by N. K. Smith
When I don’t finish, he fills the silence. “But I’m getting too old to follow hopeless dreams. For once I’ve got a good girlfriend.”
When I realize he’s talking about Shyla, I pull my hands away.
“A girlfriend who I believe really loves me, and I don’t think I can hold onto my hope that you’ll—”
I can’t let him say the rest. I can’t let him give up hope if hope is all that’s tying him to me. “I don’t want you to leave, Peter. Don’t.” Desperation grabs me, and I take a hold of his hands. “Don’t leave me.”
His face is hard, and I have no idea how to read it. “Give me something to believe, Adra.” His grip tightens on mine. “I don’t want you to cling to me because I’m all you have left. I don’t want you to call me only because I’m the one who always comes running. I want you to choose me because you love me.”
“I—”
“Choose me like I keep choosing you.” He burns me with the power of his gaze. He’s looking straight into me, and, for the first time, I think he might be right. I think the eyes may hold the secrets of a person, because right now I see him—truly see him—and he’s in love with me.
Love. Real love, not just obligatory attachment, but true love.
I still don’t know what to say, but this time, he must interpret my silence as unwillingness or apathy or something because he lets go of my hands and turns as if to leave. I can’t let him go, though. “I do choose you.”
He stops but keeps his body angled away from me as he lets out a relieved sigh. “That’s a start, but you need to accept that I love you.” Tilting his head, Peter looks at me through the corner of his eye. “Every time I say it, you don’t believe me. You just think I’m talking about friendship, when really I love you.”
“I’m not good at all of this.” Can I do that? Do I even know how to?
Finally, he turns to me completely. “That’s a cop out. I’ve watched you with other guys. I’ve seen you hold their hands, whisper words into their ears, hug them with your whole body, give yourself over to them, but not with me. I love you, and I’m running out of ways to say it, and I sure as hell don’t know how many more times I can show you that I do.”
“Okay,” I say as I look into his tired, honest eyes. My voice is soft, shaky, and unsure, but it mimics his expression. “Okay, I believe you. I’ve wanted more with you too, but I’ve never thought . . . I’ve always thought you wouldn’t want this kind of thing with me.”
Even though his eyes widen, they seem to darken at the same time. “We’ve wasted a lot of time then, haven’t we?”
There is so much more to say, to apologize for, to hope for, to be accountable for, but we both know this moment isn’t for any of that. This moment is for this glorious new feeling within us—within me. The newly birthed optimism inside of me whispers and coos that I can do anything. I can be what Peter needs.
I can be loved. I can be whole.
Chapter 41
Peter brushes the hair away from my face, and as he does so, his forearm brushes against my breast. Even though we haven’t even kissed yet, I am ready to be with him. I’ve been on my back on my bed for ten minutes, just looking up at him while he stares down at me.
He and runs a finger over my forehead, between my eyes, down and up the slope of my nose, over my lips, and down my chin. Then he traces my lips with the thumb of the same hand. I don’t know exactly what he’s doing or why he’s waiting to get to the good bits of me, but there is magic in this moment, and I don’t want it break it by asking.
Peter is on his side with one leg hitched up over mine. He places his hand flat on my chest—not on my breasts but on my upper chest so he can explore my collarbone. We’ve been silent for so long that I nearly jump when he finally speaks in a hushed voice.
“Do you know how many times I’ve thought about touching you like this? I’ve had dreams where nothing else happens but me feeling the length of your bones, cushioned under this soft skin.”
I wait until his eyes on back on my face to respond, but then I narrow my eyes and quirk up the side of my mouth. “If I didn’t know you, that’d be creepy.”
He gives me a soft chuckle, but then returns his attention to my body. Scrutiny isn’t the right word for what he’s doing. I know he’s not cataloging my defects, but the fact that he’s even taking inventory of what my body looks like makes me anxious. I feel like I need an anti-anxiety pill, but I know it would kill whatever this slow build is working toward. I take a deep breath.
Peter moves his hand to my abdomen. With care, he lifts my shirt and places his hand on my stomach. He doesn’t move to explore anything else under my shirt; he keeps his hand still.
I try to breathe in deeply to calm my nerves, but it’s shaky and hollow. The white hot need of sex, stimulation, and sensation bursts somewhere inside of my chest. It reminds me of how it felt to want cocaine so badly that I’d do anything to get it. It’s both painful and distressing.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
I turn my head to look away from him. How do I tell him that I hate my body, and I’m on the verge of freaking out because his hand is on my sunken tummy and his eyes are taking in all of the knobby bones that stick out in an awkward way? How do I tell him about the agonizing desire he’s created in me? I don’t want him to look at me or study me anymore. I just want him to touch me, to distract me, to leave me breathless, and to overload my senses.
When I feel one hand in my hair and the other on my chin, urging me to look at him again, I turn back. There is a tickle at the bridge of my nose that makes me think I may start crying, so I work to fight it back. Peter likes strong women, and I can be strong, but not if I cry because he’s touching me like this. I can’t be strong when the hungry craving to be devoured by him is too much to put off much longer, and I’m about to beg. Using the same technique I use to get into character for a scene, I focus my energy on what I need to be right now. Strong.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say when I have centered myself.
A smile curves his lips as he exhales. “I’ve known you far too long. I know when you’re acting, Adra.”
I bite my lip as my hold on my character—Peter’s strong woman—fades.
His concern grows. “It’s just me, remember? Best friend in the world, right? You can tell me anything.”
“I remember,” I whisper, but there is still a heavy block within me keeping the words from flowing.
All of a sudden a stream of faces invade my consciousness. The images of Peter’s old girlfriends flood my mind; they seem to cycle through from the first to the current, and I am forced to compare myself with them. Was Peter like this with them, or is he taking it easy on me because he thinks I’m more delicate? Does it matter? Why does this stuff always matter to me?
Again, he runs a hand down my hair as he wears that same gentle smile. “Tell me.”
“Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”
“I’ve waited years to know what your collarbone feels like or how soft your skin is over your belly or what the curve of your neck feels like.”
I can’t hold his gaze.
“Does that make you nervous?” God, the silky softness of his voice makes me want to melt, and I can’t keep my body from trembling at his question.
Everything seems to make me nervous these days, but I don’t want him to know that, so I push out a chuckle. “What?”
“Does it make you nervous that I’m looking at you, that I’m touching you?”
He already knows, and I’m not surprised. Peter is like an all-knowing god when it comes to me. It’s like his piercing gaze travels through my body and straight into my soul. He has the power to gather up any information I might hold and take it into himself. I can’t lie or act in this moment. He already knows the answer to his question. I manage a whisper. “Yes.”
Peter brings his lips to my ear; his low voice is so soft, it’s almost not there. “I’m going to kiss you, Adra. I’m going to kiss every
part of you so much you’ll be dizzy from the sensation.”
I hold my breath as his words sink in.
“Don’t be nervous. I love you, and I just need to satisfy my own curiosity before delving into something I might not be able to pull away from.” He chuckles when I raise an eyebrow. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to get lost in you when we kiss.”
Peter moves his hand to my hip, and then slides it down the curve to my thigh. He rubs the length of it for a second before spreading his fingers wide and squeezing the muscle underneath. “Remember how I told you about falling into partying when I was younger?”
I nod.
“You’re so much more intoxicating.” He is so close to me he’s almost blurry, but I can see enough to tell he’s staring at my lips.
Every portion of me is alive and vibrating. I want to feel his lips on mine more than anything, so I rise up and press mine to his. I can feel him grin against me, but then he kisses back in earnest. I want the intoxication he mentioned. I want to be swept away in sensation, taken to another realm where everything is perfect and there is no worry. Peter can give that to me.
Peter brings his hand up to gently hold the back of my head as he lowers us down to the bed again.
There should be more words in the English language to describe a kiss like this. It is amazing, thrilling, unique, powerful, strong, transcendent.
But then he ends it and rises up on his arms. I bring myself up to kiss him again, but he pulls his head back and licks his lips. “Adra, I’m . . .”
He lets it linger there until my muscles can no longer hold me up like this, and I flop back down. Whatever magic I thought there was, has faded into nothingness. The beautiful little flame of desire shifts inside of my chest. “You’re what?”
Peter’s soft, enamored expression has given way to a serious one. “I’m still attached to Shyla.”
Oh, my God, he said it. He just said he’s attached to her. Oh, God, I’m just—
“Stop,” he says, placing a hand on my chest again. “Don’t let your brain—”
The pretty, dancing light of passion and yearning transforms into ugly need. With his words, that need within me—which at this point is its own entity—has realized its fate. Peter isn’t going to finish what he started. It will be unfulfilled, and now it wants nothing more than to find the next best source of stimulation and sensation.
“Fuck you.” I move out from under him and off the bed. I start pacing, gripping my head.
“Stop, Adra. I don’t want to be attached to her, but Jesus, I am. I didn’t know this was going to happen between us.” He vacillates between calm and subdued panic in a way I’ve never seen from him before. “I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, and she’s my girlfriend, and I’m here with you, cheating!”
Shit. I’m the other woman. I’m the one the gossip mags are going to go after for breaking up their happy little relationship. My chest seizes at the thought. I can’t get enough oxygen. My lungs heave as I lower myself to the floor. I should’ve known this was too good to be true.
“Breathe. Breathe,” Peter says. He’s next to me, his hands on me.
“Fine, go back to her,” I say when I can manage words and not just wheezes.
“I’m not—”
“Go back to your Adra look alike. Go back to the better version of me.”
“Stop it. You know I lov—”
“Don’t say what you don’t mean, Peter.”
He grabs my hands and holds them to his chest. Either I’m very weak or he’s really strong because I can’t reclaim them. “Look at it, Adra, I just cheated on her by kissing you, and damn it, I want so much with you right now, but I don’t want to hurt her. I’m going to finish it with her so we can be together; so I can kiss you without being a dog to her.”
“You love her.”
I watch as his eyes go wide, then narrow, and then back to normal before he shakes his head in an unhurried way, as if I’m missing something obvious.
“No. I love you. I don’t want you to think that this is just what I do. I don’t go around kissing other women when I’m in a relationship. I’m going to tell her it’s over, and I’ll be back and I’m going to kiss you, just like I promised. You’ll be dizzy, you’ll forget what day it is, and we won’t go out until we’ve had our fill of each other.” He pauses and tilts his head to the side. “And just so you know, that won’t be for a long time. So long that the media’s going to think we ran away together; that we escaped Hollywood for beautiful beaches on tropical islands or something.”
The sincerity of his voice seeps into me. My heart slows, and I swallow down my fear. “You’ll come back?”
He nods. “Yes.”
“When?”
Peter lets go of one of my hands to look at his watch. “I don’t know. I’ve been through enough breakups to know it may take a while.”
“So you’re going to leave me alone?”
He smiles because he doesn’t understand that it’s a serious question. “Well, I don’t think it’ll go well with you sitting next to me when I tell her, do you?”
I’m finally able to slip my hand out from his. I stand up, and he follows me. “Before you do that, Peter, you should think about it.” I hate how my voice trembles, how it conveys my weakness and fear.
“What’s to think about?”
“I’m not like her. My body isn’t perfect, and I—”
“You’re more than your body to me, you know. You are a whole being. Your body—which is perfect to me, by the way, and always has been—is just one dimension of you.”
I continue as if I didn’t hear him. “Obviously you know that this isn’t the most stable moment in my life, and I can’t promise—”
“I don’t want your promises. I want you.”
I brace myself against the wall. As I let out a breath, it feels as though I shrink. “But you’re leaving me alone, and I’m not sure that your feelings won’t change when you’re gone.” I hear him chuckle, so I quickly add, “Everyone’s feelings change when they’re away. You say I’m intoxicating, but when you walk away, you’ll get a breath of fresh air, and you’ll come back to your senses.”
“No. I’m fully in charge of my faculties right now. I know what I want. I’ve wanted you for years, and now that I have you, I’m not going to let you go. Shyla’s a beautiful, intelligent woman, but she doesn’t have my heart. As much as I tried to give it to her, it wasn’t mine to give. It was already taken. It is already yours. Trust me.”
It takes a moment of contemplation, but then I realize that I do. I do trust him. Without thinking about it too much, I go to him on shaky legs and feel the comfort of his arms around me. I keep all words to myself because they’ll do nothing but make me feel and look weak. Instead, I breathe in his scent and hope he’ll come back to me.
Chapter 42
I realize it could take a while for Peter to sort it all out with Shyla. I know it won’t be quick or easy, but as one hour bleeds into two, and two into four, my emotions skyrocket and plummet several times. I believe everything he’s told me and then a moment later, I doubt everything.
It gets so bad that I take a shower, throw on clothes, and head out for some blow. My new routine is to get one of the security guys to come with me so if I get lost again someone other than Peter can find me. I mean, that was the routine before waking up in the hospital.
Damn. I think about that for a moment—I woke up in the hospital. That should be enough to keep me from doing that shit again, but that unsettled need within me still exists and it’s no longer a background need like it was when I was on the bed with Peter touching me. Now that it’s shifted, it’s forceful. It’s angry. It’s difficult to control, and it won’t let go of me.
I don’t know why I don’t pick up the phone to call down to the gate, but I don’t. I head out of my house with a determined mind and walk straight down to the little guardhouse.
Flashbulbs go off like crazy, and the bright lights bl
ind me for a moment. When my vision returns I’m paralyzed, and I can make out fifty distinct profiles outside my gate.
“Hey, Adra! Hey, Adra!” one voice chants.
Another says, “Why’d you destroy that store?”
“Was that Peter Truelove we saw leaving before?”
There are many other shouts, some I can barely make out, but others are more distinct. Some say jarring remarks while others just ask me to talk to them. One stands out from the din. “Hey, Adra, show us your tits. It’s what you’re famous for!”
It’s like a cold knife slices into my chest and the frozen blade bleeds ice into me. The cold is like lead. My feet are heavy and stuck to the pavement. I can hear the shouts, but most of them become white noise like air moving through vents or the buzz of a light bulb. One voice—the same one—still stands out.
“I heard you got offered a couple mil to do a porn shoot. You gonna do it? Not like it’s gonna be anything new after Outside the Club, right? Come on, baby, show us something here! I got kids to feed, and America wants to see those tits!”
I am disgusted and disgusting. If someone like that feels justified saying things just to hurt me, I must be quite low on the social ladder, not just in Hollywood, but in the world. My weighty legs buckle and gravity pulls me down. My entire being crumples.
The world is black but not silent. The tiny bumps in the pavement poke into my cheek, and I can feel them, so I know I’ve not lost consciousness of everything. When the blackness gives way to gray, everything is sideways. I know I should right it. I know it’s within my power to do it, but instead of trying, I just lie there.
“Come on. Let’s get you into the house, Miss.”
I am scooped up. It should probably matter to me who it is, but it doesn’t.
Once inside, I come back to life, at least a little. Enough to sit up, to get up off the couch I was placed on and find the bathroom. It’s not even an actual thought to make my body move; something else is driving my body as if I’m a robot and someone else has the control.