that stars in horror movies the world around. But I’m not all that concerned with what could possibly be lurking, waiting to spring.
I touch the door handle of my car and it immediately unlocks, sensing the keys I have stashed in my purse. I start my car and blast the heat, pulling away from the curb and checking the time. 10:48. When the hell did it get so late?
My mind wanders back to earlier as I find my way through the empty streets away from the university, back towards my building, which is closer to downtown. I don’t normally go home with someone on a work night. In fact, I had been much better about not going home at all with someone I just met. I was dating more and fucking less. And I sort of had plans for Kyle.
I was actually pretty proud of that.
Then my mom died.
I get to a stop light and pull my phone out of my bag reflexively. I don’t text and drive, but for some reason, I’m one of those jerks who obsessively checks their phone when they’re stopped at a light.
Texts.
Lots of them.
Kyle. And Kate. But mostly Kyle.
Kate just wanted to make sure I was safe. I’d text her our everything is cool password, but it’s late and I don’t want to wake my preggo friend.
Kyle also wanted to make sure I was safe. But his texts have an edge. An undercurrent. Something going on that I can’t quite place. Anger? Annoyance? Frustration? Fear? But it’s too late to call or text him, even though I sort of wish I could.
I feel guilty for almost sleeping with Jamie because of Kyle and that’s just a weird reaction to have, right? Kyle and I are friends. Nothing more. So why am I smiling at the way he texted me? Why does it give me a giddy flutter in the pit of my stomach?
I text him back before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: I’m fine. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry about me. See you at work, baby cakes.
The light turns green and I drive through it, only another five blessed minutes from my building. At least I wasn’t stupid enough to give Jamie my number. Or my last name. Or really tell him anything about me. Not that I think he’ll come looking for me again.
The streets are vacant, so I fly home, and before I allow my thoughts to wander too dark or deep, I’m parking my car and hopping out. I bring my bag closer to my side, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off the chill in the air and jog a little to the back door of my building. I hit the button for the elevator and before I know it, I’m walking into my empty apartment.
Stripping down, I make a beeline for my shower, needing to scrub the reminder of Jamie from my body. The way he pawed at me turns my stomach. I didn’t even get the mental reprieve I’ve been craving. Sex does that for me. Human, male contact does that for me.
Even if it’s always short lived.
It’s really the low after the high that I hate. The natural way my brain instantly fills back up after it was empty. It’s the quiet ugly hours that really get to me.
But instead of my thoughts finding their usual path through my brain, I’m stuck, fixated on Kyle. I don’t know how to play this game with him and win. It’s why I pulled back after New York. After my mother died. He draws me in. I feel like one of those cartoon characters helplessly following the scent of something yummy when I’m near him.
I seek him out. I did so all weekend, didn’t I?
God, what he must think of me after tonight? I all but ditched him at the bar. But I couldn’t sit there with him a moment longer. He had been watching me from his office all fucking day and I just couldn’t take that curious penetrating stare of his.
Kyle Grant has a million questions for me and I find myself wanting to answer every single one. Wanting to open up to him in a way I’ve never done with anyone before.
Nothing good will come of that, I remind myself.
It’s true. It’s just asking for a world of heartbreak and I avoid that shit like the plague. So instead of dwelling on all the what-ifs and will-never-happens, I wash my body and shampoo and condition my hair. I concentrate on the mind-numbing routine, and allow that to take over everything else.
I change into my Powerpuff Girls tee and boy shorts and crawl under my down comforter. My head hits my pillow and I sigh out contentedly, listening to the heat hiss through the baseboard. I’m exhausted. But relieved. Relieved that at this very moment in time, I’m alive and healthy.
****
I open my eyes to pure darkness as the unwelcome scent of disorientation comes crawling up my nose, forcing my head from side to side until something familiar catches onto my foggy brain. I’m home in my bed. Right. I blink my eyes, looking toward my bedroom window, but it’s closed off with my curtains. I reach over and grab my phone off my nightstand. Pressing the button, I see it’s four-thirty in the morning. Ugh!
I lay back down, but my eyes aren’t closing. My brain is already fluttering through all the crap I have to do today. My legs are moving under my covers like I’m making snow angels.
I’m awake.
Sitting up, I throw the blanket off my body, use the bathroom and head straight for my music room, needing something beautiful to fill my soul. Needing something to give me permanence when I feel so ephemeral.
I sit at my keyboard, press the button to turn it on and place my headphones over my ears so I don’t wake up all my neighbors. They’re a miserable lot when you bother them. I’ve had angry calls, and the police even showed up once because I had a few friends over and it was deemed we were making too much noise.
At first, I just run my fingers across the keys, wishing for the millionth time that I had the space for a real piano. I don’t, so I really need to get over it already. My mind clears and I begin my typical warm-up piece.
Chopin Nocturne Opus 9 Number 2 in e-flat major.
The rhythmic simplicity of the left hand versus the complex freedom of the right is why I love playing it. But as I play, the song quickly morphs into my own variation. My own song. And then I’m singing a cluster of words as they fly through my head without taking the time to analyze or write them down.
They’re just words.
And to be honest, I have no idea if they even make sense together.
But I hit the record button on the MacBook that’s next to my keyboard anyway, because you never know when something spontaneous will turn out to be great.
Music has always been my constant. The thing that held me together when nothing else did. It’s the one thing my mother did for me. She got me lessons, even if it was just to shut me up. Music was important to her too, though. She played the piano and cello. I get lost in the notes. In the music.
That is until I notice my phone lighting up on the edge of the keyboard.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly into the phone.
“Um . . .” Kyle pauses and then it all goes silent.
“You still there?” I ask.
“Yeah. Uh, did I interrupt something?” he asks with a tone that I cannot determine.
“No. Not really. I was just playing piano.”
“Piano?” he parrots like I’m lying.
“Yes. Piano.”
“Okay,” he snaps. “I’m just making sure that you’re home safe after your night out with your friend.”
He’s angry. I mean, his tone suggests that he is. But here’s the question, what exactly is he angry at? And why do I like that he is? Do I want Kyle to be jealous?
I think I just might.
“
I’m home,” I pause, debating how far I want to go. “Nothing happened with him anyway.” My eyes scrunch shut, like a kid hoping to turn invisible if they can’t see anything. What am I doing?
He’s silent for a beat, before asking, “You didn’t sleep with him?”
I smile at the relieved inflection in his voice. “Nope. Not even close.”
More silence.
“Am I still driving you to work?” I ask, perching the phone between my ear and shoulder so I can run my fingers across the keys of my keyboard.
“Sure,” he says simply, but now his tone is blank. Empty.
“Kyle?”
“What?”
“Do you want to get breakfast with me first?” I bite my lip like a nervous teenager. “You know,” I hedge, “since we’re both up.”
Kyle sighs heavily into the phone. He doesn’t know what to do with me. I can’t exactly blame him for that. I don’t know what to do with me either. But I can’t handle the idea of him being mad at me.
“Sure.” Another sigh. “I’ll see you at the coffee shop in a half an hour.”
I get the hang-up beeps and set my phone back down, staring at the now black screen.
I think I fucked up.
Chapter 16
Kyle
“Here,” I say to Claire as I hand her the diet coke she requested.
“Thanks,” she says, taking it from my hand and setting it on the small white table next to her. Claire is lounging back on my balcony, reading a book while I study for the goddamn bar exam. Again.
To be honest, I don’t even know how she got here. We seem to be falling into a pattern of showing up. We meet at the coffee shop in the morning without even discussing it or scheduling it. We just do it and then without asking, we follow the other one home or wherever they’re going, and hang out or go to work together.
Never in my life have I ever been like that with anyone.
It doesn’t even feel like we’re imposing on the other. It’s just sort of the way things have developed. I ride with her to work or she rides with me, even though we both have cars. On weekends, we do things like go to street fairs and paint the walls of my apartment and go out to eat, and I listen to Claire play and make music a lot. She tries to quiz me on the bar exam, but doesn’t really do the best job with that one.
It’s like we’re in a relationship without being in a relationship.
It’s actually what I picture marriage being like when you’re old and have been together for fifty plus years. We don’t have sex. We don’t kiss on the lips.
We do, however touch each other in completely platonic safe places. And that’s another thing—we’re always touching each other. When we’re out, my arm is usually over her shoulder. If we’re watching TV on one of our respective sofas, she’s snuggled into my side.
All of this is something I’ve never experienced with a friend before. Not that I’ve had that many female friends over the years. Yet, I’m unbelievably happy.
It’s an odd sensation.
But right now, with Claire here and the warm fragrant wind on our faces and the sounds of the city below us, it’s the one word that seems to be repeating through my head at an annoyingly peppy rate.
Claire wanted to paint my apartment, so she led me to a hardware store. She wanted to hit up an outdoor street fair, so we did. She wanted to eat weird Tibetan food, so I tried it. I’m starting to get the impression that if she asked me to go sky diving right now, I’d acquiesce with little resistance. Can someone become pussy whipped when they’re not actually getting any pussy?
This girl . . . wow, I didn’t even see it coming.
I slide myself down next to her. We’re lounging on the double chaise on my balcony, even though there are other chairs and single chaises that we could very easily sit on. But we’re not. We silently sat on this one together.
Claire takes a sip of her soda, setting it back down on the table and bringing her knees up so that her Kindle is resting against the exposed skin of her thighs above her shorts. Her very short shorts. She has one arm propped behind her head, her hot-pink framed sun glasses perched perfectly on her nose.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks without taking her eyes away from her e-reader.
“Just wondering what you’re reading,” I say as I take a sip of my regular Coke. I really only keep Diet Coke here for her. And wine. And large Swedish Fish, which she chews on constantly. And organic cheddar crisps that are really an expensive version of Cheez-It crackers.
“Nothing you’d like,” she says, which of course piques my interest, making me lean over to try and catch a few words on the screen.
“Why won’t you tell me?” I ask, trying to snatch the e-reader off her lap, but she pulls it away, angling it so I can’t see it.
“Why do you care?” she counters, nudging me with her elbow, trying to push me away.
I laugh, nudging her back. “I’m just curious. Don’t you want to know what I’m reading?”
“I’m gonna be real honest with you,” she says, pulling down the bridge of her glasses so she can look at me. “No. I don’t.”
“It’s smut, isn’t it? You’re reading porn.” I try to grab her Kindle again, but she holds it out so I’d have to practically climb on top of her to get it.
“Fuck off,” she laughs, pushing me away with her free hand. “Mind your own damn business. Last I checked, you have a big important exam to study for.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” I say, ignoring her jab. “What are you hiding?” I get up on my knees, angling my body over hers and grab the arm that’s holding the e-reader.
“Hey,” she yells, but she’s laughing now, trying to push me off and struggling to maintain her control of the Kindle. “It’s nothing. It’s just a stupid book.”
“Bullshit,” I argue, pulling her arm to me and snatching the book because Claire seems to realize that it’s a losing battle.
She lets out a huff, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest. She’s not embarrassed, but I don’t think she wanted me to read this either. My eyes scan the text for a moment, widening as they go.
“It is porn,” I laugh, dropping back down into my seat. Claire reaches out, trying to swipe her device from my hands but I push her back by the forehead. “No way, cupcake. I’m into this now.”
“You’re a dork.”
“And you’re a secret porn reader.”
“That was a really pathetic come back. It’s not porn. Well, I guess it sort of is. I mean, it’s erotica. But it has a story to it and not like what you’d see in a real porn. It’s not like the cable guy is coming over and the girl opens the door in lingerie before she fucks him.”
“Oh,” I say glancing in her direction. “You’ve seen that one too.”
Another eye roll.
“‘His fingers traced small circles up her thighs until he reached her sex,’” I read and then look back over at Claire. “Her sex? Really? Why don’t they call it her pussy?”
“I know, right?” she laughs. “I never got that and you read it all the time in these sorts of books. They have all sorts of vagina euphemisms. Sometimes you’ll see it referred to her as cunt or snatch and yes, pussy is used, but in this book, it’s called her sex, even though the sex scenes are super graphic.”
“Wow,” I say with a big smile that I can’t contain. “I can’t tell if that’s hot or not.”
She nods, leaning back and looking up at the blue sky. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if they used words like penis fly trap, or cave of wonders, or pink taco?”
“Pink taco?” I snort. “That’s fucking nasty. But then again, I really love to eat both, so maybe it just makes sense,” I muse, sitting back to read more of this crap. “What do they call a penis? I’m assuming the words cock or dick aren’t used?”
She shakes her head. “No. At one point she used member, and another time it was his arousal.”
“So, explain to me why you’re reading this one if you don’
t like the cheese factor of it.”
She shrugs, reaching over and taking her Kindle from me. “It’s trash and trash can sometimes be fun to read.”
“Do you always read trash?”
“I read all sorts of books, but to be honest, this is the first book I’ve read in a while. I’ve been writing a lot more music lately than I’ve been reading.”
I smile at that, pulling her into my side almost absentmindedly. It’s become a reflex. Something I do without thinking too much, but enjoy far more than I should. “Will you play something for me that you wrote?”
“Next time I’m in front of my keyboard.”
I kiss the side of her head, before picking up my own e-reader so I can get back to my studying. “Why don’t you have a real piano?”
Claire turns her head to me, her expression seems to be challenging my basic sanity.
“What?”
“You do realize I have like zero room in my apartment, right? And my music room is already overcrowded with my other instruments. I’d love a piano.” She shrugs. “Maybe if I ever move, I’ll get a real one. For now, I’m stuck with the keyboard. But it’s fine. It does the job.”
“Huh,” is all I can think to say, staring down sightlessly at my book.
“What are we doing tonight?” she asks, staring back at her own book.
“To be honest, I’m really not up for going out. I think I’ll probably just order something in and either study or watch a movie or something.”
She nods. “I’m up for that if you’re up for some company.”
I laugh, nudging her side again. “When am I ever not up for your company?” It’s a rhetorical question and clearly, I said it in an off the cuff way, but it still makes me cringe, because that question is suggestive despite its simplicity.
“Good. But if we’re getting pizza, can we get it from that really snobby gourmet place that has those specialty pies? And I don’t really want to watch anything too serious. Maybe an action flick or a comedy.”