Tell Me That You're Mine

by Victoria De La O

  “Sorry,” she says.

  I open one eye to peek at her. She looks chagrined.

  “For what?”

  “I didn’t need to be so blunt.” She sweeps a hand down the back of her neck, drawing my attention to it. “I never quite learned how to be delicate.”

  “Kind of used t-to it, actually.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My brother has no filter. And he g-got that from my mom.”

  “How old were you when she died?”

  The strangest memory pops into my mind of Mom re-buttoning my shirts because she always missed a hole. It takes my breath away for a second. Grief often hits me at weird times in random moments—more so now than when I was young.

  Maybe because as I get older I understand the enormity of what I lost. When a parent dies, you keep losing them over and over throughout your life. Every birthday they’re not there to celebrate, every mistake they don’t nag you about, every major decision where they can’t give you advice.

  “I was eleven.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. I’m sorry.”

  “I was lucky to have her as l-long as I did, but I wish I’d had her longer.”

  She shakes her head. “That’s my worst fear. Leaving Diego.”

  “I survived it. My uncle stepped in, and when he died, Jude k-kept us afloat.”

  “He must be something else.”

  There’s a pang in my chest from missing Jude. Or maybe from missing simpler times. “He is.”

  “So why were you so eager to move out? Because if it was to have more fun, you came to the wrong place.” She makes a sweeping gesture around the yard.

  I’d rather not reveal my humiliating past with women, but what the hell. Pretty sure I’m way past being able to impress Eva.

  “Because my ex-girlfriend j-just moved in with my brother.”

  She sets her beer down. “What now?”

  I tell her the story—briefly. I leave out some of my less stellar moments, but I cover the basics of our dramatic triangle. I tell her about coming home from Japan to discover that I needed to get out of Jude and Lizzie’s way quickly.

  “You might know Lizzie, actually. She’s Jeff’s s-sister.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I think we might have met once. That’s some messed up shit, though, Ryan.”

  That forces a laugh out of me at the wrong time, causing me to dribble beer out of my mouth.

  I wipe my mouth on my arm. “Can’t help who you f-fall in love with, I guess.”

  “Well, too bad for her, because your brother sounds like a piece of work. No offense.”

  “W-women like intense guys. The ones who are c-complicated and dark.”

  “Only when they’re too young to know better.”

  She tucks her legs underneath her body, which angles her closer to me. I let myself look. I want to run my thumb down one of those high cheekbones to her full lips. Which makes me wonder what her mouth tastes like: sweet or spicy? Does her neck smell like lavender? Are her breasts soft or firm? I don’t want to talk about death and loss and brothers and ex-girlfriends. I want to go crazy from touching her.

  “You’re staring at me,” she whispers.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No. I like it.”

  She doesn’t even break eye contact when she says this. Meanwhile, I’m breaking out in a sweat.

  “I’m not sure if I should d-do anything about that or not,” I finally say, because she’s my landlady, and I really don’t want to screw up this tentative friendship we have going. Nor am I comfortable with how much I want her—or even worse, how much I admire her. How often I think about her eyes and the way she doesn’t pull any punches.

  Jude would say I should focus on the uncomplicated Adinas of the world, who would probably hook up with me without expecting a thing in return.

  But right now, all I’m thinking is, Kiss her, dummy.

  Eva stands up. “I’m going to be smart and make that decision for you. For both of us. Night, Ryan.”

  When she goes inside and closes her back door it sounds like a slam—on me, on our friendship, and on any hopes I had of it becoming more.

  Chapter 8: Eva

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t put guests up at the Fairmont?” Cara says, leaning on the wall of my cubicle. “It will make a better impression.”

  The minute she got her conference approved, Cara became a monkey clinging to my back, and she hasn’t jumped off yet. She has questioned every decision I’ve made, no matter how trivial.

  “We don’t have the budget for the Fairmont,” I explain for the fifth time.

  She picks at one nail, refusing to look at me. “Why don’t we loop Brad in and get his opinion? Couldn’t hurt.”

  In other words, she wants to go over my head to my boss.

  “Brad expects me to make these types of decisions. I wouldn’t waste his time with something this small.”

  That gets her attention. “Of course. If it’s what you think is best.”

  Cara rushes out of my cube, bumping shoulders with Maria, who’s on her way in.

  “What burrowed under her skirt?”

  “She likes to get her way. I’m not giving it to her.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s a lot like dealing with Diego, actually.”

  If anyone can relate to needy employees, it’s Maria.

  “Why do you look like you didn’t sleep last night?” She sets a huge cup of tea on my desk and I know it comes preloaded with lots of honey—exactly how I like it.

  “Because I didn’t. Bless you for this,” I say, holding up the cup. I take a drink, savoring the sweetness.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. It was too hot to sleep.”

  Actually, I was too hot. All over.

  I like men. I’ve always liked being with them—in friendships, in relationships, in bed. That might be one reason I ended up married by twenty. And Maria is right when she says I miss having one in my life. My marriage lasted five years, but only about two of those resembled a normal relationship. I miss lying underneath a big, hard body. Feeling confident hands all over me. A man’s deep voice ringing through the house.

  Eight months after the divorce, I dipped my toe in those waters and slept with a guy at a bar. I wanted to cry my way through the whole thing. It felt nice, but I wasn’t ready. That was more than a year ago, though, and I’m a lot steadier on my feet now.

  “Hello?” Maria waves a hand in front of my face.

  “Sorry, what did you say?”

  “This seems like more than a bad night’s sleep. Tell me what’s up.”

  I really don’t want to tell her I’m super turned on by the guy living in my backyard. But how could I not be? Yes, he carries stickers in his bag just for my kid, but sometimes he looks at me like he’s going to throw me on the floor and pounce. He’s like a hot, young, Mr. Rogers.

  My stomach aches with unholy terror at the thought of mixing a man into the crazy sauce that is my life—complete with jealous ex-husband and a child who needs my complete attention.

  “If I told a guy I wanted to sleep with him, but only a couple times, would he be offended by that?”

  Maria laughs so hard, she spills a drop of coffee on a catering contract sitting on my desk.

  I cross my arms. “I’m being serious. I haven’t dated since I was a teenager. I don’t know the damn rules.”

  She sets down her cup. “Well, I’ve never met a man who would be offended by that. Theoretically, he could exist.”

  “We don’t know each other very well.”

  “This wouldn’t be your adolescent renter, would it?”

  “He’s twenty-four. A grown man. Still, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. This relationship can’t go anywhere serious—for his sake and mine.”

  Maria smooths the front of her pencil skirt. “I knew there was something between you two. I’m sure he’ll be happy to take you up on your offer.”

  I’m going to regret this
. I can feel it the way you sense a strong rain coming. Not because Ryan isn’t as great as he seems, but because I’m already too involved in his backstory. Anything he and I have needs to be brief and on the lowdown, so we should probably quit with the intense late-night chats.

  “It was only an idea. A stupid one.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just pull up your big girl panties and have some fun.”

  “Alright, fine. We’ll see. I’m going to think about it carefully. Be sensible.”

  “Why would you do that?” Maria saunters out of my cubicle, shooting me a sly smile as she goes.

  * * *

  Marco’s car screeches to a stop on the curb. He walks up the path, swinging his arms like they’re battleaxes.

  “What’s going on?” I ask him when I answer the door.

  Marco’s borderline personality disorder has been under control for over a year, but I’ll never stop worrying—that he’ll go off his meds or they won’t be effective anymore. Or that he’ll backslide past the point of no return. That fear isn’t something I can take on and off like a backpack. But I’ll gladly help bear the weight forever if it means Marco can be the father he wants to be.

  “I’m fine. Is Diego ready?” He runs a hand through his hair.

  “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on first?” I stand in the doorway so he can’t come in.

  “Or what? You’re not going to give me my weekend?”

  “When have I ever done that? I’m not your enemy here.”

  He takes a breath so deep, it’s like he’s inhaling off a cigarette. “I know. I’m sorry. This guy at the warehouse is talking shit about me to my boss.”

  “Try not to let it get to you. Your work will speak for itself.”

  He nods. “I really like this job. I don’t want to blow it.” Marco makes an excellent shipping manager. When he’s healthy, his Type-A organizational skills are amazing, and he loves working with a group of guys.

  Marco pushes the hair off of his face, and I notice one of his knuckles is bleeding.

  “What happened?”

  He shrugs it off.

  I want to pry but I don’t, grabbing the first aid kit from the house instead.

  As I’m patching up Marco’s knuckle Diego comes up behind us, his dinosaur backpack dragging low on one arm.

  “Daddy,” he says, throwing himself into Marco’s arms.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Ryan comes around the side yard, heading for work probably. The golden highlights in his hair catch the sun, and I stare just a second too long.

  “Who’s that?” Marco is staring, too.

  I drop my hands to my sides and start to mangle the hem of my sweater. “Umm, my renter.”

  “I didn’t know he was our age.”

  “He’s not. He’s a few years younger.”

  “Ryan’s my tutor,” Diego says.

  Marco’s eyes dart to me. “So he’s the renter or the tutor?”

  “Both.” My brain knows this is none of Marco’s business, but my body is flashing back to a time when the slightest issue would set him off like a grenade and I’d spend hours—days—calming him down.

  I grab Diego and hug him close—my little anchor. “You two should get going.”

  “See you Sunday,” Marco says, with a wave of his bandaged hand.

  Ryan prairie-dogs over the top of his car, getting a look at Marco as he leads Diego down the drive. I can’t blame him for being curious.

  Marco opens the door of his truck and tells Diego to get in. But then instead of going around to the driver’s side, Marco heads straight for Ryan.

  I want to intervene, but I’m too far away. And what would I say that would help the situation? Instead, I stand there watching like a hawk as Marco has an exchange with Ryan. It’s brief and calm, and then Marco walks back to his car and leaves. Without looking at me, Ryan does the same.

  * * *

  I don’t even pretend not to be waiting up for Ryan that night.

  “What did he say to you?” I ask, before he’s even gotten to the porch.

  “I’m pretty t-tired from work. Can we do this tomorrow?”

  So my messy life finally scared Ryan off. Probably for the best it happened now. I cross my arms. Uncross them. “Can you at least tell me if he was nice or . . .”

  He swings his key ring around his index finger. “Okay, I guess n-now is good.”

  He’s looking at me the way he did when he came to see the apartment; like he wants to back away slowly and pretend I’m not there. Makes sense. I’m the abrasive woman with baggage heavy enough to sink the Titanic. Why on earth would a single guy in his prime want to be within a hundred feet of that?

  I collapse into the loveseat. “Sorry. I get wound up where Marco’s concerned.”

  He sits next to me and puts his hands on his thighs. “I can see that. And I can s-see why.”

  I close my eyes, letting the dark September night comfort me. “What did he say?”

  Ryan sighs. “It wasn’t terrible. In a n-nutshell, he wants me to know that you and Diego are still his. That he’ll be w-watching me.”

  “I’m not. Still his.”

  Ryan shakes his head. “He d-doesn’t agree.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn.”

  When I shoot out of my seat, I knock over the unlit candle on the wicker table. I try to stand it back up, but my hands are too shaky. Why is this candle pink? I hate pink. I probably bought it because it was the cheapest option.

  I’ve been at the mercy of someone or something since I was twenty years old. Been moved around like a chess piece by a husband, then a baby, then an ex-husband. And I can’t even blame anyone because I made all those choices, and because I love my son, and because blame is useless.

  The candle still isn’t upright. This fucking candle. So I kick over the table. The candle hits the concrete, breaking into ugly pink shards. Even better.

  Ryan is perfectly still, like a possum playing dead. His eyes are the size of quarters.

  I turn around and lean over onto my knees, hoping my self-pity will leech out and crawl back into the dirt where it belongs.

  Ryan comes up behind me and puts a hand on my back—to steady me maybe. But I’m used to steadying myself.

  “Sorry.” I stand up straight. “Haven’t had a hissy fit like that in years. So of course I do it in front of a stranger.”

  “I’m not a stranger.” His voice is husky.

  He puts a hand on my shoulder, covering it entirely. Somehow he’s right there, almost against me, so I have to tilt up a bit to look him in the eye—a luxury for a tall woman.

  “I’m really sorry about Marco,” I whisper, because I don’t have enough left in me to be louder.

  “I only c-care because it b-bothers you.”

  “I’m sorry anyway. For not giving you the apartment right away, for being kind of horrible to you, for . . .”

  “I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.” His words are a whispered rush and then they’re nothing, because his mouth is on mine.

  I tangle my hands in the back of his hair as he puts his hands on my ass and lifts me up.

  He makes me feel small as I wrap my legs around his waist and he carries me to his room. He fumbles for his key but he’s too damn slow, so we kiss against the door—hard enough that he can probably feel the grain of the wood on his back. We could kiss like this forever, as far as I’m concerned, under the open sky.

  But finally, he turns and gets the door open and we’re falling into his place, tripping over stuff, managing to stay locked together like puzzle pieces. My back hits the couch and I want all of him on top of me—holding me down, reassuring me that he’s there.

  When I pull my shirt off, he sits up and straddles my thighs.

  “Come here,” I say, tugging on the waistband of his jeans.

  He shakes his head slowly, moving his hands up my ribcage. He unhooks my bra and slides it off—strap by strap. He wants to look? I’ll
let him. I haven’t been watched in a long time, and I’m damn well going to enjoy it. He runs his hands over my breasts, so I arch my back. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, so I do it again.

  His hands slide down to my shorts; he unbuttons, he unzips. His hands are less steady now as it all comes off—every stitch—and still, I let him look. There’s the stretch mark on my stomach from when I had Diego, the scar on my knee from a soccer collision when I was thirteen. He’s welcome to all of it.

  And man, does he take it—touching every spot, and then kissing it afterward for good measure. I shouldn’t be selfish, but I sure want to be, so I let him make me unbelievably happy until I can’t stand it anymore and I need all of him.

  This couch is too small, so we fall to the floor. I yank his shirt, he shucks his pants, and then finally it’s what I wanted—this warm, strong, male body on mine. But it’s even better because it’s Ryan’s body. Ryan, who is quick with a kind word or a dinosaur sticker, who just saw me at a low and didn’t even blink.

  I almost can’t wait for condoms and logistics. I want him now. Good thing he’s prepared; watching him do the work becomes a treat.

  For once, I don’t want to think; I want to feel. He’s surprised when I lift myself to him and take him inside me without hesitation.

  “God, Eva,” he moans, tensing his face like he’s trying to hold back.

  Oh, no. I won’t allow it. I run my hands over that ridged back, down his ass, pull him deeper, bite his neck, lick his ear. Once he has the rhythm, my hands move anywhere, everywhere—wherever they can reach. And his moans pitch higher.

  I try to memorize each second, each touch, because I know we can’t prolong this. There’s no slowing this blood rush. When I scream and shatter, he does too, and it sounds like pain—like he’s giving himself over to anguish, but gladly.

  “Oh my God,” I breathe, both of us laid out flat like a crime scene. He turns and nuzzles my ear, wraps that long leg of his around mine, places one hand confidently under the back of my head. He’s my lover—at least for tonight—and that’s such an old-fashioned word, but so true right now.