by Ace Gray
Things are so mixed up inside of me that I can’t tell if I want to read them to you or to remind myself of what happened before.
See, I want to tell you what you meant to me. I want to show you how it felt and make you understand. I want to ask if you love me that much. Or if you will. Will you love me enough to make me forget?
But that’s the other reason that I should read them. I should feel the agony sharp in my chest. The weight around my ankles dragging me down. I should read them and ask myself if I want to do that again.
Because you can’t love me enough to make me forget.
At least I don’t think you can. I know you—not all of you, I could never presume to know all of you—but enough. Enough to know that you are not wild, unrestrained, and free. That you do not love like that either.
God, maybe I AM too much for you.
Maybe you’re not enough.
This all seems so doomed. Right from the start. Or the restart.
Does the universe do that? Bring together things, people, cosmic bodies that are meant to implode? It would be so cruel, so unfeeling. But then again, haven’t I called you cruel and unfeeling? Do you know we’re bound to implode and are asking me to love you anyway?
Does saying you’re drunk on me even qualify?
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
It’s the only answer to the questions spinning inside my head.
“Hey, where the hell have you been?” Courtney’s grocery basket waves wildly as she clips down the aisle.
I thought she was at work and that’s the only reason I chanced the grocery store.
“Working.” I shrug.
She just shoots me a look. A look that says you better give me more details or I will shank you and share your dirtiest secrets over your bleeding body. Thank God she doesn’t know my biggest secret.
“I’ve just been around, okay?”
“With James?”
“No.” I’ve been avoiding him too.
“With Swany?”
“Also no.” I roll my eyes.
“Then with who?”
“Me, myself, and I. Is that so hard to believe?” I turn for the granola beside me, grabbing blindly.
“So you’re spiraling then? Delightful,” she deadpans.
“Ouch.” I cock my head back as I put the box into my basket.
“If I can’t say it, who can?”
“Maybe give me a little credit?”
She wordlessly reaches for the granola I just put in my basket and pulls out Fruity Pebbles. Her signature eyebrow arch says more than she ever could.
“That was a mistake.” I grab it more forcefully than I mean to. “I was distracted.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Jesus, Courtney.” I pull back as I put the box back on the shelf. “Why do you have to be so mean about it.”
“Why do you have to be such an idiot about him?”
I turn and walk away from her. Making sure to shove my empty grocery basket back in the stack as I storm out the door.
“He obliterated you, Mina,” she calls after me at the last minute and I’m left with the echo of her voice in the canyon of my heart.
August 1st, 2020
Dear Uncertainty,
Am I crazy? Even thinking there are words to say to you, that there’s a hello, was so hard such a short time ago. You didn’t deserve it. You didn’t deserve anything from me.
Did you?
My friends don’t think so. They think you deserve nothing more than an unfollow and a big X through any photographs you’re in. For a while I did too. For a while I was certain you were so selfish that you couldn’t see you hurt me. A part of me still thinks I was right. I can choose the words you said to me just a few days ago that prove that point.
I can pick out so many more that counter it.
So now—does anybody really know about now?
Words, words, words. It’s all just words. There were things you didn’t say. Sometimes I said too much.
What about the actions? Does forgiving you make me weak or strong? Does you loving me make you prince charming or the fool?
Does kissing me erase it all?
I can’t see straight anymore, let alone think straight. I can argue any argument when it comes to you. To us. I can justify my actions and tell myself I’m losing it in the same sentence. I’m pulling together just as I unravel at the seams.
“Where have you been?” James’ voice becomes the tremble down my spine.
“Around,” I answer just before I turn from the tap tower.
And just about die on the spot.
He looks good. No, better than good. He’s leaning on the bar, his strong forearms flat against the wood, flexing as he shifts, his long fingers attached to his big, calloused hands are on display. It’s almost obscene. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt that knocks my knees together behind the bar. He looks good in green and dark maroon—something about the tan of his skin—but black has always been my favorite.
I think it’s the way it makes his ice eyes seem so bright. They are always a beacon but in black…
“Around?” He chuckles, and I actually have to look down to see if I burst into flames.
“Yeah.” I smile as my eyes drift back to his priceless smirk. Mine spreads wildly in response.
“You aren’t avoiding me, are you?”
“Nope.” I shake my head as I admit the truth for the first time to both of us.
I hadn’t noticed that he’s not wearing his ever-present baseball hat and has his long golden hair piled into a knot at first. I’ve never seen him like that. Not once. I love it. More than I ever expected to. He looks a little rugged, a little rough like that. It’s a little intimate too, like he’s taken off a bit of his armor. I never thought longer hair was attractive until I saw him. Now I want to run my hands through it.
“When are you off?”
“Both now and never. This is my restaurant.”
James takes a moment to look around, his sharp eyes softening as they take it in like it’s the first time he’s seen it. He smirks when he notices the ancient details of the dining room, leftover from the days Doc Holliday actually played cards here. His crooked smile spreads when he sees the modern details—finishes and lush fabric wallpaper—that I’ve added. And his brow crinkles completely when he eyes the trap door that leads to a tunnel that leads to both the bank and the building that served as a brothel in the 1880s.
“The service here is terrible,” he finally snarks.
“You’re a jerk.” I wave him off with my smile still firmly in place, remembering the first time he told me that.
It was just a random afternoon when he was waiting for me to get off. We were going somewhere, it doesn’t even matter where now, but he was happy. Happier than I’d ever seen him. Beaming as he bought a new black hat and harassed me despite guests being in the restaurant. That playful side of him was… God, I still can’t find words for how that version of him made me feel.
“You’re the jerk. How many days did I sit here, and I didn’t get the tour?”
“I wasn’t counting.” It’s just a little lie but it slips out.
“I want oysters and good beer on a patio.”
That’s as close as James Larrabee gets to an invitation. An assumption that I’m just going to be there. He never said it rude or off-putting, I always found it kind of charming. And I suppose he’s right. Whether he knows it or not, whether it’s smart or not.
“This is the only place in town to get them raw.”
“How long you think I’ll wait for a decent bottle of beer?” He laughs as he turns and walks toward one of the open patio tables.
I watch him go. I even mean to make him wait. But then the urge to sit at that table with him is overwhelming. There’s been too many hours, too many dinners, that I didn’t get to sit with him to waste an
other.
Waste another minute.
I select a few of my favorite bottles, grab an ice bucket and follow him out. He whistles low as I shove them in. At first I think it’s over the label but he’s looking at me. Directly at me. I quirk my eyebrow.
“Good beer,” he says but he’s still staring at me. He hasn’t even looked.
“Great beer,” I answer as I slide into the seat next to him.
He reaches across and pulls the first one from the ice. The tick in his cheek is trying to stay put but he doesn’t quite school it. He remembers this bottle. What he said about it and why I chose it. By the time he pours us each a glass, his beautiful crooked grin has spread across his face.
“I do believe you’re happy James Larrabee,” I say as we walk down the sidewalk after approximately two dozen oysters, two large bottles of beer, and at least two hours of the best conversation I’ve had in, well, years.
“Don’t tell anyone.” He tips his chin, trying to hide a shy smile away. “Are you?”
“Yeah. I think so.” I try not to let shock and awe at the fact slip in there. I mean, I was always happy if he was after all.
His knuckles brush the back of my hand, but he doesn’t reach for it. I want to, but the almost, the hairsbreadth away, is where we’ve always been. There’s an ease to the smallest distance between us.
A thrill too.
“I’ve had quite a few decent nights on the streets of Pyramid Peak.” James keeps an easy pace beside me as we meander toward my house.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His eyes flit to my lips then away. He doesn’t mention the kiss out loud, but he doesn’t have to. No one ever has to. It plays on a loop and plays with my senses constantly.
His hand grazes mine again and despite the warm summer night, I shiver. He stops, and as if I’m tethered to him, I do too. His fingers still don’t find mine, instead they run the length of my spine, tracing the tracks of what he does to me. I close my eyes. When his hand cups my butt, I gasp. The soft part of my lips grazes the plump of his.
That touch, the singular graze of skin, is the most erotic thing that has ever happened to me. Years of my aching want being toyed with. Teased. When he kissed me the other day, I wouldn’t let myself feel. Not really. But now… I feel everything. Particularly the wild crash that comes from the build-up not the payoff.
“Good Christ,” I whisper, and his deep dark chuckle is somehow even more incinerating than it was before. When I open my eyes, his smile is too. There’s mischief to it, to him, that is almost never there.
This version of James Larrabee will be what kills me, and right now, I don’t mind in the least.
I don’t realize I’m trembling until I reach for his chest to steady myself. He keeps one hand on my back but the other comes to the shaking leaf against his chest. His big hands—long fingers—blanket my hand and hold it tight.
Another move that catches my breath.
“Mina, can I kiss you?” he asks, his words dark but breathless.
“You already have,” I barely manage.
“Then can I keep you?”
August 5th, 2020
Dear Unbelievable,
Can I keep you. Good God, yes. But also, can you?
Last time you weren’t strong enough. Or didn’t want to hold on. What has really changed? Have you been lifting weights?
I have. The weight of you. The weight of us. The heavy leaden burden of my heart. Does that make me strong enough or have I just been carrying such a heavy load for so very long that one of these days, my arms will give out?
Will you pick us up when they do?
The fairy tales would suggest yes. You, yourself, would suggest otherwise. And I fell for you. Not the fairy tale.
Where does that leave me? Apparently with no small amount of love in my heart for a man that doesn’t fully believe in it. And wants to keep me anyway.
“What do you think?” James asks as he swirls the beer in his glass.
“I mean…” I try very hard not to make a face.
“Okay, okay.” James takes the glass from my hand. “I suppose I thought that, for me, you could pretend to like a Marzen.”
“Women do a lot of dumb stuff for men but I’m not going to drink bad beer.”
“Bad beer?” He smiles wickedly as he slides closer.
“Horrible beer.” I match him step for step.
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” He stares intently at my lips.
“Nope.”
“Would you consider kissing me with that mouth?” His fingertips brush against the skin just beneath the hem of my shorts. I brace my hand against his stomach as he steps closer. “Is that a no?”
I fist my hand into his shirt and pull him in.
“No,” I say the words against his lips.
“Good,” he says just before he presses his lips to mine.
This is my new addiction. Kissing him. Tasting the malt that always seems to linger on his lips. Feeling the shape of his smile, so uniquely his. He presses against me and I sag toward the tank at my back.
“Do you know how many times I wanted to kiss you in my brewhouse?” he asks before he props an arm against the tank and leans back in.
I shiver against the metal at my back for more than one reason.
James leans back in and starts kissing me. My hands wander up his body, he presses closer. The heat of his body is enough to light me up. I bow toward him, my shoulders still pinned to the tank behind me. Each kiss is more electric, each jolt makes me want more.
More, more, more of him.
“Well, what do we have here?” Jonas asks. James shoots away from me, almost tripping in his rubber boots. I’m stuck up against the stainless steel.
“Hey, Jonas.” I can barely get the words out.
“I was going to ask how it was going but I think the answer is great,” Jonas teases.
I can’t help but smile even as embarrassment still stings my chest and cheeks. But James is frozen, his eyes a little wide, his hands balled in fists. There’s an angry fear coloring his eyes and it’s a combination that cuts me. I’ve seen it before and it left me in ribbons then.
It was the start of the end.
That day he dodged me he looked at me like that. He followed it up with the infamous you’re too much text the next day. He claimed we were still friends, things were still fine, but that look stayed wedged between us. He said he couldn’t communicate well or right or whatever, but that look said plenty.
It’s doing it all over again.
“I’m gonna go,” I say, my voice betrays I’m crestfallen.
“No way, stay. At least have a beer.” Jonas gestures toward the taproom.
I force myself to smile. Jonas doesn’t know that my world is dissolving. That all it takes is one look to start eroding the ground beneath me. That it’s happened before. I search James’ face for some reassurance, some hint that he isn’t going to cut and run and blame me for it all over again.
He doesn’t give it.
“I’m good, thanks, Jonas. You’re too good to me.” I force the words out. I feel how hard they are to shove past the lump in my throat.
“No, Mina, that’s you. If it weren’t for you…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, he just walks over and gives me a hug. I have to talk my hands into hugging back, my eyes stay locked on James. Begging, pleading.
Say something. Do Something. Anything. I wordlessly ask for absolutely any of it.
Nothing.
I push back and face Jonas. “Shush, I’ve done nothing.” Each word hurts. Pushing past the resonating pain and functioning normally is a feeling that I know too well. It’s a feeling that I hate. It’s a feeling that pairs all too well with James Larrabee. I have to swallow that realization down too. “James, I’ll talk to you later.”
He gives me a single, curt nod.
Another sucker punch to the stomach.
I try and breathe when I’m outside, when Jonas’ happi
ness and James’ crashing disappointment aren’t crushing me. But I can’t. I just can’t. The I told you so and why didn’t I know better are slowly strangling. The weight of going against my gut, against history, is sitting on my rib cage.
I should have fought it. I should have listened to Courtney. Didn’t I know his words were always going to be empty?
Tears pool in the corner of my eyes, about to tremble and fall.
But then my phone buzzes in my pocket.
can I talk to you?
James. How many times did I see his name on my screen as my heartbeat went wild, only to crash at what followed.
What is the saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. How should it go when I’ve been fooled three thousand times?
I punch out the letters in visceral response. Just two. Two I should have used a long time ago.
no.
My fist hesitates just short of Courtney’s door. I’m headed for an I told you so of epic proportions and I’m a little too banged up to hear it right now. Sure, I kind of deserve it but I need to build back up the walls I let crumble before I have to stomach the words. I’ll puke them back up otherwise.
I turn from her place, a little unsure of where to go.
There’s too much of him stuck to too much of me at home. There’s too big a chance either one of them will find me anywhere else.
So I grab my bike from the shed and ride. I snake through the quiet streets of Pyramid Peaks, studying each of the quaint cabins, each of the massive second homes. My mind wanders over their owners, past and present. I know half of them but do I really? No one knows the pain that lives and breathes inside me so why would I presume to know theirs.
And there’s years and years and years of stories just the same as mine. Real love, unrequited. Okay, unrequited is a tad dramatic. But he doesn’t love me the way I need him to, which is almost worse. It’s holding sand in my hand. I start out with so much, sure I can hold it and keep it, only to find the grains have slipped out. One small slight, one type of unfeeling after another, leaving the tiniest trail of my heart behind.
