Shape of My Life

by DC Renee

  “You never gave me the chance to explain,” he told me. “You never even bothered to listen to my side of things. You just assumed, and you ran.” I could hear a hint of anger in his voice, which actually spurned my own.

  “I didn’t assume anything. I saw you kissing her, your hands holding her close. There were no assumptions there,” I spat.

  “You saw me pushing her off,” he told me, his voice on edge, but I could tell he was holding back. “You saw her kissing me. Never, not once, did I kiss her.”

  “Oh, so she tripped, and your lips cushioned her fall?” I retorted, no longer squirming out of his embrace so much as trying not to hit him.

  “You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.”

  “Yeah, well, how the hell would you know? Who the hell am I anyway?” The words just slipped out. Everything was happening at once. I was two people; no, I was four. I was Brook, I was Jourdan; I was Grennan’s Brooklyn, and I was a woman scorned. Call me the definition of multiple personality disorder with a twist.

  “You’re you,” he spoke softly. “No matter what name you call yourself, you’re still the most amazing person, just you. The woman I fell in love with. When I told you I loved you, I meant it. And when you love someone the way I love you, you don’t ever think about anyone else. I couldn’t even if I tried. You consume my every thought. Never, and I mean never, would I cheat on you. I just couldn’t.”

  His words sounded so nice. I wanted to believe them. And it felt so sincere. So sincere. I felt my anger dissipate. I knew what I saw, but part of me just wanted to hear his rebuttal. I wanted to have some logical explanation for what happened because I needed Grennan. I needed his safety, his love, his comfort. God, I loved him so much. There was no thin line between love and hate; there was a very shaky line between love and need.

  “But I saw you …” I trailed off, doubting myself. My eyes didn’t lie … except they had over and over again. My mind had failed me too many times to count. Had I let it rule yet another aspect of my life? Had I run away before hearing him out because I was a coward? Because everything else was too much? Or because what I saw was real?

  “I’m not going to pretend I was a saint before I met you. I had women throwing themselves at me.” I nodded, knowing full well what he meant. “Sometimes, I had regular hookups. That woman, the one you saw, she was one of them. It was no strings attached, which was great. She meant absolutely nothing.”

  “Then why was she there?” I asked with more vehemence than I probably meant to portray.

  “The minute I met you, I stopped thinking about other women. I swear I honestly just forgot to give her a heads-up that whatever we had was over.”

  “But she was in your dressing room. Right after we had … had a misunderstanding. It was too perfect of a coincidence.”

  “We didn’t have any misunderstandings,” he said louder than I anticipated. “And that’s all it was … a coincidence. A very fucked-up coincidence and I take full responsibility for that. And I’m sorry I hurt you. But I was trying to let her down easily since we did have some sort of standing relationship, albeit fucked up, but still. She wasn’t getting it and threw herself at me right when you walked in. I should have just fucking kicked her out, not giving a damn about her feelings. I should have remembered to tell her not to come. I should have made sure everyone there knew not to let her in.” He paused and let me go as he ran a hand through his hair before he promptly wrapped his arms around me again.

  I couldn’t help the tiny smile that fought my lips at that little display. I willed my mind to remember the moment, to look at the situation with a different set of eyes, a different set of facts. Was he holding her close? No, not really. He could have actually had his hands on her arms to push her away as he said. Was he in a passionate embrace the way he always seemed to be with me? I guess not. His stance had been guarded, his posture one of surprise.

  I wasn’t sure if it was facts or my need for him, but I believed him. I believed him, and I was wholeheartedly relieved, and upset, and depressed, and sad at the same time. The tears came stronger; I pushed my head down and my arms far enough up between Grennan’s to put my head in my hands. I could feel my body tremble.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you then. I’m sorry I ran away. ” I spoke through my hands.

  “Shh, Brook, shh, it’s okay. I understand. I would have reacted drastically too if I ever saw someone with you.”

  I looked up at him. “You called me Brook.” I had just remembered that. “You called me Brook then. You’re calling me Brook now. But … I thought it was a sure sign that you were guilty. But … I don’t get it … you said … why?” My thoughts were broken.

  “I told you I’d call you Brook when you knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I loved you. I knew that always, though. To me, in my heart, you were always Brook. It slipped then. And now, well, you must believe me now.” He sounded so unsure, so helpless almost. Whatever little shards of ice left in my heart were officially just puddles.

  I moved in closer, and when Grennan realized what I was doing, he loosened his grip, and I wrapped my arms around him.

  “I believe you,” I whispered against his lips, our tears mingling, our breaths in sync, our hearts beating as one. “I believe you, Gren.” And I felt him smile right before he kissed me.

  Brooklyn

  “I still don’t understand how you became this other person,” Grennan asked me a couple of hours later. We had taken some time just to be ourselves, to be happy we were together again, and just, well … just to be. Grennan ordered room service while I took a shower. I didn’t think I’d be able to eat until I took the first bite, and then I realized how much energy I had lost over the past few days.

  We got back into bed after eating, both drained. I hadn’t anticipated needing Grennan physically. I didn’t expect myself to be the one making a move, but the minute our heads hit the pillows, I was snuggling to him, and then I was kissing his chest while my hand trailed up and down his side, and then my hand stopped making its way up and only seemed to move south.

  He had put his hand on mine to stop me, but his grip wasn’t convincing. I looked up into his eyes, and we had a silent conversation in which he told me we didn’t have to do anything. I told him with my eyes I knew that, but I wanted to. No, I needed to be as connected to him as I could.

  I could see his struggle as he decided whether this was a good step or not, but I knew he needed to be with me as much as I needed to be with him, and that part of him won out. He grabbed my hand, and in one quick motion, he flipped me over and covered me with his body.

  As he peppered kisses along my neck, my hands in his, I arched my back, trying to feel him closer, trying to connect with him on a deeper level. It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about intimacy, although God help me, he was good at both of those things. For me, it was about being in a place I knew and understood. There was too much chaos going on in my head, in my body even, but when Grennan and I were one, I could lose myself in him. I could focus on the way his lips brushed my nipples or the way his touch caused my skin to tingle; I could focus on the way his hips ground into mine, the way his eyes lit up as our bodies intertwined, and I could focus on the feel of him inside me. Only him, only us. I didn’t have to think about anything but that.

  I couldn’t think of anything but that was because Grennan made it impossible to think. He was the kind of guy, the kind of partner in bed, who made women go all stupid.

  It was after two orgasms for me and one for him that we lay in each other’s arms, enjoying the peace that Grennan had said he still didn’t understand.

  He wouldn’t have. I hadn’t given him the entire picture, so I took a deep breath and began my recollections.

  “Hey Cass, remember that frat party we went to where we got so drunk we almost got lost going home?”

  “We never went to a frat party,” she responded with confusion before glancing at my parents. I knew they
were worried about me. I knew they thought I was losing my mind. I had been saying little things like that for a few days already. I had heard them talking about it several times when they thought I didn’t hear them.

  “Do you think making up stories is a part of her healing?” my mom had asked Cassidy the other day. “Do you think it’s a coping mechanism?”

  “Dr. Talbert said she might want to focus only on happy moments,” Cassidy responded. Dr. Talbert had been my psychiatrist. If only they knew the things he and I had been discussing…

  “But those aren’t real happy moments,” my father said. I didn’t hear the rest as the nurse had walked in, but it was enough to know they thought I was slowly going crazy.

  “Of course, we did,” I told Cassidy vehemently. “We went to that Pike frat party. They had those alcohol ice luges. We didn’t realize how drunk we got as a result.”

  “Jour, we never went to a frat party. We were only in college for one semester.”

  “What are you talking about?” She was right, though. We had both only been there for one semester before we left, but I didn’t want to think about that. I wanted to think about all the fun years I could have had … I should have had.

  “You were signed right before finals. We finished our classes and left.”

  Cassidy had gone to school for fashion design, while I did music appreciation. She had always loved clothes, but she had never designed her own. She just had a fantastic eye for putting outfits together and knowing what styles would be a hit right before everyone wanted to wear them. But there hadn’t been a degree for something like that, so she went with fashion design.

  When I signed, it hadn’t taken me a lot of convincing to get her to leave school and be my fashion consultant. Aside from the fact that I was going to suddenly be in the limelight and really honestly needed her opinion, I just couldn’t stand not being around her, especially after we were apart for part of junior high and high school when her family had moved to Los Angeles for work. I had just gotten her back; I would not let her go. And apparently, she felt the same way.

  When I had made it big, people noticed my stylist, and the next thing you knew, Cassidy had made a name for herself as the go-to person for fashion tips. I was her number one, but she’d travel every so often to big events and then come back home. And most of the time, she got to work from the comfort of her own home or on the tour bus if we were traveling. It was a perfect situation for both of us.

  “But I shouldn’t have been!” I yelled, and I saw her step back as if my raised voice had somehow struck her. I glanced quickly at my parents who looked just as shocked.

  “Honey, Jour, it’s okay,” my mom spoke first as she got up to comfort me.

  “No, it’s not,” I screamed again as I held up my hand to stop her from coming toward me. I couldn’t stand their pity or the way they handled me with kid gloves. I was already fractured, but I didn’t need the constant reminder from the people I loved the most. “I should have gone to some stupid frat party and gotten drunk. I should have finished college and done all the stuff normal people did. Not this.” I waved my hand around. “None of this would have happened if I had been normal.”

  “Would you take it all back?” Cassidy asked.

  I looked at her, and without hesitation, I answered. “Yes.” I could literally hear my mom, dad, and Cassidy gasp. “Look at what I’ve lost. Look at what I’ve become. Look at me. Look at me!” I yelled. Music had once been not just something I loved but an actual part of me. And it had betrayed me. If it hadn’t been for music, I wouldn’t have been famous. If I hadn’t been famous, I would have never acquired a deranged fan. And if I hadn’t had a deranged fan, I wouldn’t have been sitting in that hospital room … broken. So, yes, I would have taken it all back.

  Good managers, amazing PR, loyal family, detailed confidentiality agreements, and especially money, a ton of money, had the public believing I had been in a coma. It wasn’t good PR for people to know I was awake but damaged. No one wanted the world to know just what had happened and how badly I had been hurt, how many surgeries I had to undergo and what kind. People seemed to love bad news, but everyone agreed no one would want to hear bad news associated with me. Thank goodness for small favors. I had at least some semblance of privacy. Not that anyone would even understand if they looked at me. I was no longer the Jourdan everyone knew and loved.

  “Look at me.” I spoke softer, tears glistening on my cheeks, my voice low and hoarse. “I don’t look like myself even. I don’t feel like myself,” I muttered. “Who am I? I’m not Jourdan. I’m not her anymore. I don’t know who the hell I am.” I was talking more to myself than to them.

  “You’re still Jourdan, sweetie,” my mom said.

  “You’re still beautiful and wonderful,” Cassidy added.

  “No,” I told them. “I’m dead.”

  “Honey—” my dad started, but I cut him off.

  “I’m afraid to sleep at night,” I told them. “I’m afraid to be alone. I’m afraid to remember anything beyond yesterday because I know I’ll remember what he did to me. And when I look at myself, I don’t see me. I see a stranger.”

  “Just on the outside,” my dad said.

  “No, on the inside too.” I sighed. “Have you even noticed that I can’t stand music? That I cringe when I hear anyone even whistling?”

  “But you love music! It’s your life,” my mom cried.

  “Music did this to me,” I responded. I told them what I’d already been thinking. “If I hadn’t loved it, I wouldn’t have pursued it. If I didn’t pursue it, I wouldn’t have been famous. If I wasn’t famous, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s not true,” my dad said.

  “It is what it is.”

  “But it’s your life,” Cassidy whispered.

  “No. It was my life. I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want this God-forsaken life. I don’t want these fears. I don’t want these memories. I want a normal life.”

  “You can’t. This is the hand you’ve been dealt,” my dad stated.

  “Well, fuck that,” I said, and my mom put her hand over her mouth. I hadn’t been one for cursing, but my current situation warranted it. “I always talk about my life being versatile and not molded to fit a perfect box. Well, I want out of this shape. I want a new one. I want a new shape. I want a new life.”

  “And how do you propose that happens?” Cassidy asked with part curiosity and part sarcasm. I could always count on her to set me straight; even when she did it with trepidation, she still had that little spark. Little did she know, little did my parents know, that I had already figured it all out.

  “Make me forget.”

  Grennan

  What did you say to yourself to believe that what you were hearing was actually true? What kind of internal monolog could convince yourself that what was right before your eyes wasn’t some kind of fictional plot for your enjoyment? I heard Brooklyn’s words; I could even visualize everything she was saying. I even understood it all to be true in my mind, my heart, and my soul. Yet I felt like I must have been starring in a play, or at the very least, witnessing one happening right before my very eyes.

  Brooklyn was Jourdan. Jourdan was Brooklyn.

  Even when I had figured it all out, even after Cassidy had confirmed it, and even after I had found Brooklyn in Jourdan’s spot, it still didn’t register. I didn’t give myself the time to comprehend everything.

  But as Brooklyn took her time explaining everything, it all sank in.

  Every scene she recalled, every detail she provided just drew me in toward the truth while also pushing me away. It wasn’t logical, yet it was.

  After Brook had recalled her conversation with her parents and Cassidy, she broke down in tears. She had been doing that a lot over the last day. I couldn’t blame her. I had shed a few tears myself.

  I just held her as she cried herself to sleep. I took the opportunity to watch her, to see the similarities between her and Jourdan, to
find the little scars that were and weren’t visible that showed the face underneath and the pain she held in.

  She was so beautiful, so very beautiful. It wasn’t just her looks, which were incredible, as either Jourdan or Brooklyn. I think it was her personality; the mix of that carefree style that Jourdan had and the tentative one Brooklyn had created for herself through her circumstances. She was a perfect balance.

  And knowing what I knew then and understanding what she went through—it made her a fighter. And fuck if that wasn’t sexy as hell. I felt like an asshole for thinking that because I’d rather she never lived through that shit, but since I couldn’t change the past, my girl was a survivor, and that made me proud, guarded, and turned on. Yeah, I was a dick, but I loved Brook more than anything, so it made my douche side all right.

  I climbed out from under her at some point and called her parents.

  “She’s asleep,” I told them.

  “We’re on our way,” her mom told me.

  “No, please,” I tried to whisper-yell. “I’m handling things. She’s getting it all off her chest. Please, let me be there for her to process everything.”

  It had taken a lot of convincing the first time I called them when Brook was in the shower to get them not to come. I mean a lot of convincing. I couldn’t blame them for wanting to be there for her, but I didn’t think they were what she needed just then.

  “You keep me updated, you understand?” her mom said in a stern voice.

  “I will, I promise. And I’ll bring her home soon.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly and hung up.

  Cassidy was a different story. “I swear to God, Grennan, if you hurt her, I will chop off your dick with a butter knife and feed it to you. And when you refuse to swallow, I’ll ram it down your throat.”