Ricochet (12 page)

Cash
spent every evening for the next week hauling my crap over from next door. He
was super disappointed that I wouldn’t actually let him throw my furniture
away; he said he wanted to drop it out the window and watch it crash on the
ground. I suggested that we shove it all in the corner of his sex room instead.
He reluctantly complied. He took apart the queen bed to convert the bedroom
into storage.

“Why
do you want to keep this shit Lilly?” he asked, balancing my mattress against
the wall.

“Because,
I just don’t want to have to buy it again if I find myself in a situation that
requires me to own things to sit, eat, and sleep on,” I replied.

“So,
what you’re really saying is that you need to hang on to them in case you
decide to break up with me,” Cash accused.

“No,
not… not… why you gotta take it there? Shit happens, I don’t want to be on the
‘completely fucked,’ side of that shit, whatever it may be. I’ll get a fucking
storage unit if it’s an issue. Did you need that space for something? Are you
still using that room? If that’s the case you can march my shit right back over
there,” I asserted.

“No,
I just find it kind of odd, as if you’re… I don’t know. Expecting this not to
work out, you kind have to see where I’m coming from, right?” he laughed.

“Your
insecurities are not my fucking problem,” I snapped. I am not in the mood. I
realize I might seem a little reluctant to “take the next step,” but only
because I think it is absolutely fucking nonsensical for me to break my lease
and move all my shit over here. Cash sees it as this big gesture of commitment
and I see it as an absolute waste of time and energy. I’m sure that the fact
that I’m turning Cash’s spare bedroom into storage probably makes it look like
I don’t have high hopes for this lasting. I’m just trying to be practical. Cheap
furniture is not actually inexpensive, and I don’t want to have to put that
kind of dent in my bank account again. There’s only two possible outcomes in a
relationship, you either break up or stay together until you die.

“I’m
not… I’m not insecure. I’m just trying to tease you, Jesus,” he replied.

“Really?
Because you seem super fucking serious, and super insecure. I agreed to move in
here even though it’s absolutely fucking ridiculous and we haven’t even talked
to the landlord yet, so I’m probably going to be stuck paying off the rest of
my lease anyway, I really don’t get what the big fucking deal is about me
keeping my fucking furniture,” I fumed.

“Babe
are you like… hungry or something?” Cash asked cautiously.

 
“Why the fuck…what? Why would… are you
calling me fat?” I stammered.

“No,
you’re just being really unnecessarily aggressive,” he noted.

“Don’t
fucking call me aggressive! I’m not being aggressive! What, so because I have a
fucking opinion that makes me aggressive?” I barked.

“So,
uh, I’m just gonna just… um, go get some cheeseburgers. And liquor. And I’ll be
back in a few love you text me what you want,” he blurted, skirting past me and
out the door. I’m not fucking hungry. I mean- I could eat. That’s not the
point.

Cash
returned with food and soda and whiskey. We ate in silence.

“Are
you… are we still angry? You good?” he prodded.

“I
wasn’t fucking hangry. Thank you for going and getting me food, I appreciate
that but I do not appreciate that you dismiss my emotion as some physiological
side effect,” I snapped.

“Okay.
So then talk to me. Why are you so fucking mad? What the fuck did I do?” he
queried.

“I
don’t know. You didn’t really do anything. I’m just in a shitty fucking mood,
okay? I don’t know why. I’m sorry,” I said, rubbing my temples.

“How
are you going to sit there and condemn me for not validating your super serious
emotional response to something totally reasonable and important when it’s…
that’s not even what’s going on, you basically just admitted that you’re being
irrational like five seconds after accusing me of belittling your emotions…
like…” Cash trailed off, seeing my brow furrow deeper with every syllable.

“Go
on…” I challenged.

“No,
I’m… Sorry. Will not engage. What… what can I do? How can I help you feel
better?” he asked.

“I
don’t know,” I bellowed, falling forward and burying my face in the couch
cushion.

“Do
you need some Lilly time? Is this why you wanted to keep your apartment? Do you
need to go take a bubble bath and listen to Adele and drink a bottle of
Chardonnay?” he suggested.

“Are
you making fun of me? Because I feel like you’re making fun of me,” I whined.

“No!
Babe, I’m not making fun of you. I’m just trying to help. I want you to feel
better,” he insisted.

“Maybe
I just need to get like… fucked stupid. You know where I can’t talk for like 45
minutes afterwards. Wouldn’t hurt to try that, endorphins and shit,” I
suggested.

“I
mean I can accommodate that, probably. But we should really write all those
feminist blogs you follow and let them know the cure to irrational bad moods is
a penis. I think they will just be overjoyed to gain this information,” he
teased.

“Do
you ever just want to stab someone, like, right in between their eyes? Do you
think that the skull would stop it? Is it sharpness of the blade or like power
of the thrust that really gets it in there?” I said, miming a stabbing motion
with my fist.

“Am
I going to have to tie you up for my own safety?” Cash asked with a smirk.

“Yes,
probably. Please do that actually,” I insisted.
 

“You
really want to go there? It might get kind of intense. It’s been kind of a long
time. And you’re really fucking pissing me off. Maybe we should deal with these
super serious emotions in some kind of normal, healthy way instead,” Cash
contended.

“That
sounds fucking terrible,” I mused.

“It
really does, doesn’t it?” he agreed.

“Why
don’t you tell me what you want to do to me?” I suggested, “Then we can decide
if we want to do that or like, talk about our feelings and cry.”

“That
kind of takes the fun out of it,” Cash said, smirking.

“Show
me then,” I insisted.

“Meet
me in the bedroom,” he said. I stripped my way to his room, our room, I guess,
leaving a trail of clothing behind me on the floor. I expected Cash to stroll
in with his arms full of toys and tools, but came in carrying only a roll of
electrical tape.

“I
blocked myself off from the closet in there and don’t want to move everything,
we’re going to have to improvise,” he said. I shrugged and nodded. He grabbed
my hair and pulled me upright on the bed, laying a firm slap across my ass. He
pulled my arms behind my back and bound them with tape. He pulled my ass to the
edge of the bed and entered me.

“That’s...
really? No foreplay or anything? You were right this is so intense,” I yelled
over my shoulder. He pulled a strip of tape off the roll and pulled my head
back to wrap it around my mouth. Then he stopped and let go of my hair.

“Uh,
Lilly? We have a… there’s… there’s a lot of blood happening,” he stammered.

“Fuuuuuuuck,”
I groaned.

“Is
it like, your period?” he asked.

“Yes
it’s my fucking period. Fuck,” I cursed.

“Well.
That explains a lot,” he snickered.

“Didn’t
we just talk about not reducing me to hormones? Fuck you. Can you undo my arms
please,” I snapped.

“I
mean, I’m still down if you’re still down, I can get a towel or…”

“No,
I am not still down,” I said, breaking myself free from the tape.

“Okay,
yeah, uh… where do you keep your… things,” he asked.

“I
don’t have any. I’m going to have to go to the store. I haven’t had a period in
like two and a half years. Have you not noticed I don’t spend a week out of
every month on the couch in sweatpants?” I laughed. I am fucking mortified.

“Then
why are you having one now? Is that… is that normal? Are you okay?” he asked.

“My
birth control shot keeps me from having periods. And I forgot my shot. Because
I am a fucking idiot,” I exclaimed.

“So
it makes you just stop having periods? That doesn’t sound healthy. Wait holy
shit if you forgot it does that mean you might be pregnant?” he asked
frantically.

“No.
You have a fundamental misunderstanding of how the female body works. The
public school system has failed you. Can you just get me some paper towels or
something, I have to go to the store,” I scoffed.

“Why
don’t you go take a nice, long hot shower, and I’ll go to the store for you.
Just… where’s your phone? Text me what you need me to get,” he offered.

“Thank
you, it’s in my jean pocket, in the hallway. I’m so sorry,” I said.
 
He retreated to the hall and brought me
my phone.

“Don’t
be sorry. I’ll be right back,” he assured, kissing me sweetly on the forehead.
I waited until he left and waddled to the bathroom. This is hands down probably
the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to me, and I accidently sent
a nude to my boss one time. I texted Cash a screenshot of what I needed and
hoped for the best.

I
jumped in the shower and turned it as hot as it could go. I feel awful. I was
so mean. I am not a ray of sunshine; this is nothing new. But why was I so
irritated that Cash wanted me to move in with him? Shouldn’t I be ecstatic and
mushy and doe eyed? I don’t understand why I’m holding onto all this
skepticism. This feeling that if I give in and be happy, something is going to
happen and all the walls are going to come crashing down around me to expose a
much more dismal reality than the one I’ve been believing. I’m trying so hard
to maintain a modicum of control over my own feelings that I’m pushing him
away. He’s trying really hard to make me happy. I’ve been doing the bare
minimum to keep him from prying too deep into how I’m really feeling. That’s
not sustainable.

I
don’t want to tell him that he terrifies me. That I hang on his every word,
that his voice makes me tingle, that he occupies my every waking thought. He
tells me these things. Late at night when we’re falling asleep, he’ll whisper
in my ear how much he loves me. He’ll put his hand on my chest, feeling it rise
and fall, and tell me he’s intoxicated by even the sound of my breathing. He’ll
tell me he’s never felt this way before and that it scares the shit out of him,
but it’s the exhilarating kind of fear that you feel right before the big drop
on a rollercoaster. He’ll tell me I’m the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
He’ll tell me I’m perfect. I pretend to already be asleep most of the time. The
rest of the time I’ll roll my eyes and change the subject. All I’ve ever wanted
out of a relationship was to be appreciated. Here he is, appreciating the fuck
out of me, and I’m taking it for granted. I’m too busy trying to stay
indifferent and unattached to protect myself. I forgot somewhere along the line
exactly what it is I’m trying to protect myself from.

I
guess I was afraid that Cash’s phone would ring in the middle of the night, and
Claire’s face would pop up on the screen. I would reach across him and silence
it. She would call again. This time, he would wake up and groggily answer the
phone. She would bait him with some sob story emergency and he would promise to
come to her aide. I would protest, but he would say, “She doesn’t have anybody
else,” and take off anyway. I’d sit there, waiting, fuming. He’d finally come
home in the grey light of dawn, reeking of her stale cigarette smoke, and we’d
get in a huge argument. I’d say things I don’t mean out of anger and drive him
right back into her arms. If it seems like I’ve put way too much thought it
this, it’s because I have. Of all of the scenarios that have invaded my mind
and grown into nightmares, this one is probably the worst, because it’s not
black and white. It’s another grey area, just like the shit that happened when
we first started dating. It’s a situation that makes you question yourself. Am
I overreacting? Will I regret it if I leave? Of course this situation would
probably never happen. Cash has given me no reason not to trust him. He’s been
nothing but amazing to me. This fear and paranoia needs to stop, I’m holding
myself back from what could be the most beautiful thing I’ll ever experience. I
shudder as I notice the water has gone cold.

I
step out of the shower and notice a grocery bag near the sink. I was so wrapped
up in my own thoughts that I didn’t even notice Cash come in. He left me
clothes folded on the counter, too. There was a note telling me to go to the
kitchen. Embarrassment floods over me once again. I quickly get dressed and
tousle my hair. I don’t want to talk about what happened. Ever again. I ease my
way down the hall and into the kitchen. On the counter were a convenience store
bouquet of rainbow carnations, a box of snack cakes, and a card with penguins
in hats and scarves on the front. I opened the card to find that he had
scratched out the “Merry Christmas” inscription and scribbled: