The Delivery

by Mara White

  “Are you angry at me, Lana? It seems like you’re disappointed you found me.”

  “I’m not. I guess I never imagined what it would really be like when I found you.”

  “Do you want to have a real relationship with me? Do you want me to ask you to be my lover and my girlfriend?”

  I’m shivering from the wet clothes clinging to my skin. Now my teeth chatter at his directness and his ability to speak candidly. Yes! Yes, please! That is what I’ve wanted for so long. Instead, I say nothing and fiddle with the hem of my t-shirt.

  “I don’t think you can. Either say it or do it. If you can’t admit your own feelings then why are you looking for me?’

  “I want to shower, and then I think I need a drink. I’m still deciding on your idea from the pool. I thought I’d drive you as your old social worker or as a friend of the family.”

  “Whatever,” Mozey says, stuffing a pillow under his arm. “If you can’t even be honest with yourself, I don’t know why I’d expect anything different with me. You’re right about the drinks. We could use them. You shower, and I’ll get us some.”

  I take a painfully hot shower to try and cleanse myself with the steam. It’s one thing to fantasize about Mozey, and it’s another to have him standing here in front of me. I’m scared to let my guard down. I’m scared that if we become lovers one of us might think it doesn’t live up to what we wanted it to be. If I let myself be swayed, is it admitting on some level that I’m a predator? That I can’t be trusted with vulnerable people without taking advantage of them? I’m already scared of losing him, and I haven’t even had him.

  “Honey, I’m home!” Mozey yells as he bangs in the door of the room. From the sounds he’s making, he’s brought home a full service bar. I stand in the shower stall, dripping with a towel wrapped around my head. Mozey is talking to someone. It’s either Tommy or Rocco; I can’t tell the difference between their voices—they both sound the same to me. I pull another fabric softener-scented towel down off the shelf and wrap it around my body. I’ll just stay in here and stare at my feet.

  I poke at my reddened face in the mirror not knowing whether it’s inflamed from sunburn, crying or all the hot steam. The boys must have brought over their stereo because now they’re blasting “I’d Love to Love You, Baby” and it feels like a conspiracy. Let’s make Lana so uncomfortable she won’t even come out of the bathroom for the rest of the night. I’d like to hear what they gossip about. All three of them are villains right now in my mind. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed and then accidentally swallow a huge gulp of water as I’m rinsing my mouth out.

  “FUCK!” I yell and pound my fists on the wall. I can’t seem to keep this Mexican water out of my mouth. How hard can it be?

  I let a steam cloud escape the bathroom when I open the door. I peek around it to see all three of them sitting cross-legged in a huddle on the floor. They’ve got a deck of cards and are gambling for candy and some of Tommy’s blister packs of yellow and blue drugs.

  “Tommy, will you style my hair?” I ask timidly, still hiding my body behind the door.

  “I thought you like to ‘air-dry,’ ‘au natural’,” he says, making exaggerated finger quotes above his head like little devil’s horns.

  “Please?” I say, needing his help and his company.

  “My way,” he states with authority, and I nod enthusiastically. Mozey barely looks up from his game, but when he does, just for a second, I feel a great amount of affection. And I can imagine, for a tiny, fleeting moment, what it would be like to lose all of this pretense and enjoy Mozey’s warmth like Tommy and Rocco are.

  “Lana, don’t fuck this up,” Tommy says, yanking sections of my hair with a round, bristle brush.

  “It’s really easy from a distance to imagine how great it would be. It’s a different story when you’re face to face and you both have inflated expectations of what togetherness is. I think I want to remain in the background. Just be a fan and not ever interact with him in real time. In jail or in Mexico.”

  “You are a coward,” Tommy says and teases the back of my part aggressively. He’s making me into Bridgette Bardot again. Tommy definitely has thematic hair obsessions that he’s taking out on me.

  “You know, it’s not 1960, Vidal Sassoon.”

  “Just go out there and love him. Or at least fuck him. I think you two were meant to be.”

  “He asked me to be his fake girlfriend. He doesn’t really want me.”

  “Of course he does, crazy,” he grabs me by the chin and rubs cream blush forcefully into the apples of my cheeks. “He’s trying to help lessen your guilt. Haven’t you ever tried roleplaying? It can be a really great way to open up the chakras.”

  “I have no experience, Tommy. I just lust after fantasies. I can’t even imagine what it would look like after you guys leave. I’m already a wreck. I think you both have to come with me.”

  “Well, you’re hair is going to look terrible. We can be sure of that! Are you just going to wear cutoffs? Girl, your mama taught you nothing about the art of seduction?”

  “Should I put on some stockings with garters instead? Cause my suitcase is full of those. I want to be friends with him. I’m not cut out for anything else.”

  “Suit yourself, Lanabanana. No one said you had to get married. Why don’t you just have some great sex and go home? Might as well make the trip worth your while.”

  “You’re right. I can do this,” I say, taking a deep breath and inflating my lungs to capacity. I’ll just have some fun. Hello. Goodbye. Some hot sex. Go home.

  But I no longer have a home. I’m a nomad turned tracker. Right now, Paradise is my only home. Sounded easy when Tommy said it, but walking over to him, making eye contact—it all feels monumental. Casual, Lana, cool as a cucumber.

  But my heart won’t listen as it bangs in my ears, as it tick-tocks, rick rocks, missing beats, skipping off into oblivion. Because it sees what it wants, and it has finally found what it was missing. And I’m just the stupid girl that’s attached to it, tripping over my own feet and uncomfortable with my feelings.

  Mozey scoots to the side and offers me a seat. He doesn’t seem angry; he is more even-tempered than me. When I sit down beside him and cross my legs, he leans in and quickly kisses my cheek. It isn’t charged or sexual; it’s a friendly gesture, but Lana’s eager heart is nervous and whispering, “See, I told you so. You’re already slipping.”

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers so close to my ear.

  And I’m soaring; I’m catapulting to the clouds and it isn’t the drugs. Because you see, I only ever wanted to be beautiful for him. Every diet I went on, every haircut, every coat of mascara I’ve applied in the mirror since the moment I met him. I never did it for anything or anyone else. Every time I wore heels. I only wanted him to see me. Even when it was impossible. Even when he wasn’t around and I hadn’t seen him for years. Like when I went on vacation with Dale to the Bahamas. I got dressed up every night we were there, and I did it for Mozey. Not for Dale. Not for me. I did it for Mozey even though he wasn’t there. Even though he would never see.

  I grab his hand and squeeze it, and he squeezes back, then with our fingers interlaced, he pulls it into his lap. I can’t look at him so I look at my friends. Rocco’s eyes fly to the intimate move, and he winks. Tommy notices too, and he smiles at me. Everyone is drunk on love and delirious with every little gesture. I suddenly want to be alone with Mozey more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I scooch closer to him and lay my head on his shoulder.

  These are the first moments of what the rest of life will look like, my inner-confidence says. You are delusional and harboring an unhealthy obsession, my inner-critic pans back quickly in retaliation. Every interaction, every moment we shared has taken on disproportionate significance in my head. How do you start a relationship with someone
shrouded with overblown expectations? I’ve been worshiping at his altar, but he’s just a guy; he’s just another person.

  I squeeze his hand again. I scrutinize every little point of contact between our two bodies. My ear on his shoulder, and my thigh flush with his. The length of my arm matching up with the length of Mozey’s, and my wrist, grazing lightly with his calf as we sit. My skin is pale, like the underbelly of a fish. His is warm, like hot chocolate with milk. I want to drink it, to swallow all of that velvet. I want it to melt on my tongue and warm me all the way up from the inside out.

  “Lana looks tired. She’s had a long day,” Rocco says with the great care and the intuition of a father.

  “We should go,” Tommy says. He stands, yawns and stretches his legs. Rocco is a better actor. Tommy’s performance is slightly over the top.

  “Thanks for helping us, for helping Lana,” Mozey says, shaking their hands, followed up with a weird sort of bro-hug. The kind that’s all “you’re gay and I’m not.”

  “We’ll have to stay in touch!” Tommy yelps as he clasps his hands and then scurries to gather up his drugs.

  “You’re following us both on Instagram, whether you like it or not,” Rocco whispers to me when he kisses my cheek.

  Then they’re gone, the door is closed, and my arms cross across my chest. Mozey has one hand in the pocket of his jeans the other palm flat against the back of the door. Those two boys were my protection. My buffers. I feel naked without them. Suddenly, Mozey, looms larger. Almost larger than life.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks me.

  I couldn’t be more satisfied. I can’t believe I found you. That you’re standing here in front of me.

  I shake my head at him as he saunters over to me. I remember that he’s confident, that he’s sexual, that he probably knows more than me.

  “We can take it slow, Lana. We don’t have to fuck.”

  It’s a jolt when he says it, a live thrash of wire. Saying it, it means he’s thinking about it. I know that I am. Maybe he thinks it’s what I want to do. Or he thinks I don’t so he feels he has to clear the air by saying it out loud.

  Sex. I’ve been thinking about it since the minute I met you—whenever I’m around you. Thinking dirty thoughts when I was supposed to be protecting you. My face falls, and my shoulders slump. All of the vixen has run out of me.

  “Or we can if you want.” It’s his smile that gets me, so warm and inviting. He’s confident with either choice, whether we do or we don’t. He’s enjoying teasing me, and he knows how hard I’ve been looking for him.

  “Come here,” he says and pulls my elbows apart, inserting his body in the space that I was trying to protect—my chest, my breasts, the area surrounding my heart.

  “I’ve always thought you were beautiful, Lana. But you never wanted to hear it,” he says, his nose tickling my ear. He pulls my arms around him and sets them at his waist. I am a robot. I can’t speak. I have no feelings.

  “Maybe you should sleep on the couch,” I say, stepping out of his hold.

  If magic were a good thing, then we would all be able to wield it against the one we love. Hypnotize with eye contact, unravel with a stare. But instead, magic is dangerous, it makes us see what isn’t there. It makes us believe in illusions and in fleeting apparitions that will never be concrete. I need something that can last, not something that will disappear into thin air.

  I loved you because I wanted to save you. And I thought if I saved everyone, then it said something about me. I wanted to be worthy. I didn’t want to be bad. I always felt that badness was an inextricable part of me. I became a social worker to try to exorcise the ugly part of me.

  Of course I don’t say this out loud. I explain myself to myself in my head. Like an idiot. Like the insecure, crazy girl that I am.

  Mozey runs his hands through his hair and looks sadly at me. He nods his head and massages his chin with his thumb and forefinger then looks down at the floor.

  “There’s not one single part of me that isn’t complicated—that’s easy to love,” I blurt out, trying to explain away being so difficult. This is the one thing I can’t fuck up and live to regret it.

  “I already know that. I want every part of you.”

  If there is something I need to hear, well, Mozey just said it. But I’ll still always be a disappointment. I will never be perfect, and for some reason, what I really want to bring to this is perfection.

  “I feel like you’re going to keep pushing me away, even if it hurts you. Should I give up? You want me to stop trying?”

  I nod my head “yes,” like the fucking liar that I am. I’m nodding and nodding while every inch of my flesh is screaming, “See through me, don’t believe me, please know that I want you, don’t believe anything that she says.”

  Mozey yanks his t-shirt up over his head. Two long silver chains clang together as they bounce on his chest. There he is in all of his perfection, his chest tight with emotion, his arm muscles flexed in defensiveness, his brow furrowed in confusion. I’m shaking, with trembles running up and down my spine, splaying out through my limbs into my hands and my feet. What I want is right in front of me but somehow it seems even further out of reach.

  “I’m going to hit the shower. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says, then tosses his discarded shirt onto it, claiming his spot.

  Rocco and Tommy would kill me if they knew how cold I was being. But what he hell am I supposed to do? Bring him to Mexico City, and instead of going back home, stay and get married? He doesn’t have a job or citizenship or an education to speak of. He has a child and a criminal record-for crying out loud. You deserve better, my professional self tells me. You wouldn’t recognize love if it bit you in your dumb face, my critic adds until my head is spinning.

  Why don’t you try to let him love you?

  Because I’ll die if I fail.

  I fall back on the bed and take to staring at the ceiling.

  Mozey tortures me on his way out of the shower, only a small, Paradisian towel around his waist. The rest of him dripping and beaded with water. He’s more than beautiful; it runs deeper than that. He’s probably even delicious to smell, delectable to taste. He turns toward the couch, and the cheeks of his perfect ass are testing the limits of the cheap hotel linen. I groan and flop over in bed until I’m facing the wall.

  He hits the light, and my head automatically turns back to him. I can see the iridescent white of the towel through the dark as it falls to the floor. Mozey is naked. He would sleep without any clothes on.

  “Probably bugs. Roaches are going to bite your penis if you don’t cover up.”

  “Why don’t you either shut up or give me something to cover it with.”

  Touché, motherfucker. That would be harassment if we were someplace where it would count.

  “I can’t believe you just said that to me!” I say, but maybe I’m feigning the shock. Maybe I love that he said it. Maybe I squirm with warmth inside at his ease and familiarity.

  “Whatever, Lana. You are the worst cock-tease I’ve ever met. You act like you’re too good for me, but I know what you want.”

  “Typical,” I say in a huff and cross my arms over my chest. “If a girl doesn’t want to have sex with you, then she’s teasing your cock. How about we discuss all of the reasons why it’s a terrible idea. How it could never work out and the only reason I’m here is to help deliver your sorry ass to Mexico.”

  “YEAH, OKAY. You said that already. But where is the rulebook that says we can’t fuck along the way? Is it written in the bible in that stand beside the bed? Is it some fucking Russian cultural thing you’re not telling me about? Do you not have a vagina?”

  “You are so crass!” I say, flying up to sitting and swinging my legs off of the bed.

  “Yeah, and you are so fuckin’ uppity. And
gorgeous. You drive me completely insane. You’re even sexier when you’re mad. You’re hot all of the time, Lana. And, God, don’t tell me that’s a sexist thing to say. I know it is, and I don’t fucking care!”

  Mozey throws a pillow at me and it lands on my head. My face breaks into a crazed Lana smile, my teeth probably showing in the dark.

  “My dick is so hard right now we could use it as a battering ram.”

  I laugh out loud and then cover my mouth with my hands. Then Mozey laughs too, and it’s a throaty, bubbly sound.

  “Well, if you’re not going to get naked with me, could you at least help me out and maybe talk dirty to me?”

  Oh, man! Oh God! This is how it starts. This is the gateway drug. The tipping point of no return. Silence is golden, but it only works when you’re too scared for words.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. And don’t play offended. Lana, I know you’re no virgin princess. You are a prickly pear, and my guess is that you’re a freak in bed.”

  My lips part in the dark, and I inhale, taking in his scent from clear across the room. He’s musky but laced with the powdery scent of the hotel soap bar. I lie still and frozen in bed like an animal being tracked, but my insides have gone all gooey and my hips are already searching for him.

  “Put your hand into your panties and tell me if they’re wet.”

  I hear Mozey’s breath catch, and I know he’s gripping himself. My body flushes with heat to picture his arm muscles flex as he picks up his own rhythm. I snake my hand down my stomach, and my skin prickles with my own touch. I’m incredibly responsive right now. Don’t clip the wrong wire, because I think we’d all die if I were to go off.

  I creep my fingers under the lace, and they’re met with more than wetness. It’s a deluge. My body has duly prepared itself for this encounter. My body is ready.