"Can we just lie here for a while? Like this?" he asks with a tremble in his voice. The vulnerability I hear makes my heart ache.
"Sure," I answer, because in all honesty, I don't want to let go either. This hug, him crying and opening up to me, the humanity in all of it is something I can feel in my heart. I feel alive and heavy with emotion, heavy like a tide that threatens to pull you under, but you somehow know it won't because your heart is buoyant enough to keep you afloat no matter what. It's blind faith ... hope, or at least as close to hope as anything I've ever felt. A faint, reluctant hope that I can feel in both of us. Buried deep.
Wednesday, November 1
(Gus)
"Can I ask you a question?" I'm a little nervous to initiate this conversation, because I know she'll get defensive. And I want her to open up to me like she did last night; I don't want to take a step backwards with her. I want her to trust me enough to give me her whole story. I'm learning to lay it all out there and I want her to do the same, because it feels so fucking good. I guess more than anything I want her to feel like she can be Scout around me, even if she's never been Scout around anyone else. She's so guarded. It must be fucking exhausting. I want to remove the burden. Everyone deserves to live free.
"You can always ask me a question. Doesn't mean I'm going to answer it."
Well, that was validation of my fear. Though I get the feeling self-preservation is such habit with her that she doesn't really think things through before she says stuff like that. "How'd you get your scars?" I'm not sugarcoating it, because I'm not really a sugarcoating kind of guy. And she's not a sugarcoating kind of girl. Besides, getting right to the point with her is the easiest way to communicate.
"That's rude," she says with little emotion, though there's mild shock in her eyes. This is a topic she avoids at all costs. A topic she doesn't know how to navigate openly.
"It's not rude. It's part of who you are, like your hazel eyes or your bad attitude," she shoots me a glare that's more embarrassed than it is angry. I meet it with a smile so she knows I'm kidding about the bad attitude, and then I continue, "Or the fact that you have stellar legs."
She shakes her head. It's a soft gesture, non-combative, but resolute, and returns her gaze to the TV.
I wait several seconds. "That's it?"
"Yup. That's it."
"We're not gonna discuss?"
"Nope." Eyes still fixed on a commercial I know she's not even watching. Nope sounds more maybe.
"Why?" I push.
"I don't ... discuss it." The pause tells me she's torn. Like she wants to tell me, but she doesn't know how to have this conversation. So that's where it ends. She's done.
Damn, I'm almost scared she's going to get up and leave to avoid this further, so I shut up even though I have a million questions I want to ask. I'm always full of questions. But I really want to know how? And when? And why? And where? It's not morbid curiosity, and I'm not trying to make her uncomfortable. I'm asking because I want her to be comfortable. In her own skin. Literally and figuratively. I want her to just say, Fuck it. I am who I am. Nobody's perfect. Because nobody is perfect. Some people wear their scars on the outside. Others wear them on the inside. Same difference. Your character, your heart, your essence, that's what's important, because that's the real you. All the rest, our looks, the material stuff? It's just meaningless bullshit.
Saturday, November 4
(Scout)
My phone beeps while I'm out running early this morning. I glance down at the screen. It's a text from Michael that reads, Pick you up at 11:30.
My stomach immediately clenches and I have to stop running. I feel nauseous. I don't intend to pick up a relationship with him again. His last visit was a moment of weakness, mixed with the closure I needed. Instead of running again, I walk back to Audrey's. A slow walk. A sad walk. A shameful walk.
Once home, I strip off my sweaty clothes, the entire time telling myself, I'm not going with him.
In the shower, I continue telling myself, I'm not going with him.
Combing out my hair, I'm not going with him.
Applying lotion to my legs and arms, I'm not going with him.
Slipping on my dress, I'm not going with him.
Strapping on my sandals, I'm not going with him.
Grabbing my purse at eleven twenty-five, I'm not going with him.
Opening the front door at eleven twenty-seven, I'm not going with him.
Standing in the driveway at eleven-thirty watching his rental car pull up promptly as always, I'm not going with him.
Climbing into the passenger seat, I'm not going with him.
I'm going with him.
But only because I need to tell him it's over. And mean it. Again.
Because in my heart ... it's finally over. I've let him go.
And now I'm trying not to think about Gustov.
He skips lunch and heads straight to his hotel. The same hotel within walking distance from Audrey's house.
He also skips the usual update on his life's successes to impress me; they're forgotten in his haste. I can't help but notice the bulge in his dress pants. He's usually more controlled.
He parks in the hotel's back lot and as soon as the car's in park his hand finds mine and brings it to his groin. He closes his eyes and hisses when contact is made. "Shit, I've missed you, angel." He's missed my body, not me. He releases my hand and frantically works at the button and zipper until he's laid bare. No underwear today; he's not messing around. Closing his eyes, he lays his head back against the headrest. "You know what to do."
I look around shocked. I'm not doing this. And even if I were up for it, it wouldn't be here ... in broad daylight ... in a fucking parking lot.
After a moment's pause on my part, his eyes snap open. They're fully dilated with arousal and anger. "Now, Scout." He roughly grabs a handful of hair at the back of my head and forces my face down to his crotch. "Suck me off, angel. Give me what I need."