Gus (22 page)

I don't know what to say, so I say again what I've already said. "I'm sorry."

He's still nodding, the repetitive gesture of someone lost in thought. "Yeah."

I want to hug him, which I never have the urge to do with anyone other than Paxton and Jane. I want to comfort him, but I feel removed from the situation, suddenly like an intruder. "I'm sorry," I echo. I hope he hears the comfort in my words. I'm not good at showing my feelings.

His eyes turn to me, still shiny with grief. "What's the story with Michael?"

I'm caught off guard. "What?"

"You know what I mean, what's your history?" He's talking quietly, but loud enough that I can hear him. He's not demanding information from me, he's just asking.

"Old boyfriend." I answer and that's where I leave it.

"Sorry, I don't mean to dredge up the past ... or the present," he adds. He's asking, without asking, if we're together.

I shake my head. "No. It's fine. I'm glad it's over ..." I trail off.

"But you still love him?" he asks softly. Goddamn, I wish he didn't read me so well.

I shrug. "I do, but I don't. It's complicated." I decide now's as good a time as any and ask, "What about the woman who you went out with a couple weeks ago? Girlfriend?"

He looks confused for a few seconds. "Clare? Hell no. Cool girl. Now. But, no.
Definitely
no."
 

I don't know why, but that lightens my heart.

He sighs and returns to our conversation, but he shifts it. I felt it. This is about pain now. "Love's a pisser."

I drop my head back against the cushion and roll it to look at him. He's staring at me again. His eyes are open, a gateway. He's honest, and he's kind, and most importantly he's not judging me. I nod in agreement. "Yeah, it sure as hell is." I don't know how I know, but I know his heart is broken, too. "Have you ever been in love?"

He hasn't blinked. "Once."

"How long did it last?"

Looking back up to the sky, he answers. "Twenty-one years ... and three days."

It hits me hard. Kate. He's talking about Kate. His Bright Side. No wonder he's walking around like a shell of a man. He lost the love of his life. Instead of fighting the urge, I don't hesitate this time. I slide my legs off the lounge chair and place them on the deck between our chairs and shift my weight from mine over onto his. I sit there on the edge of his seat against his hip and I just look at him. I guess I'm asking for permission. I don't usually do things like this. I don't usually offer comfort. He balls up my shirt just above my hip in his fist. His eyes are pleading now—begging for friendship, comfort, and consolation. He needs to let this out. I could analyze this. I could overthink it until I talk myself out of it. But I don't, instead I lean down slowly until my head's resting on his chest and slide my hands underneath his back until I'm squeezing him. Until I feel his warmth against me. And when his big arms wrap around me, I realize in this moment that I've never really been hugged.
This
is a hug. This is what human contact is supposed to feel like. It's supposed to feel ...
human
. Distilled until it's nothing but one human being transferring support to another human being in the form of touch that's unselfish and pure in intention. And I know he feels it, too, because his chest rises in a few stuttered breaths and he lets the tears go. I just hold him until his breathing evens out, at which point he pulls me up until my head is resting on the cushion next to his and the front of my body is molded to the side of his. Our arms are still wrapped around each other and I feel pressure from both sides, which tells me neither one of us wants to let go.

"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."

He's hurting me, and suddenly I'm forcing back tears. I refuse to open my mouth. "No," I say forcefully.

He jerks my head back to look him in the eye, and in the process I feel a patch of hair ripped from my scalp. I've never seen him look this crazed. He looks psychotic, eyes narrowed in anger and speaking through clenched teeth. "What did you just say to me?"

I'm scared, and my brain's warning mechanism is screaming at me.
Get away! Run!
Tears are forming in my eyes, I don't know if it's out of fear, anger, or pain, because I'm feeling equally intense amounts of all three. "Let go of me, Michael. We're done. That's why I came with you today, to tell you I
can't
and
won't
do this anymore."

He releases my hair, and before I can even process what's going on, he's outside the car running around to open my door. I beat him to it and try to make a break for it, but he's already there. He grips both wrists tightly. Too tight. It hurts. He knows how to inflict pain. In the past it's been done for his pleasure, but there were always boundaries. This is something else. He's
trying
to hurt me and it's working. He's twisting the skin back and forth against the bone. A pained sob tears from my throat.

His mouth is pressed up against my ear now; his breath hot and unwelcome. "You're mine, angel.
Only mine
. You're a good little whore, now come inside with me and stop making a scene. I'm going to fuck you senseless. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way, it's up to you."

My skin is crawling and I can't hold back the sobs. I feel bile rising in the back of my throat from his threats, and before I know it, I've vomited all over the asphalt and his shirt.
 

He releases me immediately and recoils, but not before his hand meets my face. That was a closed fist. The force and sting takes me to the ground and has me seeing stars. I'm still crying, the tears streaming steadily down my cheeks.

"Stop the act, Scout. Crying isn't attractive on you." It's a flippant insult meant to hurt my feelings and my heart. As his words sink in, I realize I'm scowling at him. He's usually arrogant and self-centered, but I've never seen this side of him. And I'm still scared, but now I'm more mad than anything.

The menace is still in his eyes and I know he's about to say something awful before the words leave his mouth. "The crying only draws attention to your face." He smiles and his face twists into an evil grin. "Remember when I told you that you were beautiful?"
 

I don't answer. I do remember. He's the only person who's ever told me that.

"
I. Lied
." The evil smile spreads and it settles in his eyes. He's like a wild animal. "Why do you think we always fuck in the dark? Because I can't look at you and get off. You're easy.
Easy
," he spits at me. "
And your pussy is so fucking sweet
."

It's like another punch and my lips drop the scowl and part slightly. It's at that moment that I see this entire relationship for what it's always been. I'm prey. I've always been easy prey. An easy target. The damaged girl, inside and out. He must've seen it from the first time we met.

I scramble to my feet and I run. I run as fast as I can.

This time he doesn't chase me.

Halfway home my cell chimes in a text,
I'll see you in a few weeks.
Completely nonchalant, like what just happened wasn't completely psycho.

I don't respond.
 

I'll never respond.

He'll never treat me like that again.

No one's home when I get to Audrey's. It's just after noon. I've never been more thankful to be alone than I am right now. Inside my bathroom, I remove my dress. There's vomit on it, so I throw it in the trash can. My panties are next, I toss them in with the dress, wishing I could set fire to it all and watch them burn. Burn to ash, just like I wish I could do to the memory of him. To the memory of what just happened. This is the last time. Today was a twisted nightmare. I'm done.

I'm crying again. Or more likely, I never stopped. Standing in the shower under the scalding water, I let it burn my skin. The new pain takes my mind off the not-so-old pain. The physical pain that's still fresh. I hurt all over. He took no mercy on me.