The Me That I Became

by Christopher Harlan

  “But how could you have known that I’d be like this?”

  “I didn’t know,” he says. “Not in the traditional sense of the word. I didn’t have any factual knowledge of where you were or what you were doing, but I’m pretty instinctual. I knew you wouldn’t just leave me hanging after the other night. There was only one other logical conclusion. That you were out drinking or fell asleep. I brought the Tylenol just in case.”

  The second I met Brandon I knew that he was different. I knew before we even officially met, when our hands brushed against each other. I’m looking into his eyes as he talks, savoring that effect he has on me. His face and body draw me in, but it’s his eyes that make my body ignite.

  “You know what we should do?”

  “Order food,” he jokes. “Otherwise they’ll think we’re freeloaders.”

  “Well, yeah, absolutely, but I meant in general?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We should play a game. I just thought of it.”

  “Alright,” he says, not sure where this is headed. “What kind of game?”

  “Like a getting-to-know-you kind. Instead of just letting things come up organically, maybe we could find out things about one another a little more. . . directly.”

  “Okay. That sounds interesting.”

  He sounds hesitant. I would be too if my crazy ass was suggesting a random game at a diner, but I’m going somewhere with this. It’s a fucked-up thought, but a part of me is hoping that Brandon isn’t as good as he appears, that he’s damaged like me, maybe even that he’s hiding things from me, too. I know it’s my guilt talking. It’s me who’s damaged. Me who’s been lying since our first conversation. Me who’s so messed up that I’m actually looking for flaws instead of enjoying a new relationship. But I can’t have these feelings of guilt every time I see him, and I also can’t tell him the truth, so in my mind the next best thing is hoping that maybe we can be on an equally messed up playing field.

  “Here’s how it’ll work. It’s called ‘question or statement.’ We take turns, and we both have to do it. One of us will go first, and we can either have the other person ask us a direct question like ‘how old were you when you lost your virginity?’, or we can bite the bullet and just make a statement about ourselves that the other person doesn’t know. The only catch is that it has be something real—not like what our favorite color is. Something personal that we’d want to know about each other.”

  “Interesting,” he says. “How do we decide who goes first?”

  “Coin toss? Winner decides who goes first.”

  “Sounds good to me.” I’m shocked that he even wants to do this. I was half expecting him to tell me to buzz off with my stupid game, but he doesn’t. He jumps in right away. I should have known that he would.

  Brandon pulls out a quarter. “Call it.” He flips it in the air and I scream ‘heads’ before he catches it. Once he flips it over and pulls his hand away; it’s heads.

  “You go,” I tell him. “Question or statement? Which do you want.”

  “I think I’m going with a statement.”

  “Okay.” I hold my breath in anticipation. I can’t imagine what he’s going to say, but it’s right about this time that I realize I don’t know much about Brandon. I know how he makes me feel, and right now that’s more than enough for me, but I want to know the man behind the sad gray eyes. The waitress walks over just as he’s about to open his mouth. “Hold on.” We order our food—he gets a cheeseburger deluxe and I get my beloved short stack of pancakes. I’m not sure if I’m looking more forward to his answer or my food, but we’ll just see what he has to say. “Are you ready?” he asks.

  “Ready.”

  He takes a noticeable breath before answering, and he breaks eye contact from me, which he’s almost never done so far. “My greatest fear is being a failure. Being ordinary. Just another guy who lived a normal life.”

  I’m surprised that he jumps right in to something so personal, but it also makes me happy. “Oh, wow. I was thinking you were going to tell me the name of your ex and how long you dated for. This is way deeper.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize,” I tell him, reaching for his hand. “It wasn’t a criticism. The opposite.”

  “It keeps me up at night. I mean, everyone’s afraid of failure on some level, but that’s not what I mean. I mean that the idea of not being the best version of myself keeps me up at night. I’m already thirty years old, and I have no real career. I haven’t done anything noteworthy. I worry that I never will.”

  “It’s funny. Sometimes I want the opposite.”

  “What’s that?” he asks.

  “Sometimes I feel like I stand out too much. That I just want to be like everyone else. I feel like the black sheep of my family, the weird one of my friends. The girlfriend who wants different things than the guy I’m with. Sometimes I just want to be like everyone else around me.”

  “Did you just use your turn? Cause I’m not going twice. I might start bawling right here at the table.”

  I smile and so does he. “Well I never told you to go dark with it. You could have told me something good or happy that I didn’t know.”

  “Eh, what fun is that?” The beauty of diners is their speed—it’s socially acceptable fast food. It hasn’t been five minutes, but our food is already coming out of the back, balanced ever so carefully on the arm of a seasoned waitress. She places our plates down in front of us and I take the biggest breath ever. I love the smell of breakfast food, and this diner has the best pancakes around. “Enjoy,” she says before leaving us to our weird conversation.

  “Next time it’s your turn.”

  “That’s only fair,” I say. “It was my idea, after all.”

  “Are you going to go statement or question?”

  “Not sure yet. Have to see what my mood is when it comes up.” I put my little getting to know you game aside and think of Sunday again. I really don’t want him to get ambushed by my mom. “Listen, if you don’t want to come for dinner I completely understand. I haven’t exactly made it sound inviting. I can get you out of it.”

  “Don’t you dare. I want to meet your family. I’m not afraid.”

  There’s his confidence again. I wonder how it’ll hold up against my mom. “Can I ask you why?”

  “Why I’m not afraid?”

  “No,” I answer. “Why you want to meet them? We are kind of. . . new. Usually meeting the family comes later. I mean, if my mom hadn’t pushed me on the dinner thing it probably would have been longer before you met them, right?”

  “Maybe,” he says. “I’m weird like that, though, even though I don’t think it’s weird. I’d never want to be seeing someone seriously, for any length of time, and not meet their family. It’s so important to know where someone’s come from, for good or for bad.”

  “Brandon, are you saying that we’re seriously seeing each other?” I know that we are. I’ve been serious about him since I met him, and I hope he feels the same. When I ask he puts his food down and looks at me intensely in the eyes—so intensely that it takes me by surprise and I stop eating.

  “Here’s what’s gonna happen over the next two hours, Talia. Ready?” I nod. “You’re going to eat your pancakes because you love them so much. While you do that the Tylenol you took is going to kick in, and your headache is going to go totally away. When we’re done we’re going to take a short walk because it’s a nice day and we can work our food off. And then,” he pauses, his face turning up in to a grin. “And then, I’m going to take you back to your place, fuck you harder than you’ve ever been fucked before, and you’re going to pass out from a total lack of energy afterwards. When you wake up, you’ll feel better than you have in days. Sound like a plan?”

  Oh. My. God.

  I think I already feel my headache going away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My clothes can’t come off fast enough.

  Brandon is a man of his w
ord, and what he said would happen, happened. My headache went away, each of us ate just enough to say that we did without getting too full, and we took a brief walk, just enough to get the heart going and fill our lungs with fresh air. Now that we’re back to my place he’s an absolute animal, kissing me mercilessly and wrapping his strong arms around me before we even made it inside.

  Once inside he rips my shirt from my body. And when I say rip, I mean he tears my clothes away until I’m in my bra and panties in my living room. He does his own fast strip with an equal ferocity, tossing his shirt and pants aside like they were his enemies. Standing there, the only word that comes to mind is majestic, his frame a muscled body that seems to go on forever. He’s hard already, his giant cock pushing against the front of his underwear. My body starts to feel that heat again—that slow burn that started as a tingle at the diner, but that’s now a three-alarm blaze from my head to my toes. And the feeling between my legs is unmistakable. My body wants—no, needs—him inside of me.

  He scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom, throwing me on the bed so that I land on my back. I take the last things I’m wearing off my body so that he can see me—really see me. When I’m with him I’m not insecure, unconcerned with whether or not I have the perfect body, or if he’s going to find it attractive. I know he does already. His body tells me just how he’s feeling, and right now it’s pointing at me, letting me know that it wants to come out and play.

  I pull his underwear down and he steps out of it. I’ve been dreaming about having his thickness inside of me again, going as deep as he wants and filling up my pussy. Before all that, I decide to take him in my mouth, and he grabs onto my head so aggressively that I get super wet. He can do whatever he wants with me, and I’m going to do what I want to do with him. He fills my mouth with his girth, thrusting in and out, fucking my mouth like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to do, and I give him so much pleasure that he starts to make the kind of noises that make my body burn even hotter. But this is just the beginning. After a minute of sucking him off, he pulls out and pushes me backwards onto the mattress.

  On top of me he’s a giant, and I reach up and pull his face down onto mine—our lips smashing together while he wastes no time inserting himself. There’s the slightest twinge of pain because of his size, but it’s a good pain, and a second later I feel him—all of him—sliding deeper and deeper inside of me as I claw at his neck. He feels so fucking good that I don’t know what to do with myself. He knows how big he is, so he always lets my body get used to him with a few slow thrusts, moving methodically in and out, as the wetness of my pussy takes over and guides him. He pulls back all the way, and then thrusts forward so hard that I scream out. It feels so good that I beg him for more.

  “Fuck me faster, Brandon. Really fast.”

  “You got it,” he whispers in my ear before going back to work. The sound of his hips and balls slapping against me makes me even wetter, and I can feel the bed lifting ever so slightly off the floor with the momentum of his thrusts. I spread my legs as far as they can go in the air, and then he sits up and helps me, grabbing my ankles and pointing them east and west as he rhythmically fucks me. I look down to see his huge cock sliding in and out of me, and I watch my own body rise and fall as I take shallow breaths.

  While he’s got my legs, I decide to use my fingers, reaching down and rubbing my fingers over myself fast and hard, matching the speed he’s thrusting into me, and my hands are soaked in our juices. I use them to massage myself even more, never taking my eyes off him entering me.

  “I want you to come for me,” he says. “I want to feel you squeeze around my cock, Talia.”

  “Oh, fuck, Brandon!” I rub harder and he fucks harder, so much so that it only takes seconds before I feel the orgasm rising, the heat in my body burning even hotter, attacking all of my nerve endings. I feel it about to happen and I let it—my body explodes. I clench him as I shake all over, the feeling of ecstasy flowing throw me, making me convulse in pure pleasure. As soon as I stop moving he takes himself out and stands up. I’m lying on my back, barely able to move I’m so tired, and he starts stroking himself hard, hovering his huge manhood right over my tits. I look up and see it in all its glory and watching him touch himself is hot as fuck. “It’s your turn to come.” I tell him.

  I reach under and tickle his balls, and that gets him. He explodes all over, most of it all falling on my chest, and the rest going wherever it wants to. The sight of his hot white cum shooting everywhere while he clenches his face makes me want him again.

  He moans, squeezing the last drop of cum out of himself, and I bathe in it, so satisfied that my body feels like pudding. He steps away into my bathroom for a second and comes out with a towel. He leans over and cleans me up, kissing me on the forehead when he’s done. I can barely move—the energy totally gone from my body. I feel warm and happy and a nice kind of soreness, all at the same time.

  He pulls the covers over my naked body, and I just curl up, happy as I’ve ever been, the smell of him still all over me. He runs his hand through my hair and kisses me one more time, gently. “I’ll let myself out. Call me later, okay?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just really exhausted. Don’t mean to pass out on you.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You were amazing, and now I want you to rest up. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay.” He leaves the room to get dressed, and a few minutes later I hear my door close. That was some of the most amazing sex I’ve had—period. And it’s all because of Brandon. I’m seriously starting to fall for him, hard. My body and my mind just react to him like no other man I’ve ever met.

  I squish the pillow against my face and close my eyes. I’m not worried about the nightmares. Brandon knows how to chase them away.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rest of the week brings all the wonders of new relationships—great conversations, great sex—greatness all around. I love this part. Even when I’m sick I can still enjoy the beginnings. I’ve been feeling better, though. I haven’t had a single nightmare since that night, and I’ve been backing off my pills as much as I can. The anxiety is still there, ready to make me shake when I least expect it. That’s really the only thing I’ve taken pills for. I don’t like taking them, so not needing to has been a relief. The truth is that even though pills help some people come back from the edge, they’re fraught with terrible side effects that take their toll. The fewer I have to swallow the better.

  But I haven’t needed them, but not because my brain went through some radical transformation, but because I actually have things to be happy about now. Work has been good, I’ve mostly avoided my family—except for Carla—and most of all I met a man I’m really falling for. He’s hot as fuck, sensitive, and he makes me feel like the me that I want to be. It’s been a magical week, but tonight we’re going to my parent’s house for dinner, and I’m terrified of what’s going to happen there. I called Carla to warn her last night, and, as usual, somehow, I became the bad guy.

  “What do you mean, you haven’t told him you have depression?” she asked. “Are you serious? How does he not realize?”

  “First off, I’ve been feeling better, so he hasn’t really seen any of it. But, even if I was having a spell, I’m really good at hiding it from people. You know all about that, right?” That last comment was a dig, but I didn’t mean it in a way that was going to start a fight. It was more of a warning shot to say, don’t go down the judgmental road, sis, ’cause we all have our secrets, don’t we?

  Unbeknownst to anyone but me, I’m not the only sick one in my family. Mental illnesses are as genetic as they are environmental, and my sister and I got it from both ends—we just manifested it differently. I’m the depressed one that everyone knows about, but for years she had the eating disorder that only I knew of. So, whenever she starts to climb up that high horse I always feel the need to knock her off of it. She didn’t respond to the last part, just went back to the topic of me and Brandon.
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br />   “Even if he hasn’t directly seen, I think you should tell him. At least if it’s serious between you two. If he’s just another guy, then who cares, but . . .”

  “It’s serious,” I told her. “And he’s definitely not just another guy, but that’s got nothing to do with it. I was with Joel for a year, and as shitty as this is to admit, I never felt the way about him that I’m feeling towards Brandon. It’s not about the amount of time, Brandon and I just fit together.” I do feel horrible saying what I did about Joel, because why stay with him and make him think things were okay when they weren’t? I guess I have to just stop thinking about him. It’s over, after all. I still have the reverse Dear John letter in my drawer.

  “If that’s the case, then you should tell him. He has a right to know who he’s getting serious with, Lia. And the last thing you want is for him to figure it out himself based on how you’re acting.”

  I got mad when she said that. First of all, the word ‘disclose’ sounds like I’m making him sign a contract to be my boyfriend. Second, what the hell did she mean by that? She said it like I have some alter ego that might cause such harm that I have a responsibility to tell him up front, just in case he wants to jump ship now and save me the trouble of being the cold bitch we all know I can be later on. “I probably could,” I said, choosing not to get into it with Carla. “His sister has the same issues. Kind of how we met—long story.”

  “Oh, well then what are you afraid of?”

  A lot, Carla. I’m embarrassed to be myself. You should know that as well as I do. I remember lying to mom and dad for you when you’d excuse yourself for the fourth and fifth times at dinner, so you could go purge, ‘cause that’s what sisters do—we cover for each other. I decide to pivot the conversation. “In the immediate sense, I’m afraid of mom, actually.”

  “Well, that’s hardly breaking news.”

  “No,” I explain. “Not just the usual stuff. Because Brandon doesn’t know, I’m afraid that mom’s going to let it out somehow, in that passive-aggressive way mom says and does things. You know how she can get.”