by Jody Gehrman
With Sam, his fingers are everything. I’m exquisitely aware of their texture—slightly calloused—and their movements. He grips my breasts with such force, I cry out. My head jerks back. He kisses my exposed throat. He makes a sound that vibrates against my skin, half growl, half sigh.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispers.
“Sam, I—”
“Please don’t.”
“I can’t help it.” With huge effort, I push him away. It’s like severing a limb. My body throbs with loss. “You could cost me everything.”
“I’m worth it.” He leans in again, his teeth nipping at my bottom lip.
“I believe you.” My willpower’s about to dissolve. I have to get him out of here. “But that doesn’t change the fact that this can’t happen.”
He pulls away. For a long second, he just stares at me. In the shadows of my foyer, his face is hard to see, but his eyes glow with an icy light. “You can’t pretend this isn’t real.”
“It’s real.” I can feel myself melting into him again. With another massive effort, I will myself to wriggle from his grasp. “But it still can’t happen.”
“I can do things to you, Kate. I know I can.” He runs a finger along my cheekbone.
I nod weakly, not trusting my voice.
With one finger he traces a line from my throat to the space between my breasts. “I want to do things to you. I want to make you feel things you’ve never felt before.”
Sweet Jesus, this is impossible. If I don’t get him out of here in the next thirty seconds, I’m done. I yank open the door, maneuver him toward it. “You have to go.”
He freezes. My hand is on his arm, getting ready to guide him out. He’s trying to work out if I’m serious. Whatever he sees in my face, it pisses him off.
He shoves his fingers through his hair, looking away. “You don’t have to make this difficult.”
“I’m not making it difficult, it just is.”
“No.” His eyes are full of sorrow. “You’re fighting it.”
“It’s not possible.”
“This,” his hand waves back and forth between us, “is the only thing that matters, Kate. I’ve known that forever.”
I can feel my brow furrowing. “Forever? What are you—?”
He stops me with a kiss. His lips move urgently against mine, his tongue exploring. I tip my head back and give in again, my hands going to his face, feeling the fine architecture of his bones.
After a long moment, I pull away. The taste of him lingers on my tongue.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. “Look, I shouldn’t have to defend myself. I can’t do this. End of story.”
His eyes search mine for a long moment. He’s out on my front step. The snow falls in lacy flakes, tiny worlds spiraling all around him.
“I’m good for you, Kate. Sooner or later, you’ll get that.”
“Please.” I take a step back, gripping the door. “Leave it.”
“You can’t run forever.”
“Good night, Sam.” I close the door. When I lean against it, I realize I’m panting.
* * *
The next morning, I wake with a hornet’s nest of dread buzzing just below my rib cage. I hang suspended in the hypnopompic void for as long as possible. I know I’ve done something wrong, something I can’t take back; I just can’t remember what it was.
For a few precious seconds I cling to the hope that, whatever it was, I dreamed it. Maybe the acidic tang of regret at the back of my throat is left over from a nightmare. Any second now, relief will wash through me, cool and soothing as a spring breeze. It was just a dream.
Rolling over, I see the frost glazing my bedroom windows, and I remember. Snow. Lolita. That kiss.
Not a dream, then.
I cannot be this woman. I cannot be so desperate for male approval that I’ll risk my job, my entire life, just to feel the rush of being wanted.
Of wanting.
That’s not me. I’ve never been that needy. Lust doesn’t rule my life. Neither does feeble insecurity. Pablo and I had great sex, yes, and that was part—maybe most—of what kept us together, but with him, it was a fair trade. We were two consenting adults who didn’t like each other all that much exchanging simple daily happiness for scalding sex.
This thing with Sam—and I hate to even acknowledge it’s a “thing”—feels a thousand times more dangerous. I refuse to trade my security for God-knows-what. It can’t be healthy, whatever it is. Surely I’m insane for even letting it go this far.
In-fucking-sane.
I groan, twisting in my sheets, hating how the memory of his kiss arouses me and sickens me at the same time.
Nothing good can come of that.
I have to get a grip.
* * *
Normally, I love Saturdays. I often grade until the wee hours Friday just so I can wake up with the fresh, unspoiled weekend spread out before me like a blanket of pristine snow. There’s nothing I like more than piling a massive wall of pillows behind me, opening my laptop, and writing for hours, fueled by strong coffee and a pastry from Miette’s, the little French bakery downtown.
This morning, though, I can’t settle into the rhythm of putting one word in front of the other. I’m too restless, too neurotic.
I don’t believe in writer’s block. Even though I haven’t written anything worth reading since Pay Dirt, that doesn’t mean I haven’t written. In addition to Hidden Depths, that embarrassing scrap heap of careful sentences, I’ve started countless other manuscripts. The only one I showed Maxine was Blood Ties, and that one’s obviously shit, so I’m glad I never dared show her my many false starts, which were so full of plot holes and stilted dialogue she would have collapsed in horror.
I’m nothing if not prolific, though. For me, writing is a compulsive need, an addiction. Just as a serious smoker would never attempt to face the day without a morning cigarette, I can’t stand to go out into the world without at least a thousand words under my belt. No bullshit journaling, either—way too masturbatory. I need to lose myself in the carving out of worlds, the intricate rhythms of dialogue, the puppetry of plotting, the lush layers of setting. Normally, the total concentration required to wrangle amorphous concepts into scenes is as cleansing for me as a morning run or deep meditation.
Not today. I’m all jangly nerves. The light coming through my window, tinged with frosty blue, strikes me as eerie. The scene I’m working on keeps sputtering to a stop in spite of my efforts to push it uphill. Finally I close my laptop and sink into the sea of pillows, curling up on my side.
I can’t stop obsessing about Sam. What seemed romantic in the moonlight now seems dirty, embarrassing. Last night, though, it was all puffs of breath and gusty delight. The snowflakes twirling madly, the cars and houses sugared with snow. The way Sam looked at me. Nobody’s drunk me in like that for so long. His eyes were hungry, moving over me with feverish intensity. I can’t remember feeling so fascinating, ever. It was a balm. After feeling increasingly invisible every day, I found his need to take me in, to touch me, intoxicating. He answered questions I didn’t even know I’d been asking: Am I still here? Do I still matter?
When I remember my back pressed against the door, my fingers in his hair, my lips parting beneath his, I have to cover my face and groan with a mixture of humiliation and longing.
Fuck. I’m really losing it.
My night of slow-motion, Ambien-soaked dreams has muddled a few things. Somehow Sam’s kiss and Maxine’s email keep braiding together, no matter how I try to keep them separate.
I sit up and pry my laptop open again. This time I open the email Maxine forwarded. The one that allegedly came from me.
Who would send this? Why?
Whoever wrote it did so much more than hack into my account. He—or she—hacked into my life. The author obviously knows enough about me to understand how much damage they could do by severing my ties to Maxine. It could be the death knell of my career. A random stranger r
eading my email could easily deduce she’s my agent, but why would they bother to interfere unless they’d benefit? Or perhaps they simply wanted to hurt me. The thought makes me shiver beneath my heavy duvet.
In an effort to focus my free-floating anxiety, I grab the notebook by my bed and write out a list of everyone who could have possibly known or cared about Maxine and her role in my life.
Zoe Tait
Bo Tait (I doubt Zoe tells him much about my career, but it’s possible.)
Sam Grist
Jess Newfield (Once she asked me about my agent in class. Theoretically, any of the twelve students in that workshop could be added to the list, but Jess is the only one I actually saw scribble it down.)
Frances Larkin (Again, anyone on my tenure team has access to the name of my agent, since it’s buried somewhere in the reams of paper I’ve sent them cataloguing my worthiness. It’s just impossible to imagine the other three taking an interest. Even Frances is a stretch.)
Anyone with access to the internet and/or my books, since I thanked Maxine in both of my acknowledgments. I doubt some random fan or critic would take it upon themselves to fire my agent, though. I mean, what are the chances?
I sink back into the pillows and study my list. Outside, a cloud passes over the sun, casting a gray shadow across the page. I snuggle deeper under the comforter and try to parse out a scenario that makes sense.
Pretend this is one of your books. I sip my coffee for inspiration. Who has access and motive?
Zoe makes no sense. Sure, she’s expressed doubts about Maxine, but she’d never do something like this. Her own agent, a puckish, flamboyant guy named Gus, is much warmer than Maxine. From time to time, Zoe’s suggested Maxine’s more prickly than is strictly necessary. I figured she’s my agent, not my therapist. As long as she sells my work to the highest bidder, why should I care if she sometimes hurts my feelings? Anyway, Zoe never flat-out told me to fire Maxine. Far from it. And she’d never do something so underhanded. Besides, caring for Drew is exhausting; she’s got no energy for sabotage. It’s absurd. Double ditto for Bo. On the off chance he even knows who Maxine is, there’s no reason for him to contact her.
I cross them both off. It feels good, doing something, thinking it through. Just moving my pen across the page feels productive.
That brings us to Sam. I remember his hands cupping my face like he was holding a priceless treasure. I circle his name. We’ll come back to him. I’m not ready to think about Sam objectively.
Jess Newfield’s a haughty little bitch, but I doubt she’s crafty or motivated enough to hack my email. It’s remotely possible, but I don’t see it. Her snarky barbs and dark looks indicate the usual resentment I get from her brand of student, nothing more, nothing less. These Millennials, raised on ebullient praise from their misguided parents, are usually petty but not malicious. Jess is a deeply mediocre writer; I’ve never pretended otherwise. Could she be the rare psycho who takes rejection personally enough to lash out?
I consider this, staring out the window. Bare branches lacquered with ice tap at the glass. I can’t see Jess working up enough of a grudge to follow through on something this focused and vindictive. To her, I’m wallpaper, not a nemesis. She sees me as the boring adult who stands between her and an A; you don’t carry out a jihad against someone you barely notice. In workshop, she’s focused on any male in the room who will slather her with attention. I’m the white noise, the TV droning on in the background.
No, Jess is almost as unlikely as Zoe and Bo. I slash the pen through her name with more force than is strictly necessary.
That leaves Frances Larkin. She despises me, no doubt about that. I’m convinced she only hired me ten years ago because she was outvoted by colleagues with more influence. Certainly she’d like to see me fail. But why sabotage my relationship with Maxine? Could she be trying to kick my already ailing reputation while it’s down? The modest success of Pay Dirt is the primary reason I got this job. If she can prove to my tenure team that book was a fluke, that my writing career is languishing and is unlikely to be resuscitated, perhaps she can get rid of me without looking like the jealous, bitter hag she really is.
God, am I paranoid, or is this starting to make sense?
I draw lines under her name, trying to visualize it. As I turn it over, my Frances Larkin theory immediately falls apart. She’s a bit of a technophobe, for starters. Sure, she uses Meeting Maker with passable ease. The thought of her hacking into my gmail account makes me laugh out loud, though. Not going to happen. Farming it out to some student worker would be too risky. And anyway, she could do way more damage working through academic channels, not publishing ones. Blackwood is where she has the most power and expertise. She’s chair of my tenure committee, for God’s sake. She runs the department. Surely she could cast aspersions on my reputation in a less circuitous way. If she really wanted to get rid of me, this seems a ridiculously inefficient, out-of-character method.
The anonymous hordes of readers, fellow writers, and all-around haters out there are too nebulous to consider. If some nutjob took it upon himself to ruin my life by firing my agent, then I’m in over my head.
Which brings us to Sam.
I nudge my laptop awake and study the email again.
From: Maxine Katz
To: Kate Youngblood
Subject: FWD: Your Latest Manuscript
Thank you for your very unhelpful email. A real agent would not suggest I “put it aside” but would offer insightful comments that inspire me to make it better. Your unflagging pessimism begins to weigh me down.
Your services will no longer be required.
The lack of faith you show in my work leads me to believe you are an anchor on my writing life. At the moment I need a hot air balloon.
Kate
There’s something about that phrase, “Your unflagging pessimism begins to weigh me down.” ‘Unflagging’ is a word you don’t hear every day. But I’ve seen it somewhere recently. Where?
On impulse, I open Sam’s novel from the folder on my laptop marked “Student Work.” My heart’s racing, though I tell myself it’s from the extra-strong French-press coffee, not fear. Opening a “find” window, I type in the word “unflagging.” I try to breathe normally as the mysterious mechanisms inside my computer scan the document.
I catch my breath when I see the search has found five results.
Five!
We’re not talking about an everyday word here, the sort nobody can avoid, like “they” or “said.” This is a distinct linguistic choice, just idiosyncratic enough to account for the gooseflesh spreading up my arms.
As I scan through the pages, one particular result jumps out at me: “unflagging pessimism.”
I stare at those words, deep dread pooling in my belly.
What the fuck?
The violation of it. The invasion. The betrayal.
Why would he do this? My brain races to make sense of it. Like a cornered rabbit scanning the forest for predators, I need to understand where the threat lies. Does Sam resent me? In spite of his apparent calm, maybe he’s secretly furious about my failure to secure Maxine as his agent. Did he hide behind a mask of affable indifference, only to strike back from the shadows?
But he was so grateful and generous. She’s not the right agent for me. You didn’t botch it.
Still flooded with panic, my brain rejects this possible motive. I’ve noticed how often he dissembles, but this time I can’t see it. He’s a good liar but not about this. His acceptance of the situation was too complete. I can see the effort it takes when he forces his face into the required expressions. When he handed me Lolita, his eyes were shining, unguarded. That was gratitude, not the effort to seem grateful.
Something else. A faint memory, swimming into focus beneath the lens of my fear.
You ever think Maxine’s not the right agent for you? I close my eyes, finding the thread and tugging until the other words come loose. She doesn’t understand what a genius y
ou are. You should be with someone who gets you.
Holy shit. Did he think this would help me?
Bile pushes at the back of my throat. The nausea I’ve been fighting since I opened my eyes this morning surges through me with fresh vengeance.
I rush to the bathroom, prop up the seat, and hunch over the toilet just in time. Vomit spews. The force of it can’t be contained by the bowl. Some of it splatters onto the floor. I grip my knees and moan. Before I can flush, the sight of my regurgitated dinner makes me hurl again. I hardly ever throw up. I’d nearly forgotten how much I detest it—the rank smell, the violent heaving, the rawness of everything meant to stay hidden flinging itself convulsively into the light.
At last, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and flush the toilet. For a long moment I stand at the sink with a cool washcloth. I stare at my reflection, dabbing at my splotchy cheeks, my waxy forehead. I try to conjure some compassion for myself. All I can manage is disgust.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, touching one finger to the mirror. “Whatever it is, you have to stop.”
I don’t know if I’m talking to Sam or myself.
SAM
Saturday, I open my curtains and stare down at the shops across the street. The dry cleaner’s windows are opaque; the painted name above the door is so worn it’s almost illegible. In the toy store, a motley crew of teddy bears and puppets gaze at passersby with creepy intensity. The doughnut shop’s windows twinkle with light; the sparkle of snow on its striped awning gives its normally seedy, grease-stained facade a sheen of magic.
On the edge of the sidewalk, an old man blows on his coffee. He cradles the Styrofoam cup and watches the street with dead eyes.
Poor, sad bastard. If only he could feel the joy burning bright inside my chest.
The wintry light streaming through my cheap windows does little to improve my studio. It’s a pathetic hole. Dirty clothes and pizza boxes compete for space on the single Formica table. My couch, an orange monstrosity I picked up at the flea market for ten dollars, occupies most of one wall. Old milk crates and slabs of salvaged wood form bookshelves.