Skin Like Dawn (When You Come to Me)

by Alyse, Jade

  “Well, that’s not very polite.”

  “I never said I was polite.”

  “I’m thinking a nice, crisp white would go well with dinner. What do you think? Do you like white wine? Or are you more of a red girl?”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Are we ordering a pizza or takeout, or what?”

  “Bellamy.”

  “Or maybe liquor. Hell, we can all come in a few minutes late.”

  “I can’t drink. I’m pregnant.”

  His eyes widened magnificently. “You’re what?”

  “You can’t tell?”

  He sat back as well. “No.”

  “Lamb didn’t mention it?”

  “I believe you overestimate the amount of words that Dr. Lambert and myself exchange with each other. But that’s okay...more alcohol for me and Zuly.”

  “Why? So you can rekindle some old flame in my guest bedroom? No, thanks.”

  He laughed loudly. “So, would you like ginger ale instead?”

  “I see that this is futile.” She stood up.

  “Just like your exhausted attempts at hating me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes.” He leaned forward. She took note of how well he could pull off a couple of skipped haircut appointments. His hair was now almost perfectly curled around his head, making him appear far more carefree and amiable, than his “lone wolf” character would suggest. “Your delusions of my arrogant, spoiled, detached and unemployed way of living are crumbling before your eyes, and your frustration with me is the result of your waning fight to resist a real friendship with me.”

  She exhaled, leaning forward, placing her hands flatly on his desk. “Bellamy. Please. Just don’t come.”

  Lowering his eyes, he rolled his lips inward. She hoped that her softened voice and weary eyes would be enough to sway him.

  Then, he looked up at her again. “Fine. I won’t. Have a great rest of your day, Mrs. Greene.”

  She left his office in disbelief; there was no tone of resolution in voice that she could detect. And she already knew what that meant.

  ZULY STOOD IN HER KITCHEN AND POURED HERSELF A GLASS OF WINE, while Natalie fussed with the DVD player. There were so many damn remotes and so many damn buttons and lights that she didn’t know what to do. She thought of calling Brandon to help, but reminded herself of the three-hour distance between them.

  It’s almost nine here, which means it’s almost midnight there. And he said that he had an early morning ahead of him. Don’t do it.

  Dear God, she missed him.

  “It was just one drunken night. In a bathroom, for Christ’s sake.” Zuly was now fixing on a glass of water for her. “It meant absolutely nothing. And it went by in a blur.”

  She was desperate to proffer the question, “Was it any good?”, but she kept her mouth closed.

  And Zuly continued. “It was a Christmas party, I think. I can’t remember who enticed who. But whatever...it happened. And Dr. Lambert had just given Bellamy some of the shares to the hospital. But he wasn’t really around like that. No one knew he had an office until a nurse from Oncology just happened to walk by while the door was cracked. He was in there, sparring with Dr. Lambert. She doesn’t know what they were fighting about.”

  The idea that Bellamy found Zuly attractive enough to strip her of her clothes and his was enough to make Natalie squirm uncomfortably. She shuffled the image out of her mind as her friend entered the living room and plopped down in Brandon’s favorite chair.

  “This is a nice house. You’re only renting it?”

  “For now. We’re still seeing how well we like Portland, before we settle here. We want to make sure that we’re not nomads by the time the baby is old enough to remember.”

  “Gotcha. Makes sense. Love what you’ve done with it.”

  “Thanks. Brandon’s a little bit more creative than me, so he had the visuals. I just approved them.”

  “And he’s an art director at an agency? Man, he must be busy.”

  “You haven’t the slightest. I came home the other night and the poor baby was passed out three hours earlier than he normally would be. He used to be such a night owl when we were younger. Nowadays, he’s up by six and out the door by seven.”

  Zuly glanced down at her phone, becoming momentarily distracted. “Jesus. No morning sex for you guys, huh?”

  “It’s been a minute.” She sipped her water leisurely. “How long did the pizza guy say?”

  “Huh? Oh, it should be here any minute. Did you get the DVD player working?”

  “I guess so,” Natalie replied, pushing a few buttons on one of the remotes. “This shit is so complicated. I have no idea how Brandon put this whole system together by himself.”

  Then, the doorbell rang. Zuly leapt to her feet, turned to Natalie and sighed. “Okay, don’t be mad at me.”

  Natalie stared up at her friend inquisitively. “What are you talking about?”

  Zuly then sauntered toward the front door, opened it, and on the other side of it stood Bellamy Lambert and his friend Esme and her great ass packed into black yoga pants and a t-shirt that hugged her every curve. Bellamy was holding a pizza.

  Natalie shot a look in her friend’s direction. “Zulema Garza Lopes, voy a matarte puta.”

  Bellamy chuckled at he entered the apartment, Esme Martin in tow. “See, Esme? She was just fooling you. I told you she speaks Spanish.”

  LACKING HESITATION OR PROPER DECORUM, she ordered Zuly to start the movie and for Esme to make herself at home and sit on the couch, while she took Bellamy by his arm and drug him into the breakfast nook by the bay window. They were just out of earshot. She didn’t think to turn on the lights. Unfettered cornflower blue moonlight incandesced his eyes.

  “We’re being rude,” he whispered mockingly. There was humor in the lines of his face.

  “Bellamy. I have no words. I just don’t.”

  “You must if you pulled me aside like this.”

  “Give me a minute to formulate my disdain for your presence in my house.”

  “It’s a nice house, I must say.” He glanced around him momentarily. “I must get a tour later.”

  “Go to hell.”

  He pursed his lips, testing the thought. “Hmm, I’ve been there. Not too bad, actually. I think the Bible had it all wrong. A little toasty, but not at all as damning as I thought it would be. Can’t live there, though. Might vacation.”

  “I want you to leave.”

  “No, you don’t. But you can’t bring yourself to admit it.”

  She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly. “Help me, Jesus.”

  “I brought a pepperoni pizza. I’ve heard about food aversions. Is an amalgam of pork and beef salami one of them?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Come. Let’s sit. We’re being rude. As soon as the movie is done, Esme and I will be on our way.”

  But Esme got too drunk. And Zuly too. There was something in the wine, Natalie figured. One minute they were in fits of laughter at a movie that wasn’t even a comedy, then the next they were on the rug, engaging in a pseudo-serious conversation about the future of plastics and American consumerism. Esme was a graduate student at UCLA, Natalie learned by drunken default. She had a boyfriend, whom she loved, but did not enjoy having sex with. She’d often had dreams of “fucking Bellamy until his heart imploded”, but he’d never give her that type of attention.

  “I guess he just cared about me too damn much. Ain’t that right, Bellamy?”

  He smiled, but the humor never reached his eyes. He and Natalie shared opposite ends of the same couch. She refrained from looking in his direction. It was too real, too tangible, too...something. And every so often, she could feel his eyes on her. Was it surmounting tension or her gradual plight into comfort in his proximity. That dichotomy was enough to occupy her brain long enough to tarry over to the stereo and turn on some music once the movie was done. Zuly and Esme were lying on their backs, eyes half-closed
, languid and pleasant.

  She and Bellamy locked eyes. His eyelids were heavy, too. She tried a smile.

  “Maybe I should get her back home before I fall asleep, too,” he murmured, yawning.

  Why the sudden haste? “It’s up to you.”

  “Let me work up to it.”

  “Fine.”

  Then, they sat in silence, as their friends, Zuly and Esme passed out to soft snores on a pile of pillows beneath them on the floor.

  “Are you still feeling uncomfortable by my presence here?”

  She shook her head slowly, grabbed a throw pillow from under Zuly and clutched onto it. Zuly stirred, mumbled something that sounded like, “bitch”, then rolled over onto another pillow. “No, I’m fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I already knew you were coming.”

  “Did you now?”

  She nodded this time. “As soon as I left your office. I knew that it was a battle I hadn’t won.”

  “Ah.”

  Smiling grandly, she glanced over at him. “It was still fun to see Zuly squirm anyway.”

  “What exactly did you say to her when we walked in?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “I don’t waste my breath on useless words.”

  “A ‘yes’ would suffice.”

  He relented. “Yes.”

  “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  “That’s...direct.”

  “I was aiming for thematics. I think it was effective.”

  He slipped off his loafers and kicked them aside. Her eyebrows curled at the sight of it, but she made sure he didn’t notice.

  “Do you always speak like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “So...clinically.”

  “You mean, ‘robotically’.”

  “Yes. Something like that.”

  “How else am I supposed to speak?”

  “Like you’re relaxed and aren’t readily conscious of the next thing to come out of your mouth.”

  “Oh yea.” She nodded, recalling. “My ‘filter’. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. Do you relinquish it from time to time?”

  “Meaning...?”

  “Like, when you’re conversing with your family or...say...having sex?”

  “My family appreciates me for who I am, and I damn sure am not going to discuss how I sound in the privacy of my bedroom.”

  He paused momentarily, scrutinizing her. “You’re very protective of him.”

  “Of who?”

  “Brandy. Your husband.”

  “Just because I refuse to discuss my sex life with you, doesn’t mean I have him under lock and key.”

  “So...talk about him.”

  She suddenly felt queasy. “I’d rather not.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “No.” She sat up, shoving the pillow aside. “You’re asking me about my husband in hopes of discovering my capability to relinquish my allegedly aloof disposition. You’re wanting to know if I’m capable of emotion.”

  “Very acute of you, Mrs. Greene.”

  “See? I can psychoanalyze you, too. I can go all night.”

  “I highly doubt that.”

  Billowing with exasperation, she stood to her feet. “What do you want from me, Bellamy? Want me to sign a contract and pay one hundred dollars an hour for your services?”

  She sauntered into the kitchen. As she dumped empty glasses and plates into the sink, she realized that her hands were trembling. She expelled a heavy breath and braced herself against the sink.

  “Christ,” she muttered under her breath.

  She then reentered the living room. Bellamy eyeballed her from his place on the couch, sipping placidly from his glass of chardonnay. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. I just think you and your friend should leave.”

  “Esme.”

  “Whatever. You and Esme should leave.”

  “We never slept together if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  She flopped down on the couch again and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “Jesus Christ, Bellamy.”

  “Just putting it out there. Not that it didn’t ever cross my mind. Have you seen her ass?”

  “Yes, it’s perfect.” She tugged her fingers through her hair and coached herself to breathe. “Just leave. This was fun. But just-”

  “I like this song.”

  Baffled, she glanced over at him. “What?”

  “I like this song. Minnie Riperton, right?”

  She stared at him in a way that her mother had scolded her for doing as a child. However, now, she couldn’t give a fuck. She watched him settle into the couch, lift his finger and flick it to the cadence. “I think I got high to this song once. Or twice. My father’s old vinyl record in the basement. It’s fitting, right? I mean the song says, ‘Take a little trip through your mind’...yea...great song.”

  Images and sounds inside her brain lingered in an area that she did not choose - Minnie Riperton’s song, Bellamy’s curls and the way they curved around his ears and skirted his neck, and his despondent green eyes. She then blinked out of it. “Bellamy, are you fucking with me?”

  He placed his empty glass on the coffee table and shrugged out of his jacket. “Not at all. I’m a sucker for the seventies.”

  “I thought you were leaving?”

  “It’s hot in here. And I haven’t finished the bottle.”

  A headache was forming; one that caused her to fold at once and lower her body down to align with the couch. Another song started. More up-tempo than the last. Nevertheless strong. She closed her eyes as it sank in.

  “Never took you for a music person.”

  She pursed her lips. “Quiet. I want quiet.”

  “Fine. Are you mad at me?” His voice was quieted, as though to respect the music.

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “Not really. I want to know.”

  She sighed. “No.”

  “Do you ever allow yourself to get angry? Or is that relinquishing too much control?”

  “Bellamy.”

  “I guess that’s a no.”

  She readjusted. “That’s a ‘none of your damn business’.”

  “Ouch.”

  “For the record, there’s only one person who has ever made me feel...not like myself.”

  He cleared his throat. “Brandon.”

  “Yes.”

  “And how do you feel when you’re with him?”

  She didn’t want to answer; that was clear. But, she couldn’t avoid the question altogether: she’d never been asked such a thing. How the hell was she even supposed to answer a question like that? And would it even make sense? Her brain went tumbling down an expansive lane of memories, dawdling on shoulders to embrace the good over the old. In the beginning, she felt nothing for him. Nothing. She took note of his height, his jet-black hair and bright blue eyes, his youthful charm and stream of arrogance running beneath the surface. Brandon Greene always knew what he could offer the world and the women who worshipped him. Or girls, rather. They were all immature in their approach; ogling him from afar, leaving creepy messages on his door or car. And then, there was Sophia. Sophia Baldwin with her tightly wound flaxen curls, huge tits and her pixie-like face. She didn’t believe that he was capable of loving or appreciating someone as much as he appreciated that girl. No matter how fucked up their relationship was. But then he proved himself worthy, seemed earnest in his approach, understood her better than anyone else. His protective, loyal nature was a part of what made him so great. And she was in definite need of stability. And his love. His love. Paramount. Love from Brandon David Greene, often mistaken for suffocating infatuation, was something that she couldn’t live without.

  She opened her eyes, gazing into the blank space ahead of her. “Needed.”

  “Ah.”

  “Have you ever felt needed, Bellamy?”

  “Not particularly, no. I much more enjoy tr
aipsing across the earth for my own personal enjoyment. Not for others’.”

  “I see.”

  “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

  “Never said it was. Would you like some more wine?”

  “Please.”

  She took his glass and sauntered back into the kitchen. The song changed again. Something slower this time. Reaching into the refrigerator, she attempted to prevent her hands from trembling again.

  She returned to the couch, handing him his glass as she sat back down. She refused to think of how strange it was to have him sitting opposite her. She only returned her head to the cushion, and pretended that he wasn’t there.

  “I hope that the question wasn’t too invasive.”

  “No.” She thought of calling Brandon then, just to hear his voice. “It wasn’t.”

  “Okay.” He drank slowly. She could feel him slipping away from her, right through her fingers like sand. He was far more focused on his glass of wine than her, gazing downward into it, as though it held all of the answers that he was too afraid to ask.

  “I’ve loved Brandon so long, that I don’t know what it feels like to...” But her voice trailed off. He looked up at her. Embarrassment buzzed at her cheeks, and she refused to look in his direction.

  “I’ve made this awkward for you.”

  “No. You haven’t, I promise. Even if it kills me to admit it, you’re right.”

  “About which part?”

  “The part where about my...filter. I have a filter. And it’s been set in stone for years.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He returned his eyes to the glass.

  “It’s frustrating, really,” she continued. “I sent him an email, explaining all of my feelings toward him. All of them. But I’ll never for the life of me be able to express them to him in person. Never. I could let him go halfway across the world without ever letting him truly know how I felt. And it baffles me. It fucking baffles me that I can’t even express myself to the one person who matters more to me than anyone else ever will.”

  “That’s a bold statement.” His eyes were closed.

  “It’s the truth. My husband has the ability to provoke a part of me that I’ll never be able to verbalize. And I...I put it in a fucking email. How childish is that?”