Indisputable

by A. M. Wilson

  We lie together for a long while in the pitch darkness of my bedroom. Our breaths slowly returning to normal, our heart rates decelerating with each minute that passes. I bury my face into her long dark tangle of waves and just breathe. Inhaling the sweet scent of apricots and rain and Tatum. And as the time ticks along and we both begin to drift, I vow to myself that I will never, ever let her go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Tatum

  When faced with the ultimate decision, you have two choices. Embrace the situation or get the fuck out of dodge. Waking up in Jacoby’s room, in Jacoby’s bed, wrapped up in Jacoby, one could say my life was at a turning point. After everything that happened last night: from the couch discussion, to the almost-sex, to the discovery of my secrets, to the actual-sex, none of that would mean anything until what ultimately would happen this morning. The dreaded morning after. We left things on a high note last night, but decisions hadn’t been solidified or agreed upon. It was just wham-bam-thank-you…Okay, so maybe I’m not giving him enough credit. If I’m being honest with myself, last night was the most incredible, fulfilling sex of my life. So upon waking, I did what any sane, normal, rational person would do in this position.

  I got the fuck out of dodge.

  It would appear Jacoby is a heavy sleeper. Sometime during the night we had dislodged ourselves from the makeshift comforter burrito, so being careful not to rustle blankets isn’t an issue. We’re both lying brilliantly naked in the open air. Still, being quiet is imperative to my escape, so I execute a perfect double roll to the end of the bed and slip silently over the edge into a crouch on the carpet. Crawling across the floor, I gather my clothing, thanking God they all ended up near the same place, and scramble my naked ass out the bedroom door.

  I dress quickly in the hall before tearing down the stairs two at a time. I don’t even spare a glance back into the bedroom to see if Jacoby’s awake. The effort would only waste my time and possibly force a confrontation I do not want to have.

  A desperation I haven’t felt in a long time is clawing at me to get out of his house. There isn’t an explanation for the sudden anxiety. But I feel like being in his space is suffocating me. Maybe it’s the knowledge of what we did. Or the fact he wants to talk about my secret.

  Whatever the reason, I’m not hanging around to figure it out.

  ***

  My apartment is blessedly quiet when I arrive back home. Unfortunately, the silence can’t quiet the tumble of thoughts in my head. I turn off my phone and head straight to the shower, hoping for a small reprieve. But when I get there, bare and completely alone with only the cascade of hot water invading, there’s only one thing I want. No, need.

  Reaching around the shower curtain, my fingers fumble with the drawer of my vanity, jerking it open. The small blade I seek is cool against my fingertips, and I cup the tool in my slippery palm, bringing it inside my quiet sanctuary.

  Hot water pounds against my sore muscles as I lower myself to the cold shower floor. Everything about this scenario is familiar: the steady heat of the shower along my back, the sweet smell of my apricot shampoo, the small rush of adrenaline my body releases as I hold my blade. But instead of the usual comfort it brings, for the first time in my life it feels wrong.

  I feel ashamed.

  I feel dirty.

  Salty tears mix with the wet droplets on my lips, and I taste them. I taste my bitter disappointment and my shame. Over and over my tongue darts out to absorb the hatefulness trying to escape me. Bringing the tears back inside me as if I’m not strong enough to just let them go.

  My right hand shakily grasps the blade as I lower it to my left wrist. Do it! You’ll feel better soon, I chant to myself. This is how I deal. The only way I know how. Squeezing my eyes tightly shut I press the sharp metal against my flesh.

  Then throw it against the shower wall as a ragged scream blisters my throat.

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t do it.

  I can’t.

  What happens when the one way to deal, the only way to make yourself feel better, suddenly doesn’t work anymore?

  ***

  I became invisible.

  I guess the nature of our “relationship” had one benefit—Jacoby couldn’t force me to talk with him. He tried. Oh did he ever, but there was simply no way for him to remain inconspicuous and make me listen when I didn’t want to. He couldn’t hold me back in class (he tried) or pin me against a wall (he didn’t try) or yell my name down the hall as I powerwalked away, which is exactly what I did.

  Several strings of text messages filtered through my inbox. Curiosity was killing me. My hands were itching to open those messages. My soul craved to read his words telling me we need to talk. Asking me why I left. Telling me he cares about me. But I forced myself to ignore them until I could figure out my head.

  Without much incident, Tuesday bled into Wednesday.

  Wednesday disintegrated into Thursday.

  And after a long, quiet night at work, Friday arrived with a bright sunniness that instantly soured my mood. I wanted dark storm clouds and big, fat droplets of rain to mirror the way my insides felt. I finally knew what I needed to do.

  Hi, Mr. Stephenson. Uh, it’s me, Tatum Krause. I know I’ve missed a lot of school lately, but I have something important to do today. It’s, um, an emergency appointment. I’ll come to your office as soon as I return to school. Please don’t report me truant I promise to explain. Okay, um, thanks. Bye.

  T: I need to see you.

  J: Where are you?

  T: Meet me at The Evergreen hotel asap.

  J: What about school? What’s going on?

  T: Call in sick. This is important. Come to the hotel.

  J: Damnit I can’t just skip class! What’s going on?

  T: I need you. Find a sub. Please.

  J: OK. I’ll be there. Everything okay??

  T: Rm 201…thanks.

  The hotel room is small and smells musty with an undertone of bleach. Like no matter how much cleaning occurs, which probably isn’t much, the smell is a permanent feature of the room. A queen sized bed is pressed up against an old beat up wooden headboard, flanked on each side by outdated, gold colored touch lamps. The comforter is thin and threadbare, the color of a dark beige. Navy blue carpet riddled with stains covers the floor. My guess would be that’s a significant source of the smell.

  It’s not much, but the room will do considering the circumstances. I want to feel on neutral territory. Inviting him to my apartment felt too revealing, and there was no way I would have driven back to his place after bailing so suddenly and not speaking with him for three days.

  I thought I could go on. Pretend that night never happened.

  My heart pumped with the desire to stay in his bed, talk out my problems, unload on someone who seemed to care. But my mind screamed at me to escape. My mind fought with the logic that our relationship could never work while my heart wielded the power of my need to stay and feel safe. In the end, my mind won.

  But ultimately, what happened didn’t matter. When I got back home, something had changed. Something I had found my strength in for so long was broken. He’d discovered my deepest secret, and in doing so, the blade was no longer the remedy it once was. I’d lost the control I’d craved. I’d lost the power to utilize pain as an escape.

  It’d taken me three days. Three long, lonely days spent huddled in my apartment to come to a decision. That maybe my vices aren’t what they once were. That maybe I’ve been wrong all this time to stay locked inside of myself. That maybe Jacoby can be the one to set me free.

  Jacoby lit an inferno inside of me the night we’d made love in his bed. I might have kept my heart locked inside a cage, but even steel has a melting point.

  The only question remaining is: do we have the ability to fuel the flames?

  A loud knock sounds from the door, and I’m on my feet rushing to the source before I’ve told my mind to do so. Yanking the door open, I come face to face
with a freshly showered Jacoby, hair damp and curling along the edges. He smells woodsy with an underlying hint of sweetness, and it makes my mouth water.

  I drop my eyes lower taking in the fitted button down navy striped shirt with cuffs rolled to his elbows, to his hands tucked casually in the pockets of his faded dark blue jeans. He looks better than I remembered, but something feels off.

  Trailing my eyes back up, I notice the tense line of his shoulders, the subtle tick in his jaw. His eyes are slightly narrowed, a light crinkling of lines near the corners that belie the seemingly casualness of his posture.

  Adrenaline spikes through my gut. In all the scenarios I played through my head this morning, I never imagined Jacoby would be pissed. Frustrated, sure. Disappointed, most likely.

  But he’s standing in the doorway looking as if he steps inside, he’ll snap. And I’m directly in the firing range.

  Swallowing the thick sticky feeling in my throat, I square my shoulders and take the reins before we’re stuck staring at each other all day.

  “You came,” I state, thankful my voice doesn’t sound all breathy and relieved, as though I didn’t actually believe he’d come. Truthfully, a part of me didn’t.

  Jacoby nods. “You said you needed me.” He doesn’t continue, leaving me to confirm or continue the line of conversation without his help. Stepping back, I pull the door further open, and Jacoby takes the silent hint, entering the room. As I quietly close the door, I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my move. I need him, not the other way around, so it’s time to convince him.

  “I’m ready to talk.”

  “You’re ready to talk,” he replies in a voice vacant of emotion. The sound is stiff and rough, with maybe a teensy, tiny thread of disbelief, but I can’t be sure. My mind is probably imagining the modicum of feeling I’m hoping to hear.

  “Yes. I-I needed a few days to think,” I stammer. As much as I hate confrontation, I hate carrying a conversation even more. I desperately wish he’d take the lead, yell at me, interrogate me, something, so I don’t have to try to fill the silence on my own. Instead he remains silent, his arms crossed tightly over his muscular chest. That same chest I had naked and pressed against me three days ago. This conversation would be so much easier if he didn’t look downright delectable.

  “I’m scared of you,” I whisper, the sound riding my exhale. Jacoby’s body visibly jolts at my words, and his brows snap down over his deep brown eyes.

  “What?”

  “You know so much about me. Hell, everything about me,” I begin. My fingers run through my hair, grasping the silky dark strands at the crown of my head. “Every day we’re together, you learn more. And each time it’s something deeper, something darker and you…I…” I was trying to hold eye contact, but I can’t do it anymore. The questions and uncertainty in his gaze is too much. My feelings for him keep growing stronger, but I don’t know if he reciprocates, and it’s too much.

  My eyes move to focus on my reflection in the mirror just behind his left shoulder. My lungs expand and contract with the need to suck in more oxygen. “You saw things. More than once. You saw things you were never supposed to see. And then we were together, and it was like those things didn’t even matter. But I know they do! How can they not? How can you even look at me when you know that I’m not okay?”

  “Sweetheart—ˮ

  I cut him off, lowering my voice in an attempt to hold my tears inside. “I’m broken. You scare me, because I know you see it, too. Nobody wants broken.”

  One second I’m standing by the door, the next I’m plastered against Jacoby’s warm, solid chest. His arms snake tightly around my waist, securing my body in his hold. A burning sensation rises in the back of my eyes, and I blink rapidly to extinguish it.

  “Is that why you’ve been hiding? You think I might find something out and not want you anymore?

  “You want me?”

  He looks to the ceiling and seconds tick past. Just as I’m about to call his name he looks back down to me.

  “You have to question that?”

  “Well…yeah. Isn’t that what all this has been about? You didn’t want me. You said it yourself, this is wrong. I’ve just been giving you more reasons to believe it.”

  His arms around my waist give me a squeeze. “And what would those be?”

  My hands curl into fists as I struggle against his hold, but he’s too strong. His feigning ignorance pisses me off. Pushing against his chest, I reply harshly, “You saw me almost get raped. You know about my situation with my mom. You’ve seen these!” I scream at him, yanking forcefully out of his hold as I jerk the sleeves of my shirt up my forearms. The tears I tried so hard to contain spill down my cheeks in a rapid stream.

  “Sweetheart—ˮ

  “I saw the look on your face. You’re disgusted with me. Now, I’m just so fucking angry because I went home and tried to erase your disgust from my memory, and I can’t do it anymore! It’s wrong. I’m wrong.” My body shakes from tremors running through my limbs. Maybe if I wasn’t paying so much attention to myself, always myself and my problems, I would have registered the shift in the room.

  The air becomes tense, and Jacoby’s body stands as taut as a bowstring pulled to let an arrow fly.

  “You wanna back that up a second and explain?” he asks, his voice coming out clipped and angry. His tone takes me by surprise, and I find myself taking a step back towards the bed.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, my voice trembling. Jacoby looks downright furious. Furious like I’ve never seen him before. This isn’t the kind of anger I can jump into his arms and kiss him senseless to erase. This fury is borderline violent, and it terrifies me.

  He takes a slow, restrained step forward, his long legs placing him smack dab in my space.

  “Maybe you should explain the part where you went home. After you left my fucking bed. After you let me fuck you in my bed. And you went home to fucking mutilate yourself? Because of me?”

  Oh, God. Shit. That’s exactly how I made it sound. I fled from his house without waking him, and the first thing I did when I got home was hop into the shower and try to vent in the only way I know how. But it wasn’t because of him. He has the wrong idea. An idea I put there, but unintentionally.

  “Jacoby, no. You have it wrong.”

  “Damn fucking right. I do have it wrong. What I have wrong is that I ever thought you’d be worth everything.”

  He walks to the door in three steps, yanking it open so hard it bangs against the wall with a loud crash.

  “Please wait—ˮ

  Jacoby turns around and pins me with his furious gaze. I’m frozen to the spot. When it comes to fight or flight, apparently I can’t do either.

  “No. Listen up, and listen fucking good. The other night, I wanted to talk. I saw what you did to yourself, and my only thought was how I could help you. I spent three goddamned days trying to get you to talk to me so I could help you. I made arrangements as soon as I got your text and practically ran here so I could be here for you.” I remain frozen as he lifts his hand extending his pointer and pinky finger in my direction, all while keeping his eyes pinned to mine. “But you will not. fucking. pin. that shit on me. I’m done. You need resources to get yourself help, I got ‘em. But I will not waste my time with you so you can blame me while you cut yourself. Fuck!”

  With his curse word still hanging in the air, Jacoby runs his hands through his hair before he storms out the door.

  And I promptly burst into tears and crumble to the floor, his voice echoing in my head.

  “Everything.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Jacoby

  “Dude, what’s gotten into you today? You’re lifting like you’ve never been in a gym before. If anyone here knew we were friends, they’d boycott the place, you sissy.”

  Trey’s teasing voice breaks into the epic staring contest I was having with myself in the mirror. How long had I been zoned out for? Leaning over, I drop the dum
bbell I was holding onto the rubber floor. Fuck, I’m a mess.

  “Fuck off, man. It’s been a rough week.” He doesn’t have a comeback, so I scoop my water bottle off the floor and take a huge swig. I don’t know why I do it. It’s not like I was actually doing any work. My tee is still dry, and I’ve been here an hour. Turning to find Trey, I narrow my eyes at the way he’s staring at me.

  “What?”

  Trey jerks his head in the direction of his office. “Let’s go have a chat.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “I think there is,” he fires back.

  “So talk,” I invite. “What’s with all the damn secrecy?”

  “It’s not me who needs secrecy.”

  I’m not entirely sure what he means by that but the words rub me the wrong way. My hands immediately clench into fists. “What the fuck, man? Spit it out.”

  I don’t have time for this. Even though I got up extra early to spend time working off my aggression before spending yet another day at school, already an hour has ticked by. I only have thirty more minutes before I have to be there. That includes a shower and drive time, not to mention some breakfast would probably do me some good.

  “You wanna discuss your situation with Tatum in the middle of a crowded gym? Fine.”

  “Okay, fine. Fuck. Lead the way.” No way in hell am I doing that out here.

  We walk down a brightly lit hall to the back office I’ve seen a million times. I’d helped him the past two years with paperwork and shit before I landed the teaching job. Entering the small office, Trey closes the door for privacy. Too bad shutting the door can’t erase the pungent smell of rubber and sweat loitering in the air.

  “Okay, now talk,” I command, harsher than intended, but this topic has me feeling all sorts of rage.