Accuse

by Nikki Sex

  Grant is acting really strange.

  We’re sitting only a foot away from each other, but the vast distance between us might as well be measured in miles. It’s as though I’m not here with him at all.

  Isolated and alone—that’s Grant. It’s probably how he’s been all his life. He’s wearing a tough, untouchable façade as protective armor. This must be the face he usually shows the world.

  If only I were enveloped by the comforting safety of my dark box. It’s packed away somewhere, in the baggage area of the plane. I wish I were down there, curled up in my little box.

  Mitten is in a cat carrier, pushed under the passenger seat in front of me. My sweet cat, trusts me completely. He was content to be put in a box and transported. In the mysterious way of cats, he knows he’s safe, so he’s sound asleep.

  What the hell is wrong with Grant?

  I’m edgy, anxious and strangely numb as we travel together on the way to his home in Dallas. Grant has taken the window seat, so his facial scars are turned away from me. I’m sure he does this on purpose.

  Is he thinking of friends lost in the war or perhaps of his most recent battle? How did he get that terrible injury? I hope he confides in me eventually.

  There was a point yesterday when he forgot about his scars.

  He’d had such a breakthrough. I met the real Grant—a gentle, honorable man who could finally be himself. No longer schooling his face into something he wasn’t, while struggling to hide his feelings, he was able to let go.

  We formed a bond. Grant opened up to me.

  I study the man now, while taking slow, deep breaths to manage my own nerves. He’s looking out the window, staring into space. His body is stiff, his back straight. Grant is a solid ball of building intensity, yet there’s an air of denial about him. He’s pretending he’s fine—and he so isn’t fine.

  Today, I’m sitting next to a stranger.

  I recall my phone conversation with André yesterday when I asked him about traveling to Dallas. I wanted his advice about helping Grant care for his brother’s child.

  “My petite Souris,” he said. “Be very sure. This desire you have to help Grant. It is for him, yes, yes, of course… but is it also for you? This must be something you wish for. In this, you must not be the rescuer who denies her own needs for the benefit of another.”

  “I want to go,” I assured him.

  “For yourself?”

  “Yes, very much so.”

  Since Grant was within earshot, I began speaking French so I could say, “I have a ridiculous crush on the guy, André. It’s even worse than the one I once had on you.” We both snickered at that.

  “I’ve never felt like this. Sure, there’s sexual chemistry which, which—may I emphasize, is completely off the charts. But somehow by helping Grant, I feel as if I'm helping myself.”

  “Cést très bien,” he said. “And so, you must go on this adventure, of course, ma petite. You will be far from those of us who love you, yet we will be only a phone call away.”

  How certain I was then, so sure of myself and my decision.

  Today it’s all different.

  This Grant is foreign to me. I don’t know this man. Obviously, something dark must have kicked in overnight, overtaking his every thought. Some demon from his past, or maybe something as simple as self-doubt or anxiety. I can relate to that.

  I wish he’d talk to me.

  Just what could be absorbing his attention? There he sits, burdened with the oppressive weight of the secrets he keeps. The man is totally preoccupied. His body is beside me, but his mind is somewhere else.

  What did I do wrong? Is he sorry he asked me to come to Dallas with him? He was thrilled when I offered to help yesterday. What's changed?

  I attempt to shut down this unproductive line of thought and try not to take his behavior personally. Rationally, I know I did nothing wrong—it just feels that way. Unfortunately, when he’s like this, I fall into self-doubt too.

  Uncertainty can be contagious.

  I’m leaving the safety and comfort of my home, my job and the people I love. Until now, I never recognized how reliant I am on them for a sense of security and happiness.

  I feel so lost.

  So alone.

  With Grant behaving like this, it's worse than if I were alone. He’s upset, he’s sad and he’s suffering. The darkness that envelops him has swallowed me as well. I'm sharing the same hellish angst.

  I slant a look at Grant. Man, it’s like staring into a mirror.

  Tension palpable, barriers up, we’re both surrounded by shadows. He may as well be wearing a neon sign with big red letters saying, Keep back! Go away!

  He’s the male version of me, only his scars are obvious. We each have moments when we’re not at our best. But why must we both be in a mind-fucking mess at the same time? Why can’t we take it in turns so we can be there for each other?

  A strong memory of André’s recent furious reprimand flashes through my mind:

  “Regrettably, healing cannot occur unless at least one of you can remain rational! You cannot both be the client! Non! Such can be of no help to either. It is for you to be the capable, professional woman I know you are. Your attention must be on him! Listen, look and learn from him.”

  I inhale a deep breath, squeeze my eyes shut and remind myself of the reason I’m here. I can do this. I am not the client. Focus on him. Be in the present. Be the counselor. This is not about you.

  I open my eyes and steel my nerves, forcing myself to rise to the occasion. “Grant?” I say. My voice sounds strange to my ears.

  The plane engines drone on, but Grant doesn’t respond. I gently touch his hand, which lies motionless on the armrest between us. The moment I do, he stiffens.

  “Are you OK?” I ask, in a loud and carefully measured tone of voice. I’m a counselor, and I refuse to permit my nervous tongue to stutter.

  Not here.

  Not now.

  “I’m fine,” he says, continuing to stare out the window. His voice is flat and emotionless.

  “No, you’re not,” I snap back, surprised at the anger in my voice.

  The non-communicative I’m a brick wall treatment he’s giving me is beginning to piss me off. At least I’ve got his attention, because he turns toward me.

  “You are so not fine,” I tell him.

  Face impassive, Grant says nothing.

  “I don’t mind you being moody,” I say. “Everyone has moods, but I think we need to establish some ground rules in our working relationship.”

  He remains silent, but I don’t mind. At least he seems to be listening.

  “Will you please nod your head if you’re open to setting ground rules?”

  There’s the slightest twitch of a smile at one corner of his soft, sensual lips as he nods. I smile because I’m clearly getting through to him.

  Encouraged, I continue, “I have a strict rule when I work with someone. I never lie to them. If my client asks a question I can’t answer, I explain that I’m unable to talk about it. Secrets are OK—everyone has something they want to keep private. I don’t expect you to bare your heart if you’re not up to it. But you just told me you were fine. I know you weren’t trying to lie to me. I know ‘I’m fine,’ is a normal social response when a person doesn’t want to engage. Well, that’s all right, however I expect the truth. If you can’t tell me something, I accept that. Just don’t lie to me. Can you agree with that rule?”

  Grant’s body relaxes—just slightly. “Yes,” he nods. “I’m sorry for being an ass. I’ve got… a problem and I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Did something happen after you left me last night?” I ask.

  He stares at me with his grey, unblinking eyes, then slowly nods.

  It kills me just how alike we are. When I’m upset, I withdraw, preferring not to speak to anyone until I sift through my emotional shit. I run, hide away in my little box and lick my wounds.

  A part of my overly responsib
le mind worries that Grant is upset because of something I’ve done. Blaming myself for everything is just one of my Big Flaws. I can be too open and trusting. I don’t have strong boundaries—I’m often a pathetic people-pleaser who seeks acceptance and fears rejection.

  Whatever his issue is, it has nothing to do with me. What a relief!

  My confidence returns.

  “Alrighty then,” I say cheerfully, curbing a desire to grin. “Are there any ground rules you want to add?”

  “No.”

  “OK. You’ve hardly said a word since you picked me up this morning. Can you at least give me an idea of what the plan is for today?”

  His takes a deep breath. “I’m thinkin’ we’ll pick up my car at the airport and stop at an infant accessories store on the way home. We could order a crib and stuff over the Internet and get it delivered, but I think we’ll do better if we buy everything we need on the way home.”

  “Can’t we just move Briley’s things to your house?”

  “No. This is going to be hard enough for Alex and Sky as it is. Trust me—it’s better this way. Those two don’t need to live in a house devoid of their son’s possessions.”

  Wow.

  What kind of guy thinks of things like that? He's so caring and considerate. He must genuinely love his brother.

  “That’s incredibly thoughtful of you,” I say.

  Grant ignores my compliment—another response I identify with. I’m also uncomfortable with praise.

  Why?

  Who knows?

  As far as I can tell, there’s a stupid, irrational voice of conscience inside of me, telling me I don’t deserve it. If I ever get the chance, I’d like to grab that nasty, nagging, negative bastard by the throat. Then I’d cheerfully wring my conscience’s neck.

  “We’ll go home and set up Briley’s room,” he says. “My lawyer arranged for child welfare to bring him to my house at 5 p.m. this afternoon.”

  Grant’s expression remains composed, but there’s a shadow of despair in his eyes I don’t understand. Is it fear? I think he’s really worried. About Briley? About his brother? Or what?

  I reach over, squeeze his hand and quickly let go. I know he doesn’t want to be touched.

  “We’ll figure it out, Grant,” I say.

  The stewardess stops by. “Sir, would you like a beverage?” she asks Grant.

  “No, thank you,” he replies woodenly, without turning his head to look at her. It’s probably unconscious, but Grant is still broadcasting invisible signs that say, ‘keep away!’

  Poor Grant. He’s in such a dark place right now.

  I force myself to meet the stewardess’ eyes and ask for a Mountain Dew. It’s icy cold and I enjoy sipping it.

  The inability to accept human touch is just one of Grant’s issues. For a moment, I recall him swinging me up in the air so joyfully yesterday. He’d been buoyant and happy. Lifelong barriers had simply fallen away.

  Those honest moments of connection are so rare.

  So vital.

  When Grant told me, I love you, he didn’t mean love, marriage and 2.5 children. The guy can’t even be naked with a woman. What he meant was, “I saw myself through your eyes, and realized I can love myself.”

  It was a BIG thing. An epiphany.

  Time passes on our journey. I try to read, but find that I'm reading the same paragraph over and over again. My heart aches knowing Grant sits, silently suffering. I wish he’d talk to me. I’m helpless in the face of his pain.

  “It’s gonna be OK, Grant,” I finally say, desperately grasping at the trite saying. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  My heart jumps as he turns to me, nods and gives me a small twisted smile.

  I can see he doesn’t believe me.

  I’m not sure I believe myself.

  Chapter 2.

  “What is love? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me, no more.”

  — Dee Dee Halligan

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “It’s gonna be OK, Grant,” Renata says to me. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  I try to respond with a smile of agreement, but I fail miserably. I can hardly think straight. She’s been discussing ground rules, truth and lies. The woman has no idea what’s been going on, thank the Lord.

  I don’t intend to tell her. I need to take this short spell on the plane to try to figure out what I’m going to do.

  Yesterday, for a short time, I was transformed. For once, I felt like me and accepted myself, imperfections and all. I never experienced that before—not that I can remember anyway.

  I had a glimpse of what I’ve been missing all my life.

  I stare out the window at white clouds below and try to recall the joy I felt during that brief time. I had never soared so high, felt so free or full of hope. Without that glimpse of heaven, the decisions I need to make would be so much easier.

  Renata sees me as a man—not a monster.

  I think what I experienced with her was love.

  But what is love?

  Damned if I’ve ever been able to figure that out. I love finishing a project and knowing I’ve done a good job. I love making the perfect shot and the satisfaction of hitting a difficult target. I love my garden and the sense of peace and rightness in the world I get from watering it, feeding it, weeding it and watching it flourish and grow.

  I loved my father.

  When I was a child, I thought he loved me—but what he felt for me wasn’t love.

  When you've been hurt by someone you trust completely, you never forget. Being the victim of betrayal at that level causes a shameful pain that forever brands your heart. It changes who you are as a person.

  Monster! Pervert!

  He was my father and I don’t know how to feel. He’s gone and I’m glad. I loved him, but I also hated him.

  After everything I’ve done, how could anyone stand me? I don’t even like myself. Yet, yesterday, Renata said she loved me. The memory of her words causes a burning ache deep in my chest.

  “Sir, would you like a beverage?” a different stewardess asks as she passes by, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  My mouth waters. I bite my tongue to stop myself from an automatic reply, I’ll have a double bourbon, neat.

  As much as I crave the relief alcohol provides, I know I must never take another drink. If I start, I won’t have the strength to stop.

  “Coffee, black, no sugar please,” I reply without turning toward her, keeping the scarred side of my face averted. I can feel Renata’s gaze, hard upon me.

  Renata. Beautiful, kind, intelligent… and also damaged, like me.

  Renata wants me to talk to her about my problems, but I can’t—not about this. I won’t allow her to get involved in my father’s murder investigation. I have to figure this out on my own.

  I’m glad he’s dead, but the timing for this news about the bastard being exhumed is seriously fucked up.

  Why couldn’t this have happened a year from now? Or twenty? Or better yet, never?

  Renata and I. Two people, both alike in our traumatic backgrounds. She knows who I am and what I’ve done, but she isn’t disgusted. I saw no hint of pity, embarrassment or blame.

  Talk about intense mutual attraction! We both experienced lust, but my high wasn’t only sexual. For all its rapturous momentary pleasure, sex is nothing compared to what I learned about myself while with Renata.

  She saw me.

  She knows me.

  And she likes me anyway.

  I’m a good person—I’m certain of that now. There’s still a flicker of pleasure, from that newfound, absolute truth. I’m not perfect. I have many flaws, yet now I feel separate from the darkness inside of me.

  Yesterday, there was so much love in my heart, but now it’s a distant memory. Where did it go? Yet, I still feel something inexplicable and profound for Renata.

  Is it love?

  I imagine trying to explain this to my brother, Alex
—not that we’ve ever had an honest or open conversation about anything important.

  For some reason, that stupid song comes to mind, “What is Love?” and the lyrics, ‘We are together, I need you forever.’

  Why am I so drawn to her? Is it lust? Chemistry? Some other passion? Whatever it is, it’s a powerful, all-inclusive force. There’s an emptiness inside me only she can fill. Even after this news about my dad, especially after this terrible news, I need Renata in my life forever—sex or no sex.

  Is that love?

  I can almost hear Alex’s snappy, dismissive rejoinder to this thought. He’d give me shit for sure.

  “What is love?” Alex would announce in his most entertaining and teasing voice. “What, like the song? True, he did sing, ‘I want no other, no other lover,’ but he also sang, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, uh, uh whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, uh, uh,” so maybe you shouldn’t draw too many conclusions from his lyrics, Grant.”

  Alex would have the whole room busting their guts with laughter.

  Alex.

  My younger brother. The man who jokes about everything, is never serious, and uses cocaine to help him forget. I know all about self-medication. I abused alcohol in order to escape my own demons.

  I should’ve protected Alex from my father, but I didn’t. I was twelve and Alex was ten. Those two years made all the difference. The false illusion of “love” my father instilled with his games had started to fall away. I’d known better, but I’d yet to surface from drowning in an ocean of denial.

  I should have stopped him. Regrets like this make me remember how much I hate myself.

  I lift my cup of fresh coffee to my lips. It’s boiling hot, so I should sip it.

  I don’t.

  I swallow a large gulp of scalding coffee, burning my throat in the process. I enjoy the painful pleasure of intentionally hurting myself. I’ve despised who I am for so long. Yet yesterday, I felt love.

  I was on a high, right until I received a phone message from my mother letting me know the sheriff had been tipped off by a “reliable informant” that my father had been murdered. I’d immediately called my mother back, to find out what else she knew. I had to endure her hysteria before I discovered she didn’t know any more than that.