by Paige James
Ebon is absolutely silent as he searches my eyes. The tension is so thick in the room, I feel suffocated. I pull my hand away from his face, but before I can look away, ashamed and heartbroken, Ebon grabs my wrist and guides my hand back to where it held his cheek.
Still, he says nothing, but he threads his hands along my ribs and under the bend of my knees and he stands with me in his arms. With his eyes on mine, he carries me to the bathroom where he lets me slide down his body until my feet are on the floor.
He looks away only long enough to turn on the shower before he returns his attention to me. Gently, almost worshipfully, he raises his hands to my face. He places his big palms along my jaw, the pads of his thumbs grazing the corners of my mouth.
When he finally lowers his lips to mine, the kiss is different. It’s soft and tender, reverent and pure. It feels like the tears that are spilling down my cheeks. It feels warm yet cool, bitter yet sweet. It feels like the beginning, but also the end.
It feels like love.
And something that can never be.
NINE- EBON
I don’t know if Sage is simply this much more than what I ever expected or thought she could be, or if I’m somehow imbuing her with all the traits of her sister that I find so appealing. It’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart in a lot of ways. But, luckily, that means it’s getting easier to resist Willow, to put my relationship with her in perspective, where it should be, rather than fighting it so hard.
The perfect example is how I’ve been able to concentrate on class more this morning rather than being distracted by thoughts of tasting her sweet body and getting lost in the labyrinth of her mind. When I glance up at her, which I’m still doing far more often than I should, I can easily picture Sage biting her lip as I plunge into her or the shy, sincere way she told me she loved me.
I still don’t know what the hell to do about that. I don’t know if what I feel for Sage is organic or if it is influenced by my fascination with her sister. It wouldn’t be fair to make any kind of declaration before I’m absolutely certain. Besides, I’m not really sure what I feel for her. For either of them. Love is a complicated thing.
I know a big component of what I feel is sexual, right down to the way I want to explore Willow’s inner naughty side. I always suspected she had one. So sweet and innocent on the outside, so dark and dirty on the inside. But reading her story and realizing that I was right upped my curiosity a hundred fold.
But that has lessened a bit since I made such an effort to focus on Sage and give her a chance. She’s proven to hold quite a few inner treasures herself. This time around, she seems to be diving in, no holds barred, to whatever this is between us. And, to a large degree, she’s dragging me along with her. Not that I mind. We’ve had some mind-blowing sex lately.
As I listen to one of my students ramble on about his thoughts on the modernist view of sexuality, I have to force myself to focus on his words rather than continuing along the path that my thoughts want to take. That will lead nowhere good. Well, not without Sage nearby so that I can put thought into practice.
She’s still flirting with the edges of my mind when I dismiss class. As always, I turn back toward the desk to collect my things, one way to keep my eyes off Willow, as I discovered earlier in the semester.
Unless, of course, she seeks me out.
“Mr. Daniels?” I recognize her voice, of course. It’s identical to her sister’s. But with Willow, there’s a hesitancy, a softness that I don’t always see in Sage. Although, to be perfectly honest, I’ve been seeing it more lately than I ever did before. Yet another similarity that’s making it easier to drift toward Sage.
I turn to face her, putting on my most natural yet detached, professorly smile. “What can I do for you, Willow?”
Her answering smile is sweet, but it’s the way she bites her lip—just like her sister—that turns my nuts to rocks. “Did you, uh, did you get a chance to read the pages that I brought? Sage didn’t mention it, but I thought maybe…”
“Not yet. I haven’t had a chance.” I want to. So fucking badly. But I need to figure out what’s going on with Sage first. I need Willow out of my head as much as possible. And reading her work is not a good way to accomplish that. That will only serve to put her back in my head and deeper under my skin.
Although she tries to hide it, I can see that her feelings are hurt. She waves me off as casually as she can. “Oh no rush. I was just curious. I know with you and Sage…”
I’m not sure how she was going to complete her sentence, and when she doesn’t, all I can do is give her a tight smile and wait.
She clears her throat and tucks her hair behind her ear then pushes her glasses up on her nose. “Well, I guess I’ll see you Wednesday then.”
I nod. “Have a nice evening.”
She smiles and nods as she makes her way toward the door. I turn immediately away, more determined than ever to remain unaffected.
That lasts for about all of four hours. After class, I put in a couple of requisite office hours and then I head home. I dial Sage on the way, but she doesn’t answer. That makes me…prickly.
The itch…this damn itch…
I unlock the door to my house, tossing my bag in the chair and my keys on the table. I head straight to the kitchen to grab a beer, popping the top and downing half of it before I even close the refrigerator door. I’m feeling out of sorts and I’m not entirely sure why. My mother’s call? Partly. Sage’s confession? Yes, partly that, too. But when I pass the stack of papers on the table against the wall in front of my bedroom, another thorn in my side makes itself known.
Willow.
Willow and her damn story. And the disappointment I saw on her face today.
I’m the one who’s been encouraging to write, write, write this story, and then, when she does, what do I do? I blow her off. And not because I want to, but because it’s what I really need to do, for her sake as well as mine.
I retrace my steps and run my finger along the edge of the stack. It’s not very long, just a couple of dozen pages, probably. It wouldn’t take me an hour to knock those out. At least I could give Willow some feedback.
Shit.
I take another pull from my beer and pick up the stack, moving to the couch to sit down and read. And maybe to regret it later.
It doesn’t take me long to learn that I might regret this in a much different way than I expected.
When I finish this portion of the story, I have to stop and ask myself if it’s possible that someone other than Willow wrote this. It’s as though it’s been penned by two authors, two different minds. The first one was an intuitive, secretive, deeply sensual person who obviously felt the need to hide. It was easier for me to see Willow being the author than Sage being the protagonist. At least it was then. Now, however, I can definitely see how Sage fits into the story. There is much more depth and dimension to her than I’d originally thought. The fact that Willow so accurately captured it is a testament to her raw talent as an artist.
But this second portion of the story…God, it’s so different. Not in a bad way. In fact, reading this might’ve made things even more difficult for me. I don’t know who has changed more in this piece—the way Willow sees Sage, or Willow herself. But one of them has.
The protagonist in this section is darker, hungrier. She’s consumed, but she also seems to be a little—or a lot—conflicted. I get the impression that the main character is embroiled in something that’s eating away at her. There’s so much self-condemnation in parts of it. But then, at other places, the story has a lightness to it, a happiness that gives me the feeling of…liberation. Of freedom. She’s a prisoner who has found a weakness in the fence, a bird who has found a hole in her gilded cage. A way out.
Or maybe even a way in, a way into something that has, in some way, set her free.
The question is: Who is consumed? And who is free? And what is eating away at this person?
Like Willow’s word
s, I find that I can’t get the questions out of my mind. Just like I can’t get these sisters out of my mind.
TEN- WILLOW
I’m so dejected it takes all my willpower to stay true to my promise to Tiffany. But she’s my friend and she’s worth far more than the shitty second-place treatment she’s gotten from me lately. So I make myself go to play practice, no matter how much I’d rather lie on the couch, eating ice cream and licking my wounds.
Ebon is becoming more and more distant to me the longer I see him as Sage. Although he’s drawing closer to Sage (me) during those times, it’s still incredibly painful to feel his marked rejection of my true self. It’s also making it harder for me not to inject more and more of Willow into my Sage. Case in point, the Lady Chatterly’s Lover quote. I don’t know how that slipped out. I wasn’t even really thinking it. I wasn’t really thinking anything. I was only feeling. Such physical satiation, such emotional closeness, such spiritual completeness. That night, that whole weekend, was nothing short of amazing.
Until I almost screwed it up.
And then I did screw it up. I told Ebon I loved him. That was obviously a mistake. If I hadn’t been certain of it then, I would be now. Just before I met Tiffany, my “Sage” phone rang (which reminds me I need to quit carrying it when I’m Willow) and I was afraid to answer it lest Tiffany show up and blow my cover. So I let it ring. And it went to voicemail. And he left no message. To me, that smacks of some kind of announcement or “talk” that he doesn’t want to leave in such a cold, impersonal way.
Something like a break-up. Or a “this is moving too fast” kind of thing. Some sort of typical guy defense to the premature dropping of the L word.
But what’s done is done. There’s nothing I can do about it now. And when things blow up with “Sage” and Ebon, all will be lost, because he’s drifting farther and farther from Willow.
And it’s tearing me up inside.
Tiffany chatters on all through dinner and then, now, as we work on the set for Romeo and Juliet. I make the appropriate facial expressions and I say the obligatory words to show interest, but it’s as fake as my relationship with Ebon. Few things in my life seem real anymore. I find that, more and more, I want to throw myself into my Sage role and never come out.
But I can’t. Because I’m Willow. And Sage won’t be gone forever. And then it really will be over.
An invisible fist closes over my vocal cords and it’s hard to swallow my saliva that suddenly feels like cotton. Panic, pure and simple. Panic at the thought of losing Ebon forever.
Keep it together, Willow. Keep it together.
“Can you clear out some of those props when they move that wall?” Travis, the set coordinator asks me as he points to one of the cardboard structures that are painted like an old brick wall. “We’ll be bringing in the set for Juliet’s room.”
With a complete lack of energy, I grab a lantern, two fake swords and a small step, and I walk back stage and down the stairs to the big double-doors at the bottom. I push them open and carry my load into the storage room that’s lined with shelves that are organized with all sorts of props. I set them near the front, where I know Travis likes them to go until he can have them properly logged and stored in their designated spots.
When I turn to leave, I nearly scream so startled am I by the shadow that’s lurking silently behind me. But then, with a rush of blood to the surface of my skin, I realize that it’s Ebon.
“What are you doing here?” I ask him unceremoniously.
“I came to talk to you,” he says in a wry way that suggests he thinks I should’ve been able to figure that out for myself.
I glance over his shoulder at the door behind him. What if someone were to stumble upon us? Like Tiffany for instance. She’s already suspicious of me and of Ebon, separately. If she were to find us down here, in the dim light, together and alone…
My worry and my pleasure are both overridden by the residual sting of rejection that I’ve nursed since class this morning. I find it easy to withdraw from him, which I do by taking a literal step backward and cupping my elbows. “What do you need?”
I’m proud of my distance, both physical and emotional. It was hard-won, but it’s coming in handy now.
“I read your pages,” he begins. A shiver twitches through my muscles, but I steel myself against my reaction to him. I need to learn to control myself. Nothing is going to happen between Ebon and me. I might as well get used to it.
“Okay,” I reply flatly.
I see a ghost of a frown flit across his forehead and then disappear. He begins to say something, but stops. He waits for a few seconds before starting again. I can’t help but wonder what he was going to say the first time.
“Should I be worried about you?” he asks, surprising me.
I don’t bother to try and hide it. “Worried? Why on earth would you be worried about me?”
“This part of the story…the tone…everything about it seems…different.”
I’m not following. “And is that a bad thing?”
I hear his deep inhalation. “No, not at all. It’s just…well, it has me thinking that something’s going on. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Alarm bells are beginning to sound. Did I somehow reveal myself in my work? Unintentionally touch on something that could lead him to this conclusion? Have I given away my secret?
“No.” I keep my answer short. The less I say, the better, I’m sure.
“All right,” he says, nodding. He says nothing for a few seconds before he narrows his eyes on me. “Is Sage?”
“Is Sage what?”
“Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“No. Sage is fine. Why are you asking these weird questions?” I hate that my tone sounds so petulant and juvenile and…defensive, but I can’t help it. I feel defensive.
“This is still supposed to be about me and Sage, correct?”
“Yes,” I say, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth as I utter the lie. Another lie.
“That’s what I thought. And that’s why I’m asking you these questions. Willow, the feel of this part seems…darker. Edgier. Like something has happened in pages that I haven’t read, in pages that I’ve missed. Only I haven’t missed any pages, have I?”
“No,” I confirm, my fingers toying with the beginnings of a hole in my jeans at my right hip.
“Then there must be something going on with Sage. Or with you, and you just don’t realize that it’s coming through in your story.”
The way Ebon is watching me makes me nervous. His eyes are so sharp, his expression so focused, I fear that he can see right through me, right through to the liar and the pretender and the desperate girl that I am.
I can’t let him find out. Not like this. Not. Like. This.
I take another step back, away from Ebon. “It’s called art, Ebon. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m trying to learn a craft. I’m trying to learn how to use different perspectives and different tones, different emotions. Normally, I wouldn’t throw them all into one story in such a disjointed way, but since you’re using this as part of my grade…I wanted to show you what I can do.”
My heart is a fluttering wildly inside my chest, a butterfly frantically trying to escape the confines of its cocoon. I can’t be sure anything I just said makes sense, but the beauty is that I’m a student. Worst case scenario, Ebon thinks I have no clue what I’m talking about. And I won’t disabuse him of that notion. He can think what he wants to. As long as he doesn’t think the truth.
I can see by the look on Ebon’s face that he doesn’t believe me. But, whatever he’s thinking, it seems it’s far from the truth. I don’t think he’d be this calm if he’d gleaned any amount of real veracity from my story.
“Willow, I’m not criticizing you. I’m simply asking if I should be worried. About you or about Sage. You seem so conflicted. I can’t help but wonder what could be causing such an intense war in such a sweet, young character.”
Hi
s gaze is soft now, soft and inviting. It would be all too easy to be lulled by his interest, his concern. By the insightful way he can see into my soul sometimes.
But it would be a mistake to let down my guard. One small misstep, one tiny blunder and my house of cards would come crashing down around me.
“It’s fiction, Ebon,” I state calmly. “Just fiction.”
His eyes narrow the slightest bit, a reaction to my casual use of his first name. Yet another gaffe on my part. I’ve got to be more careful!
“But you also told me that it was your interpretation of your sister’s feelings toward me.”
“Parts of it are. And parts of it aren’t. I already told you that a big portion of it is artistic license. Nothing more.”
I don’t mention the sex scenes specifically. Just talking about that with Ebon could be a problem for me. I feel flustered already. That would only make matters exponentially worse.
He stares at me. I resist the urge to squirm. Instead, I put all my focus into maintaining a carefully neutral expression.
“It’s good, Willow,” he finally says, backing up a step as well. “It’s very good.” His gorgeous lips curve into a lopsided smile. “I guess you know it is when your readers have trouble distinguishing between what’s real and what’s not.”
For one heartbeat, for the space of one short burst of air sucked into my lungs, I see something flicker in Ebon’s eyes. It’s heat. The heat I thought I’d seen before is there again, staring back at me. Only this time, I know I’m not imagining it. I’ve seen it in his eyes dozens of times. As Sage.