by P. J. Vernon
Mmm.
I’m fucking you. Hard.
What’s happening starts biting into my heart. I’m duplicitous, which is nothing new, but in a more bothersome way at the moment. I’m exposed. I’ve given Tom permission to take pieces of me.
You’re hurting because I’m big, but you don’t want me to stop pounding you.
Don’t you dare fucking stop.
To type that takes considerable strength. I want this to end. To be over. More than anything, I want this conversation to die. Time to kill it.
Can I see?
Sure ;)
A few seconds later, a picture of his dick comes through. Hard in his left hand. One obnoxious gold-and-garnet college ring and one pecker. He angles the camera with his right hand and there’s something shiny in the background. A mirror, and a new idea sparks like a pricy lighter.
I wanna see everything.
Lol huh?
The mirror. Stand in front of it. I want to see all of you.
Another pause. Excruciating in length, and maybe Tom’s texting Nathan from another device right now. He never has fewer than two phones on his person. Better check your boy toy’s leash, because he’s wandered out of the yard or some shit. Or maybe he’s having entirely justified reservations about giving me face.
Panic pushes me to seal the deal: Give it to me. Give me your body and your cum face and maybe we do something about it like you said.
Downstairs, the doorbell chimes. I jolt, then listen carefully for voices. When someone asks Nathan to sign for a package, I return to my phone to find another bouncing ellipsis. Tom sends it. It’s perfect.
Phone at waist level. I’ve got everything from salt-and-pepper hair to his kneecaps. Bet you count that smarmy-ass smile as a selling feature, don’t you?
Now, I tell myself, Tom has something to lose. I have no intention of sharing it with anyone, but for everything Tom isn’t, he is intelligent. He won’t forget I have this, and it may very well purchase his cooperation. Total silence.
You?
He wants reciprocation, and I need to deliver something.
I couldn’t hold it. I came when you sent me the second pic, but…
I undo my zipper and snap a quick—and plausibly deniable—shot of my flaccid dick.
Here.
Nice.
Again, a stupid reply. I hear the front door lock and Nathan’s footsteps on the hardwood.
I gotta go. You do discreet well right?
Yeah.
What Tom says next has an unsettling ring of truth to it.
Secrets are my specialty.
29
NATHAN
Deep into the evening, I shut the library door and carry a fresh bourbon over to my desk. The weighty envelope sits in the exact center. Where it’s been since it was diligently couriered to my front door hours ago.
attn: dr. nathan klein. It’s from a DC law firm, but the label contains another detail. One that called for a stiff drink or three before contemplating opening it. re: klein family foundation trust.
I sink into the leather high-back and breathe heavily.
All afternoon, I told myself that Tilly is fine. She’s collared and chipped and making some kids’ day at Rose Park, where they came across her. Rock Creek Trail runs right through it and along the water. Plenty of green spaces and quiet streets in our corner of Georgetown. It’s not winter, she’s not fearful or aggressive, and like the detectives said, neighbors are all out and about.
But as night fell, my hope did the same. Now I’ve got this goddamn envelope sitting in front of me because when it rains, it fucking pours. I tip my glass until it’s empty and set it down harder than intended. Humming that song by the Clash about Monty Clift, I point my chin to the ceiling. Nembutal might numb it all, but we both stick with alcohol.
I pull a letter opener from my drawer. Silver and sharp.
I have a thing for tragic stories—Oliver is evidence of that. But Monty Clift, there’s a tragedy! Pioneered Method acting and then drove into a telephone pole. He’d just left Elizabeth Taylor’s place, and she was first on the scene.
I cut into the envelope, slicing lengthwise.
Elizabeth Taylor, paramedic, pulled his tooth out of his tongue before he could choke on it.
A bound stack of paper slips out with a thump.
Smart people like Monty and me are more fragile than the Mothers of the world appreciate. The car accident didn’t kill him, but it turned him into an agoraphobe, which itself was a slow bitch of a death. This society, it swallows up smart people. If you’re smart—and not a sociopath—you don’t stand a chance.
I unclip the pages of what is clearly a property deed. A cover letter says it’s only a copy for careful review. Signing will occur at the firm’s office before a notary and witnesses.
The address—my address—printed in black and white pulls tears from my eyes. As I flip pages, a heaviness in my chest hints at everything I’m losing. I’m no longer the surgeon in command but an unraveling next of kin in the waiting room. I’m not the pilot but a back-row passenger bouncing through turbulence. Terrified as we fly into a storm of unknown scale and utterly powerless to stop it.
I’m fragile, Mother!
My dog. My house. My husband. My control. My mind. I’m losing them all. My grip around the blade tightens, and my knuckles go bloodless.
I scroll for Mother’s number but stop short of dialing. No, that’s what she wants. She wants me to beg. She wants me to account for my mistakes, Oliver first among them. There’s no way she and Father intend to go through with this bullshit. Except my love and my happiness mean nothing to either of them and they very much already have. On my desk sits the final product of a work order that’s been executed. And as a psychotherapist with a strategic talent for passive-aggressive tactics, she’s framed it as a gift.
I turn to the painting hung over an ivory mantel. A family portrait done a few years before I was born. Father appears effortlessly disinterested even then. But stoic Mother in Jacqueline Kennedy Chanel seems to taunt me. I’m giving you the home, darling! An opportunity to prove Father and me wrong. If you can afford it.
I laugh, quietly and to no one. When I toss my phone across the desk, the swollen vein on my wrist is suddenly magnetic. Once again, the letter opener is in my hand.
How destroyed would she be? The delivery of her paperwork and her son’s suicide happening in rapid succession. How many years of her own grueling psychotherapy would it take to convince her that, surely, it was a coincidence. That underlying issues were at play, and Dr. Nathan Klein was always going to do it. She can’t blame herself for something she had no control over.
Under my skin, I push that fat vein back and forth with the letter opener.
I have a thing for tragedy, but something tragic says Mother would unburden herself the second the funeral ended. What’s the point of knowingly bemoaning your misplaced guilt without an audience to feed the narcissistic histrionics?
Mother would be fine, but my husband is another story.
Pull it together, Nathan. I run both hands over my face. Maybe you can’t afford this house, but you can certainly afford a house. If we’re forced out, I’ll need to come up with messaging for Oliver. No telling how he’d handle a lack of stability on my part. I’m his foundation, but I should start reinforcing things on his behalf. Abrupt change could very well trigger him.
It’s certainly triggered me. I pull my briefcase from the bottom drawer and twirl the spin lock. Control may be slipping through my fingers, but it’s not gone yet. I dig for my prescription pad.
Poison might be a woman’s weapon, but gays take liberties with what is and is not a woman’s anything. I click a pen and write for a very specific drug. A narcotic I won’t ever use but will feel better knowing is at arm’s length.
An off-ramp, so to speak.
I rip the paper from its mooring and stuff it in my pocket. Before I leave the library to join my husband upstairs, I grab my letter opener one last time. I walk over to that ivory mantel—African ivory and original to the very home I can’t pay for—and catch scorn from eyes in the portrait above it.
When the blade sinks into canvas, it’s me—not Mother—who’s suddenly unburdened.
30
OLIVER
As best I could, I’d avoided Nathan for the rest of the night. When he finally crawls into bed, there’s bourbon on his breath. He asks if I’m still angry. I tell him no.
He opens his nightstand and a familiar pharmaceutical rattling calls.
Nathan pops an Ambien and nudges my shoulder with his. In his palm rolls a tiny pill. A calming light blue. “How does some sleep sound?”
I could be forgiven for thinking he’s offering it. “That for me?”
“You’re not getting rest, babe. The mugging already had you paranoid, but after today? I’m worried, Oliver. Sleep is something I can give you.”
“You always talk about how triggering these can be.”
“Ambien’s not a narcotic. I trust you.” He winks. “Besides, I’m a doctor. I won’t let you slip.”
“Okay.” I sit up, surprised by how easy he’s made this. “Thanks, Nat.”
Surprised and guilty because my “conversation” with Tom’s been on a loop in my brain all evening. Tom exploited me. He took advantage of the shitty hand I’ve been dealt. But again, he doesn’t know the truth, does he? From his perspective, I could easily be the bad guy. Betraying Nathan’s trust while cruising hookup apps. Looking for just the sort of thrill Tom provided.
Nathan starts to drop the pill into my open hand but stops short. “I do want you to do something for me.”
I choke down a laugh. Why the hell did I think this would be easy? That Nathan would do me a favor and that would be the end of it? It’s never the end of it, and to think otherwise is foolish.
“What?” An undeniable edge to my tone, and my cheeks flush.
“NA,” Nathan starts. “I want you to go back. A meeting or two. It’ll be good for you.”
“You literally just said sleeping pills aren’t—”
“I know,” Nathan interrupts. “But I want you to go to a meeting, okay? Promise me you will.”
He stares, unblinking. I eye his closed fist, then his no-nonsense face. Stoic, and the only one he’s worn all day. Maybe ever.
“I’ll go to a meeting.”
“Promise?”
“Jesus, Nat. Yes. I promise.”
He drops the tablet into my palm. It rolls a half circle, and I toss it back with spit before Nathan changes his mind. But maybe he’s right about revisiting NA. Meetings reinforce boundaries and mine haven’t been this weak in a long time. Kristian’s worked diligently to undermine each of them.
Sobriety is like the surface tension of water. It can only endure the most fragile of pressures, and Kristian’s found a particularly dangerous one: me. He’s set me against myself. Against Nathan too. I mistrust and resent my partner for acts of kindness. Loving me so much he’d risk a fight to get me back into NA.
“Addicts deceive themselves, Oliver. I can keep you accountable,” he’d promised, braking in front of that Unitarian church. My very first meeting had my pulse reeling. Before I went in, Nathan folded me deep in his arms and whispered in my ear: “This is our journey.”
* * *
• •
When Nathan’s alarm chimes, I’m swaddled in a sleep that’d been avoiding me. The buzzing is distant. A foghorn atop the mast of some ship on the horizon. Drawing closer and closer before the sharp siren wails and—
Sheet folds cut creases in my cheek. I reach over to his nightstand and turn the damn thing off. Where the hell is Nathan?
My eyelids stick, but the umami of grease and sizzling fat finds the bedroom. It’s Thursday, and Nathan’s cooking breakfast. Waking before his alarm means he hasn’t slept well. If at all.
No jingling dog tags because Tilly’s downstairs biding time for cutting-board scraps. My heart swells and guilt erupts. Tilly!
Maybe someone’s found her, called even. I unlock my phone.
I do have a new message, but not from any neighbor saying Nathan’s dog is safe and sound. Far from it: MeetLockr. Playing with Tom was a huge risk. Has he reached out for a second go? My mouth is ashtray dry.
Who and what’s been sent is hidden, but the notification still sharpens my focus. Blurry lines grow cruelly crisp: Tilly’s gone. Detective Henning’s investigation is stalled. She plans to tell Nathan the truth. In what? Two days now?
Meanwhile Tom sours my stomach. Yesterday was nothing new. Nothing I hadn’t done with MeetLockr’s catalog of strangers. Dozens of times, but things are different now. I went to a bathhouse. Someone tried to kill me there. A mistake I’ve paid for ever since. A mistake Tilly’s paid for, Nathan’s paid for.
Perhaps that’s what angers me most about Tom. I’m cornered. Everything’s unraveling. Everyone’s paying for my mistakes. Except fucking Tom. Solicitous Tom gets a dick pic from his best friend’s partner. He gets to pop one off at my expense. Fantasy fulfilled.
But it’s not only Tom. Hector’s made a surprise cameo. Nathan’s brooding around the house. Tracking my movements with a stupid budgeting app. Every man in my life has turned against me in some way. As though they coordinate with one another. Emerge from darkness to frighten me whenever I’ve finally escaped whichever one had the last go.
And now I’m projecting blame. Add that to my endless list of flaws. Alongside running, lying, denial, and an unrequited love of self-destruction.
No. I’ve made a mistake. I’ve cheated. But lots of people do it. Lots of people cheat, and they don’t deserve to die for it.
I’ve dug my nails deep into my palm. Four crescent shapes like tiny stab wounds. I open MeetLockr. Scroll for my messages.
The username—the sharp exclamation point—is cold water. Arctic water from ocean-deep eyes.
My chest collapses. I open the unread message.
Like my movie?
Kristian’s hungry jaws have taken the bait. This is what I wanted, but getting it still sets my pulse aflame. I skewered and dangled myself, and Kristian’s obliged.
I am not ready for this. I haven’t processed what contact would feel like. The fear is a knife and impossibly sharp. He’s slit my belly, groin to sternum.
A long pause. Kristian’s not Tom. He doesn’t need the validation of a quick response because he’s practiced at his game. He’s cut me open to the air—blood turned septic from terror.
My throat tightens. Panic crawls down my arms. When it reaches my fingers, they move on their own. Reflex and instinct. I respond with two words.
Meet me.
The idea of a meeting sparks an idea. Something I didn’t do when he last messaged: I thumb to his profile. Where the physical distance between us is displayed. MeetLockr’s business model hinges on geotagging.
Eight miles. He’s eight miles away at this very moment. My phone jolts.
Where?
I need to be smart. If I truly intend to go through with this—a question I admittedly cannot answer yet—then I need to be fucking smart.
In public, obviously. Someplace with other people but not too many. A thick crowd is as isolating and desolate as a back alley or vacant park. Trance comes to mind, the bar’s a nonstop party every night. No, that won’t do. I need people, but the setting must be quiet. Orderly. Mannered. A place where a disturbance of any sort will be promptly noted. Somewhere privileged.
Jefferson hotel. The lounge.
I’ve never been, but it’s a Washington landmark. A five-star establishment for patrons who require atmosphere. Serviced by people who’ll qui
ckly pounce on anything or anyone threatening said atmosphere.
Fancy boy. When?
Good question. I chew my lip. When’s the right time to meet a murderer? To pull up a chair and share a drink with Alexander Scares-gård? The answer is never, but time’s slipping. Detective Henning will tell Nathan, and I need to find Tilly before that happens. There’s also the courage the immediacy of now stokes. The more this drags on, the longer a confrontation lingers in the theoretical, the greater the chances I abandon my plan. Or come to my goddamn senses, as literally anyone else would conclude.
Tonight @ seven.
Even if I call out of work yet again, I can’t be ready, emotionally or physically, for the lunch crowd. I’ll have to catch a supper rush. The lounge must crawl with as many pairs of eyes as possible. WASPy, disapproving eyeballs.
Him: I’m not into group things. No threesomes.
???
Come alone. See you soon.
Fine.
Just like that, it’s done.
My phone slips from my grip. When I push off to stand, my palms sink into a wet mattress. I’ve sweated into memory foam like a child pisses the bed. For a fevered second, I fear the latter’s happened.
What I’ve done, the events I’ve set into motion, finally registers. Sheets might not be soaked with urine, but I’m still a child. Stumbling blissfully through the woods, and I’ve come upon an enormous wasps’ nest. It clings to a dying tree like a malignancy. Layer upon layer upon layer of twisted mulch. Both sinister and enthralling.
I stoop for a stone by my feet and hurl it. Papery walls buckle. The rock sinks deep inside blackness. It vanishes and for a cosmic instant, nothing happens.
But they do come.
Wasps pour from their wounded nest. A whining tsunami of rage. Black with hypodermic stingers. Thousands of needles. Each swollen with venom, and I stand perfectly still.
They envelop me.
31
NATHAN
Morning brings both a hangover and a thunderstorm. Swollen black clouds loom as a saucepan starts to simmer. A capful of white vinegar goes in next. Bacon’s keeping warm in the oven, and acidity’s the secret to a perfectly poached egg.