by W Winters
“You wanted to humiliate me? To prove to me you could still have me if you wanted?” she questions with disdain and the thought of what she’s implying had not once occurred to me. Not once. I didn’t even know until a moment ago that I could have her.
“You have no idea what I want from you!” I don’t know why I scream. I don’t know why I shake as she zips up her dress and slowly faces me.
“Yes, I do, and I’ll tell you right now, Seth, it won’t happen. I won’t let it.”
“I left you alone for years. I won’t any longer,” I tell her and my words are rushed.
“I’m not a plaything. I’m not yours anymore,” she tells me as she grabs her heels from the floor.
“Yes. You are. That is exactly what you are.”
She turns from my heated gaze, frantically looking for her purse until she can snatch it, ready to leave me.
“You’ll come back tomorrow night. Five o’clock,” I say calmly even as a panic stirs in my blood watching her race out of the door.
I don’t follow her. I stay perfectly still, not trusting myself to move. It’s not until I hear her car start from outside that I brace myself against my desk. It’s still warm from where she laid herself bare for me.
The rev of her engine and the peeling out of her tires comes and goes until I’m alone.
She left me again. My eyes catch sight of the note on my desk. She left me again.
With a roar ripped from my throat, I grab the floor lamp and slam it against the bookshelf. Heaving in the darkened room, I can’t let go of it.
She left me again, but she’ll be back.
I’ll have her again.
She’ll be back.
Laura
The bags under my eyes still feel heavy. I put on enough concealer to hide them though. I’m an expert at that now. I doubt anyone in this coffee shop can tell how much I cried last night.
With the small chatter and the subtle pop music, no one in Baked and Brewed is paying me any mind. I picked a table in the back corner and from here I can see everything in this place. It’s cute and quaint, smelling of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon from something they just baked. The new shop is on the corner of Fourth and Washington. With walnut furniture, all simple and clean, but pops of mint green from the steel signs and chairs, it’s certainly eye catching. Every table has a short clear vase with a few sprigs of baby’s breath too. It’s all sorts of happy and relaxed in this coffee shop. Completely at odds with how I’m feeling.
But this is the place Bethany picked. And so I’m here.
Blowing on the hot cup of caramel coffee, their flavor of the day, I think back to last night. Back to the moment I know I lost myself as I wait for Bethany to walk in the front door.
* * *
Is any pussy really that good?
* * *
His voice is deep and rough in my memory. I don’t know if I’ve made it up, rethinking about that moment time after time in such a short period, or if he really sounded like that. There was a sense of awe, followed by a sense of loss that coated his words. I was a fiddle for him to play right then and there.
I thought after he took that first lick he’d lift his head and meet my stare to tell me, “No, it isn’t that good.” Swallowing thickly, I force down a sip of the coffee, not tasting it at all.
The way he treated me… I’ve never let a man treat me like that before. He’s fucked me every way possible, but yesterday I let him touch me, not knowing if he respected me anymore. I’m ashamed I let Seth make me feel the way he did. The vulnerability is something I’ve never felt sexually with him and I hate it. I am ashamed and humiliated. I’ve never hated him before last night.
I’ve heard there’s a thin line between love and hate, but damn, I never knew how true those words were.
What’s worse is that I know it’s the same for him. He has a mix of love and hate for me. I could feel it. It’s all deserved.
That’s why I never should have gotten on his desk. The way I craved him loving me… it’s not possible for him to do that anymore. I should know better. That fleeting thought left me the moment his touch registered. I’m not interested in a hate fuck or being played with and treated as less than. If that’s what he thinks this will be, I’ll refuse, consequences be damned.
Seth’s not apologetic; he’s only demanding. It terrifies me most because I want to obey him. I want to do whatever he tells me because I am sorry. I hate what I did to him. I hate myself. He makes me hate myself.
Maybe a piece of me thinks he should be treating me like that… like I’m “less than.”
“You okay?” Bethany’s voice startles me and pulls me back to the present. Back to the hot mug I’ve got both hands wrapped around and the small ceramic plate of bite-size lemon cake squares.
“Yeah,” I answer Bethany, setting the mug down and listening to the bells above the coffee shop door chime as an older man makes his way out. I didn’t hear Bethany come in. “I didn’t see you come in,” I tell her.
As she pulls out the mint green metal stool on the other side of the table, the feet scrape against the floor and she simply stares at me.
There are at least six more patrons in the shop, a pair of maybe sixteen-year-olds—I don’t even know if the two girls at the far end should be sipping on those lattes—and a few single adults scattered around the place. One’s reading a book, others are scrolling through their phones and one man with white-as-snow hair is reading a newspaper. Bethany’s got her back to all of them and her attention is centered on me.
“Sorry I’m late. I got into a little thing at home.”
“Does it have to do with your sister?” I ask her in response, keeping my mind focused on the fact that everyone else has something going on in their life too. It’s not all about me. It never will be. There’s always someone else who needs help. It may seem inconsistent with logic, but that’s what gets me through. Bethany nods and I’m quick to tell her, “I’m here for you, you know?” I put my hand over hers on the table and she takes it and squeezes it but then lets go as she sits back.
She seems to look right through me when she tells me, “It looks like you need someone more than me, to be honest.” Bethany’s blunt. She’s always blunt. There’s a kindness about the way she says things, but it cuts straight to the heart of the matter. She’s a lot wiser than she appears, given how young she looks. She’s been through hell and I know all about it. She came out fighting though.
We’re silent as a waitress wearing a white apron with a mint green logo for Baked and Brewed stamped square on the front of it, places a cup of tea in front of Bethany.
“Thank you.” Bethany smiles and then her dark red lips leave a smudge of lipstick behind on the white mug. That lipstick is what we first bonded over. “Lipstick courage” is what she responded when I complimented the shade. Later that night, she told me the name of it and I ordered a tube without thinking twice. There’s a lot to be said about lipstick courage.
She stares at it a moment before tucking her brunette locks behind her ears.
“So, spill it,” she requests.
It’s been almost two weeks since I’ve seen Bethany and the last time we spoke in person things didn’t go so well. It was my fault and I can still feel the distance between us. I hate it. Rubbing my hand down my face, I come to a certain realization. Seems like I’m full of hate today.
“I owe you an apology—”
“Stop it,” she says, cutting me off. “You already apologized, for one.” She swallows without looking back at me. It looks like she’s lost weight since I’ve seen her. Meeting my gaze, she says, “Second, I know now.”
“You know what?” I ask her, my fingers reaching for the ceramic mug.
Even with concealer under her eyes, I can tell she hasn’t slept. Or maybe I’m just making it up, and I want to avoid talking about me, and move the conversation to her dilemma.
“That you know Seth,” she confesses. She leans forward and says, “You
knew him when I dragged you to his car. You could have told me.” The last sentence she practically whispers and as she says it, I retract my hands from the table and move them to my lap.
“How do you know?”
“Jase.” Bethany’s answer is the name of her now-boyfriend. And Seth’s employer. It’s odd to think of Seth working for someone. He was never the type to take orders from anyone other than his father. He was bred to rule. It’s simply who he is.
“What else did he tell you?” I question, my words coming out carefully. I feel a sick prickling along my skin. Bells chime above the café door and the sound steals my attention for only a fraction of a second. It’s all too intense. Whenever Seth is involved, it’s too intense.
“He told me not to tell you… so shhh, don’t tell anyone I told you.”
I roll my eyes as I comment, “As if I ever would,” and try to take another sip of coffee. Again, I can’t taste a thing.
All I can wonder is how much Jase knows. Did Seth tell him something? Did he tell him everything? I haven’t told a soul. I can’t even speak it out loud.
With a prick at the back of my eyes, I ask Bethany, my voice cracking, “Did he tell you what happened when I left? What made me leave?”
Her thick hair swishes as she sips her tea, never taking her eyes off of me. Maybe she’s waiting for me to tell her, but there’s not a chance in hell I will. I can’t. I can’t tell her about Cami.
With the silence separating us and adding an air of dread to our corner of this little café, Bethany tells me, “He only said that you two were together back when you lived in California and then you left.” I nod. I fled, I ran, I took off. Left seems like such an insignificant word.
She adds when I don’t respond, “Jase said it looks like Seth followed you here.”
“He didn’t.” I’m quick to correct her. Derrick told me he didn’t. If he had, he would have come for me sooner. “He didn’t come here for me.”
Why does it hurt so much? Why does my heart twist and turn before going thud, thud, then pausing in my chest?
“Jase seems to think otherwise. I walked in on him and Carter talking about it.”
The furrow of my brow works in time with my curiosity. My interest, and my concern piqued, I lean forward to question, “Why were they talking about it?”
Bethany shrugs, as if it’s not a big deal. I don’t want my name to be spoken by either of those men. The Cross brothers aren’t known for generosity. They’re brutal. Especially Carter. That sick prickling heats and makes my entire body burn with anxiety.
“Why did you leave?” she asks me and I’d be grateful for the change of subject away from the Cross brothers, had it been any other subject.
My finger plays at the rim of my mug, gliding along it as I inhale and exhale, forming the words in my mind first. I’m careful and deliberate with my answer when I say, “Things got hard and a bad thing happened to someone close to me.” I peek up and Bethany’s eyes are assessing. She’s the best nurse at the Rockford Center, in my possibly biased opinion. It’s one of the reasons I was drawn to her. She’s damn good at what she does and she loves people in general. She loves making a difference and helping them. “Don’t you dare treat me like one of the patients,” I warn her.
Putting her hands up in the air, she protests that she never would. “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s okay.” She resumes her position and cocks a brow at me before adding, “I won’t push you.”
Her reaction actually makes me huff a humorous laugh. “I’ve literally heard you tell that to patients.”
She joins in my humor, giving me a genuine grin. It lightens the mood slightly, and I’m grateful for it. “I can’t talk about it and get worked up. We’re in a coffee shop, for fuck’s sake. I don’t even have mascara with me to touch up.” I look her square in the eyes and see my friend again. The bond nearly physical between us, I joke, “I can’t walk out of here with black streaks down my face.”
She agrees, saying, “This place doesn’t have a bathroom either. So no crying…” and then she persists in order to understand, “…but you left, you were emotional. The breakup was mutual?”
“Not really.” My gut churns with my response.
“So you left him?” Fuck it hurts to hear her ask that. My heart agrees, stalling and refusing to resume beating until I respond. I nod and give a small yeah, ignoring the pain that claws at my gut.
There’s no way in hell I’m going to be able to eat those lemon cake squares.
“And then he moved back but he’s been here for a while and …” I trail off and when Bethany doesn’t say anything, I steel myself to confess the truth to her.
“And the night at the shopping center, our night out was the first time I’d seen him and spoken to him.”
I’m surprised by the sorrow that worries Bethany’s expression when she says, “And I just let you go with him. I’m sorry.” Her voice cracks.
“You trusted him,” I say to defend her and make sure that defense is audible. “It had to happen, Bethany. It was bound to. I’m happy you were with me when it did.”
Her smile is weak, and the conversation pauses for a moment while she composes herself. “What did he say?” she asks once she’s finally got a grip on her regret.
How do I tell her he didn’t say a word to me? Again that shame rises at the fact I’d let a man get to me the way he did. More than that, protectiveness spreads through me. I find myself wanting to defend Seth. I don’t want her to think of him like that. He wasn’t always an asshole she’d hate this very second if she knew what transpired.
He was good.
I did this to him.
With a shuddering breath, I skip over the details of that night, only giving her the bare essentials: He dropped me off and told me to meet him last night.
Telling her what happened yesterday proves to be difficult too. I don’t know how much of my perception is real. Was he cold to me like I remember? Or was he waiting to see what I’d do, like I was doing with him?
“It looks like more happened than just that, Laura,” Bethany prods, when I try to gloss over it.
“The thing is, I’m not okay. Not emotionally. I keep finding myself back in that place I was when I left. It’s like I’m grieving all over again.”
“So this is about the bad thing that happened to someone close to you? Or leaving Seth?”
“I think both,” I admit to her, truly unsure.
“An emotional state isn’t linear.” She reminds me of something I already know, and her eyes tell me she knows that I know.
“I know, but grief is supposed to be in stages and—”
She cuts me off, her voice pleading with me to understand. “Those stages misrepresent emotions. I just got into this with Aiden.” She makes that last comment under her breath, fiddling with her napkin and then popping a lemon square in her mouth. Aiden is our boss at the Rockford Center. We don’t always see eye to eye on things. It’s good for the patients though. If one method isn’t helping them, we have others.
“No, I know, and I agree with you. The stages are a depiction of the mental capacity to deal with shock and stressors that are too much to handle. Denial isn’t an emotion, it’s a coping mechanism. The stages are a timeline and they move in order and never in reverse because it’s about coping, not about emotional ability.” I stress the last line with the side of my hand hitting the table. “Yesterday, it felt like I was on a roller coaster, a scary one that I don’t want to be on, and it kept moving back without warning, sending me down the same hill I ran from.” The emotions, the wretched feeling I’m describing—it all creeps knowingly toward me again.
“It’s not the stages of grief you’re talking about. It’s simply loss.”
“It is,” I admit quietly and close my eyes. “I’m feeling the loss all over again.”
“Losses,” she says, stressing the plural, “and memories… they’re chaotic, they come and go as they please with no patterns at time
s. They can be triggered.”
“Well him being back in my life…” I start to tell her, grabbing hold of the reason, and therefore a semblance of control. “Seth saying…” I almost tell her Babygirl, but I don’t want to give Bethany that much. It feels like a violation of what we have. “Seth saying my name…” I look her in the eyes only after I’ve spoken the last line of deception and continue, “It’s bringing back a lot of shit for me.”
“That makes sense.” She nods in understanding, and it helps. It makes such a difference just to feel understood. “You’re wrecked. You look it, too.”
“Well thanks, bestie,” I joke and it makes us both ease into a short laugh. I have to sniffle, although I haven’t cried and when I do, she continues.
“So you are emotional… in a negative way.”
“Right.”
“Were you afraid of what he’d do?”
“No, I was afraid of how he’d make me feel.”
“How did he make you feel?” she asks.
“All sorts of ways.”
“But did you get butterflies?” There’s a note of optimism in her question.
I peek at her over my coffee, taking a large gulp and praying it gives me energy I desperately need. It’s only lukewarm now. “Yeah, I got all sorts of butterflies.” Every scene from yesterday washes over me. And even if he was… harder, harsher even, a heat I can’t deny betrays my pride. “He…” I can’t finish the statement without a blush warming my cheeks.
With wide eyes and an eager grin, Bethany reacts and says, “Oh my God, you’re blushing. Since when do you blush?”
A laugh bubbles from my lips and I shake my head. I swear Seth will always give me butterflies. As if in response to that thought, my heart flutters that odd beat and I place my hand over the wild thing, trying to calm it.
“So …” Bethany presses.
“He thinks he can tell me what to do and I’ll simply be his.” For the second time today, I roll my eyes. It’s followed by a smirk though as I add, “But he went down on me yesterday.”
