Gravity

by Liz Crowe

  Something in her was not at all surprised to find his side of the bed empty. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. She dragged the blanket with her when she crawled out of bed and headed for the kitchenette. After gulping down three glasses of water, she noted that their un-eaten dinners had been cleared away.

  As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she spotted a folded sheet of her sketch book paper on the counter. She picked it up and held it for a few minutes, unwilling to accept what was no doubt inside it. A big kiss-off—a that-was-fun-but-you’re-spoiled-goods-so-see-ya-round Dear Kayla note. That was what had been missing, left dangling and unspoken. His actual goal, to get her off and bolt.

  Anger shoved its way into her muddled brain, making her rip the note in two before even reading it, leaving it on the kitchen floor while she ran for the bathroom, seeking the only release she could ever count on. Her skin was tight again, but in a new way. A way she hated, now that she’d experienced what true sexual pleasure meant.

  She yanked the small bag from under the sink where she’d stowed it a few hours before. Still tingling between her legs, cursing and crying and sniveling like the loser she was, she flopped onto the pristine bathroom floor and pulled out a blade.

  “Relax,” she heard his voice remind her. “I love you,” he’d claimed, the lying bastard.

  Shaking with anticipation, she put the business end of the blade to her skin, needing the release so much it was scary close to the sensation she’d experienced on the brink of orgasm. She waited, counting to ten, giving herself a moment to reconsider before letting the blood flow.

  “Relax, Kayla,” she could hear him say.

  “Shut up!” She hurled the razor across the room then scrambled for another one. Jaw clenched, she put the metal to her skin. She could already smell the rustiness, feel the release of pressure she required.

  “I just want to make you happy,” his voice insisted.

  “Oh, God,” she groaned. The blade dropped to the floor, unsullied. She stared down at her body, exposed under the harsh bathroom light, laid bare by the blanket that she’d let fall to the floor beneath her. The soft triangle of hair where he’d touched her. The nipples, hardened in the cold, that he’d kissed and sucked and worshiped, drawing her ever deeper into true, adult pleasure. She passed her palms over her breasts, down her stomach, and rested them on her pubic hair. Eyes closed, she touched herself, finding that tiny spot that he’d shown so much attention to, using her other hand to tug one of her nipples, wondering if she could recreate the feeling herself before giving up, sprawled out on the bathroom floor.

  The first streaks of pink and orange light were filling the horizon as she rose, collected all the blades, the ointment, the bandages. Jaw set, still naked as a jaybird, she strode into the kitchen and found one of the bags he’d brought. She shoved everything into the bag then into the garbage bin, slamming the lid down with satisfaction.

  After a long, hot shower, she put on jeans and a loose sweater, forgoing a bra, wanting to experience the fabric brushing against her now sensitive nipples. Coffee, a banana and some yogurt helped the hunger pangs as she waited for a decent hour to arrive so she could make a few calls before she had to leave to open the bar. Sunday—a slow day, thank God. She needed time to process and think and plan.

  At eight-fifty-seven a.m. she grabbed her phone and hit Trent’s speed dial button. As she waited for him to answer, the ripped white sketch book paper on the floor of the kitchen caught her eye. She picked up the pieces and spread it all out on the table in front of her as the call went to his voice mail. With a curse, she ended the call and sent a quick text.

  I’ll take you up on your offer of the loft. Thanks. I love you. Tell Melody I’ll see her later.

  She felt as light as air, as if she’d been tied down with a heavy chain that had been busted open sometime in the night. The concept that she’d been set free by an orgasm made her roll her eyes but she’d be damned if she had any other explanation for it.

  Of course it wasn’t the act, but the man who’d bestowed it. Brock. Fellow ex-junkie, class clown, baby whisperer and, dare she even admit it to herself, man she loved. She touched her face, which burned as those words passed across her consciousness. Feeling restless, she paced from one side of the small room to the other, avoiding reading his note, until she couldn’t stand it another minute.

  As she pieced the thing together, the words formed into sentences, and her heart pounded at the realization that she’d been right.

  Dear Kayla,

  I want you to know that tonight was hands-down the most amazing one of my life. Weird, in a way, since I had no big-boy self-control on the one hand, but incredible in so many others. Ways I wish I could explain to you but have decided that it’s best if I don’t.

  It’s not that I don’t want to. I do. But I have no idea how to even admit to you the awful things I’ve done in my life. The horrible feelings and urges I’ve been unable to manage. The meds I take help. But now that I’ve fallen for you, I’m afraid. I’m afraid of how I’ll act with you, that I’ll lose it and revert to my old, worst self.

  You deserve so much more, Kayla. I hope you find him someday. I’m going up to the Inn for a while, to think about where I’m going to go next. But I can’t be here, around you, wishing I were a different, much better man.

  Yours,

  B

  She crumpled the note in her fist, tears leaking down her face. Her phone buzzed with a text. Trent, ecstatic that she’d come to her senses.

  I want your life to be a million times better, K. And I think you’re well on your way to that.

  She sighed and swiped her eyes, holding the crumpled note to her chest as she sat on the stiff couch, looking at the bed where her life had changed, at least for a few hours.

  She muddled through her shift, woozy and tired but somehow jumpy and on edge at the same time. Everything irritated her, from the beer taps shooting foam all over her shirt to the high-maintenance table of twenty-somethings who kept asking her for something “like a Budweiser.”

  When she’d get a moment, and would close her eyes, she saw two things—the sharp, comforting edge of the razor blade, and Brock’s face over hers as he’d pleasured her for the first, and, she hoped, not the last time.

  “Relax, my ass,” she muttered as she jumped up to serve a fresh set of newcomers settling in at the bar. By the time her shift was supposed to end at five, the place was almost full, and the sounds of their chattering was driving her up the wall.

  Melody caught her leaning slumped against the wall next to the restrooms, hands over her eyes. “Kayla? What’s wrong?”

  “What? Oh, sorry, I…have a headache.”

  Melody’s dark eyes narrowed. “Do not bother lying to me, sister. I can read you like a book.”

  Kayla sighed and slumped. “Fine. Whatever. But my shift is over so I’m out of here.”

  “Wait, don’t go. Let’s eat something. You still need to put on some weight and I’m making that my mission in life.”

  “I’m not hungry. I need to go home and lie down.” She smiled at the woman who was now her sister. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “Right. Like I’m going to do that.” She clucked her teeth but left Kayla alone, as if sensing that she’d pushed it as far as she could for today.

  Kayla dragged herself back to the bar, her feet as sluggish as her mind. As she was packing up her sketch book and pencils, shoving them into the thrift-store denim backpack she’d scored a few weeks ago, the bar door flew open. Squinting into the back light, she had a thrill of hope. Maybe he’d come back, ready to declare his love for her in front of all these people, and would carry her out, An Officer and a Gentleman-style.

  Right. Get a grip, Kayla. Your ending will never be of the happily ever after sort.

  “Have you seen him?”

  Confused, she found Austin standing at the bar, his eyes wild with worry.

  “No,” she said, knowing who he meant without ask
ing. “Excuse me. I have to go.”

  “Kayla, wait.” Austin reached across the bar and grabbed her arm. She pulled away from him but waited, out of respect for the fact that he owned the brewery and the bar where she worked. “Can we talk?”

  “What about?” She shouldered the backpack, shoving down a growing anxiety about Brock’s wellbeing.

  “Please. I’m worried about him right now and I think… I think there’s something about him you should know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You and Trent are super great at this secret-revealing thing, aren’t you?”

  His expression hardened. “Yes, I guess we are because the two of you can’t seem to communicate fully and we all think…well, we believe that you’re good for him. That you guys are good for each other. So, I’m going to tell you what he won’t. And then maybe you’ll understand why he acts the way he does sometimes.”

  “Fine.” She crossed her arms and waited.

  “Not here. Come on.” He motioned to the door behind her.

  Her legs shook as she followed Brock’s twin, the man who’d built the Fitzgerald Brewing business from small to hugely successful. So successful he had excess money to set aside in a foundation, and had given his ex-addict brother a job running the thing. She sighed at the convoluted nature of all of this, while Austin led her up to Evelyn’s big office overlooking the old brewery floor. He shut the door behind them and took a long breath, jumping right in before she could even catch her breath.

  “Once my parents got over themselves and got him to professionals his first year of college, Brock was diagnosed with…” He hesitated, blinking fast. “He’s a sex addict, Kayla. He… He started having sex with older women when he was fifteen or something, and it… Well, he’s been getting in and out of trouble with women ever since. I mean, I don’t know most of the gory details but I do know it’s something he takes a specific medication for, every day at four-thirty, along with his anti-anxiety pill.” He glanced at his watch and blew out a breath.

  Kayla stared at him, her ears burning and the words ‘sex addict’ roaming around in her mind like grinning, evil ghosts.

  “He always checks in with me every afternoon at four-thirty. It’s part of our deal. And he’s done it for months, over a year now. Until today.”

  She stared at him, her mouth hanging open. He wiped his lips. She saw how much his hand was shaking. She started to ask if he’d called or texted Brock but realized how stupid that question would sound. Of course he had. “I think he might be up north. At the Inn.”

  “He’s not,” Austin said. “He’s gone there before, when he’s in a bad place. I had the rental company go and check, but it’s locked up tight.”

  “Oh.” She backed up and sat down hard, coming to terms with all of this, with how what Austin said squared with all the strange things Brock had intimated to her, both last night and in the note he’d left.

  Austin sat and took her hand. “I’m sorry to drop this on you, but we have got to find him. I can’t even fathom what would happen, what he’ll do, if he falls off the wagon again. Have you seen him? I mean, I thought you guys had a date?”

  Her face flushed. Was nothing a secret in this family? She guessed not. She took a breath. “Yes, we did. He brought food to my extended-stay place. We… He… Oh, God.” Tears rolled down her face.

  “I know it seems weird that people with your respective histories might find each other, but trust me when I say that my brother is madly in love with you. I’ve never seen him so happy as when he’s talking about you or about to see you.”

  “What about Caroline?” She let the words escape, hating them even as they hung in the air between her and Brock’s frantic twin brother.

  “Brock and Caroline are over. He knows that. He loves you. And I think…well, I hope you guys are… Oh shit, this is embarrassing.”

  “You think?” She winced at how hysterical she sounded.

  Austin groaned and leaned back. “I told Evelyn she should do this. But she insisted that I tell you.” He dropped his elbows on his knees. “Kayla, he’s gone off the grid. And Brock never does that unless he’s going way off, jumping off all his wagons with gusto, do you understand what I’m saying? I don’t know what happened, but something triggered him and I need your help.”

  She took a breath. “Do you have Caroline’s number?”

  Austin blinked and pulled his phone from his pocket. “Yeah, I do.”

  “Okay. Dial it and give me the phone.” She’d never felt more resolved and sick with worry at the same time. She took the phone from him and walked to the large glass wall overlooking the brewery. Leaning her hot forehead against it, she waited for Brock’s longest-running girlfriend to answer.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded sleepy. “Austin? What’s wrong?”

  “Hi, uh, Caroline. This is Kayla.”

  The beat of time it took for Caroline to respond was filled with more awkward emotion than Kayla ever thought existed in the universe. She broke the silence. “I’m Brock’s friend. And I’m worried about him. Have you heard from him since you guys talked yesterday?”

  “Um…no.”

  Kayla waited a few seconds to gather her courage. “Would you have any idea where he might be, or go, if he’s…in a bad place in his head? We’ve tried the Inn up North already.”

  “I don’t think so. I mean, he used to go to some places…a few bars, you know?”

  “Yes, I do. Where are they, if you don’t mind telling me.”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  Kayla motioned for a piece of paper, which Austin slid over to her with a fancy pen from his shirt pocket. She scribbled down names and addresses.

  “Okay, thank you. Sorry to have bothered you.”

  “It’s no bother.”

  Kayla waited through another brutally awkward silence.

  “Kayla,” the other woman said. “I’m… I hope you guys can work it out. Brock is… Well, he’s…”

  “He’s a complicated hot mess with a shit ton of baggage. And I’m in love with him.”

  She heard a sharp inhale through the phone line. “Oh my God, you have no idea how happy that makes me.”

  “Well, good.” Unsure what else to say, she was about to end the call when Caroline broke in.

  “Wait, wait, I think I know where he is.”

  As Kayla rode with Austin through the early fall evening, she had no eyes for the sunset, or the colorful leaves raining down in the wind like something out of a movie. She had her hands clenched tight in her lap and one thing on her mind—find Brock. Tell him it was okay, that she understood, that she loved him. Before he did something so stupid that they’d never get him back.

  “Here it is,” Austin said, screeching to a stop outside a bar that might win the award for the diviest shit hole in Grand Rapids. There was one window featuring a blinking macro beer sign. The door was scarred. The sidewalk littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, and, sickening and yet familiar to her, several empty ziplock bags. “Let’s go.”

  Kayla put a hand on his arm before he could get out. “No, Austin. I need to do this.”

  He frowned but slid back behind the wheel, gripping it and staring straight ahead. “Go on. Hurry. Please.”

  She got out without a word and made her way to the door. Loud, pulsing beats of unidentifiable music seemed to leap out at her. Sour old beer and liquor odors filled her nose. Her shoes crunched over unnamable detritus. When she got to the door, she hesitated, wondering how this might work for them. They were, by definition, co-dependents. They could end up feeding on each other’s weaknesses, pushing each other back into vice without even knowing they were doing it. They were sick, so sick.

  She said a quick prayer and tugged open the door. Enveloped in the smoke, booze and noise, she let it pull her toward the bar. The place was packed with pool players, drinkers, couples making out in corners. And of course, tweakers. She could see them everywhere.

  As she moved through the crowd, i
gnoring the come-ons, the invites, the outright ugly suggestions, she focused on finding him. He wasn’t at the bar, which sent her pulse racing with panic. She’d somehow counted on him being there, sucking back beer or booze and trying to score—or already having scored, would be shooting up in the bathroom.

  She headed toward a dark, smelly hallway where she assumed she’d find the men’s room, she saw him. Sitting alone at a table, a bottle of whiskey and an empty glass in front of him. He was doing something with his hand and arm she couldn’t quite make out. When she got closer, she realized he was flipping a coin.

  When she slid into the booth across from him, he didn’t acknowledge her presence, continued with his coin, flipping and looking at it over and over again. She waited for almost five minutes in silence, observing, noting that the glass had not been used. That the whiskey bottle’s seal remained unbroken.

  The quarter made yet another downward trajectory. She reached across the table and snagged it out of the air in front of his face. He frowned, blinking fast as if noticing her for the first time.

  “Go away.” He took another coin out of his pocket. “I’m busy.”

  “I see that,” she said, letting him get into his rhythm before grabbing that coin, too. “Brock, look at me.”

  After a solid twenty count where she thought he might have already gotten his hit and was now deciding between drinking or finding a female, he met her gaze. But when she stared into his eyes, she knew he was clean.

  “I love you,” she declared as she plunked his coins on the table.

  “Doesn’t matter.” He fiddled with the unopened seal on the bottle. “We’ll just end up hating each other. Co-dependents can be…whatever it is we might be. I’ll fuck you up just like I did Caroline.”

  “So, what’s with the coin flip thing?”

  He sighed. “Heads, I drink. Tails, I drink.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Brock Fitzgerald. I can read you like a book.” She parroted this saying of Melody’s even as she acknowledged it as the gospel. She could tell he was lying, and at that precise moment she knew they were meant for each other. They had to be. Who else would tolerate them if they couldn’t?