by J. R. Rogue
“God, you’re an idiot.” I moan.
“How often?” He licks me again, once, showing me he won’t continue until I answer.
“Never. Never, okay. And don’t do that I’m-not-stopping-until-you-get-off bullshit.’”
“I won’t.”
The pressure is too much when men do that, and I buckle under it.
Enough Is Enough
Hunter
I don’t want Sunday morning to come. I’m exhausted, and the drive back to Georgia will be grueling, but I can’t sleep yet. I don’t wanna leave the woman next to me.
“I have crooked teeth,” Sonnet says, waking me from my thoughts.
“Where?” I ask, pulling her closer to me in her room.
“Here, the bottom.” She drags her lip down, and I barely glance.
“So?”
“My thighs jiggle.” She wraps one around me, pulling me even closer.
“So?”
“I’m not a twenty-something anymore,” she says, exhausted with my one-word argument. The sound of music above us creeps into the room.
I speak over it. “Neither am I.”
“Yeah, it’s different for you. You get gray in your hair? And beard? Women think it’s hot. I get gray? I gotta dye it. Don’t patronize me. Aging isn’t the same for us.” She presses on my chest, but I won’t move.
“You think the gray in my beard is hot?” I smirk.
“Yes, and you look like a mountain man out here. All flannel and dark jeans,” she flutters her fingers in the air at me, “scuffed boots and that damn ballcap. I’ve never seen you this way. I like this version better. I’ll miss this version of you more than the one I pined for all those years.”
Her admission makes me want to stay up all night, make sure she knows I like this version of her better too. I just say it simply, because I’m a simple man. “I like the way you look, Sonnet.”
“I’m pale. I need a tan, but I won’t get a tan,” her voice rises, and I laugh at her dramatics, “because tanning causes wrinkles, and what about these?” She points to her eyes, and I roll mine.
“I know you’re trying to push me away or make me second-guess why I’m here again, but I’m not going to. I want you. I want this version of you just as much as I wanted the last version of you.”
“You want it for now—tonight—but everything will change tomorrow,” she says.
We are a slow-moving train, creeping toward a collision. Chace’s words run through my mind. You can’t be friends.
“You keep obsessing over that,” I say.
“Sucks, doesn’t it? When women obsess over what this,” she motions between us, “means? Must be a real kink in it all.”
“Do you want me?” I move closer, and she falls back into her pillow.
“Yes.” She sounds breathless and sad.
“Maybe I should be the one who’s obsessing. How do I know you won’t flip the switch? How do I know you won’t just run back to your ex-husband when you leave here?” I don’t believe she will. I think.
She startles at my words, stares into my eyes. “We’re divorced.”
“Doesn’t matter. You want me, then suddenly you’re back with him. To be honest, I was real surprised you went through with the divorce.” I’m smiling, but if she looks close enough, she’ll see the shit I hid for years. The insecurity I was never able to voice.
“Why?” she asks, her voice low.
“Because I didn’t think you had it in you. You like comfort. You like the idea of being married because you had security. Then I saw you here—all alone, at this cabin—and it didn’t fit.”
“Fit what?”
“Your usual pattern. I could predict your every move. I used to tell my friends, ‘Hey Sonnet is hitting me up. How long until she’s back with her ex, pretending I don’t exist?’”
“You really did that?” She narrows her eyes at me, her ears tinged red.
“Yes.”
“You discussed my relationship with your friends?” Sonnet is intensely private. Her writing is the only place you can find her. But I don’t believe for a second she never discussed us—to some degree—with her friends.
I know she did with Joanne, the friend she lost. “Don’t act like you didn’t talk about us with your friends. Don’t get mad at me ’cause I had it out with them.”
“My life isn’t their business.” Sonnet scoots away from me, despite the truth in my words I know she has to recognize.
“Well, mine is, and every year or so, you were trying to throw it off-course.” I prop myself up on one elbow, unfazed by her increasing annoyance.
“I couldn’t do that.” She lightly kicks my shin. “Not with you. I wasn’t even a ripple.”
“You weren’t? You don’t think I was waiting around?” Fuck, I said it.
“For what?” She rolls her eyes.
“For the change. For you to finally stick to your word. And you have now. I guess I just wish you’d found a way to see me when you were finally free.”
Sonnet’s voice cracks when she says, “I felt like a failure. Because I loved him. I still love him. I’ll always love him. You can’t have over ten years with someone and it mean nothing. We were supposed to be together forever. A family. That’s what we were. His family was my family, and mine was his. You don’t just rebound off something like that. Right?”
“You’re right.”
“You had an actual family. Your ex-wife still isn’t dating. So, how was it hard for you to understand why I didn’t just jump on your dick as soon as my marriage ended? That’s pretty arrogant. Even for you.” She sits up on the bed and pulls her ankles beneath her.
“You’re right.”
“Quit saying I’m right. I know I am.” Her arms cross, her back hitting the headboard.
I don’t want this fighting, but maybe we need it. “Do you want to change the past?”
“I do,” she says. “I want us to be two people who don’t need so many chances to find their way to each other. And every time I say something like that, I wonder if I’m reaching. I’m not a fuckbuddy. I’m not some young chick who thinks you’ll actually change your mind and want a family with her one day. I want a family that includes the person I love, with me.”
“It’ll never just be that with me.”
“I don’t mean with your daughters. I mean, I don’t want to have kids. I want to travel, and I want to see the world. And that’s just a dirty thing for a woman to say. I want my words to carry me. I want your words to carry you, too. And I want to be there for it.”
“I don’t let them carry me anymore. I have roots. That’s more important. They’re more important.” I’ll be tired on Monday morning when I wake up in Georgia, but I’ll be happy. I’ll be making Harper breakfast before she goes to school, before I go to work.
“I understand that,” Sonnet says. “But, one day you’ll be able to go.”
“Go where?” I ask, touching her knee.
“Anywhere you want.”
“I thought you were over my timeline.” I run my hand along her thigh, up to her hip. She makes me want to forget my stupid ass timeline.
“Hunter, I’m not over you. I can’t get over you.”
I kiss her in response. It’s slow, not needful or hot, or even demanding. It’s purposeful, the kind of kiss you give someone when you don’t know when you’ll see them again.
When I pull away, she rests her cheek on my chest. “Humor me, Hart. What’s it look like for you?”
“What does what look like?” I run my hands through her long dark hair.
“Us.”
“A couch,” I say, stroking her jawline.
“A couch?” Her own fingers run lazy circles over my skin.
“Yes,” I say, a lump in my throat. “I’m on one end, and you’re on the other. We have our legs tangled, and I’m writing and you’re writing. We’ve already had dinner, and my guitar is nearby. We can just exist there. In the silence. Just writing. And when I’m
stuck, I pass you my notebook. And when you’re stuck? You work it out. Because I’m not shit when it comes to you.”
She laughs, and I continue. “I’ve always wanted that. And not just that picture, but with you. You’re the only person I’ve ever been with that has made me think I could have something like that.”
“It’s just the writer’s curse,” Sonnet whispers. “We think we can’t make it work with anyone else but another writer. That’s just wishing.” I don’t know if she believes herself, or if it’s just a lie she wants to feed me so we both believe it.
“It’s not wishing if we make it happen,” I argue.
Sonnet speaks, slow and deliberate in response with, “You know what? I had a vision, too. Know what it looked like? You and me. On the couch. Writing. I was leaning against you, you would look over my shoulders, and I would be a poem. I would finally be a poem and a poet. And then we would get dressed, and we would go to dinner. You would sing. You would carry that guitar up to the stage, and you would make people laugh, and I would know the person they wanted to touch was mine. We would both pursue our dreams—together.”
“I’m done with Nashville. You know that,” I say firmly. Can she hear the pain there? The uncertainty? Fuck.
“It’s not done with you,” Sonnet whispers.
“You don’t know what it did to me.”
“I don’t know what it’s like to have your dream hurt you? You and I both know that isn’t true. Sometimes the people and things you love bite back. Doesn’t mean you give up.” I like hearing this from her. Knowing she has some of the fire back she used to feel for her writing.
But her art and my art are different. We both may be writers, but being a singer on a stage and a writer behind a laptop can’t be compared. “I’m too old.” For the music career. For starting over.
“You’re not. You’re never too old to write songs. You think you’re too old to be mainstream? To get a record deal? Fine. But you’re not too old to get that pen out and write some music. You can’t stay away from this state. Because it’s a part of you.”
Is she trying to convince herself or me?
“Nashville is just that ex-girlfriend you can’t stay away from,” I say. “The one you can never get over.” Nashville and Sonnet are one and the same.
Sonnet looks me in the eye, steady. “Come back. Come back, and you can have us both.”
“That’s where you’re going?” I ask, and I don’t know if I’m disappointed or proud.
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Of all the cities.” I laugh. “You chose the one I told myself I can never live in again.”
I look at Sonnet, and she isn’t laughing. She isn’t smiling.
She isn’t having my bullshit.
This Woman And This Man
Sonnet
The Tennessee air is making me long for more time here—for life here—so I’m going to create one. The man in front of me is making me want to cry and scream and run, all at the same time. He wants to spend more time with me? I believe that. But he can’t commit to anything real.
I clear my throat, get off my bed, and walk across the room. “Here’s a simple truth that no one wants to admit. And no one wants to tell their friends this because it fucking sucks to hear. When someone wants to be with you, they will be with you. When someone wants you, they’ll let you know. When someone is interested, they will show interest. For years, you showed me friendship, some flirting. You showed me memes and stuff that made me laugh. But you didn’t make a move for me.”
“You were never single,” Hunter replies, not rising to my tone. “I was never able to make a move. Or even if you were single, you didn’t give me a breath to figure it out. Give a man a minute.”
This is not how I want him to leave this place—frustrated with me. I should have kept my mouth shut. I should walk back over to him and continue what we started when we entered this room—strip his clothes off, taste him again—because seeing him stripped of his excuses is killing me.
“I couldn’t. I could feel your hesitation,” I say, voice cracking. “I could feel that you just wanted to be friends. You wanted my attention. That’s not the same as wanting someone. You wanted the ego boost. You wanted how I make you feel. That’s not the same at all. I can’t warm you if you don’t return the favor.”
“I never made you warm?” Hunter asks.
I nearly fall into it—the flirtation. The answer is there, so close. Because Hunter did make me warm. But he also made me feel ruined. He made me ruin things in my life because I wanted him.
“For a minute,” I say. “Then the truth hit. It always hit me when you had me feeling that way. I would have bought a plane ticket. I would have come to you. But you didn’t want me where you were. You didn’t want me near your life. You separate it so easily. I want to be the kind of woman you make room for. Because I take up room. I’m sad and messy.” I think of my father then, where every hurt in my heart stems. The ache takes root, and I am reminded of Nashville, of all the ways that city wounded me.
“You always say you’re not a poet. That sure sounds like somethin’ a poet would say.”
“Well, maybe I’m giving in to my name. Maybe it’s time to embrace it instead of hoping you’ll turn me into one in some make-believe future I saw for us. Maybe you should too.” I still haven’t told him the real reason I went by Rosewood when I published my novels. He wants to flatter himself, to believe it’s because of the bar he played at.
But he’s wrong.
“What do you mean?” Hunter asks.
“You’ve hunted my heart for years. But it’s not the kind of hunt I can get behind. You hunt for sport. I’m not a challenge,” I say, exhausted.
“You’ve always challenged me.”
“Well, maybe you want the challenge more than you want the girl. Why have you kept coming back here?”
“I want you,” he says, rising from the bed, walking toward me.
And I want to believe him, but I take another step closer to the door. I ended a marriage with a man who thought he wanted me too, but he was lying to himself. “Wanting isn’t proven in words—not the poems or the songs. It’s proven in the staying.”
The last word closes him off. “I can’t come back to this state. This isn’t my home.” Hunter’s arms are crossed, and I have never seen him so defensive. It hurts.
“Then what?”
“Why Nashville?” he asks.
“I don’t know, a lot of reasons.” Sera. My memories of you. Him. My father.
“What is it you want, Sonnet?” His tone is every reason I never wanted to bring up what we are. It’s the reason every woman avoids this conversation with commitment-phobic men.
“I don’t know. Ask me to come to Georgia?” I don’t know what I’m asking, but I’m pulling down walls. One argument at a time.
“That’s…what do you mean? Move in with me? We aren’t even dating, Sonnet.” His eyebrows knit, and I feel sick.
“You’re right, and that’s not what I was asking. But you know what? You even committing to something like that seems laughable. Not just with me, but with anyone. We aren’t young anymore. Believing in grand gestures and all that seems useless, but maybe I do still believe in it. Maybe I am the romantic you say I am. But, seriously, how did I ever think I could suggest some sort of future with someone who can only commit to next week? I’ve romanticized this for so long I don’t know our reality from the story I’ve written for us in my head.”
Women wear wounds from men who do this. They pull down walls, then run away when they see your vulnerability. I’d hoped Hunter was different.
“If we started this when we were younger…” he starts, as his arms uncross, but I can still feel his defenses.
“If you want to make love to our past, you can do that alone. I can’t live there anymore, you said it yourself. Because there, we never see each other. Now? Now we are right in front of each other. We can decide our next move. We don’t have anyth
ing to hold us back other than what’s inside.”
“I’m sorry. I just don’t know. Do you want to do long-distance when you settle somewhere?”
Of all the ways I thought Hunter and I would get together, this isn’t it. What ifs and maybe we can try long-distance? I lived in the mediocre. I lived in the passionless and the beige. I can’t live there anymore, either.
I left it behind, and I won’t reprise it with another man.
“No. How about when I get settled, I’ll give you a call. Don’t bother driving up next weekend.” My voice sounds lifeless—shut off and over it all. I could never hide my tone with him. Everything I felt was always there, plainly on my face, in the tone of my texts, open for him.
I’ll write poetry about him. I’ll write of our exits, our desires, and our slow fires.
We live there. In the leaving and in the burn.
Friends In Low Places
Sonnet
I rent an apartment in Ashland City, Tennessee. It’s my new home—quiet, white, and clean. A place to breathe life into new stories. The city is close, and the cost of living is high compared to Missouri, so I cut coupons, eat spaghettios for dinner, stay in.
My writing is a flood. I write of the ways I can hear a melody, blind, and know it’s Hunter playing.
There’s a park near my apartment. I walk there on Saturday mornings, and sometimes Sera joins me. There’s always a chill in the air, but we wear long sleeves. I love spending time with her, but I miss Brooklyn, even though we text every day.
“Do you think you’ll have a kid placed with you soon?” I ask her, as we round a corner.
“I think so. I’ve been manic, getting the house ready. I barely sleep.”
I’ve noticed the dark circles under her eyes but haven’t brought it up. “You’ll need sleep. Because when you get a kid, you can kiss sleep goodbye.” I envy her in a way. Her home will be loud, full. And though I love my quiet, sometimes it’s too much. “Should I get a dog? You know, for when you can’t walk with me anymore?”