Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  So this is what all those books were talking about

  —and the bed drops out from under me.

  Adair is the only thing that’s solid, the only thing that’s real, and I cling to him. I cling to him so I don’t fall.

  The last thing I hear before my world stills is his voice, soothing and familiar, and something inside of me moves, sways at his words.

  “I’ve got you, love. I’ve got you.”

  It’s late. I don’t know how late exactly, but the unearthly quiet tells me that night has slipped over into morning.

  The bed squeaks as I roll over, and I freeze, hoping I didn’t wake Adair.

  He’s still here. Still next to me, asleep. Post-coital bliss, no doubt. His breathing is soft, rhythmic, content. The mattress bows slightly with his weight, the dip pulling my body towards his as easily as the moon pulls the tides.

  I fight the power and inch away slowly, slowly.

  As for me, my nerves prick with a buzz that, if bottled, would put most energy drinks out of business.

  What the hell did I just allow to happen?

  Kissing him was a snap decision, a rash move based off of distorted thinking. Irrational thoughts I let spiral out of control.

  I can almost hear my mother’s voice.

  Betsy doesn’t make the best decisions.

  And I guess sleeping with Adair is the final straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. Because, after all these years, I can finally see her side. I can finally understand the point she’s been trying to make, albeit it in her backhanded way. I can’t even be mad at her. She’s just telling it like it is.

  Sleep continues to elude me, and after what feels like hours I slide out of bed, snag my boxers and shirt from the floor, and tiptoe into the hall before pulling them on. It’s freezing, but I don’t want to rummage through my closet for a sweater and jeans because I don’t want to wake Adair.

  I have no idea I’ll say.

  And what is there to say? Neither of us does relationships. Not in the traditional sense, at least. I mean, that’s already been established. So really, if you think about it, I have nothing to worry about.

  This isn’t going to lead to anything.

  But it just might ruin everything.

  I make coffee to keep my tired eyes open. Because while my body is buzzing, electric, my mind is groggy. The scent wakes me up before I even take a sip, and after it’s brewed I take a mug of it to the couch, curl up under a blanket with Gabe, and flick on the television. Tonight is New Year’s Eve, so movies along that theme dominate the networks, giving me little to choose from. I settle on 200 Cigarettes and try to lose myself in the story, the ebb and flow of the comedy, while outside the sun rises, the shifting clouds bleaching the light as it filters through the drawn curtains.

  Restless and unable to focus, I’m up before it’s over, dumping coffee dregs in the sink and slipping quietly back into my room. I tiptoe across the floor and to my closet, the shag carpet muting my footsteps. With slow, deliberate movements, I pull a sweater off a hanger, pluck a pair of jeans from the shelf above, and snag my boots from their spot near the door. I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief, my plan for escape going off without a hitch, when I hear movement behind me. The bed springs squeak, the sheets rustle, and Adair’s voice stops me in my tracks.

  “Hey.”

  I turn slowly, clutching my clothes to my chest, and press my lips together, spreading them into an awkward smile. I’m glad the blinds are drawn; the dim lighting hides my blush. “Hey.”

  He stretches before pushing himself to a sitting position and doesn’t seem to care that the covers have slipped all the way down to his waist. I clear my throat and look away, memories of last night and the way all that hardness was pressed against me, skin to skin, making me sway on the spot. His hair is rumpled, standing on end, and he swipes his hand down his forehead and over his eyes, wiping away sleep. “What time is it?”

  I shift back and forth on my feet, the floor creaking beneath me. He’s acting so normal, so nonchalant. His voice is gruff with sleep, not embarrassment. Doesn’t he remember that we had sex last night? I mean, this…this is huge.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whisper even though he’s already awake and there’s really no point. “It’s only six thirty. You should go back to sleep.”

  He nods and then flings the covers back. He’s on full display now, and my eyes flicker over his body as he pulls it from the bed. “What time did you get up?” he asks, stepping into his pajama pants and hiking them up. He isn’t shy, and when he stretches to pull his t-shirt on, I can see his hardness tenting the fabric.

  Oh, for the love of…

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t been up very long,” I lie.

  Adair nods again and crosses the short distance between us. I mess with the clothes in my arms, pretending to look for something even though it’s obvious that I’m really just avoiding him.

  “Betsy.”

  “Hmm?” I pluck the sleeve of my sweater and flip it back and forth. Shift the bundle in my arms. Study a spot on my nail. My heart is beating faster and faster by the second, and Adair is so close, he’s so close and he’s too close and my heart won’t stop racing. He’s going to say something, and I know without a doubt that whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. Because either way, whether he confesses love or tells me that last night was simply sex and nothing more, I don’t want to know.

  I like living in the dark.

  He sighs, like he knows this, like he has to be careful about what he’s going to say because he doesn’t want to break my heart. Maybe he worries that I’ll take what we did the wrong way and become clingy. Become like those women he dates, the ones that lose their shit when he ends things.

  I don’t want him to think of me that way. To even worry that I might be that way.

  “Look,” I say, then pause to wet my lips. “About, you know, last night. Don’t…”

  He reaches up and tugs a strand of my hair, letting it slide between his fingertips. His fingers graze my neck, and my words die on my lips.

  “Hmm? What’s that?” Adair’s voice is rough with suggestion as he steps closer, the bundle of clothes the only thing keeping us from being pressed against each other, chest to chest. “What about last night, Betsy?”

  I have the sudden urge to throw my clothes aside and jump him, pushing him back down on the bed and continuing what we started last night.

  But that’s the thing. Did we even start anything? Was it simply two people acting out a need, purely physical and nothing else? Or was it something more complicated than that…two friends who may or may not be in love with each other, toeing a line there could be no coming back from?

  This. This is why friends shouldn’t have sex.

  A mature adult would stick around and find out, discuss what happened in a rational manner and come to some sort of conclusion.

  A mature adult would be able to handle sex with her friend and walk away feeling nothing. Maybe even joke about it.

  But I don’t make the best decisions, and right now I find myself taking on the characteristics of an self-conscious teenager.

  He hooks a finger under my chin and tilts my face, forcing me to look at him. The gesture reminds me of Christmas night, out in the snow when he almost kissed me and I swore I’d never put either of us in this position, the one we’re in right now, because I loved him too much to burden either of our hearts with regret.

  But I did. I did and there’s nothing I can do about it because the damage is done and it’s my fault that last night even happened in the first place.

  I do not make the best decisions.

  He doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead he dips his chin, bending down and sliding his lips along my temple, my cheek. He nips at my lower lip, giving it a soft tug with his teeth, and I close my eyes, whimper into his mouth.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says, pulling back. He’s still holding my chin up, and I know that
if I open my eyes, I won’t be able to look away.

  Because even if I don’t know for sure, I know.

  Adair loves me.

  And I am so in love with him.

  “And then you just left?”

  George stares at me, eyes wide, as I finish telling her about last night. Her blonde hair is twisted up in a messy bun that tilts a bit to the left and her skin is tan from spending the last two weeks in Hawaii with her new boyfriend. There’s a pot of coffee on the kitchen table between us along with an open box of Sunshine donuts I bought before coming over. Penance for waking her up so early.

  “Yep. I said I had an early hair appointment.”

  I sigh, and then George sighs, and she’s still looking at me like I just revealed to her that I’m not the Betsy she’s known these last three years, the Betsy she met when I disrupted the yoga class she was teaching because I sprained my ankle while trying to twist my body into downward facing dog and she had to drive me to the emergency room to have it x-rayed. With her incredulous expression, you would think I’ve just told her I’m an alien, sent undercover to study humanity and that I might possibly shoot laser beams out of my eyes at any moment.

  “Would you stop looking at me like that?” I let my forehead fall into my palm and grip my mug tighter.

  “You had sex with Adair?”

  I grimace and nod into my hand. “Again, yes.”

  She sighs again, and I open my eyes to stare at my untouched donut sitting in front of me. The coconut flakes scattered across the white frosting remind me of snow, which reminds me of Christmas night, which reminds me of Adair and his lips and the fact that, just hours ago, those lips were all over my body.

  I hear rustling, and I allow my hand to smooth over my face as I raise my head. George is reaching for a second donut, lips pursed as she hunts for another chocolate and peanut butter swirl. She finds what she’s looking for, sits back in her chair, and takes a bite. She moans before setting it down and taking a sip of coffee. “Damn these are good.”

  “Glad you’re enjoying them.” I sound snippy and immediately bite my tongue.

  “And you,” she says, raising her brows and staring pointedly at mine, “don’t seem to be.”

  “I’ve got other things on my mind.”

  She nods, takes another bite, and chews thoughtfully. “Like sleeping with your best friend.”

  I nod and fight the urge to say duh.

  George pops the last bite of donut into her mouth and wipes her sticky fingers on a paper towel. “I saw Marilyn the other day. Well, right before I left for Hawaii.”

  “Okay?” I stretch the word out, not sure where this is going or why George is even bringing it up. Sure, I’ve known Marilyn for years—since I was fifteen, sixteen maybe? She’s Miles’s mother, actually, and for years I secretly pretended she was mine. I have way more in common with her than my own mother. Marilyn wears jeans and t-shirts and twists her long hair into chunky braids before teaching music to Cedar Hill’s underprivileged kids. I even lived with her and Miles for a few months one summer, right after high school graduation. My mother and I had been arguing nonstop about college my entire senior year, and things only escalated when I told her I wanted to study art and design. She cut me by telling me I was being stupid, that a major in the arts was a waste of money. And I cut her right back, saying I had no intention of being a corporate sell out like her, sitting behind the same desk for forty years and working so much I didn’t have time for my family. She told me she didn’t want to see my face again until I came to my senses, and I obliged.

  “She said she hasn’t seen you as much since you’ve cut down on your shifts at the soup kitchen.”

  There’s nothing at all accusatory at her tone, but I bristle. Guilt immediately floods through me, pools in my stomach. “It’s been a crazy last few months,” I say as an excuse. Actually, crazy isn’t really the right word. Frantic, maybe? I’ve been stuck in a rut that I have no idea how to get out of and I feel trapped, like the walls are closing in and time is ticking and the clock is a bomb, the hands on the face turning so fast I’ll never be able to catch up. And then…BOOM.

  Racing the clock makes most people move faster. Me? I just freeze up.

  But I don’t want to admit to this. To be anything other than what I’m known for being—positive and upbeat, go-with-the-flow Betsy. The fact that I’m even here with George and discussing what happened last night is a sidestep away from my usual behavior. Normally, I’d be the one counseling her while keeping everything I’m feeling locked away.

  I hate when Adair’s right.

  George shakes her head. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the kitchen table. Concern turns down the corners of her mouth. “I don’t think you understand. Marilyn wasn’t upset, she was happy.”

  Now it’s my turn to look concerned.

  She just laughs. “Bets, we’re both just happy that you’re taking some time for yourself.” She reaches for the coffee pot and refills her mug. “Or, I hope you are?”

  She looks at me expectantly and I roll my eyes. “Of, course I take time for myself. Why do people assume I don’t?” I think of Adair and our conversations lately. Conversations that, in a round-about way, eluded to the very same thing.

  “You run yourself ragged,” George answers. “You do all this stuff for others, and then you never get around to doing anything for yourself.”

  I wave her away, pick up my donut, and bite into it. This is not the discussion I wanted to have when I came over here this morning. I intended to discuss Adair, the fact that we had sex, and have George tell me… I have no idea what I wanted her to tell me.

  “I like helping people,” I say after chasing my bite with coffee. And it’s not a lie; I really do enjoy helping others, making them happy. Taking the burden off of someone else’s shoulders, even if it only transfers it to mine. I…I can take it. Bear it. But other people? Sometimes I worry they can’t. So what if my only purpose in life is to be a rock, a place for others to pile their crap onto so they don’t have to carry it? I carry what happened to me all those years ago along with a lot of shit that’s happened since. And I haven’t broken down once. Not once. I didn’t have anyone to take my burden, and I survived. Am surviving. The least I can do is to make sure others don’t have to suffer the same.

  “I know you do, Bets. But I think…” George pauses, takes a breath. “I think you also use it as a way to avoid your own issues.”

  I perk up. Laugh to cover my unease. Smile, smile, smile. “I don’t have any issues. I’m not avoiding anything.” And I’m not. Sure, something bad happened to me, something that made me feel dirty and rotten and wrong. But I can’t go back and change it. No amount of thinking about it and talking about it and picking at it will erase it from my past. So I move on. I push on.

  “Really? You’re not avoiding anything?” George kicks her legs up on the chair between us and lifts her mug. “Like this thing with Adair?”

  Well, maybe.

  When I don’t say anything, she sighs and I’m getting so tired of hearing her sigh. Surely I’m not that exasperating. Am I?

  Oh, my god. I am.

  “Let’s just forget I said anything, okay?” I stand and empty my mug in the sink, and then move to clear the table. “It wasn’t anything, really. It’s no big deal, and I shouldn’t have even brought it up.” I’m rambling as I go through the motions, gathering the paper towels, closing the donut box, dropping sticky napkins into the trash can.

  George watches me with an amused expression and drops her long legs from the chair, sitting up straighter. “Oh, come on. This is a big deal. And the fact that you came to me about it is huge. Huge! You’re always the one helping me with my dramas, and now I get to help you with yours.”

  I arch a brow as I wipe down her table. “It’s not a drama,” I insist. “And I freaked out for, like, a microsecond. But now I’m fine.”

  “Do you love him?” Her voice is soft, and the question sinks right i
nto my chest.

  “Of course I love him.”

  George cocks her head and pins me with a stern look. “You know what I mean.”

  I rest my palms on the table and shoot her a look right back. “No.” Then, because I don’t want to lie, because she’s always trusted me with her secrets and I’ve never once revealed any of mine, I groan and tell her the truth. “I mean, yes. Maybe?” I plop back down into my seat. “More like I do but I wished I didn’t. Does that even make sense?”

  She nods. “I know what you mean. And yes, it does.”

  Her voice is wistful, and for a moment I think about her crush on Miles. How, no matter how hard she cared, he just couldn’t find it in himself to care back. Until he could…for someone else.

  But no. Like I said, I know enough of her secrets to know that Miles isn’t the one she’s thinking about right now.

  So I decide to tell her one of mine. The big nasty one. The one that, all those years ago, dropped me bruised and shattered on a path from which I haven’t been able to veer. I open up and spill all of it, and when I’m done, when I’ve re-opened a wound I thought had long ago healed, I’m surprised to find that it hasn’t. Not really.

  Her eyes are wide, and she’s moved chairs so that she’s right next to me. My hand is wrapped in hers, and I think she might be more upset than me. Tears brim her eyes while mine are dry. “And you never found out who…” Her breath hitches, and she reaches up her free hand to cover her mouth. She clears her throat. “You never found out who it was?”

  I shake my head. “No. I was half out of it at the time, the room was dark, and he…” I take a deep breath and let it out. “He was so heavy. The only thing I saw was a shadow and then white-hot flashes of pain. I saw the pain…” I try to lighten the mood and chuckle, because this confession makes me uncomfortable and I hate, hate, hate the feeling. “Isn’t it weird how sometimes you can actually see feelings? Like red for anger, white for pain…”