The Light of Day (14 page)

              Letting the door slam shut with a crack of wood, I stand where I am, adrenaline pumping through my blood and causing my skin to hum while I wait for Jake to turn and look at me.  He does, and I see that stupid headset attached to his ear that tells me he’s playing his game against some other Internet nerd and talking shit.

              For a second, I put aside my need for combat and look at him with sheer curiosity.  As sexy as this man is, he’s also a closet dork.  The English major, poetry reading, video game playing, cat owner.  It’s a good thing he has abs and a face to die for, otherwise, he’d definitely still be carting around his v-card. 

              As that thought passes through, it’s immediately replaced by another one that’s infinitely more appealing than continuing to sink in the overwhelming feelings of self-disgust and failure and — goddammit — hurt.  I’m hurt and I have no right to be — if anything, I’m to blame.  I spent the first half of my life wondering why I was never good enough for her, and the rest I’ve spent doing things to shock and hurt her, to garner some sort of reaction from her to remind her that I’m alive.  Now that she’s forgetting, I’m more terrified than ever because I’ve finally recognized that I want a relationship, that I’m ready to work for a relationship, one it appears we’ll never have because she’s too sick and I’m too scared.

I can feel the familiar pull of a party tugging at me, beckoning me to those dark waters where I can float in a mindless and numbing place of blurred faces and loud voices where I don’t really feel anything.  Scared, I push those thoughts aside and square my shoulders.

I just need to change my focus and, looking in front of me, I have a target.  I eye Jake and embrace the zip of desire that courses through me and breaks up the ice, smiling at him even as a warning bell goes off in my head telling me that I’m making a mistake, that doing this won’t solve anything, it will only be worse when I’m done.

I ignore it because, for the first time in a while, I feel like being reckless, and beyond that I just feel like
feeling
.  Anything, everything, something other than disappointment, hurt, fear.

              And I don’t want to think.  That’s the kicker, the part my brain knows is wrong, the part I’m ignoring.  Right or wrong, I need to feel wanted, desired, not like a burden, and I know just who can give me what I need.

Taking the zipper of my jacket in my hand, I lower it slowly, allowing the teeth to scrape and release one at a time, the sound echoing in the all but silent apartment.

Jake is like a stone on the couch, his gaze trained on me, completely silent.  His fingers are still and I’m pretty sure the screen is telling him his player’s a goner.  We haven’t really talked in three days, not since I walked away from him.  We’ve played the run around game and I’m done.  Done waiting, done pushing him away, done trying to be different.  I want what he can give me, and I know he wants what I can give him.  That’s enough for now.  It has to be.

My eyes on his, I release the zipper all of the way and let the jacket fall off my shoulders and slip to the ground in a wet heap.  I take a step toward him, tugging off my half-calf Frye boots and setting them a few feet from my coat.  I’m wearing a black shift dress, the standard color for work.  It has no buttons or zippers, just falls in a straight line to mid-thigh after clinging to all the right places.

I reach for it as I step in front of him, crossing my arms in front of me and grabbing the hem, tugging it up and over my head in one swift move until it falls to the floor and I’m left standing there in nothing more than two lacy black scraps of material and my fading tan.

His chest is rising and falling, the harsh sound of his breathing mixing with the partially muted sounds of gunshots and explosions.  I take those last steps as if I’m walking through water, slow and tantalizing, letting him take in the view.  Leaning forward, I smile when he stops breathing altogether, his body flinching when I reach out and take the headset off, tossing it aside.  I do the same with his controller, letting my body fill his vision, letting him see everything.

“Blue,” he croaks out and I smile, sliding over him, straddling him so I’m balanced with my knees on either side of his hips, my center pressed to his, our chests brushing.

His hands come to my hips and I arch into him, bringing a breath from both of us.  I avoid his eyes as I lean forward, my lips going to his neck, his ear, under his jaw.  He’s tense beneath me, unresponsive, and though I lean back and quirk a brow, my whole body feels a chill.

“Something wrong?” I lean down to bring him closer, but he leans back, holding me in place with his hands rather than bringing me nearer.

              “What are you doing, Cora?”

              My pulse spikes at the sound of his voice saying my name, still breathy, but something else lurks beneath it, something like worry.  I force my stiff lips into a smile and sweep a look at him under my lashes.

              “I would have thought someone as experienced as you would be able to figure that out, Handsome Jake.”

I run my hands up the front of the Carhartt T-shirt that he’s layered over a gray long sleeve and try to ignore the cold that’s seeping back into me, making my movements stiff.  “Don’t you see anything you like?”

His hands catch mine before they can wrap around his neck.  “Look at me, Cora.”

My body trembles once, but it’s not a shiver of desire like I wish it was.  Something else is happening inside of me, something else like panic is growing and making me shake.  I ignore his request, rolling my eyes and feigning indifference while I sit back and prepare to get up.

“Well, I have to say with everything I’ve heard and seen, I expected better.  That’s okay, big guy, no hard feelings.”

The words are bitter in my mouth and my skin is clammy with cold and fear; the feeling of rejection is so harsh I want to run away.  Instead, I stretch lazily, arching my back even as he still holds my hands and, avoiding his eyes, I go to pull away and stand.

He holds me in place, refusing to let me go when I try.  “Look at me, Cora.”

His voice is soft, lethally so, and the weight inside of me gets heavier.  “Don’t worry about it, Handsome Jake, I can find entertainment with someone else.  I know it can be a lot of pressure.”

Before the words are even out, I’m being shifted, rolled, my back hitting the couch before his body covers mine and presses into it fully.  I have no time to think, to protect myself against the feelings that sweep through me and then he has my hands in his again, pressed to the couch above my head as his eyes bore holes into mine.

“Did you really think I’d let you do this?”

His voice is low, strained, like he’s physically in pain as he grinds out the words.  I don’t answer, can’t, really, as my body is at war with my head.  I want to break down and curl around him, into him, to let him hold me and tell me that I’m not a failure, that it’s not my fault, that I didn’t push her to this point.

I want him to tell me he cares about me, that he feels something for me.  That I matter.  I want him to tell me everything I can’t tell myself, and I want to believe him.

When I don’t answer, he leans even closer, our lips inches from touching, his brown eyes almost black with emotion as they rake over every feature of my face.  “I won’t be someone disposable you use to make problems go away, and I won’t be someone else who uses you.  I want you, Blue,” he says and my body freezes.  “But I want it all, not just a portion.  Do you hear me, Cora? I won’t let you use my feelings against me because you’re hurting and too fucking afraid to tell me why.”

And then his weight is gone and he’s pushing off the couch, leaving me bare and alone as he walks away.  A second later, I hear the front door open and close and I stay where I am in the quiet of the apartment, my body rigid and cold as I lay where he left me.

One minute, two, I keep laying there, the silence deafening around me, my breath catching, my heart speeding up until I curl onto my side and bring my knees to my chest so I can keep the ache from spreading, keep myself from falling down into the darkness that will shatter my already brittle bones.

He cares about me; it’s obvious in what he said and what he didn’t let me do.  What’s not obvious is why that fact makes me want to prove to him I’m not worth it.

Chapter Nineteen

Jake

I left the apartment two hours ago and I’ve been walking in the rain since then.  I wanted to stay, to hold Blue (or shake her) and force her to tell me what was wrong.  But I didn’t, because as much as I wanted her to tell me what was wrong, I also wanted to take what she was offering and bury myself inside of her until neither of us could think.

              Sue me, I’m not a fucking saint.

              It’s been three days since she tried to push me to the edge before walking out on me, and in that time we haven’t said more than a few words to each other, though I’ve thought of nothing but her and how to make things right.  Then, suddenly she’s there and I almost forgot how to breathe when I saw her grab the hem of her dress and peel it off, revealing all of that smooth, flawless skin, those gentle curves, and long, lean legs.  The black lace that cupped her gorgeous breasts had the saliva evaporating in my mouth and everything in me going to iron.

              I wanted nothing more than to yank her under me and plunder her until both of us forgot the pain that seemed to sneak up and take our lives away from us.  And I almost did, was getting ready to, until I noticed how rigidly she was holding herself as she slid into my lap, how distant her expression was.  How lost she looked.

              My siren was breaking, and I wasn’t about to let her use what I want from her as a way to shelter herself from reality. 
I
want to be real to her, and in order to get what I want, she’s going to have to let me in.  Since the last time I pushed her only made things worse, I walked away this time, hoping that distance would help both of us come to terms with exactly what we want from each other.

              But tonight isn’t the night for that, it’s not the night to push her or force her to give me the connection I’m looking for, so instead of slamming back into the house and demanding answers, I’ve walked in this godforsaken rain until I cooled down, and I’m now walking home with a go-cup of soup and some grainy bread from the organic café she loves so much on Broadway.

              I don’t know if it’s a bribe, a peace offering, or an
I’m sorry
, but I needed to do something for her, to show her in any way that I can that I want her to be happy, safe, and not suffering under the weight of her demons before she’s mine.  I know she’ll be mine at some point, but even wanting her as much as I do, I need her to be whole when she is.  I can’t risk taking her until then.

              The only thought worse than never having Cora is having half of her.

              She’s at the desk that sits in front of the window and faces the main street when I walk in, which surprises me a little.  I thought she’d be hiding out in her room again, and was fully prepared to go and beg her to listen to my apology.  Since my plan has already taken a turn, I stand where I am, holding the brown paper bag with her food in it and staring at her, wondering what to do now.  Her laptop is open and running, and it looks like she’s reading some sort of online article.  She stops to look at me and I’m relieved that her face is calm, clear, and not a mess from tears.  And then I wonder if Blue’s ever let herself cry.

              She’s always walking away, shutting down, closing herself off.  My understanding (albeit from Google because isn’t that where most of our curiosity is quenched?) is that she does that to maintain control — that her past of reckless behavior and impulsive reactions is something she’s battling still, and she does it by maintaining this kind of ruthless control.  A lot of addicts end up walking away — it keeps them from relapsing (it also keeps them from committing, according to Wikipedia, but I’m trying to ignore that).  Any weakness Blue has she covers up, until tonight, and still, she was only giving a response that would cover up the real emotions running through her.

              “I brought you some dinner,” I tell her because I can’t stand here staring at her another minute.  “Some vegetable barley soup and bread.  They’re from that hippie café you like so much, so you don’t have to worry that some vegetable lost his life unjustly or anything like that.”

              My insides loosen the slightest bit when a smile touches at her lips.  I head into the kitchen area, glancing over my shoulder when I hear her pad in behind me.  She’s wearing those yoga pants she’s so crazy about, the ones that fit her like a second skin and make her legs look longer than I thought possible.  She’s paired them with what she would term a casual shirt I’m sure, with its broad gray and white stripes and loose neck that has it almost falling off one of her shoulders.  It stops just past her hips and almost covers her hands, making her look almost innocent the way it hangs on her.

              Her feet are bare, her toes tipped a deep red, and her hair’s pulled off of her face in a loose bun with strands spilling out.  Her face looks freshly washed and free of any enhancements, and for a second I wonder if she’s always been this beautiful, and if she knows just what kind of punch she packs when she’s not even trying.

              “Are you hungry?” I ask and turn away to set everything on the counter.  If I keep looking at her, I might just go back on my word and take her, no matter where her head’s at.

“I’m sorry.”  She clears her throat and steps further into the kitchen, placing her hand on my arm to show me that she means it.  I know that it’s a big step for her, since really the only time we touch is when I reach for her; even when we’re making out on the couch like sex depraved maniacs, I’m the one who makes the move first.  I try not to tense now and take it as anything more than the apology that came with it.

              “You were right in everything you said — and not just today.  You were right the last time about what I was doing, and you were right to stop me tonight.  I was using you, both times, and that’s inexcusable.”

              I watch her, staying silent until I’m sure she’s said everything she needs to say.  She’s in control, back to being the cool and levelheaded Cora, but now that I know her better, I can see how much it costs her to hold her head high at times, how much energy it takes to stand up straight when it’s obvious she’s tired and hurting.

              Again, I want to push her, to ask her what’s wrong, what would make her think sleeping with me, with anyone, would fix what she’s feeling.  And then I remember how many girls made the trek from a party to my bed in the past year, my feelings for them never going beyond that initial physical desire that was soon appeased, only to leave me feeling the same sense of aching emptiness I had before they’d touched me.  For a while, the hour of oblivion spent inside of someone else seemed worth it, but now I know the truth: the darkness always comes back, no matter how many times we think we can avoid it by ignoring it.  We have to work to live in the light, and even then there’s no guarantee of forever.  So I don’t ask Cora why she’d do this, not only because a part of me understands, but because I want to show her that sometimes things can just be easy.  And forgiven.

              “I think I’ll get over having you strip down and plaster yourself to me.  As torture goes, I guess I could withstand it again, you know, just in case you were ever thinking of punishing me.”

              It takes a minute, but then her smile blooms and it’s almost real.  She gives a small laugh and I do what seems natural and pull her in for a hug.  There’s nothing sexual about it, no pressure, just the need I have to give her comfort.

              She surprises me when she doesn’t even hesitate before wrapping her arms around my waist and holding on.  She burrows her face into my shoulder and I tighten my hold, again wondering if Blue’s ever let herself just let loose and cry, scream, rage.  Not about something or someone, just for herself.

After a minute she pulls back and looks up at me, her eyes serious.  “Thank you.  For not letting me… for not letting me,” she finishes.  “I was having a bad day and for a minute, it just seemed like if I could forget about it, it wouldn’t be so bad when I came back to reality.”

I know that’s a lot for her, a lot of honesty, a lot of sharing, and I know if I push now she’s just raw enough she’ll give me everything.  And still, it won’t be because she wanted to.  I can’t get past that, so I smile and press my lips to her forehead.

“I’m here for you, Blue.  Eventually I’m going to ask some questions,” I say and she smiles.

“You have questions? I can’t imagine.”

I return her grin and press a small kiss to her lips that’s more friendly than anything and step back.  “I can’t promise to never ask again, but I can promise to try and be patient until you’re ready.”

“I can’t figure you out,” she says after a minute and I bring her close again, hugging her tight before releasing her.

“I’m not that complicated, trust me.  Here’s your soup.  It should still be hot.”

She doesn’t reach for it, rather, she stares at me for the span of a few heartbeats and then she nods, as if accepting a request I never made.

“My mom has early onset Alzheimer’s — or dementia; I forget which one, though I guess they amount to the same thing.  She’s forgetting things, and it’s getting worse.”  She presses her lips together for a second, preparing for what’s coming next.  “I go by on Mondays and do her salon treatment for her, though she never asks me to, never thanks me, never really speaks to me.  It’s been almost three months and this last Monday I couldn’t stand the silence anymore, so I began talking, reminiscing I guess, but it turns out all of my memories with her are bad ones, ones where I went out of my way to shock her, and she responded by slapping me, or calling me names.  I don’t know if I expected her to give me a reaction still, but it doesn’t matter because she didn’t.  Nothing changed when I spoke to her, almost like she didn’t even register that I was with her and it hurt me enough that when I came home I took it out on you.”

I nod but keep silent, because I know her story’s not done yet.

“For some reason, I went by today in a kind of spontaneous gesture, like a friend would do, just dropping by to say hi.  I think I wanted to prove to both of us that I’m different than who I used to be, that I’m making an effort, one that proves we can actually have a relationship if we’re willing. I guess I went for the same reason that I still go on Mondays even though she doesn’t really want me there. Just the thought that by taking care of her, of giving her that small thing that she’s always cared about, I’m helping her, giving her some good memories to fight for, if that’s even possible.”

She shakes her head and offers a wry smile, a smile that says she’s laughing at herself but doesn’t find humor in anything that happened.  “But instead, I fucked up, like I always do, thought only of what I needed and she paid for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She forgot me today, forgot everyone, really, and when she came to she was a wreck and it was my fault.  I dropped by on a day I’m not usually there, and it was her caretaker’s afternoon off.  My dad wasn’t home yet and when I got to her rooms, my mom was rushing around half dressed, searching for a dress for the benefit dinner she was hosting.  When she saw me, she yelled at me, ordered me to start her hair and I realized she had no idea who I was, or who she was, really.  Not anymore.”

She looks at me now and her shoulders are slumped.  “She was in a different time, and when my dad came home and she was startled back, she broke, and when I tried to offer my comfort to her, they both turned me away and I let them, because protecting her from me has become habit for all of us.”

None of this information is one hundred percent new to me.  From the few conversations we’ve had about her family, I’ve drawn a picture of what Cora’s childhood and young adult life have been like so far.  She and her mother don’t get along and never have, because neither of them felt good enough for the other (though that’s not how Cora’s put it).  Cora’s mom felt threatened because she saw how beautiful her daughter was and resented it and the fact that Cora wouldn’t become the Barbie doll she wanted her to, and Cora felt abused, humiliated,
less
, because all she wanted was love from a woman who seemed hell bent on giving only criticism.  Neither knew how to break the mold they’d lived in for so long, and now the choice to mend those fences has been taken from both of them.

I want to reach out and take her hand, to bring her against me and give her the contact that shows her how much I care, that she’s not alone.  But I don’t, because if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Cora, it’s that she needs to stand on her own first, to trust that she really is strong enough to survive.  Balling my hands into fists, I shove them into my pockets and lean back against the counter.

“I’m so sorry, Blue.”

She doesn’t acknowledge this, just stares out the window to the street and continues.  “It’s weird because for the first time in our relationship, I didn’t fight back.  I just stood there watching her fall apart, and I did nothing because all I could think about was that the woman I’ve wanted to overcome my entire life is finally going to forget me and I suddenly don’t want her to.”

Now she turns so she can look me in the eye.  “Do you want to know the worst part?” I nod my head. “She’s losing her mind, piece by piece, day by day, struggling with bouts of sheer darkness when she finally comes back, and all I can think about is the fact that I didn’t have enough time to show her I could be the daughter she always wanted.  Even as she’s struggling to place my face, and I can see the panic clawing at her because she can’t remember, not right away, all I can do is think about how I wish I had more time to show her I was someone different, someone she might have actually cared for.”