I haven't had an orgasm during sex with him in well over a year.
When he pulls out, he plants a solitary, almost chaste kiss on the small of my back. It's my consolation, the romantic finishing touch, for accommodating him. Then he walks to the bathroom and I hear the shower turn on. He always showers immediately after sex, but I don't know if he washes away the guilt. I don't think so. I don't think he even feels guilt. I think he just wants to wash away ... me.
And I let him.
Until the next time.
I thought I was stronger. I thought I had changed. I thought I was better than this.
I guess not.
Michael just proved that.
When he comes back out from the bathroom he's dressed in his suit again, looking totally unaffected. He'll return to small talk as he escorts me out. He never takes me home. That's how it always works.
He extends his hand out, palm up. "Phone." He's telling me to give him my phone. Commanding.
I shouldn't, but I hand it to him. It's a new phone I got when I moved to San Diego. A new phone number. A number he didn't have. Until now.
He programs in his cell number and sends a text to himself. He smiles that wolfish smile as he opens the hotel room door and hands the phone back to me. His smile seems to say you're welcome and good-bye. It's narcissism at its best. Then he says, "I'll see you soon." And lastly, he shuts the door on me, dismissing me. He leaves me standing in the hallway. Hating myself.
I feel so weak. I am not strong.
But I also know I will not see him again.
I'm done.
This is over.
Sunday, August 20
(Scout)
After yesterday, I know I need to get my shit together. I need to start making changes to move my life forward in a more positive direction. And after talking to Audrey this morning, and hearing her encouragement and generous offer to help, I know where I need to start. Paxton.
I called my aunt and uncle first. I thought they would be more resistant to my idea, but they were surprisingly supportive and almost sounded relieved, which was bittersweet and made me feel both happy and sad: happy because I know what this will mean for Paxton, and sad because, once again, they are removing themselves from his upbringing, putting their parenting responsibilities on someone else. Luckily, it's a responsibility I'll gladly accept.
I call Paxton next.
"Hi, Scout." He sounds preoccupied.
"Hey, Paxton. What's goin' on?"
"Just playing my Xbox." That explains the preoccupation.
"You think you could turn it off for a couple of minutes and talk to me? It's kind of important."
I hear him fumbling around and his voice sounds on edge, nervous. "What's wrong?"
I smile, so he hears the reassurance in my voice. "Nothing's wrong. This is good news. I think."
"Okay." He doesn't sound convinced.
"I want you to move to San Diego. Next weekend. Finish your senior year out here."
Silence. I know it's stunned silence, but it still makes me nervous.
"Paxton?"
"Yeah," he says, sounding stunned. Stunned doesn't even touch what's going on.
"What do you think? You'd be living in the basement here at my boss's house. She's offered for both of us to stay as long as we need to. Until I can get a car and an apartment for us. She's so nice, you'll love her."
More silence. I know this is a lot to take in.
"Paxton?"
"Yeah," he says. He's thinking. I can hear his mind racing.
"What do you think?" I repeat.
"I can't believe it," he's talking to himself under his breath.
"Is that a yes?"
"For real, Scout?" The hope in his voice is almost heartbreaking.
"Yes."
He sniffs. If he's not crying, he's trying hard not to. "Yes, I wanna come, definitely." He pauses. "You sure this is for real?"
And now I'm smiling because I've never been able to give someone a gift like this, to change their life. It's the best feeling in the world. "It's real. So now I'm going to let you go and buy your airline ticket for next weekend. I'll email you the itinerary as soon as I have it. Start packing, okay?"
"Okay," he says. "Thank you. Really." His voice projects pure happiness. And I love hearing it.
"Have a great afternoon, Paxton. We'll talk soon."
"Thanks Scout. You too."
Sunday, August 27
(Scout)
Paxton's plane lands in fifteen minutes and we're stuck in traffic. We're going to be late. I hate being late. I have United's website open on my phone to the flight arrival screen and I've been refreshing it about every thirty seconds for the past half hour—as if with the plane this close, there's going to be some type of delay. Clearly, I'm obsessive.
I'm tapping out the beat to the song on the radio on my knee, not because I like the song, but because I can't sit still. Fidgeting is a nervous habit of mine, and I hate it. I wish I could generate calm at will. I've tried meditating, but I can't quiet my mind. It can be a beast sometimes.
Staring out the passenger window, chewing the inside of my cheek, I feel Gustov's hand on top of mine pressing it to my thigh. I turn to look at his hand. He's never touched me like this before and I can't deny that I'm feeling it everywhere, not just my hand. It sends currents shooting right through the heart of me. And just as quickly, his hand is gone.
"Relax. We'll get there. I promise." He always sounds so sure of himself, even when I know he's not.
"I just don't like being late," I explain, trying to justify my worry.
He huffs good-naturedly. "Probably should've asked someone else to drive you then. Tardy's my middle name, dude."
Looking over at him, I sigh. I know he's right. It's stupid that I get myself so worked up. He's completely relaxed, wearing that sleepy grin that I see more and more these days. "Sorry," I say.
"No worries, Impatient."
Looking at him with narrowed eyes, I ask, "Did you just call me Impatient?"
He nods and fake coughs. "Yeah, it's kinda been my nickname for you. Like, ever since I first met you. I hate to tell you this," he says, lowering his voice slightly, "but you're fucking impatient." His eyes are wide when he says it, and he's smirking—but he's not being mean.