“No,” she says but he doesn’t move.
“Suze,” he tries again, but she’s shaking her head, the curls I put there springing back and forth.
And then she’s falling into his arms and her sobs are echoing around us. My dad gathers her close, stroking her hair and murmuring to her in a gesture so familiar it could be anytime from the former years. She’s sobbing and clinging, he’s holding onto her, always holding her up, and when his eyes meet mine over her head, they’re filled with helplessness. Instinct has me reaching out to lay a hand on her back, saying her name as I do.
“Mom.”
Wrong. Fucking. Move.
When I look back, I’m sure I’ll see that the anger would have come no matter what, that I’ll remember that aggression is common in Alzheimer patients, but right now, when she whips around to glare at me, all I can see is hate.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me, you who comes into my home uninvited and unwanted. Why, so you can laugh? So you can remind me of what I’m not? So you can rub my face in the fact that I’m crazy?”
I’m so stunned I can’t speak for a second, and when I do, it comes out in a stuttered rush. “No, no, of course not. I would never laugh at you — I just want to help.”
“Well you can’t,” she screeches, her voice cracking and her breath heaving. “No one can. Oh, God, no one can. Leave.”
“Mom,” I start and she whirls to me again, her hand raised as if to strike. We both stand there, neither of us moving, and I can see the memory in her eyes, and the fear, though I wouldn’t have blamed her for doing it. She trembles, once, twice, her body giving in and crumpling before my father sweeps her up and cradles her.
“Go away, goddammit. I don’t want you here. I don’t want anyone here.”
I look to my father but he’s not looking at me, he’s only looking at her as he walks her toward the bed, pulling back the covers and laying her down before he lays with her, wrapping her close and holding her. He murmurs more words, never even glancing in my direction, and it’s worse than the physical blow my mother wanted to deliver, this ability he has to shut me out.
I’m on the outside looking in and, even though it shouldn’t, it hurts that neither of them acknowledge me, not even him to tell me that it’s not my fault. It’s childish and still, I can’t help but wish he could have at least looked at me and shown me that he understands why I came, why I tried to make her happy. But he doesn’t, not because he doesn’t care, but because he doesn’t think about it, or about me. He never really has, and though I don’t want to blame him for it, I do. Goddammit, I do, and somehow that makes me feel even guiltier.
Wiping my cheeks, I take a deep breath before I do what she wants and I walk away.
~
I know going home isn’t really a good idea, not in my condition, so I park near the salon and try window-shopping. When nothing catches my eye, I walk along the river and stare at the few boats brave enough to be out in this weather. I watch the little kids run and splash in their colorful boots and jackets, and the runners who ignore everything as they push themselves to go faster and farther. I could go again, scrounge up some gear from my car and run out whatever it is I’m feeling, push it all down until my lungs are burning and my brain is too tired to think of anything but my aching muscles.
I could call Mia again, tell her what happened. I know she’d talk me through it, as would my sponsor, Kari. Really, I should go and find a meeting, listen to people share and lose myself in the comfort of those who are like me — weak, and trying to be better. Anything that will take my mind off things and help me cool down, so that when I do go home I’m in control. Especially since Jake and I haven’t really spoken in the three days, not since I tried pushing him away and he pushed back.
It’s definitely smarter to avoid him and anymore emotional warfare until I get myself under control.
Even as I think these things I find myself rounding the corner to our building, pressing through the front door and swinging toward the stairs and taking them two at a time. I key in the door and fling it open, my breath heaving, my brain just registering that I walked ten blocks through the rain and am now dripping wet as I stand in our door frame, staring at Jake as he clacks away at his controller, playing some fucking video game that’s all about annihilating people.
Letting the door slam shut with a crack of wood, I stand where I am, adrenaline pumping through my blood and causing my skin to hum while I wait for Jake to turn and look at me. He does, and I see that stupid headset attached to his ear that tells me he’s playing his game against some other Internet nerd and talking shit.
For a second, I put aside my need for combat and look at him with sheer curiosity. As sexy as this man is, he’s also a closet dork. The English major, poetry reading, video game playing, cat owner. It’s a good thing he has abs and a face to die for, otherwise, he’d definitely still be carting around his v-card.
As that thought passes through, it’s immediately replaced by another one that’s infinitely more appealing than continuing to sink in the overwhelming feelings of self-disgust and failure and — goddammit — hurt. I’m hurt and I have no right to be — if anything, I’m to blame. I spent the first half of my life wondering why I was never good enough for her, and the rest I’ve spent doing things to shock and hurt her, to garner some sort of reaction from her to remind her that I’m alive. Now that she’s forgetting, I’m more terrified than ever because I’ve finally recognized that I want a relationship, that I’m ready to work for a relationship, one it appears we’ll never have because she’s too sick and I’m too scared.
I can feel the familiar pull of a party tugging at me, beckoning me to those dark waters where I can float in a mindless and numbing place of blurred faces and loud voices where I don’t really feel anything. Scared, I push those thoughts aside and square my shoulders.
I just need to change my focus and, looking in front of me, I have a target. I eye Jake and embrace the zip of desire that courses through me and breaks up the ice, smiling at him even as a warning bell goes off in my head telling me that I’m making a mistake, that doing this won’t solve anything, it will only be worse when I’m done.
I ignore it because, for the first time in a while, I feel like being reckless, and beyond that I just feel like feeling. Anything, everything, something other than disappointment, hurt, fear.
And I don’t want to think. That’s the kicker, the part my brain knows is wrong, the part I’m ignoring. Right or wrong, I need to feel wanted, desired, not like a burden, and I know just who can give me what I need.
Taking the zipper of my jacket in my hand, I lower it slowly, allowing the teeth to scrape and release one at a time, the sound echoing in the all but silent apartment.
Jake is like a stone on the couch, his gaze trained on me, completely silent. His fingers are still and I’m pretty sure the screen is telling him his player’s a goner. We haven’t really talked in three days, not since I walked away from him. We’ve played the run around game and I’m done. Done waiting, done pushing him away, done trying to be different. I want what he can give me, and I know he wants what I can give him. That’s enough for now. It has to be.
My eyes on his, I release the zipper all of the way and let the jacket fall off my shoulders and slip to the ground in a wet heap. I take a step toward him, tugging off my half-calf Frye boots and setting them a few feet from my coat. I’m wearing a black shift dress, the standard color for work. It has no buttons or zippers, just falls in a straight line to mid-thigh after clinging to all the right places.
I reach for it as I step in front of him, crossing my arms in front of me and grabbing the hem, tugging it up and over my head in one swift move until it falls to the floor and I’m left standing there in nothing more than two lacy black scraps of material and my fading tan.
His chest is rising and falling, the harsh sound of his breathing mixing with the partially muted sounds of gunshots and explosions. I take tho
se last steps as if I’m walking through water, slow and tantalizing, letting him take in the view. Leaning forward, I smile when he stops breathing altogether, his body flinching when I reach out and take the headset off, tossing it aside. I do the same with his controller, letting my body fill his vision, letting him see everything.
“Blue,” he croaks out and I smile, sliding over him, straddling him so I’m balanced with my knees on either side of his hips, my center pressed to his, our chests brushing.
His hands come to my hips and I arch into him, bringing a breath from both of us. I avoid his eyes as I lean forward, my lips going to his neck, his ear, under his jaw. He’s tense beneath me, unresponsive, and though I lean back and quirk a brow, my whole body feels a chill.
“Something wrong?” I lean down to bring him closer, but he leans back, holding me in place with his hands rather than bringing me nearer.
“What are you doing, Cora?”
My pulse spikes at the sound of his voice saying my name, still breathy, but something else lurks beneath it, something like worry. I force my stiff lips into a smile and sweep a look at him under my lashes.
“I would have thought someone as experienced as you would be able to figure that out, Handsome Jake.”
I run my hands up the front of the Carhartt T-shirt that he’s layered over a gray long sleeve and try to ignore the cold that’s seeping back into me, making my movements stiff. “Don’t you see anything you like?”
His hands catch mine before they can wrap around his neck. “Look at me, Cora.”
My body trembles once, but it’s not a shiver of desire like I wish it was. Something else is happening inside of me, something else like panic is growing and making me shake. I ignore his request, rolling my eyes and feigning indifference while I sit back and prepare to get up.
“Well, I have to say with everything I’ve heard and seen, I expected better. That’s okay, big guy, no hard feelings.”
The words are bitter in my mouth and my skin is clammy with cold and fear; the feeling of rejection is so harsh I want to run away. Instead, I stretch lazily, arching my back even as he still holds my hands and, avoiding his eyes, I go to pull away and stand.
He holds me in place, refusing to let me go when I try. “Look at me, Cora.”
His voice is soft, lethally so, and the weight inside of me gets heavier. “Don’t worry about it, Handsome Jake, I can find entertainment with someone else. I know it can be a lot of pressure.”
Before the words are even out, I’m being shifted, rolled, my back hitting the couch before his body covers mine and presses into it fully. I have no time to think, to protect myself against the feelings that sweep through me and then he has my hands in his again, pressed to the couch above my head as his eyes bore holes into mine.
“Did you really think I’d let you do this?”
His voice is low, strained, like he’s physically in pain as he grinds out the words. I don’t answer, can’t, really, as my body is at war with my head. I want to break down and curl around him, into him, to let him hold me and tell me that I’m not a failure, that it’s not my fault, that I didn’t push her to this point.
I want him to tell me he cares about me, that he feels something for me. That I matter. I want him to tell me everything I can’t tell myself, and I want to believe him.
When I don’t answer, he leans even closer, our lips inches from touching, his brown eyes almost black with emotion as they rake over every feature of my face. “I won’t be someone disposable you use to make problems go away, and I won’t be someone else who uses you. I want you, Blue,” he says and my body freezes. “But I want it all, not just a portion. Do you hear me, Cora? I won’t let you use my feelings against me because you’re hurting and too fucking afraid to tell me why.”
And then his weight is gone and he’s pushing off the couch, leaving me bare and alone as he walks away. A second later, I hear the front door open and close and I stay where I am in the quiet of the apartment, my body rigid and cold as I lay where he left me.
One minute, two, I keep laying there, the silence deafening around me, my breath catching, my heart speeding up until I curl onto my side and bring my knees to my chest so I can keep the ache from spreading, keep myself from falling down into the darkness that will shatter my already brittle bones.
He cares about me; it’s obvious in what he said and what he didn’t let me do. What’s not obvious is why that fact makes me want to prove to him I’m not worth it.
Chapter Nineteen
Jake
I left the apartment two hours ago and I’ve been walking in the rain since then. I wanted to stay, to hold Blue (or shake her) and force her to tell me what was wrong. But I didn’t, because as much as I wanted her to tell me what was wrong, I also wanted to take what she was offering and bury myself inside of her until neither of us could think.
Sue me, I’m not a fucking saint.
It’s been three days since she tried to push me to the edge before walking out on me, and in that time we haven’t said more than a few words to each other, though I’ve thought of nothing but her and how to make things right. Then, suddenly she’s there and I almost forgot how to breathe when I saw her grab the hem of her dress and peel it off, revealing all of that smooth, flawless skin, those gentle curves, and long, lean legs. The black lace that cupped her gorgeous breasts had the saliva evaporating in my mouth and everything in me going to iron.
I wanted nothing more than to yank her under me and plunder her until both of us forgot the pain that seemed to sneak up and take our lives away from us. And I almost did, was getting ready to, until I noticed how rigidly she was holding herself as she slid into my lap, how distant her expression was. How lost she looked.
My siren was breaking, and I wasn’t about to let her use what I want from her as a way to shelter herself from reality. I want to be real to her, and in order to get what I want, she’s going to have to let me in. Since the last time I pushed her only made things worse, I walked away this time, hoping that distance would help both of us come to terms with exactly what we want from each other.
But tonight isn’t the night for that, it’s not the night to push her or force her to give me the connection I’m looking for, so instead of slamming back into the house and demanding answers, I’ve walked in this godforsaken rain until I cooled down, and I’m now walking home with a go-cup of soup and some grainy bread from the organic café she loves so much on Broadway.
I don’t know if it’s a bribe, a peace offering, or an I’m sorry, but I needed to do something for her, to show her in any way that I can that I want her to be happy, safe, and not suffering under the weight of her demons before she’s mine. I know she’ll be mine at some point, but even wanting her as much as I do, I need her to be whole when she is. I can’t risk taking her until then.
The only thought worse than never having Cora is having half of her.
She’s at the desk that sits in front of the window and faces the main street when I walk in, which surprises me a little. I thought she’d be hiding out in her room again, and was fully prepared to go and beg her to listen to my apology. Since my plan has already taken a turn, I stand where I am, holding the brown paper bag with her food in it and staring at her, wondering what to do now. Her laptop is open and running, and it looks like she’s reading some sort of online article. She stops to look at me and I’m relieved that her face is calm, clear, and not a mess from tears. And then I wonder if Blue’s ever let herself cry.
She’s always walking away, shutting down, closing herself off. My understanding (albeit from Google because isn’t that where most of our curiosity is quenched?) is that she does that to maintain control — that her past of reckless behavior and impulsive reactions is something she’s battling still, and she does it by maintaining this kind of ruthless control. A lot of addicts end up walking away — it keeps them from relapsing (it also keeps them from committing, according to Wikipedia, but I’m trying to ignore that)
. Any weakness Blue has she covers up, until tonight, and still, she was only giving a response that would cover up the real emotions running through her.
“I brought you some dinner,” I tell her because I can’t stand here staring at her another minute. “Some vegetable barley soup and bread. They’re from that hippie café you like so much, so you don’t have to worry that some vegetable lost his life unjustly or anything like that.”
My insides loosen the slightest bit when a smile touches at her lips. I head into the kitchen area, glancing over my shoulder when I hear her pad in behind me. She’s wearing those yoga pants she’s so crazy about, the ones that fit her like a second skin and make her legs look longer than I thought possible. She’s paired them with what she would term a casual shirt I’m sure, with its broad gray and white stripes and loose neck that has it almost falling off one of her shoulders. It stops just past her hips and almost covers her hands, making her look almost innocent the way it hangs on her.
Her feet are bare, her toes tipped a deep red, and her hair’s pulled off of her face in a loose bun with strands spilling out. Her face looks freshly washed and free of any enhancements, and for a second I wonder if she’s always been this beautiful, and if she knows just what kind of punch she packs when she’s not even trying.
“Are you hungry?” I ask and turn away to set everything on the counter. If I keep looking at her, I might just go back on my word and take her, no matter where her head’s at.
“I’m sorry.” She clears her throat and steps further into the kitchen, placing her hand on my arm to show me that she means it. I know that it’s a big step for her, since really the only time we touch is when I reach for her; even when we’re making out on the couch like sex depraved maniacs, I’m the one who makes the move first. I try not to tense now and take it as anything more than the apology that came with it.
“You were right in everything you said — and not just today. You were right the last time about what I was doing, and you were right to stop me tonight. I was using you, both times, and that’s inexcusable.”
The Light of Day Page 12