The Realm of You: A Novel

by Amanda Richardson

  “Do you know what the sexiest part of you is?” he whispers, crawling between my legs. Is he…? No, he couldn’t possibly. I haven’t showered. But no, instead he kisses my lower belly, which, now that I’m looking closer, has the tiniest of tiny baby bumps. That, or it’s a food baby. Either way, his gesture is sweet. “This.” He kisses all around the small bump, trailing kisses up until he meets my lips. He then kisses my cheek and whispers into my ear. “The sexiest thing about you is the fact that you’re carrying our child. Our future.”

  I feel myself start to cry, and I pull him in for another kiss. “I love you.”

  “And the second sexiest part of you,” he says, smiling. He trails his kiss from top to bottom this time, and then he’s right there, kissing and sucking. I gasp. “This is my second favorite part of you,” he growls, nibbling ever so gently. I clutch onto his head as he moves his head up and down like a pro, licking and flicking his tongue rhythmically. I can’t remember the last time I had an orgasm that wasn’t my own doing. I feel myself start to tense, and I buck my hips just as he grabs me and pushes me down, intensifying his pressure.

  “Just let go and feel it,” he says, his breath between my legs. It makes me shiver.

  “Okay,” I say, throwing my head back and closing my eyes. “Yes…”

  I feel myself start to let go. I cry out, and just as I come, he pulls away and enters me, sliding in at just the perfect time. I collapse back onto the bed as he fills me, and I hold onto his face as he kisses me. He’s gentle, but not too gentle. We’re still rocking the bed, and it’s the perfect rhythm. He grabs my hands again, holding onto them as he watches me. I try to look away, but I can’t. I want to see his face as we finish together.

  “Mi amor,” he groans, closing his eyes briefly. When he opens them, they’re dark and dilated. “Look at me.” I obey, my eyes locking onto his. His whole body stiffens, and it intensifies everything for me. I feel myself finish again, just as he does. It’s powerful, the smells and sights and sounds of Sebastian, and I love every fucking second of it.

  He collapses on top of me, not even bothering to pull out, and I’m overcome with so many feelings. Anguish at not having this in my real life. Gratitude for having experienced any of this at all. Love, so much love. Pity and regret, for myself but additionally for the high-school version of Sebastian. I know what he was going through. I’m grateful he’s here, now, happy.

  “I’ll shower first,” I say. I try to get up, but Sebastian holds me down.

  “Shower? Don’t you dare. You smell your best after sex,” he says, his voice lazy and relaxed.

  The lump in my throat gets bigger. Everything about him, about this, is too much. It’s too good. How is it that I deserve this? What will happen when I go to sleep tonight? Will all of this disappear? Will I wake up tomorrow in Sebastian’s arms? Does he even exist, or is he a figment of my imagination?

  “I love you, Marlin Winters, soon-to-be Marlin Juares.” He kisses me and pulls me into him, his stomach to my back, and wraps an arm and a leg around me.

  No. This is real. The sights, smells, feels, sounds, tastes. It’s real. It has to be real.

  But just in case, I fight the urge to sleep. I don’t know what reality I’ll wake up in, and I’m not willing to take that chance just yet.

  Chapter Ten

  TWO days ago

  I reach into the bag of Skittles, hoping for a red or purple one.

  Crunch.

  Gross. I got orange, also known as the worst Skittle flavor ever. I spit it out in my hand and grab a napkin from my glove compartment, squishing the wet skittle into the scratchy paper.

  A second later, I pull into the parking lot of Dr. Kostas, the new psychiatrist I’m seeing. I grab my bag of Skittles and continue to eat only the red and purple ones. When I spit a yellow one out into the trash can out front, I snap my head up and check for hidden cameras. In retrospect, I’m sure he’s seen worse, but just in case, I don’t want Dr. Kostas to think I’m a total weirdo.

  I step inside, and the waiting room is like a garden oasis. I see right through the façade. Why do doctors always present themselves this way? We all know the receptionist is typing up emails, running out for coffees, and filing invoices. The healthcare system in America is not glamorous; it’s not a day at the spa.

  “Hello, I’m here to see Dr. Kostas,” I say sweetly, and the receptionist studies me for a second too long before nodding and handing me a form to fill out.

  “Don’t forget to sign on the bottom,” she says. I know she really wants to ask, what kind of fucked up are you?

  I fill the form out as best as I can. I don’t check any of the boxes, not even the one where I’m supposed to indicate self-harm or signs of depression. In response, I pull my sleeves down to my thumbs. When I’m finished, I hand the clipboard back to the receptionist, named “Glenda,” and go sit back down.

  Just as I’m almost done picking all of my blue nail polish off, Glenda calls out to me.

  “Ms. Winters? You forgot to specify the reason for your visit.”

  I didn’t forget, Glenda.

  “Oh, okay.” I stand and grab a pen. I check the ‘sleep issues’ box, thinking it’s not entirely untrue.

  The truth is, I’m not sure if I trust Dr. Kostas yet. No one—and I mean no one—knows about my issues. Charlie suspects, especially when it’s eighty-five outside like today and I opt for a long-sleeved shirt, but even he doesn’t know the kind of fucked up things that go through my mind on a daily basis. If he did, he would run away screaming.

  For example, I’m not sure he’d appreciate the detailed thoughts about suicide, or the fact that whenever I hold a knife, I think about slitting my own throat.

  Fun, happy thoughts that any normal twenty-seven-year-old woman would have, am I right?

  The only reason I’m here is because I promised Charlie I would “see someone.” That’s WASP code for therapy, a term I’m sure his waspy mother accustomed him to. After last night, after the whole debacle with Stuart, Charlie gave me an ultimatum.

  “Either see someone, or we’re done.”

  “Fine, I’ll see someone tomorrow,” I say, slurring my words. I’ve eaten two pieces of bread, and I’m still piss drunk. “Stuart really did suck though. I wasn’t wrong about that.”

  “There are things you learn when you grow up, Marlin, things like tact and class. You don’t have any of those things, and I’m not sure why. Maybe you never grew up. Telling my parents off, telling Stuart his music sucked, being rude to Gemma…”

  I take a deep breath. The alcohol coursing through my veins is making me bold. Duly noted: too much scotch gives me no filter. “I just… I’m not happy anymore. I feel like I have this heavy blanket on my shoulders, ALL THE TIME. I can’t remember the last time I genuinely smiled.” For a second, I’m relieved. It feels good to tell him the truth for once. Maybe this is good. Maybe this will be the catalyst for change. Perhaps tomorrow we will attempt to be a happier, more communicative couple.

  Charlie studies my face, and then he looks away. “It sounds like boredom to me.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out two hundred dollar bills. “Why don’t you take a personal day tomorrow, go out to lunch, and buy yourself something nice?”

  I stare up at him in disbelief. “Money? You’re giving me fucking money?”

  He sighs, putting his face in his hands. A blond curl falls in front of his face. I want to rip it out. “Jesus, Marlin. I’m just trying to be a good boyfriend.” He presses the two bills into the palm of my hand. “Promise me you’ll see someone tomorrow. Do that, and then treat yourself to something nice. Do you always have to be so dramatic?” With that, he walks away.

  And I want to scream.

  “Ms. Winters? The doctor is ready to see you.” I stand up and walk to the door, and she ushers me to a homely office.

  An older man sits behind a desk, and I’m both disgusted at the cheesy motivational posters and shocked at his The Who tour poster. I can’t
really picture the man sitting in front of me, with his comb-over and cowboy boots, smoking a joint and watching The Who live in concert.

  “Marlin, I’m Dr. Kostas. Please, take a seat.” His voice and smile are warm, and I’m immediately reminded of my father.

  “Thank you. I like The Who,” I blurt out. I immediately begin to sing “Teenage Wasteland,” but then I stop myself. Great. Of all the places to do that, I had to do it in front of a psychiatrist. “Sorry. It’s just, whenever I think of that song, I have to sing it.”

  He just laughs. The wrinkles on the sides of his eyes deepen, and he looks much older than he did at first. “One of the best songs of all time.”

  “It really is.” Okay, so maybe this won’t be so terrible.

  “Tell me about yourself. You stated sleep issues, but I can read people pretty easily, and I don’t think that’s the only reason you’re here.” I swallow the lump in my throat. Shit. Was it the long sleeves? “But before we get to that, tell me about your life. Where’d you grow up? Did you go to college? That kind of thing. I’ll ease you in.” He grins and clamps his hands together, listening intently.

  “Okay. Umm… let’s see. I grew up in Wyoming, in a town I’m sure you’ve never heard of. I’m an only child. My parents are wonderful. I dreamt of California as a kid, and I went to San Diego State University for college. My major was Liberal Studies. I still have no idea what I want to do with my life. I miss Wyoming, but I feel crazy for saying that, because I live in one of the most temperate places on earth. I live with my boyfriend, Charlie.”

  He nods and twiddles his thumbs. “Tell me about Charlie.”

  I’m a little thrown off by his question. I wasn’t expecting to talk about Charlie. “Umm, well, he’s two years older than me. He’s an investment banker, and we recently bought a townhouse. We’re thinking of getting a dog soon.”

  “Do you talk about marriage?” Dr. Kostas asks. I’m not sure why that’s any of his business, but I suspect he’s asking these questions for a reason.

  “Sometimes. But we’re both pretty happy where things stand right now.”

  “Does he make you happy?”

  I balk at his question. “Of course. Why would I be with him if I weren’t happy?”

  Dr. Kostas laughs, and I find it slightly offensive that he’s laughing at me. “Ms. Winters, with all due respect, if people didn’t stay in unhappy relationships, I wouldn’t have the booming career I’ve had for the last forty years.”

  I shrug. “I guess you’re right. I’m not unhappy.”

  “But you’re not happy,” he finishes, and I glare at him.

  “I didn’t say that.” I cross my arms. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

  “Do you know why I do what I do, Marlin?”

  I shrug again. “Because it pays well?” I smile so that he knows I’m joking.

  “You’re a witty one,” he observes, stroking his chin. “I do this simply to help people be happier in their day-to-day lives. It’s one of the hardest jobs in the world. Regular doctors stitch up wounds, perform heart surgery, deliver babies. Our bodies heal. Our minds… are a different story.”

  I look around the room, avoiding eye contact. “Fine. You caught me. I’m not happy. What gave me away?”

  “I can read people pretty well. The long sleeves on a sunny day was my first clue. The dark circles underneath your eyes. The fact that you mentioned Charlie last.”

  I stare at him. “I have dark circles?” I swipe my fingers underneath my eyes, horrified. I must not have even noticed. How long have I had dark circles, and is that why Sia always asks me if I’m tired? God, I’m so oblivious.

  “How long have you cut yourself?”

  “Wow, you’re just going to come out and ask me that?” I start to stand.

  “Sit down, Marlin. I’m trying to understand what lead to this.”

  “Nothing… it’s nothing. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “How long?” The way he asks questions is not malicious or speculative. He’s just genuinely concerned. Maybe he can help me feel normal.

  “Two years.” I sit back down. Charlie’s words run through my mind. You’re a drama queen, Marlin. That’s what he always says.

  “What happened?”

  He doesn’t need to specify. I’m sure I’m such a walking stereotype—there’s always an inciting incident for people like me. Rape, molestation, bullying, neglect, abuse, disaster, war…

  “It’s so stupid,” I start, shaking my head.

  “Nothing’s stupid when you’re sitting in that chair, Marlin.”

  “There are people out there who suffer much worse things than me. It feels silly to complain about an incident that, in the grand scheme of things, is not that bad.”

  “It differs from person to person, Marlin. You can’t rate someone’s trauma. Tell me about the incident.”

  I slide down in the chair and cross my arms. The only people who know what happened are Charlie and my parents. The local police did a fine job downplaying it, and there was only one small mention of it in the local newspaper. At the time, I thought I was overreacting, but the gory details have stayed with me all this time. It’s why I have nightmares most nights.

  I start slowly. “When I was a junior in college, I worked at this ice cream shop near campus a few nights a week. They were open really late—until 2:00 a.m.—to appeal to the barhopping crowd. Anyways, one night we were held at gunpoint. I’ve never been so scared, not before, not since. My co-worker, a friend of mine, put up a fight. And… she was shot in the head. Right in front of me. They held us hostage for hours, but eventually the police intervened, and we were rescued.”

  “Why on earth would you think that’s stupid, or silly, or not worth being traumatized?” Dr. Kostas leans forward. “That must’ve been terrifying. Seeing your friend shot…” He leans back. “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can cause a lot issues later on, sometimes several years after the incident. It manifests itself in a variety of ways.”

  I look down and pick the nail polish off the last nail—my pinky nail. “Anyways, shortly after that, I started dating Charlie. He made everything better. He took my mind off of things. He paid for my school so I didn’t have to work. He took pity on me and made me forget. But then after college, something changed. We changed. Instead of being grateful for his money and his support, I began to resent him. Our relationship is… okay. He doesn’t physically abuse me, but sometimes he makes me feel worse about myself. About everything. He’s manipulative.”

  Dr. Kostas nods. “So now, because of his support early on, you feel like you’re stuck with him. You feel obligated.”

  “Yeah,” I admit. “He’s given me too much. I can’t walk away. I owe him my life, in a way. He kept my mind off of everything those first few years. I ran straight from the trauma and into his arms. Literally, the very next day.”

  “I see.” Dr. Kostas grabs his notepad and writes something down. I bite my lip. I wonder if he’s writing psycho on his notepad. “I think that’s enough for today. But I have an assignment for you. I’m not going to put you on medication just yet; let’s wait a few weeks and see if we can work through this together. A lot of PTSD can be worked out via therapy. Depression and anxiety are another story. If you feel like harming yourself, at all, in any way, I want you to call me.” He hands me his business card. I notice his personal cell phone written in pen on the back. “For any reason, day or night. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I look up at him. “What’s the assignment?”

  He studies me pensively. I feel like he can see right through me. “Do one thing every day that scares you. Whether that means ordering something different off the menu, talking to a stranger, paragliding, whatever. Sometimes, shaking things up a bit can really bring the emotions forward. That’s what you need: an outlet. We have to clear the pipes before we can fix them. Does that make sense?”

  I nod. “I can do that.”

  “Good.” He stands. “I’ll see
you next week.”

  “Thank you,” I say quietly, and just as I turn to leave, he calls out to me.

  “And Marlin? See if you can find something that puts a genuine smile on your face.”

  I grimace. I’m not sure that’s a promise I can keep. “I’ll try.”

  It’s the best I can do.

  Chapter Eleven

  PRESENT

  Sleep doesn’t come. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m forcing myself to stay awake or because Sebastian snores.

  Really loudly, too.

  I can’t help but find it endearing.

  He rolls over, totally content, and I get out of bed. Lying here analyzing everything isn’t going to help anything. I throw on an old terrycloth robe and the Scooby-Doo slippers I now have a love/hate relationship with. I turn the heat up and walk into the kitchen, and I start boiling water for a cup of tea.

  I don’t know what will happen when I wake up tomorrow. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified to go to sleep. I haven’t had much time to contemplate what’s happening to me—I was just trying to take it one hour at a time, one minute at a time. I was playing a part, but now I want to know why I was cast in this play.

  At first, when I bend over to get some tea out of one of the lower cabinets, I think it’s just dizziness or vertigo causing the room to swirl around me. But when I stand and steady myself, it doesn’t go away.

  I don’t have to think about what’s happening. This life is chipping away, slowly, but it’s happening. I don’t know how much longer I have. It’s as if my body is punishing me for thinking too much. I try to claw the memories of yesterday out of my mind, and I’m met with more dizziness and the urge to lie down.