"Lydia," he begins. I spread my toes in his palm.
"Shhh...this feels too good to ruin with talking."
"All you have to do is listen," he says. Even his voice is a massage. I reply with a tiny moan of agreement as he presses his thumbs into the ball of my foot. He can talk all he wants. I can ignore it. We're just neighbors. He's made that clear by disappearing after the night we spent together. "There are a few things I wanted to talk to you about. The first one is the girl that showed up here the other day--Marta. I was sleeping with her about a year and a half ago, when I was still drinking. She's one of the few that I remember."
"Mmm," I say, head back and eyes closed. Drug deal Marta? Maybe they were doing drugs together and he shorted her. Anyway, I haven't seen her since the day she showed up at my door, so it's tomato/potato to me. Neighbors. Besides, it's no big deal now that she was with him a couple years ago--
"I lived with Marta for a few months. Well, actually, I crashed at her place on the nights I didn't have anywhere else to go. When I decided to get clean, I never showed up at her place again. No call, nothing." He says this, his voice tipping like an airplane on its way to the crash site.
I want to say, don't give a shit, keep rubbing, but, instead, I murmur, "Mmm...rough."
"She didn't know where I went or why and I uh...I stole two thousand dollars from her."
"You little thief," I say, without opening my eyes.
"I had to return the money to her. It's part of the plan that I follow now. Part of my sobriety is righting any of the wrongs I can."
"Good plan," I mumble. His fingers are expert. Every word is nearly extracted from my mouth with a low moan of satisfaction.
"I have to fix something that happened between us too," he says. Shit, he can have all my money. "Sleeping with you the other night..."
"I have no complaints about that." I smile without opening my eyes. "In fact, if you want to wrong me again, I'd be up for it."
That slipped out. Kind of. I bite my lip. I should be keeping my neighbor at arm's length, with my invisible wall between us, but he's already fuck-rubbing my feet, and all I really want is for him to climb off the end cushion of the couch and spread his body over me. His thumbs pause and I think I'm going to get what I'm hoping for, but then he starts kneading again, deeper into the middle of my sole.
"Lydia, I should've never slept with you." His thumb digs into my instep and I yelp.
Usually, an admission like that would garner a kick to the head or the demand that he leave, but I don't want Aidan to go. His tone is melancholy and remorseful and I feel like I can save him from whatever guilt is consuming him, if he just keeps his hands on me. I can forgive him, I can redeem him, by encouraging the magical circulation of his fingers to work their way up my body again.
I must've heard it wrong. He couldn't have meant what he just said, the way he said it. Maybe he meant, I should've never slept with you, because we could've been screwing the whole time. Or, I should've never slept with you, because now I'll never be able to stop.
I want him to want me. I want him to need me--and more than just that one piece of me that rests between my thighs. I want Aidan to need the real me, the entire one, that puts dandelions in my empty whiskey bottles, and sings old church hymns in the shower. The me that used to dot the 'i' in Lydia with a heart. All the ancient variations of me and the culmination of me's that are gathered up on this couch cushion with my foot in his hands, wanting him.
I haven't wanted a man like this since I walked up the aisle in a Vegas chapel to marry Des.
I haven't cared enough to want any of them, until now.
"Wow. I've never had anyone complain after sleeping with me." I smirk, like it's nothing but a joke, but it's slowly tearing a hole in me.
"It's not what you think," he says.
"Maybe I wasn't really thinking anything."
"I'm an alcoholic, Lydia," he says. This is where it's going? He's going to blame sleeping with me on not drinking?
"Not really. You don't drink anymore."
"It doesn't change what I am."
"No, it kinda does. If you're not drinking, you're not really an alcoholic. You're just a guy that used to drink."
"That's not the way it works." He smiles. "But that's not the point I'm trying to make anyway. What I'm trying to say is that I'm nothing but a lousy drunk, still waiting for the next drink, and I knew better than to sleep with you."
I stare at him, long and hard. "You knew better..."
"You're struggling with it too and I'm just muddying the waters even more by..."
"Hold up," I say, yanking my foot from him grasp as I scoot to sit up straight. "I'm struggling with it too? I thought we were done having this discussion. I know I am."
He wipes his face, from forehead to chin, with one hand. "You're in denial..."
"Fuck you," I say. I jump to my feet. "Leave, Aidan."
"Lydia, I want to help you."
"I don't need your amateur psychologist bullshit!" I explode. "Don't you dare come in here and think you can transfer all your problems onto me! You keep trying to do that! I'm not a fucking drunk, Aidan!"
"I want to help, but you need to see the problem," he says, leaning forward to pick up the empty bottle on my coffee table.
"That was from last night!"
"There are four or five of these in the trash," he says. I want to hurt him. Kill him, maybe. Who the hell does he think he is?
"Get out," I say. I don't have to explain myself to him. He meets my steely glare with one of his own.
"Recognize the problem."
"You're the problem. Now get out, before I call my husband and he comes and gets you out for me."
Aidan gets to his feet, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he takes a slow step toward me.
"The husband that beats you, Lydia? I swear to God, if he showed up right now, I think I'd enjoy it. I'd beat him within an inch of his own life, just for what he does to you." I take a step back, but Aidan keeps coming. "Is he the reason you live like you do, Lydia? What's he done to you and why do you let him keep doing it? You can't love him! What is the arrangement you have with him? I don't know of many women that would put up with a husband who only comes around to beat them. Or a woman that loves her husband so much, she doesn't live with him and sleeps with her neighbor."
I slap him. My palm explodes in tingling needles as he lurches to the side.
I fully expect him to swing back.
I'm so angry, I stand there with my jaw out, offering him a clean shot.
Aidan straightens up, rubs his jaw. He takes a deep breath and another step away.
"That was over the line," he says.
"You call me a drunk..."
"I meant I was over the line. Again." His eyes move over the floor, shamed. Good. "I'm sorry. I guess it's the wrong way to do this, but my gut says it's the only way I can get through to you, Lydia. I don't think you have anyone else that will be honest with you. But I'm always going to be honest. Please...please see that I'm trying to help you."
"You're psycho," I tell him. I look him right in the face. "You need to get out. I'm not the one who needs help."
<<<<>>>>
I feel really good about throwing him out. I'm even able to gloat a bit for the first few minutes, after the door shuts. I don't know who he thinks he is. He's a mess. I splash some rum into a glass of Coke, but my hands are shaking so much that when I try to take a gulp, it spills down my shirt.
Damn him.
I know I'm falling apart. I try to keep the shadows locked away, so no one ever sees them--especially me. But now, with Aidan chased off, I fall down on the couch, sloshing even more of my drink on me, and those shadows come crashing out.
When they come, a few drinks can't always chase them away. Lately, it's been even less effective. When the shadows absolutely outnumber me, I go down to Modo's. It's hard for the darkness to cling to me when men are vying to take its place. That's why I usually bring someone ho
me. A warm body tends to distract the shadows, until the sun comes up.
Tonight will be one of those nights. I slam what's left of my drink and jump off the couch. I stare straight into my mirror as I walk into the bedroom, staring down the image I cast, as if it's an opponent.
Even though parts of me are still blistered from what Des did to me and other pieces are seething from what Aidan said, I've got to pull whatever's left back together.
I have to look fabulous tonight.
<<<<>>>>
Dressed, I finally open my door and there is Aidan, standing in the hall like a mortician. I can't stand to look at him. I start down the hall, eyes straight ahead, but I feel his fingertips on my arm.
"Talk to me," he says.
"Just let the drunk get her crazy on," I say, yanking my arm away. I continue down the hall and Aidan's voice follows after me.
"You're going to Modo's," he says. "What I said got to you and now you're going to go down to Modo's and pick up some random guy, aren't you? You're going to show me that you don't need me and that I don't control you..."
I punch the button for the elevator a lot harder than necessary, but it doesn't come fast enough. Aidan won't shut up behind me. That steady voice of his rolls down the hall and crashes over me.
"I don't control you, Lydia, but I know you. Didn't it ever seem strange to you that Shane didn't recognize you? That he didn't have any recollection of sleeping with you? Do you believe that you are that forgettable, Lydia? Hasn't it bothered you?"
Hell yes, it's bothered me. I have wondered why Shane didn't remember me, but then again, I don't really recall him either. I assume he was as pickled as I was that night, although it has dented my ego a little. It still doesn't mean that Aidan can use it against me now, to make me turn around and listen to him.
I clonk the elevator button again, as if that will rush it.
"I know why he can't remember you," Aidan says. His voice and his footsteps are bringing him down the hall toward me. "Don't you want to know why?"
Damn elevator. I finally turn on my heel to face him, shooting him my most jagged glare.
"It sounds like you want me to know why, Aidan, so go ahead. Get it over with. Tell me."
He's so close, I can smell the deep, heady scent of his skin. So close, he could pin me to the wall. I keep my eyes on his lips, so I don't have to meet his gaze, and as if he knows exactly what I'm doing, he traces his tongue over his lower lip. I instantly wish we weren't fighting. I wish we were lying in my bed, raking each other over with soft murmurs of affection--instead of him spewing ex-lover riddles that I don't give a shit about solving.
"I've been in this hall with you before," he says. His lips move gently and the words are unexpectedly soft as they slip through them. "You picked me up at Modo's. Or I picked you up. I don't remember all the details of it, except that you were lying on the bar and I drank a Mojito shot from your belly button. It tasted amazing, I remember that. The best drink I've ever had. Probably because it was my last." He wipes his mouth with the side of his arm as if he's wiping away the remnant taste. He's so close now, only two steps away from me. "We came back to your place. Here. I probably would have never remembered that it was this floor or which one was your apartment door if we hadn't shared the night that we did that night."
"You're trying to tell me that you gave me your friend's name?" I say. Well, there's a curve ball. Still, I need to keep my cool. "Ok, whatever. No harm done."
The elevator doors roll open. It's empty. Aidan grabs my wrist with one hand and darts the other into the elevator and slides his palm down the panel of floor buttons. I can almost hear them all lighting up.
"I've got to tell you the rest," he says. The doors roll shut as he hangs onto me, holding me back from leaving.
"It's not important," I say, even though my head is still reeling from the realization that I've slept with Aidan before. It's infuriating that I don't have a clear recall of it.
"It is to me." He reaches out like he's going to trace my collarbone, but he pulls his finger away before he touches me. "I did that. I lied and told you my name was Shane. I used to do that when I was sleeping around."
I roll my eyes. None of this, no matter how shocking, changes that he's been trying to pin me as a drunk.
"No big deal. You didn't want anyone tracking you down, I get it. It was a long time ago, it's fine."
"That's not everything that I want to tell you though. There's more. That night, I was hoping we would have a mind-blowing, one-night stand and that was it." He pauses, his grasp loosening, his eyes dropping away from mine. "I figured I'd hit it and quit it, but I was really wasted. By the time we finished, I passed out."
I shrug again. "Happens to the best of us."
"But you woke me up."
"Lucky you," I say. I'm going to add, lucky me too, but I won't let myself get sucked in by the soft curve of his lips. I stay focused.
"It would've been lucky," he smiles, "except that's not why you woke me up. You weren't even awake. You woke me up, crying in your sleep."
I shut my mouth. Some of my shadows seep out of the corners and close in on me. I can feel my breath getting heavy in my chest. I don't talk about the nightmares. I try my best to never think of them.
"You were sobbing, Lydia. You kept saying that you didn't want to live anymore. It scared the shit out of me. I didn't even know you, but there you were beside me, breaking down and opening up to a complete stranger, without even knowing it. We'd just done one of the most intimate things two people can do together, but I was scared to death to hold you, to try and comfort you. It really did something to me. I didn't even know your name, and there you were, bawling in your sleep, really needing someone to just reach out and I was the only one there.
"So, I did it. I took care of you. I wrapped my arms around you and I kissed your forehead and I told you that you'd be okay. My whole chest was dripping with your tears, but you settled down. And it really, really hit me--I knew exactly how you felt. I knew what it was like to wake up terrified in the middle of the night and to wonder how I was going to keep going when no one was there to tell me things would be alright. My life had gotten pretty singular--all I did was spend night after night drinking and trying to drown out everything that was wrong with me.
"But then, you fell asleep and I laid there for four more hours, just laying beneath your cheek, listening to you breathe. I wanted to be sure you were okay. It made me feel okay to know you were peaceful, and I hadn't felt okay in so long, I didn't want to leave.
"At seven or eight in the morning, I started to realize that you would probably wake up and not remember any of it. I didn't want you to wreck the feeling you gave me, of trusting me and relying on me, even if you had no idea you were doing it. I got up and left before you woke up.
"But what happened between us that night changed me. I went home and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I wanted more. I wanted to feel like I was needed again.
"I stopped drinking that day. I got help. I got sober and it sucked, but whenever I felt like giving in, I'd get out and come by this apartment house and I'd think of you. I never wanted to forget that. You helped me to stay sober every day for that first year. That's why I decided to move in here."
His mouth closes and I tear my eyes from it. I swallow.
"That's..." The words fade. I don't know what to say. That's a pretty heavy story and I'm not sure what he thinks I'm supposed to owe him or what he wants from me now.
My shadows dance close. It's humiliating that Aidan knows about the nightmares. I wake to a wet pillow and terror running through me a few times a week, at least. It's another reason Des won't stay the night with me, even when he could. He says my crying nightmares freak him out.
"You helped me, Lydia," Aidan says. I glance into his eyes. They swallow me up, as full of hope as every drink I've ever ordered. "That's why I want to help you now."
He reaches out, his hands moving into my hair, but I step back. I m
ight be a little broken, but he's got to understand, I don't need help.
"This is the last time I'm going to tell you, Aidan. I don't have problems like you do. Let it go."
The elevator returns, the doors hushing open behind me. I step in, backwards and hit the button for the ground floor before he can start arguing. I'm a little surprised that he doesn't try to stop the doors from closing between us.
I let out a deep sigh once the elevator gets moving. I need to get down to Modo's fast. I need to bring back a man that can not only beat the shadows back tonight, but one that will give Aidan the message, loud and clear, that we are nothing but neighbors and I don't need his help.
A solid message is clearly overdue.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PUT A NAME ON IT
Toward the end of the night, the guy sitting beside me has a name and can't stop saying it.
"I told you, I'm Eric," he starts with. "When are you going to tell me your name?"
"Call me Intrigued," I say, giving him a slow, eyelash flash. This guy is nothing compared to Aidan, but he'll do. He's got muddy brown hair and his eyes are pale and glossy--the myopic eyes of a dead fish, wrapped in plastic wrap. He ditched his rowdy friends hours ago, guiding me to the back corner where there are small, u-shaped, padded booths. The waitresses sometimes call this corner of Modo's The Kissing Corner, although that's the very least of what happens here. Eric orders us more drinks before we've finished the last ones.
A few later, he leans in and says, "So what's your real name?"
"It's a mystery," I say, chewing on the red stirrer from my drink. We're already sitting close, but he wraps his arms around my waist and hauls me onto the edge of his lap. One ass cheek on his thigh, and the other almost there, it's uncomfortable. I try to shift, but he shakes me like he wants me to laugh.
"C'mon, girl. I told you mine."
"I thought that was a game. You know--I show you mine and then you show me yours."
Of course, that does the trick. His grin goes looser and sloppier. "You wanna show me yours?"
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