TW: Sub drop, pushed boundaries, abondonment

Chapter Fifteen

He’d worked with me on a Tuesday night, staying late. I’d fallen into bed. Had a nightmare I couldn’t remember and woke up late. I looked tired. I put a spoon in the freezer while I too-hurriedly picked out an outfit, ironed in a fit of frustration. Grabbed the spoon and pressed it to my eyes. 

I kind of trotted my way to the office, feeling, and in fact, late. So late, in fact, that Rachel was unlocking the door when I approached the office. 

“Well, good morning,” she said. Then gave me a carefuller look. “Summer cold?” 

“No,” I said. “I’m just a little tired.”

“You’ve been a little tired a lot lately,” she said, flinging open the door and flicking on the lights. I followed in after her, without response, setting things down on my desk. 

“I need you to finish drafting that contract for me,” she said. “I’ll finish up the rest of what we were working on Monday.”

“Mhmm,” I said, stifling a yawn.

“I’ll make coffee,” she said, rolling her eyes and turning on the coffee maker. 

“Just a late night,” I said. 

I sat and opened up the document she’d mentioned. It looked like I was further behind on it than I remembered. Monday had kind of been chock-full of tasks, though. It often was. And, admittedly, my focus had been split a little. I had been pondering the next mailer for Baron, and we had a christening we were invited to late next week, and I didn’t know what you wore to something like that. 

I felt a sudden and uncomfortable flurry behind my eyes. Something hot and heavy and dry. Like being too angry for tears. I tried to place it. An anxiety. The feeling of hiding something under my bed from my parents. Or hoping that my teacher wouldn’t notice I’d handed my assignment in late. Something like loneliness– that moment after my father dropped me off at my dorm and that point when I realized he was really gone. I’d been unpacking for half an hour after he’d hugged me goodbye. And I knew then I was really alone. I wasn’t going to eat dinner with him or call goodnight across the hall. 

In our attempt to not argue I’d stopped talking to Rachel about nearly everything besides work. Which was doubly sad because I’d want her to be my maid of honor. And we didn’t even get to be excited together about that. I couldn’t even tease her about putting her in a frothy dress or who she might hook up with at the reception. And I became even more worried that she might refuse. 

She set a mug on my desk and began to turn around. She stopped, resting her fingertips on my desk. I knew her hands so well, because we were often sitting opposite each other in the conference room. I’d look up to see her typing. She and I always joked about nails– I wore mine long and nearly always the same gloss-clear pink. She wore hers short and a variety of different darks– so green, so blue it was almost black. She wore her father’s class ring on her thumb– too big to fit on any of her other fingers and her uncle’s silver watch– adjusted by a jeweler to fit, but the face almost comically large. 

“Betta, the last appointment we have today is at two… Maybe after that you should go home.” 

“No, I don’t want to, I’m kind of behind–”

“Let me rephrase. Instead of ‘maybe’, I’m telling you to go home afterward,” she said, finishing her turn and going into her office.

This made the desire to cry far worse. I swallowed. Bit the inside of my cheek to stop tears and get to work. 

Rachel’s meeting wrapped a little before three. I escorted the client back out, making another appointment for them. And then, feeling like Eve ejected from the Garden, gathered my things. Slinking to her office.

“I’m heading out,” I tried to say airily. 

“Good,” she said, not looking up. 

“Rach?” I said. Not sure what I was going to say next. Just wanting desperately to knock down whatever reticence had come between us. Bang my fist on it until it fell down. 

“What?” she asked, looking up, cocking an eyebrow. “Putting in your two weeks?”

I gasped, literally clutching my chest.

“No!” I cried. I moved further into the office, but didn’t sit where I usually sat. She had a little step-stool behind her desk, that she sometimes rested her feet on. When we were having private, personal conversations, I’d sit there so we could talk low together if someone walked in.

“Never, Rachel. What you do is important. And I help you best, I know I do. Why would you–?” I asked, faltering. I should have just told her– I’m hurt, I feel expelled, please can’t we talk about what’s wrong? And didn’t. 

“I imagine Godsson is pressuring you to drop your career,” she said, hands coming to rest on her keyboard.

“What? No, I–”

I started gnawing on my cheek. Teeth scraping on a half-healed scab. But of course, he sort of had. He’d said once we were married that I should go to part-time. I’d do work for him, from our home. Wherever our home was going to be. That’s what he wanted– calls routed to me and the like, picking up his secretarial work. 

“Is that inaccurate?” she pressed, still sounding cool. Suddenly I saw her as she used to be– in a courtroom, chill and pressed and utterly in control. 

“Rachel… I–”

“Do you need me to tell you you’re making a mistake? Are we going to have this conversation? You’re a grown woman. What do you want from me?” she asked. Unmoving, just watching me as I chewed my face apart. 

“I don’t–” I said and then stopped. Like an engine kicking out, whatever energy I had keeping me upright and keeping my face smooth was gone from me. Feeling that terrible babyish weakness in my chin and lower lip. 

She sighed, turning a little in her chair and kicking the step stool away from her. I went and sank into it, my bag going all hell-to-breakfast between our feet. 

“I just want you to be my maid of honor,” I said, voice cracking embarrassingly. Tipping my head back so that tears didn’t roll.

“Of course,” she said, patting my knee. “I will be your maid of honor, your reference and your bail bondsman, Betta. There’s not a question of that. But is that what you’re questioning?”

“I don’t know,” I gulped, shrugging.

“Did he propose?” she asked. Specifically being toneless, I could tell.

“No-o,” I said. “But it’s… There’s intention, maybe.” 

“So, I’ll ask you again– are we having the conversation we’ve been avoiding? I won’t speak to you if you’re not going to listen,” she said.

“I want to talk,” I said. “I really missed talking and I… There’s a lot on my mind.” 

“All right,” she said, sighing and leaning back in her chair. “I’ve seen you glow. I’ve seen you engaged, energized and focused. You are not that, and haven’t been that for a long while. You’re jumping at sounds from the neighborhood. You’re pale as hell, you’re dragging yourself around. You don’t laugh. You haven’t mentioned any new activities in weeks. You’re the kind of tired that usually calls for total disconnection. Frankly, you don’t seem like a woman falling in love. You seem like a kid trying to juggle three jobs.”

“I hear you,” I said quietly.

“Okay then. Go home. Take a bath. Go to bed, for god’s sake,” she said. 

I walked home, still a little ashamed to be leaving work early. But her suggestion didn’t seem bad– bath and bed. 

All the doors were flung open at Zevi’s lot so I stopped. Leaning around the doorway until I found his blue cap. 

“Hey,” I called out.

“Hey-y,” he said, smiling and trotting up to me. “How’s my bettah half? What are you doing out while the sun’s still out?”

“Mm, working from home,” I lied. Blushing immediately because I didn’t know why I lied, nor was I terribly good at it. 

His smile faltered but settled into place just as rapidly as it was shaken.

“Can you come over for dinner later this week? Maybe even tomorrow?” I asked him.

“Not tomorrow,” he said, hand against his forehead like a tragedy. “Previous commitment. But yes, I’d love to come by later in the week.” 

“Thanks,” I said. “Well I… Guess I’ll get going.”

“See you lattah, Bett-ah,” he joked.

When I got in, I did start running a bath. I opened up my laptop just briefly, just to set myself away from the office. But when I opened my email, I saw Baron had sent me something. I opened it up– just something for me to rewrite. 

I responded back that I’d do it in the evening. Immediately, he called me.

“Aren’t you at work?” he asked me.

“No-o,” I said slowly. “Um… Rachel had me go home, we were at a good stopping point.”

“Hm,” he said. “In that case, let me come over. I have a meeting in the early evening. But I could stop at yours and then go from there.”

“Okay!” I said. I was hoping that I’d feel more settled, or more sure, when he was near me again. Maybe we’d have sex and that would make me feel better. I always shook off any anxiety I was feeling once his hands were on me. 

“Get into something I like,” he added. 

Shorthand that let me know to put on lingerie and that we’d have sex. I almost sighed in relief. Things were going to be set right. Doubt would drop away. 

I let the bath water drain away, touching up my makeup, switching out comfortable underwear for one of his purchases. He didn’t take long to arrive. 

Doing as he often did; sweeping through the door, lifting me off the floor. I’d lock my legs around his waist and he’d bring me to the couch. We’d still never had sex in a bed, and at this point I’d built that up as my honeymoon reward. 

We’d sort of fallen into a routine. He’d sling me over his lap and stimulate me with his hand. After that first time, I finished about half the time on that, and then he’d penetrate me, regardless of whether I came or not. Sometimes I came while he was inside me– usually only if he was on top. Often, I faked. I was uncomfortable about that fact, but I’d done so before. He didn’t seem to notice. And we didn’t have enough time to get me off every time. And sometimes, it was just too late, and I was too tired to chase it. It didn’t worry me, it was just another secret I was keeping from everyone. 

This time, I got off oddly easily, after just a few minutes. He unbuttoned and unzipped himself, and I shifted to take him in my mouth. I thought he was going to finish like that– he let me go for a while. I was relaxing, laying in his lap, hands on him. Feeling good and warm and with an odd little chant of everything is all right going through my head as I bobbed. 

But once more he did that lift and deposit, dropping me into his lap. I grunted and paused. As I got used to what was happening, mouth aching, corners of my lips cracking, the insides of my bitten-up cheeks bleeding, he suddenly reached out and slapped my face. 

I gasped, both hands flying to my cheek, clenching down on him painfully. He groaned, feeling that, and thrust hard into me.

“No,” I said.

“No what?” he panted, letting his hands drop to my hips to help me ride.

“Not like that,” I said, my hands dropping to his chest, stopping my movement.

“Not like what?” he asked, finally stopping his motion.

“I don’t like being slapped like that,” I said. 

He laughed a little breathlessly, leaning forward and kissing me. Helping me relax. Finally, my stomach unclenched.

“What? You only want to be hit below the belly button?” he said. And I thought I heard scorn in his voice. But I was probably just being too sensitive. 

“Yes,” I said slowly, starting to rock again. It seemed like a sensible boundary to me. Other people probably liked something else. He probably had a partner who liked that. I didn’t. It felt humiliating, and hurt. 

“Fine,” he said, pulling me onto him harder. 

I rode him, and he finished hard and fast, for which I was oddly thankful. Having a swimmy little floaty sensation the whole time, like I’d lift straight off his legs and the couch and sort of bounce along the ceiling like an old balloon. Once more on the verge of tears when he scooped me up and brought me to the bathroom. He was washing his hands as I walked to my bedroom to get a dress and get out of the lingerie.

“Hold up,” he said. 

“What?” I asked.

“Can you make me something to eat before I leave?”

“Sure,” I smiled. I’d been planning to give him coffee. I even had the makings to make him a sandwich and had planned on it. He often forgot to eat until it was late and he became ravenous. I liked to be able to give him pick-me-ups when he forgot to fuel. 

“Do it in the lingerie,” he said. 

I paused in the open threshold of my doorway. Lace feeling sticky between my legs, bralette a little askew. Hair sticking to my lip gloss. 

“Um,” I said, one heel still in the air from where I’d so carefully frozen. 

“You just look so pretty,” he said. 

I turned back around, and he patted my cheek, hands warm from the hot water. I went into the kitchen and got the kettle going. Feeling somewhat aroused, but mostly still having that odd balloon sensation still. I’d been naked, in my pajamas, and half-undressed in my kitchen, of course. But not like this. Sort of disheveled after sex. Shifting uncomfortably, feeling dirty and wishing I were in clean clothes. 

He leaned against the counter, telling me about where he was going tonight, what they were doing. Hearing his usual flow of talk sort of relaxed me. But I also wished he wouldn’t. He wanted me to do this performance, but it didn’t seem to spark any desire in him. I wished he’d cup my ass, or breast. Or tell me again that I looked pretty, or out of place in what I was wearing. Some acknowledgement of how out of the ordinary this all was. 

I handed him a cup of coffee, he sipped it while I made him a sandwich. He ate that one-handed, still leaning against the counter. I started rinsing out the French press, knocking grounds out of the mesh. 

He sighed, “I’m running late. I’ll call you later, Elsbetta.” 

“Oh, wait, can’t you–?” I asked, wet hands trying to cover up my stomach.

“What?” he asked.

“Can’t you stay for a little while? Just a–”

“Elsbetta,” he sighed, smiling down at me. “I told you I had to go. You knew I had a meeting.” “Yes, but I–”

“Hush,” he said. 

“Well can you–?”

“I’ll talk to you later,” he said. Brushing the crumbs off his hands and sliding his plate into the sink he leaned forward, kissing my cheek. 

For a long second, after I heard his car engine start, I stood by the sink. I heard soap bubbles pattering off my fingers and falling to the tile. Looking down, I saw the print of my bare foot on the tile as well. I’d been sweaty after sex, and left a greasy, gross little smear on my kitchen floor. 

Instantly, I was sobbing viciously. Unable to place the exact why. Maybe all of today was just too much. Maybe I really was just tired.

Right now, I felt disgusting. Bloated, moist, sticky. A mess. Like a tossed-out mannequin in a cheap outfit. Still crying I went back into my bathroom. Running my bath for a second time. I threw my lingerie off, across the hallway, approximately toward my bedroom. I’d get it in the hamper later.

I sank into a punishingly hot bath. I tried desperately to stop crying. Holding my breath. Trying to breathe evenly– counting inhale, counting exhale. But I couldn’t catch my breath or stop crying. I felt alone in a way I hadn’t since after my father’s funeral. Like being in a prairie at night with nothing in sight, no human sound, just that huge bowl of sky crushing down from above. 

He could have stayed. He could have stayed for just a few minutes. This was a small group– he’d been an invited participant– a requested individual. They would have waited for him. He held that kind of sway and charisma. He could have said thank you, given me some time after doing something new. I was giving and giving and giving. I thought it would be enough to just have him, but apparently it wasn’t– not now. I needed time, I wanted some touch. Some surety, some proof of… something. 

The water felt cold before I managed to get control of myself. By that point I’d blown right by dinner. Shivering on the tile floor I wrapped myself in a towel and headed to my bedroom. My feet got tangled in my bra from earlier and I stumbled. Crying out, I grabbed the pieces off the floor and threw them haphazardly toward my hamper. Right now I was thinking of throwing them away. Hated the idea of separating those out the next time I did my laundry. Hand-washing. I hated myself and everything touching my body. 

I left my bedside lamp on and collapsed onto the mattress. It wasn’t long until I fell asleep. 

Chapter Sixteen

I woke up with the uncomfortable sensation that I’d had a terrible dream. Then I remembered my strange crying jag from last night. I sat up. Taking slow stock of everything. Sniffing. I smelled like bubble bath. I didn’t have any massive need to cry any more. I felt cool and rested. Looking out the window it was gray, I wondered if it was still that early or not. Glancing at the clock it was six. No, just a dreary day. That was all right. I liked the dreary days. They felt cushioned away from reality. I wanted that today.

For the first time in a while, I got to leisurely get ready for work instead of rushing. Which was good, I was having some trouble finding an outfit that felt good. For some reason, everything seemed too tight or trashy or exposed. Not that I really had anything like that. Maybe I was just getting my period soon, I decided. 

I pulled out the dress I’d probably wear for the christening Baron and I were going to later in the week. Might as well steam that this evening, I decided. 

Made my way to work. Sat at my desk. Finally began catching up for the first time in a while. Got Rachel’s coffee going. After a few hours, she came breezing in. She smiled at me. Filled up her mug. Everything felt like it was back to normal. I sank gratefully into routine. 

After putting down her bag and coffee, she came back to me, leaving a nectarine on the edge of my desk. I took a big bite, realizing just then I was hungry and had skipped breakfast.

“You look… A little better,” she said.

“I am,” I said. “I went to bed at eight last night.”

Which was true. I just didn’t have to tell her about the rest of the night. It was probably just stress relief. So much had changed so rapidly and I had so much going through my mind, it just came to a head last night. Nothing to worry about, just a break. 

“Good,” she said.

We worked in productive peace for the rest of the day. I skipped lunch. I didn’t look at my personal email. My phone bleeped late in the afternoon. I smiled as soon as I saw it was Zevi. A picture of the GC Bryan napping nearly upside down in a pile of garbage bags. 

Idiots must truly have a deeply blissful sleep, he texted a moment later.

I laughed low, covering my mouth. God, I wished he’d come visit me. I wished he’d come for lunch today. I should have gone to him. Oh, I could talk to him. Not about anything important. I didn’t want to talk about anything important. I wanted him to tell me stories about his dad. I wanted him to tell me stories about the guys he worked with, the silly things he heard on the radio. The songs he had stuck in his head. The ways in which he wanted to be ruthless. How he’d bend the world to his whim with his softness. 

I texted him back and laid my phone back down. Working for a little while longer. 

Rachel came to collect me. We walked out of the office together, talking about what we’d be working on tomorrow. I walked along quietly until I came abreast of Zevi’s place. I detoured, heading for the display window, seeing movement in there. Everything looked nearly completed. I could tell the window had recently been clean. There were actual floors there now. No piles of garbage. The walls were an undusty white. I knocked on the window and waved at him. He waved back, and I watched him heading for the side door. 

“How’s my bettah half?” he called. 

And then whatever fragile peace I had crumpled. I didn’t know how badly I wanted him, how badly I wanted the comfort of him until I saw him again. Heard his voice, heard his joke, and heard my name. 

Once more my face started collapsing inward, my lower lip going weak and watery. 

“Hey, hey,” he said, coming closer. 

I bit both sides of my mouth as hard as I could, shocking the tears away. He reached out, circling my wrist in his hand, pulling me in. And then so instantly letting me go that my self-disgust reignited. Feeling sticky and awful and used like yesterday. I must have disgusted him as well, he must have felt it on me.

In the next moment, I knew that wasn’t the case. He just didn’t touch me, now that we were friends. It wasn’t that he felt grossness on me, he just thought he’d forgotten himself. I grabbed his hand so he couldn’t move away from me. 

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I almost laughed, because I so obviously wasn’t. That the only thing that might fix me was him. And even he was withholding himself from me. That I couldn’t, and didn’t know how to even begin to answer the question.

“I don’t feel so good,” I said. And the childishness of the phrase made all those bad feelings come back– loneliness, powerlessness and feeling like I’d made a great, big, unerasable mistake. That moment before you vomited all over the back seat of a car. 

“I can see that,” he said. “Come lock up with me, I’ll walk you home–”

“No,” I said, holding his hand even tighter. “No, you said you were busy tonight and I’m fine, really I’m fine–”

“Not that busy,” he said seriously. Walking me back to the side door. Reaching through, flicking off lights and locking the door. 

“Please, don’t fuck up your night,” I said, biting my cheek. 

“It’s not, I’m just walking you home, Betta. We’ll talk. Or we won’t,” he said.

We started walking down the sidewalk. Gently but firmly, he disengaged his hand from mine. I wished he hadn’t, but was somehow still glad he had. In a lightning flash, once more asking, am I going to be told on? Reported about? 

“Work or otherwise?” he asked softly, once we crossed Main.

“Everything,” I said. We both fell back into silence. 

We got to my house. He walked me up my steps. Turning his cap backward and watching me dig through my bag for my keys. Maybe I’d take a hot shower and go straight to bed again. 

“Hey,” he said. “You don’t have to be happy. You don’t even have to be okay... But are you safe?” 

Oh god, he thought I was so bad I was actually in danger. That things were so wrong I needed intervention. I started gnawing and nipping at my cheek. Once more getting that bittersweet sensation of drawing blood. 

“Uh-huh,” I said, and in opening my mouth to speak, I felt a trickle of blood at the side of my mouth. Gasping and reaching up to try and cover it, I was interrupted by his hand. He reached out, brushing the stream away from the corner of my mouth. I watched as he instinctively raised his thumb to his own mouth and licked my blood from the ball. 

We stared at each other for a long moment, both of us frozen in place. Him standing, hand raised to his mouth, lips open, the tip of his tongue against his thumb. Both my hands halfway to my own face. 

“I think I’d better come inside,” he said, his hand dropping back to his side. 

I nodded numbly, turning to unlock my door. As soon as we walked in, he started heading for my couch– where we often spent time together. But then I remembered my clothes from yesterday were still scattered on the floor. I rushed to clean up, holding the bundle to my chest. 

“You… You don’t have to stay,” I said, arrested halfway between going to throw my clothes in my bedroom and staring at him. “You told me you were busy tonight–”

“It’s nothing that can’t be put off,” he said. “And frankly… I’m concerned.” 

“Let me just–” I hefted my clothes weakly at him and walked to my bedroom. Dumping my work clothes on top of the lingerie from last night, effectively burying it. 

He was sitting on the couch when I came back. Boots kicked off beside the coffee table, his back on the arm, lounging across the cushions. He patted his chest and then held his arms out to me. I knew it was bad, I knew I’d regret it, and I still ran across the room to him. Practically diving into him. Falling into him just as I had in his truck. Already familiar, already home. 

“You don’t have to be ashamed if you need help,” he said. “I know it’s hard. But do you know how often I’ve needed to do it? I’m not going to tell you you fucked up. Or that you’re dumb, or get angry. I just want to figure out how to help.” 

“It’s nothing… It’s nothing like that,” I said finally. “I’m okay, really, I just… It’s weird when everyone is telling you you’re wrong, that you’re making a mistake.”

“That’s true,” he said softly, breathing evenly. “It’s happened to me… Oh, about several hundred times. Switching my major. Dropping out of college. Going back to college. Going overseas. Getting a new job. Quitting the job. Going to trade school. Moving here.”

He said it casually, letting me know it was a joke. That he was a bigger fuck-up than me, and I could feel okay telling him about my fuck-ups. 

“When other people told you you were making a mistake… Did you think you were, though? Did you agree with them?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Whatever I've done has been right for me at the time. I’m sure to everyone else it looks like two steps forward, one step back. I like to think of my life more like a waltz, though– plotted, but going nowhere. Meaningless unless seen from above.” 

Still joking. 

“What if I think I’m making a mistake, though?” I asked quietly. 

“Well, talk it out with me,” he said. 

I paused, breathing deeply. Evaluating. As if he could hear my hesitation, he shook me in his arms. 

“Forget I’m me,” he said, laughing. “If everyone else is calling you a fuck-up… If you can’t even have the conversation with yourself… Have it with me.” 

“I’ve been… Oh… Just… Sometimes I think about my wedding, you know, a future wedding. And when I’m fully conscious, I just think about the facts of it, the arrangements. Where is it going to be? Who’s going to officiate? A daylight wedding? Where’s the reception going to happen? Is it going to be an open bar? And then… Sometimes… When I’m just letting my mind wander… I get this paranoiac thought, this little-kids voice saying nobody is going to be there for you. And by the end you won’t be you any more anyway.” 

“Because your parents are gone?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Or not just that. That no one will show for me because they think I did badly. And I’ll just be surrounded. By people on his side. And I’ll be stampeded under expectations and his force of will. And that even if I get nervous, I’ll be carried along on this wave and there will be no one there to see me panicking. Or even just to ask me… if this is really what I want. My dad and I had this… joke agreement. I mean, I guess it was a serious one. If I didn’t want to go somewhere or do something, he always said, ‘just tell them I said no, you can blame it on me, I’ll be the bad guy.’ I used it all the time. To not go to movies I didn’t want to go to, parties I didn’t want to go to, cheating schemes, dates. I’d just say ‘sorry, my daddy said no.’ If even just he was still around I wouldn’t feel so… Untethered and unsure.” 

“So why not?” he asked. “You must love him, or it wouldn’t even be a question for you.” 

“Yes-s,” I said slowly. “But it’s… It’s harder than I thought love would be. And I don’t… I don’t always feel good.” 

“I don’t know that love is easy,” he said gently. 

“No,” I agreed. I tried to organize myself. Shifting a little. Wrapping my arms more firmly around him. Feeling his own get heavier on me. 

“Has he been married before?” he asked. Suddenly astounded that I hadn’t thought to ask that myself.

“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I’ve just been thinking… I didn’t think love would make me feel worse about myself.” 

We lay silently. I’d never been so grateful for another human being. So glad to be held, so happy to be with someone warm and unmoving.

“I’ve never had sex make me feel bad before,” I said. 

I felt his body go stiff and I blushed, trying to move, wondering how to apologize. He held me tighter.

“No, explain what you mean,” he said. I heard some tone from him, I never heard before. Not even serious– of course he’d spoken seriously to me before. I couldn’t place what it was. 

“I guess… I mean, I like the sex I have… Mostly. But sometimes afterward… I feel lonely… Ashamed.”

“Have you told him that?” he asked. 

“No,” I whispered.

“Is it the sex itself that makes you feel that way? A specific activity? Or what happens after the sex?” he asked.

I blushed again, rolling my face into his chest.

“Afterward,” I finally said firmly. If there was something during sex I didn’t like, I’d tell him. I already had once. Though, admittedly… I didn’t like his response to my ‘no.’ I probably wouldn’t say no to him again, so long as it was something I could stand to have happen. I didn’t have to enjoy every minute, I told myself. But the big problem really was how… dropped… I felt. 

“What can he do to make afterward better?” he asked. “It might be easier to have the conversation about the things that make you feel bad if there’s a possible solution you could present.” 

“Spending time with me,” I finally said sadly, tears welling up. “Everything is always so… rush-rush. Sex itself is quick. Afterward is quicker. Sometimes it feels like… sometimes it feels like… a paid quickie in the backseat of a car.” I laughed nervously. “But we’re both so busy,” I added hurriedly. “He has work. I can’t–”

“You can,” he said, still in that same unplaceable tone. Was it anger? That’s why I couldn’t be sure– I’d never heard it from him. “You can ask for time. If he intends to marry you, he owes you time. If you’re both busy, don’t bother having sex if you can’t schedule time afterward. If he has enough time to fuck you, he has enough time to hold you.” 

“Hm,” I said. 

“Just a suggestion,” he said softly. “But if this is ruining your life… It’s worth saying, ‘this feels bad, this is how you make it better.’”

I shifted again, wiggling until he let me go. Kneeling between his open legs, resting my palm on his chest and leaning into him to kiss him. He gave into me for a quarter of a second, his hand on my cheek. Then threw his head backward hard, breaking the kiss and getting away from me. 

Once more sparking that disgust and unlovability I’d been feeling.

“Oh please,” I moaned, leaning forward, nearly within kissing distance. He closed the few inches between us, acquiescing to me, and I kissed him again. “I just want someone who wants me,” I whispered against his mouth. “Don’t you want me?”

“That’s not the question at hand,” he said, hand still on my face, letting his head drop backward over the side of the couch to get away from me. He didn’t move otherwise, but I felt his body peeling away from mine. “You know the answer, Betta, so don’t play games asking. But I won’t be your compounded mistake.” 

He set me firmly but gently away from him. Going to my kitchen. Returning with water for me as I tried to catch my breath. He wasn’t wrong. I was just… Looking for validation or tenderness. Mistaking sex for either of those things. I had felt so… Unloved and undesired in the kitchen yesterday. I just wanted to feel lusted for. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, as he handed me water. 

“I know,” he said. “I think you… I think you had a bad sexual experience and–”

“I wasn’t… No, not… Not hurt, like that–” I interrupted him but didn’t know how to end it. He made it sound like I’d been assaulted or something. 

“I mean,” he said patiently. “That sometimes we try to follow bad sex with more sex in the hope that good will follow bad.” 

He’d put it more succinctly than I’d managed to. 

“I’m sorry,” I said again, weakly. 

He sat back down next to me, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. 

“Still have some mango?” he asked, seemingly apropos of nothing.

“Uh-huh,” I said slowly. 

He patted my knee and got back up. I heard him shuffling around in my kitchen and then my blender going. He came back with two glasses of smoothie for us. I laughed, leaning back on the couch. He sat beside me again. We sipped quietly, sitting beside each other. 

“Still sorry I fucked up your night,” I said. “You can head out whenever.”

“We’ll finish this,” he said. 

I hit the remote for my stereo with the heel of my bare foot, just turning on whatever had already been loaded up. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Better,” I said. 

“Betta is bettah?” he asked, nudging me with his shoulder.

“Betta is bettah,” I laughed. 

“Okay, um, do me a few favors,” he said, holding up a finger and counting down. “Looks like you have a chicken breast in your fridge– eat a good dinner tonight. Wash your face. Go to bed early. Have a cup of tea. Watch your horrible television show.”

I laughed again, and nodded. All of that sounded pretty good.

“And Betta?” he asked, sitting down, lacing up his boots. “Have that conversation.” 

“Okay,” I said, already steeling myself for that.