by Selena
“Stop,” I say, slamming my palm down on the table. I let her control me for too long, not just my body, but my brain. She told me lies, and she knew I wanted to trust her so badly I‘d believe them. But no more.
Mom jumps, licking her lips nervously and glancing around like she forgot where she was, who she was talking to. She reaches for her cigarettes and pulls out another one.
“I’m sorry if your father abused you, too,” I say. “I’m sorry if Dad cheated on you, though I’m guessing it had at least something to do with you not wanting anything to do with him. He shouldn’t have done that. But I didn’t come here to hear about what a monster Dad is. I know what people say. He likes women. He’s killed people. He’s far from perfect. But he doesn’t abuse children. Nothing excuses that.”
She smirks and lets out a stream of smoke. “How old’s his current goomah?”
“Twenty-seven,” I say. “Yeah, she’s young. But she’s not a child.”
She sits there smoking for a few minutes before speaking. “I thought I’d strike out on my own, you know. Have a glamorous life. Be a Broadway star. You know what they told me?”
I shake my head.
“They told me I was too old. That I should’ve started earlier. I wanted to take acting classes, you know, but where was I going to get money? My father wasn’t going to give me money. If I contacted him, he would have been furious, would have sent me right back home. And your father, of course he wasn’t going to support me. At thirty-five, I was already done with life. I had no purpose in my marriage, no prospects as an actress, no skills to get a job…”
“What have you been living on the past ten years?” I ask. “Welfare?”
She gives a mirthless laugh. “I’m still married to your father,” she says. “I wouldn’t qualify for help. I did things… The things a woman with no prospects has to do to get money.”
I close my eyes for a second. I don’t want to feel for this monster, but I do. She’s my mother, after all. She may be a monster, but she’s a human one. I have compassion for her the way I would if a stranger told me this story. Because that’s what she is. A stranger.
I never knew her then. Kids don’t know their parents at that age. Parents are rulers, providers, protectors, jailers, and sometimes heroes. They are not complex human beings who make mistakes and have flaws and opinions and dreams that they gave up. Even having parents who talked to me about those things didn’t really make me see them that way, as someone with internal struggles equal to mine.
I’m just starting to want to know my father as a person, now that he’s not in control of my life. I could stay in contact with my mother, try to get to know her, too, with all her hurts and failures. I could save her.
But then I think of something King said. That people make their choices, and that makes them who they are. They do right or they do wrong, and each choice adds to the sum of their character.
My mother made her choices. She hurt me. Maybe she hurt my brother. If she’s telling the truth, and Dad somehow found out, and she made him think Jonathan was the one hurting me, then she got him killed. And yes, she has a horrible life now, but it’s one she made for herself. I won’t invite it into my life. After all, I want kids. I want to be a good mother. And a good mother would never have someone in her life, and one day her kids’ lives, who’s made the choices and done the things my mother has done.
There’s one thing that might have swayed me. Maybe that’s the real reason I came.
To see if she’d changed.
And now I know.
Because the last choice she’s made, the one she made today, the one that lets me know she’ll never change? That was her choice not to apologize.
I didn’t come here for that, didn’t even expect it. But she could have offered. She could have taken responsibility, told me she’d made a horrible mistake, told me it haunted her every day of her life. She could have cried and begged forgiveness. Or even just acknowledged what she did and that it was wrong, that it hurt me.
I may never have forgiven her, but she could have asked. Maybe that’s why I came. Just to hear her excuse, to see what she’d say, as if anything she’d say could justify what she did. Still. Maybe I wanted that, the impossible. I wanted her to have a reason good enough to make me understand how you could do such a thing to a child who trusted you, a child you should have protected.
I push back from the table, the chair nearly dumping me on the floor with the uneven legs before I catch myself and stand. “I think I’ve heard all I need to hear.”
“That’s it?” she asks. “I thought you came to kill me.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder and face her squarely. She doesn’t stand, just looks up at me through the smoke, her strung-out face framed by the linoleum-striped floor and the gaping hole where a cabinet door is missing behind her. She doesn’t sound like she’d mind if I killed her.
“I think you’re doing a bang-up job of that on your own,” I say. “Guess karma’s a bitch.”
“If karma were real, we’d all be living like this,” she says, gesturing around with the stub of her cigarette. “You think you’ll be different, but I was there once, too. Just married to some big shot, I bet. I was just like you. Thought I’d have it all. Now look at me.”
“You left,” I say. “That was your choice.”
“Stay in the Life, do what they do, and you’ll become a monster, too,” she says. “You just watch.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m nothing like you.”
“And watch those babies around that big shot husband,” she says, tapping her cigarette. “Your father killed his son. Would have killed you, too, if he found out.”
I just stare at her. “If he found out what? That you were abusing me? No, Mom. He wouldn’t have killed me. He would have killed you.”
Mom crushes out her second cigarette without taking her eyes from mine.
“You know, despite everything, I admired that you left,” I say. “I really believed you when you said you were protecting me. I admired you for having the guts to leave such a powerful man. For going off on your own, to find your way, do your thing, and take your daughter out of harm’s way, even if that harm was you. You told me you left to be free, and I really believed it. All these years, I believed it. But you never really had a choice, did you? You weren’t leaving to protect me. You were leaving to protect yourself.”
I don’t wait for her answer. I got all the answers I wanted and more today.
twenty-five
King
I watch Eliza through dinner. She’s been quiet all through the meal, unlike her usual chatty self.
“Everything okay?” I ask, selecting a piece of sushi from the platter Eliza ordered from a delivery service.
“I was thinking about something you said a while back,” she says. “About therapy.”
“What about it?”
“Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“Do you want me to help you find someone?” I ask, careful not to sound too enthusiastic in case it makes her feel more broken than she already does.
“Maybe I could try the one you said your mom sees,” she says. “If that doesn’t work, I can find someone else.”
I nod. “I’ll call and ask if she’s taking new clients.”
She takes a piece of sushi and dips it in soy sauce. “Thank you.”
We eat for a few minutes in silence. “What changed your mind?” I ask after a bit.
“I want to be better for you,” she says. “I want to be everything you’ve ever wanted in a wife.”
“You are,” I say, tightness twisting in my chest. “You’re that and more.”
She smiles. “I want to be better for me, too. I want to be the person I was supposed to be, that I could have been, if none of that had happened. I think I just need to get clear and learn to move on, you know? From my brother’s death, my mom, and my issues. I want to work through it, not hold onto it forever. I want to be a good mom
when that day comes.”
I take another bite, watching her carefully from the corner of my eye. “Is that what’s bothering you?”
“No,” she admits, setting down her chopsticks. “I have to tell you something, but you have to promise you won’t be mad.”
“I don’t know if I can promise that without knowing what you’re going to say.”
“Fine,” she says lightly. “Then I won’t tell you.”
I sigh. “Okay, I won’t be mad.”
She grins slyly. “I love that that actually works, but you know I would have told you anyway. Like I said before, I don’t want secrets between us.”
“Now I’m intrigued,” I say, arching a brow. “What’s this secret?”
“I went to see my mom yesterday.”
My throat catches, and I have to set down my bite and get a drink of water before I choke. “What?”
“I know what you’re going to say, but I took my bodyguard and a driver and my Glock. I was careful, and I’m fine. I just thought you should know.”
“I would have gone with you,” I say quietly.
“I know,” she says, reaching over to lay her hand on mine. “But it was something I needed to do on my own. I hope you can understand.”
I can’t. I can’t see how she could do something horribly traumatic and not want me by her side, but think her bodyguard and driver would be better adept at sharing the experience with her. But it’s not what I’m supposed to say, so I nod stiffly.
“I’m sorry if that upsets you,” she says. “I knew you’d want to do something about it, and believe me, I thought about it. That’s why I brought a gun. But in the end, I’d just be putting her out of her misery. She deserves to suffer.”
“And was she?” I ask. “Suffering?”
“Yes,” Eliza says. “She lives in the projects.”
I try to soften my voice level and not sound like a controlling dick, but it’s hard. “You went to the projects alone?”
“No, I had a bodyguard,” she says. “And it wasn’t even dark.”
I take a deep breath, trying to control myself. Anger never solves anything, and it usually makes things worse. I search for the relevant answer here, the one that shows her I love her even if I don’t approve of what she did.
“How are you?” I ask at last, turning my hand under hers and linking our fingers.
I can see the tension melt from her, her shoulders relaxing, and I know blowing up at her would have been the worst thing I could do. “I’m okay, I think,” she says. “I mean, as okay as you can be after seeing your mother has turned into a crackhead. I don’t know. I saw her as her own person for the first time, not just my mother who left me.”
“Who hurt you,” I clarify.
“That, too,” she says. “I spent so much time pretending it didn’t happen. And then pretending she was good for leaving. And seeing her now… It was just sad. I guess I’m a little angry that I didn’t get to be angry.”
“You can be angry.”
“I know,” she says, squeezing my hand before withdrawing hers and picking up her chopsticks again. “But it’s hard when the person is literally sleeping in the bed they made for themselves. It’s like I didn’t have a chance to get revenge. She got revenge on herself already, even if she didn’t mean to. And I’m kinda pissed that I didn’t have a chance to do that, but at the same time, I’m relieved that I don’t have to live with that.”
“It’s a lot to live with,” I admit. “Taking someone’s life.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
I shrug, remembering Il Diavolo’s words. “Eat or get eaten, I guess.”
Over the rest of dinner, she fills me in on more detail about her visit, her mother’s poor condition, and her lack of remorse. After dinner, we clean up together.
Something about the simple act makes the place in behind my sternum that used to fill up with cold slush so warm it aches. I know that each of these moments, no matter how sweet, is fleeting. Not only fleeting but numbered. One day, my number will be up. Until then, I enjoy each moment, even when the sweetness hurts my teeth.
I used to think leaving her a widow would be the worst thing I could do, but now I know better. Treating her like a business deal is worse. Not loving her and showing her how much I appreciate her as my wife is worse. Like a greedy dragon, I treated my own heart like a treasure to be hoarded and hidden away from her. But she was too smart. She snuck in and stole it when I wasn’t looking. For that, I am nothing but grateful. She opened my eyes, made me stronger, strong enough not to be afraid to hurt again. Strong enough not to be afraid to love.
I vowed never to love her or let her love me because I was so afraid of hurting her. That may happen, but I can’t let that stop me from living here and now. It only makes me treat each day with her as something sacred. She is the treasure. Every day, I get to show her that all over again. I’ll love her hard, with everything in me, like this day is my last. One day, it will be.
When we slide into bed later, Eliza rolls toward me, tangling her smooth legs with mine, rubbing my calf with her soft toes. “Want to try again?” she asks.
“Really?” I ask, drawing back to search her face. My cock throbs against her bare belly, only my boxers and her underwear separating us from being skin to skin.
“Yeah,” she says, pressing her soft little body up against mine. “Did you think I’d be done after one time?”
“You cried,” I remind her.
“I know,” she says. “It wasn’t my finest moment. But don’t give up on me, okay? I’m going to work on it, and I was hoping you’d work on it with me.”
“Of course,” I say, my throat thick with desire. I didn’t think she’d want to try again for a long time, and I was prepared for that. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to, though. She’s fucking beautiful in every way, and not just physically. This is beyond frustrating. It’s agonizing. It’s not the waiting. I could deal with that, hard as it may be. It’s not thinking of her needs, her pleasure. That can only be good for us both. It’s that I can’t have my wife the way I want her, and beyond that, that I can’t be in control in the one place I need to be. I don’t mind if she has her own life, if she does her thing, if she needs things that are only hers, even friends that aren’t mine.
Here in the bedroom, though, I need to be the one calling the shots. It takes everything in me to give over control to her, to let her set the pace and pull the brake when she needs to, to be the one in charge, making the rules. I keep telling myself it’ll make me a better lover to her later, and that’s worth it. But damn if it isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
We kiss for so long I’m dizzy with wanting her, my head spinning by the time she reaches between us, pushing down my boxers and gripping my cock in her warm hand. I roll onto my back, pulling her on top of me so I can watch her. If I can’t pound her into the mattress, at least I can watch her in all her glory as she sits astride my hips. She squiggles down the bed, pushing off the blankets and lowering her head, smiling up at me before opening her lips to take my cock. I push up into her mouth, fisting my hands in the sheet as she slides down deep, letting me feel her straining throat.
After a minute, when I’m shaking with the effort of holding back, she throws her hair back and kneels up, grinning down me as she hooks her thumbs into her panties. I can see the shape of her pussy against the thin fabric. My cock jerks against her thighs, glistening with her saliva as she draws her panties down, letting me see what I can’t touch. With a groan, I take hold of her thighs and tug her up to straddle me. She sinks onto me, gasping as we make contact. Her eyes fly wide, and she tenses.
“You’re safe,” I remind her, massaging her thighs gently. “I won’t move a muscle until you’re ready. Do what you need, baby. I’m yours.”
She nods, letting out a breath and sinking down on top of me without putting me in. “Thank you,” she breathes.
Slowly, she begins to grind against my shaft
, riding me until she’s as wet as I am. I love watching her move, the sensual rolling of her hips, the sway of her tits as she rises and falls, the little frown of concentration between her brows, the way she bites her plump lower lip when she starts getting hot. It makes it all worth it when our eyes meet and she smiles.
“Is this okay?” she asks.
“So fucking okay,” I say, my voice hoarse with desire.
“I’m ready,” she says.
I lift her hips, supporting her weight. “Put it in.”
She swallows before reaching for my cock, guiding it to her entrance. She bears down, biting her lip as I strain against her opening. At last, I breach her entrance, nearly groaning at the sensation of her slick cunt gripping my bare cock. She gasps, tensing up for a minute. I wait for her to adjust, trying not to move, though my cock aches inside her as it strains against her walls. She’s so tight it almost hurts. When she’s ready, she moves a little deeper, panting as she goes.
I remember the last time, and how she didn’t tell me she was upset, that she’d had enough, until she’d had too much.
I grip her hips gently, my gaze locking with hers. “Talk to me, baby,” I manage. “Let me in. What’s going on in that complicated mind of yours?”
She seems to relax a little more, turning her attention away from her determined effort. “I’m okay,” she says.
“Tell me how it feels,” I say, my voice low and hoarse with desire. Holding back is fucking killing me, but I wouldn’t change it for anything. Not when I can see every inch of her spectacular, sexy body being slowly impaled on my cock.
“Fucking enormous,” she says, and then she gives a little laugh, and I can’t help but smile, too. Not just because I’m a man, and a guy can never hear those words too many times. But because if she can laugh, maybe it’ll be okay this time. Maybe she knows she’s safe, that she can stop any time she wants, that I’d never push her for more than she’s ready and more than willing to give.