Compassion (21 page)

Her nails dig into my back at the same time she shatters for a second time, “Archer!”

Unable to block my cock from not coming a third time, I let go with her, a satisfied groan reverberating throughout the room.

For the record. Orgasms do make everything better.

Jaye

My fingers lightly stroke Archer's chest while staring off at the wall opposite of the bed where the turned off T.V. is hung.

I still can't believe my mom was....I don't even know what to call that. Outrageous? Crazy? Yes. She was just flat out crazy at dinner. She wasn't even my mother. I don't know who that woman was but...she wasn't the one who raised me. No, Archer and I didn't have the most story book start, but the way she was reacting you'd think we met on death row or something.

“You're still thinking about it,” Archer says on a yawn. “Don't give yourself another headache.”

A smirk finds its way my lips.

How does he do that? How does he just know?

Another question creeps into my mind. “Archer, why did you say you know why my mom was really upset? What did you mean by that?”

He remains silent.

I push myself off of him and repeat the question. “What did you mean?”

His green eyes gloss over with sympathy. “Exactly what I said.”

Frustrated I push, “Care to elaborate?”

“Jaye, think about it. While your mother may not like how we met it's not about the how, it's about the fact that we did. That you're moving on past Chris-”

“No,” I interrupt immediately. “She's the one who has been pushing me to move on.”

“But has she really?” The question causes a confused expression on my face. “Or has she been trying simply to replace Chris? There's a difference between wanting to move past something and wanting something to hold it's place for you. The men your mother tries to set you up with. To date. They're Chris. Wealthy. Well established. Well groomed. They're Chris with a different name, Jaye. Your mother hasn't been encouraging you to move on past him because she hasn't yet. As much as she wants to let on that it's time for
you
to move on, it's her who hasn't let go of what was supposed to be her son in law.”

Floored by the explanation my jaw slips open.

Is he right? I mean...that would explain some things right?

“She's hurting.” He shrugs. “So, it's not really me she hates. It's just the idea of me. I'll never be Chris or anything like him, which just reminds her, he really is gone and life does move on past death.” With a heavy sigh he sits up. “Trust me. It's not an easy concept to grasp, especially when you watch people you fucking care about die in front of your eyes, but it is what it is. And we all move on at different times. In different ways.”

Knowing he's hit the nail on the head again, I nod. A strong feeling that I had been toying with before dinner gnaws at me again. “Archer...”

“Yeah?”

“I think you should move in with me.”

He chuckles lightly. “I uh...already did that.”

I realize how that didn't come out the way I wanted and roll my eyes. “I mean, I want you to move out of the garage into the house with me. I wanna go to sleep with you every night. I wanna wake up next to you in the morning. I want...I want you to be with me.”

There's a tug at the corner of his lip before he says, “No.”

Huh. Well...that's not what I expected. You either? Is that why you're shouting?

“No?”

“No.”

“As in no?”

He nods slowly.

Baffled by the rejection I squeak, “Why not?! Because of my mother? Because she will learn to like you! Look at how fast dad changed his mind! Just a few conversations later and he was completely alright with everything. She will be one day. I know it.”

“Jaye your mother could never like me and it wouldn't stop me from loving you,” he reassures me.

“Then what the hell is it?”

He takes a deep breath as if searching for the right way to phrase whatever it is that's causing him to give me the wrong answer.

Totally the wrong answer.

“Well?”

“Jaye,” Archer starts and slips his fingers with mine. “I can't live in this room. I can't live in Chris' shadow. I'm sorry.”

“But...but you're not.”

“Babe, you've done a remarkable job moving forward,” he starts. “It's more than obvious you
r
're
confidence is back. That you're doing the things
you
wanna do for
you
-”

“All proof I've moved past Chris' death-”

“Not exactly.” There's a small squeeze of my hands. “Yes. You've began to put him behind you. You were okay with his things in the garage being fixed. You put away his office. You've changed the contents of your kitchen. Added a collection of movies to your living room, but look at this room babe and tell me you've moved forward.”

I let my eyes scan around it, scrunching my face at the color of the walls knowing it's one I hate. Next I spot the paintings of cityscapes I never had a fondness of. Before I know it my eyes land on the closet I know is still filled with his clothes, the wicker chair he bought because it reminded him of his grandmother, and the sheets I can't stand on a bed I let him pick out.

When my eyes meet Archer's once more he shrugs. “And under the sink in the bathroom. His shaving kit. The soap. What I can only assume is his favorite towel. They're all there. Put away nice and neat like you believe one day he's just going walk back into that bathroom and use them.” Before I can object he says, “I don't mind being with you while you go through this process, Jaye, but I can't live in the shell of another man.”

Disbelief pushes my back against the wooden frame. “I wanted a canopy bed.”

With a puzzled look Archer tilts his head.

“And I wanted photographs of old books,” I continue staring off in front of me. “Did you know I hate white sheets?”

He sighs, “I did. It was one of the first things I learned about you.”

My head turns to look at him. “I don't wanna live in the shell of him either, Archer.” As if surprised by my words his eyebrows lift. “So, I'm asking you to move into this room with me and make it something new. Not something
I
want. Not something
you
want. But something
we
want.”

His legs lift to a bend and he drapes his arms over them. “And you're sure you're ready for that?”

Slowly I reach my hand across to stroke his cheek. “Definitely...”

And I am. I really am.

Archer

Stacking another taped box in the back of the moving truck I try to refrain from yelling at her. “I know that, Jaye.”

She folds her arms firmly against her chest. “Then I vote we wait.”

I walk to the the edge of the truck and sit down. “This is not a voting situation.”

Don't call me a dick for having a back bone.

“Look, I know these hours are going to suck. I know waiting for you to pick me up isn't going to be ideal, but this is the first job offer I've had in
years
.”

“You'll get another,” she pouts.

“Jaye,” my voice firmly states. “
I
need this.”

Her father kept his word. He called in a few favors and managed to get me a job unloading the truck and loading the shelves at Harry's hardware. Does it pay the best? No. Is it hard labor? Absolutely. Can I handle it? You bet your ass. So what's got my girl all grumpy? The hours are Mon through Fri 6 a.m. To 3. Hey, it could be worse right?

“I don't mind getting up earlier to drop you off,” Jaye sighs. “But I hate the idea of you just waiting around in the break room anywhere from 2 to 3 hours for me to get off. What about book club nights? I mean I can rush to come get you and then rush back and-”

“One day at a time,” I interrupt. Leaning forward, I tug her between my legs and rest my hands on her hips. “I don't mind waiting. Trust me. And if it bothers you that much I can always walk home-”

“That's way too far to walk,” Jaye whines again. “Not to mention the traffic or in the dark or what about when the weather sucks? No way.”

“We can buy me a bike?” She repeats her sarcastic look. “Exactly. You don't like the alternatives and me not taking this job is not an option. So...”

“I could always buy you-”

“No,” I bark harshly. “We're not having that argument again.”

She wants to buy me a fucking car. That's the last thing I need. The debt I'm already in with her is enough to keep my self-worth at a constant question, the last thing I need is more. Fuck it. Call it my pride. I don't give a shit.

“Fine.” Jaye surrenders her hands. “Fine. Take this job and we will make it work, because that's what we do.” With a soft smile she says, “We always find a way to make it work...”

My smile is short because her lips find themselves on mine. On contact mine part to taste the sweetness lingering on her tongue. For a moment we lose ourselves in a kiss that escalates from sensual to sexual in what feels like record timing.

Before I give into the idea of pulling her into the back of this truck to listen to her moans echo in it, the sound of a car pulling into the driveway drives us apart.

At the sight of her father getting out of the car, Jaye turns around and says, “Hi, dad!”

“Hey sugar,” he replies locking the car door as he heads for our direction. “Archer.”

I nod. “Sir.”

Charles give his pants an adjustment. “You ready to start your new job, Monday?”

“Yes sir,” I answer, giving Jaye's shoulder a good squeeze. “More than ready.”

“I like that attitude, son. Keep it up.” Without further discussion on the topic, he questions, “You ready to move that mattress?”

“Yes sir.”

Jaye slides out of the way for me to get down. “Mom, didn't wanna help?”

Charles gives his daughter a sympathetic look. “Not this time, sugar.”

It's been three weeks since that abomination of a dinner and they've barely talked. Apologies were extended to both of us a few days ago, which is also when Jaye confronted her mother about what I said. Turns out I was right. While Maggie profusely expressed her remorse for her behavior at dinner, she also explained it was going to take some time for her to adjust not only to my presence in her daughter's life, but the unconventional way it happened. It's obvious she's still skeptical. The point is she's trying. We're all trying.

After we load the mattress and the remainder of the boxes, Jaye's father drives the truck while we follow behind in her car. The short drive over to the shelter that I spent more than one cold night in the beginning, is filled with tales from those days that I hadn't shared before. With every word I spew, my girlfriend's attention never wavers from the topic. She engages by asking questions, backing off when she can sense a subject too sensitive, and most importantly, expressing her support with gentle hand strokes.

Reliving some of the darkest times in my life isn't something I enjoy. But therapy has taught me the benefits, including the relief felt when letting go of some of the self-loathing. Dr. Jenny continues to lecture about how your loved ones often understand the shit you doubt they do. Best part is, Jaye doesn't make me feel like I'm a whiny asshole about it. She simply reminds me how much she values me and how important I am to her.

“I'm going to talk to the woman who runs this shelter about the benefit we're getting together and then I'll be back to help with boxes,” Jaye explains after shutting her car door.

“Sure. Sure. Run away from the heavy lifting,” her father jokes. “Teach the girl self-defense yet can't teach her to lift a box.”             

“Stop it,” she giggles and bounces away, taking my attention with her.

Blame me. Look at that ass. Saturday yoga sex is now one of my favorites. Stretching her easily slips into sex with her legs wrapped around me in ways that I can't stop fucking fantasizing about.

Once we get the mattress set up where we're instructed, we begin moving the boxes that are filled with Chris' belongings.

Completely her idea. I suggested leaving them in the garage and moving the others to join them, yet Jaye was adamant about removing the house of almost all his things that didn't have sentimental value. What got to stay? The intricate cities in the garage. Everything else that belonged to him was out. She suggested donating anything and everything that could be used by those less fortunate to a shelter. I told her of one I used to frequent in the early days.

I turn with another box in my hand spotting a face I haven't seen in over a year. Immediately I call to him, “Barry!”

The man on the corner turns and squints.

After placing the box on the ground, I hustle down the sidewalk to where he is waiting with his cart. As I get closer the realization he probably doesn't remember who I am sets in.

Slowing my approach I lift my hands to show they're weapon free.

Trust me. It's one of a homeless person's first instincts to attack if they feel remotely threatened.

“Hey,” I calmly say, coming to a stop a few feet from him. “Barry, right?”

He twitches. His hand swats at bugs that aren't in front of him before he nods.

When I met him, he had been wandering the streets for half a decade. On a good day he could remember who I was and offer tricks for me to survive harder days, shady people to stay away from, and on his bad ones....well he was violent. Almost stabbed me. Twice. Never did confess why or how he got here. Couldn't push him. I never confessed either.

“Do you know who I am?”

The moment he shakes his head, the feeling that I'm just some random asshole in nice clothing with a better life than the one he has to call his own kicks me like a shot to the nuts.

Dr. Jenny says survivors’ guilt doesn't just come from the field. It can happen from a multitude of circumstances in life. Like being granted the chance at a better life while those you once knew continue to helplessly suffer. I shouldn't feel guilty. I know that. I just...I do.

“I just made a huge donation of new clothes to the shelter.” My head tosses to the building beside us. “There's some new bedding. Food.” His eyes light up at the last word. “I've got another box of can goods on the truck. You um...you want some?”

Barry nods rapidly yet doesn't move. Understanding his distrust, I jog back to the truck, open one of the boxes labeled accordingly and grab a few cans I assume he'll enjoy. I snag a blanket from the box I was about to carry inside and deliver them to him with caution. Barry allows me to place the objects in his cart, but makes sure to keep his weary eyes on my every move.

As soon as I'm finished I take a step back with my hands in the air, this time proving to him, I didn't steal anything.

Another constant worry. Also a valid one. I can't tell you how much shit was stolen from me.

He nods his approval.

“Take care of yourself, Barry.”

The man scratches his tangled salt and pepper beard, nods again, and begins pushing his cart around the corner.

“Archer,” Jaye calls from over my shoulder. My body angles to look at her. She's standing beside her father who is also wearing a concerned look. “Everything alright?”

No. But I know it will be and that's a lot more than I can say for others...