Broken

by Megan Hart

  “Oh, God, Sadie. I want to come inside you so bad….”

  Lovers’ talk is inelegant, but it worked for me. I’d lost track of how many times I’d climaxed by then; after the first two my body had simply hummed with constant, unending pleasure without diminishing. I pushed against him, our bodies arching and shifting so he could plunge inside me deeper still. Faster, we fucked, and harder. The small pain as he hit my cervix only made the pleasure more intense. His hand closed over my cunt from the front, no longer targeting my clit.

  I came and didn’t stop long enough to count the spasms. Joe thrust faster. The wet sound of my ass slapping his stomach became incredibly erotic as I imagined the slickness of my cunt coating his erection, of how hot and wet I was for him. Of how it must feel to be buried inside me, how my body caressed his cock and held it. My body embraced him, each thrust pulling another groan from me, groans he answered with whispered commentary about how much he loved this.

  Fucking me. How good I tasted, how soft I felt, how delicious I smelled. Joe spoke the story of us as he fucked me, and I lost myself not only in the delights of our bodies but in the tale he spun so well.

  He moaned my name when he finished, thrusting so hard inside me it thumped the headboard against the wall. Muscles in his stomach leaped against my ass. The hand cupped between my legs moved, his fingers finding my clit again and pinching it gently up and down.

  I couldn’t even make a sound, so breathless with pleasure had he left me. My final orgasm didn’t wash over me in waves. It reared up and slapped me hard enough to make me see stars. It left me shaking and light-headed.

  Then his arms were around me, our bodies still linked even though he was softening inside me. His face nuzzled into the softness at the nape of my neck and he held me tight and tighter.

  I caught my breath, blinking into darkness. I couldn’t move, boneless in the aftermath of such glorious sex. I was aware of the tangled sheets around us and the dampness beneath, but I couldn’t make myself move.

  I waited for Joe to let go of me, but I fell asleep before he did.

  I woke to sunlight and Joe still tangled up with me. His deep breathing said he wasn’t yet awake, and I was careful not to disturb him as I extricated myself and hobbled to the bathroom.

  Had I run a marathon? My body felt like it. Stepping under the steaming water, I winced as I rinsed myself and discovered a myriad of stings. I was raw and bruised, aching.

  I waited for the guilt to hit me when I looked at my reflection while brushing my teeth. I waited for it while I threw on a robe and slippers and pulled my wet hair into a knot on the top of my head. By the time I headed downstairs to make some breakfast, I was ready to tell guilt to go fuck itself, when and if it ever bothered to show.

  The smell of pancakes must have drawn him out of bed, because Joe appeared as I was setting the table. He’d showered and wrapped a towel around his waist. In the bright morning sunlight he was every bit as beautiful as I’d known he’d be.

  He came up behind me to kiss the back of my neck. His hands slid into the gap of my robe and found my breasts. I let him touch me, my nipples getting tight under his touch, but after a moment he stopped and pulled away.

  “This smells good.”

  “Sit down. Help yourself.”

  I’d made coffee, too, and poured us both mugs to sip while we ate. He made appreciative noises about the pancakes, but put his fork down after a few bites.

  We looked at each other.

  “Last night,” he said quietly. “Are you sorry about it?”

  “No. Are you?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I sipped my coffee, watching him. He had spent the night. He had kissed my mouth. But none of that meant anything, in the end. Did it?

  “Do you want me to leave?” he asked suddenly, leaning forward.

  “Do you want to go?”

  After a moment in which he wouldn’t look at me, he shook his head.

  “Joe,” I said gently, and waited until he gave me his gaze before I finished. “I think it might be better if you did.”

  His mouth tightened.

  “I’m not ready for this to be anything more than what it was.”

  “What was it, Sadie?” He sounded angry, but he looked…sad.

  I didn’t have an answer for him, at least not one I came up with fast enough to suit. Joe crossed his arms and frowned.

  “What should I do?” he asked. “Pretend it didn’t happen?”

  “Maybe that would be best.”

  “For who?”

  “For both of us.”

  He got up. The towel slipped lower, revealing a bit of hair I had to turn my eyes from. He scowled, looking fierce.

  “For you, maybe.”

  “Fine.” It took effort to keep my voice calm. “Yes. For me. It would be best for me if you left.”

  He came around the table like he meant to reach for me. I didn’t realize until he did how I’d react. I pushed my chair back so abruptly it screeched along the linoleum like someone stepping on a cat. He withdrew. We squared off.

  “Why?” he asked finally, gesturing between us.

  “Because my husband just died, Joe, and I’m not in a good place to start anything new!”

  His scowl deepened, lines bracketing his mouth. “This isn’t new.”

  I took my plate to the garbage to scrape it clean and put it in the dishwasher. I felt him behind me, but he didn’t touch me this time.

  “I’m sorry, Joe.”

  “You’re not really asking me to go.”

  I kept my back to him as I went to the sink to wash the mixing bowl and griddle. “This is absurd.”

  “Why?” From behind me, his tone had gone deep. “Why is it absurd?”

  “Because it is!”

  “That’s not an answer!”

  I turned. “I don’t have a better one, okay?”

  We faced each other across the small expanse of my kitchen. In all the months of imagining, I’d never imagined him here. Joe wasn’t a part of this life, this reality. At least, he hadn’t been meant to be. Things were different now.

  It terrified me.

  “You can’t possibly think we’re ever going to be together.” When his only answer was a solemn look, I babbled on. “Because that’s just messed up, Joe. That’s really messed up. There are so many things wrong with that scenario, I can’t even begin to list them.”

  “Try me.”

  I shook my head, vehement. “No. No, I don’t want—”

  “Sadie.” Joe put his arms around me from behind again. His chin fit just right into the curve of my shoulder. His breath was warm on my face. “I know you better than you think I do.”

  I wanted to push him away, but he didn’t seem to want to go. I wished he were dressed. It seemed unfair to have this conversation with him when he had only the protection of a towel and I wore a robe, in such an intimate reminder of the night before.

  “I’m sorry, Joe. I can’t do this with you. Not now.”

  “Because of your husband?”

  I turned in his embrace to meet his eyes. “No. Because of me.”

  He let me go and stepped back. “Last night,” he said finally, with the dignity of man whose back is straight only because it hurt less than slouching. “You said you wanted this. Whatever it is.”

  “How many stories have you told me?” My voice was hoarse.

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.”

  He frowned. “It shouldn’t.”

  “I wish it didn’t,” I said. “But it does. For years I’ve listened to your stories. Now, here I am, inside one. Right where I wanted to be all along. And I’m not sure what to do.”

  Joe sighed and put the heel of his hand to one eye, as if his head hurt. Then he took it away to give me his full gaze. “You are not just another story to me.”

  I drew in a soft, hitching breath. “I wish I could believe that.”

  “But you can’t.”<
br />
  We stared at each other. I wanted to touch him, to let him touch me, but it was suddenly all too much. Without the safety of knowing I couldn’t have him, I wasn’t sure how to want Joe, anymore.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want you to be sorry. Shit. Be anything but sorry.” His hands opened and closed into fists at his sides. “What if we started over?”

  I wasn’t sure what to say. He kept talking, filling in the silence so I didn’t have to. “What if we started at the beginning?”

  I didn’t know what to do with my hands, so I gripped the edges of the sink and watched the foam dissipate, giving me a glimpse of dirty water beneath. I took small, shallow breaths that didn’t give me enough air.

  I didn’t turn, though he moved so close behind me I felt the warmth of his body. “I need time,” I whispered. “To make sure I know who I am. How can you say you know me when I don’t even know myself?”

  “I wasn’t the only one telling stories, Sadie. For two years I’ve seen you once a month, every month. I am not the only one who told stories. I just used more words, that’s all.”

  I faced him. He stopped an inch away from touching my face. After a moment, he put his hand on my shoulder, and the weight of it was as familiar as a favorite story heard for the first time after years untold. For a while, two minutes or ten, the only sound in the kitchen was our breathing.

  “Why do you think I kept coming back?” he asked. “Why do you think I kept telling you, month after month, everything about me that nobody else seemed to see?”

  I looked into his eyes. “I can’t be your answer, Joe. I can’t be the one who saves you from yourself. I don’t have what you’re looking for. I’m sorry, but I’m not ready to be your redemption.”

  He took his hand away, and nodded once, slowly. He took step by careful step away from me until once again there was a universe between us. The lifted burden of his hand upon my shoulder left me not lighter, but heavier under the weight of that distance.

  I washed every dish and pan under water so hot it turned my hands to crimson gloves at the ends of my wrists, but I didn’t notice the sting. I hadn’t had time even to finish when I heard a step in the doorway. I didn’t turn.

  “From the first time you laughed with me, all those months, and all those stories,” Joe said quietly. “They were all you, to me. All of them were you.”

  I waited too long to turn, because when I did at last, he’d already gone.

  Taking my life off hold didn’t want to be easy, but I no longer refused to let it happen. I cherished my memories, the good and the bad, and didn’t discriminate between them. There were days I loved Adam with every breath I took and days I hated him for leaving me. For being unwilling to try. For making it impossible for me to remember there had been good times. For failing to stay the knight in untarnished armor he’d been to me.

  Grief didn’t fall away all at once. Like paint chipping, it flaked off to reveal the original surface beneath. I had to strip myself down to that surface before I could think about refinishing. Spring brought flowers and sunshine. I worked in my garden and planted flowers Adam had loved…but I also planted ones I adored and he hadn’t liked.

  There were days I forgot Adam was gone until I passed the still-closed door to his room. Days when my heart ached for him so fiercely I could do little but miss him. And then, there were days when I went to bed and dreamed of the scent of lavender and the taste of whiskey and rain.

  I spent my time reconnecting with friends and family. Building my practice. I took my time in mourning that soon felt less like grief and more like growth.

  Long ago, I’d been happy to be what Adam wanted. What he needed. I didn’t regret it, even now. I’d loved him with everything I had, but it was time to figure out what was left now that he was gone.

  I thought I’d cry when I began to dismantle Adam’s room. There were charities that distributed used equipment, and it pleased me to know someone would benefit from the items we’d so carefully chosen to make Adam’s life easier. His chair, the bed, the adaptive devices, I packed them all up without even blinking and put them in the truck that came for them. His clothes went into boxes for the thrift store. His books I delivered to friends who’d appreciate them. Piece by piece, day by day, I took apart the room that had been his self-made prison, until all that remained were the bare floors and green-painted walls and the memories of how once we’d made love and laughed there.

  Powering up Adam’s computer felt like holding his hand again. This was where he’d worked. Where he’d written. I’d joked to him that he’d have married that computer, if he could, and he’d never denied it. I meant to erase this last piece of him without even looking. Peeking into Adam’s files felt like a betrayal of the greatest magnitude, worse even than my months of listening to Joe’s stories had been. The box of wires and circuits was as much a part of my husband as the color of his eyes or his smile.

  I didn’t need any of the data on the hard drive. I kept my own computer with all our financial data. Adam’s lectures were all saved on disk and the software was easily reloaded from the originals. Since I intended to donate the computer to a local preschool, I wanted to make sure everything else was wiped clean.

  In the end, I couldn’t erase what was all I had left. I grabbed a handful of blank CD’s and began backing up his data. The class lectures and notes I deleted, along with the folders full of e-mail. His correspondence didn’t concern me. Nor did I bother transferring the websites he’d bookmarked or the copies of his online orders.

  When I came to his personal documents, however, I stopped. I stare at the computer for a full, long minute before I could open the folder he’d titled “Sadie.”

  He’d always craved feedback, reading me ten or twenty versions of his poems, the only differences between them the placement of a comma or choice of a word. When he no longer talked about his writing, I’d thought he stopped. But in that, as I’d been in so many other places, I was wrong.

  Two quick clicks of the mouse took me to a place inside Adam’s head he’d refused to allow me for a long time. Here he’d typed, meticulously and with what must have been agonizing slowness, dozens of poems he’d never shared.

  He wrote about his anger. Frustration. He wrote about the joy and satisfaction of being able to write, and of his despair when the words wouldn’t come. He’d filled document after document with his careful phrases, the small spare haiku and long, rambling free-form poetry he’d once mocked as cheating.

  He wrote about how he loved me.

  He wrote about how he hated me.

  It was the most honesty I’d had from him since his accident, and he’d hidden it from me. Angry, I dragged it all to the trash. I hovered the mouse over the delete button, but at the last minute, I undid what I’d done and returned my husband’s words to the file he’d named after me. I burned them to a disk, which I labeled carefully and put away in the box where I stored special things like the clippings of his hair.

  Those were Adam’s thoughts and dreams. Himself and me, painted in pictures of words. They were his perceptions and images, and whether or not they were true made little matter, now. They were Adam’s pictures. Adam’s stories.

  Not mine.

  It was time to stop being what Adam had needed me to be, or what he thought I was. Time to stop trying to be the wife I thought I had to be and become the woman I wanted to be, instead.

  Epilogue

  August

  I’m a psychologist, and I love my work. I like to run and read, I like peppermint-stick ice cream and scary movies, and my favorite color is red. I love the smell of lavender. These are not things I have just discovered, though some of them were hidden from me, for a time.

  I’ve stopped being surprised by my face in the mirror. I know the shape of that face, the color of those eyes, the fall of hair. Now my reflection shows someone I recognize, even if I’m still learning who she is.

  Today the wooden bench cradles my
back as I lean. The flowers along the path in front of me nod yellow petals in a breeze that stills smells like summer.

  There was much I needed to figure out before I could decide if this bench was a place I needed to be. It’s taken me a while. I’m still uncertain what this means, but I’m sure of my desire to find out.

  I have no place to go and nothing to do but sit and wait, and the waiting is pleasant enough that I don’t mind. Mothers pushing strollers and people walking dogs hurry past. Squirrels chase each other around the trees, while birds peck for bugs in the grass.

  Then, he is there, covered in sunshine. He wears it like a suit of gold, shining. He sits beside me carefully, and the bench shivers at the new weight.

  There is, perhaps, much to be said, but neither of us says it. Time and circumstance have made us new to each other. I look at him, but he’s looking at his hands, linked in his lap.

  At last he looks up at me with one eye squinted shut against the brightness. He straightens and turns. He holds out his hand, and I take it, waiting, breathless.

  “Hi.” His fingers close around mine. “My name’s Joe Wilder.”

  “Hello, Joe,” I say, and add with utter confidence. “I’m Sadie.”

  Our fingers squeeze together. “It’s nice to meet you, Sadie.”

  There are many things I don’t know, but quite a few I do. I know you can’t be lost if you know where you are. I know that life is full of precious and fragile things, and not all of them are pretty. I know that the sun follows the moon and makes days, one after another. Time passes. The world turns, and we turn with it, and though we can never go back to the beginning, sometimes, we can start again.

  “It’s nice to meet you, too, Joe.”

  I’m uncertain of how the story will end, but sitting in the sunlight with Joe’s hand in mine, I have no doubts about how it begins. There is only one truth of which I feel confident, one thing I know that nothing else can change.