Passion and Ink (Sweetest Taboo)

by Naima Simone

  “No.” I snatch my hand free. And stumble back. “No.”

  It’s as if a movie screen popped up between us, and I can see the future. Me, waiting on him to come home in a strange city, a foreign country. Me, clinging to him, grateful for any scrap of attention he bestows on me. Me, utterly dependent on him for everything—a roof over my head, food in my mouth, my well-being, my happiness.

  It’s a horror movie.

  My darkest nightmare.

  My biggest fear.

  “I love you.” The stark, direct vow is as frightening as the utter certainty in it. Jude doesn’t approach me, doesn’t try to touch me again, but he repeats the words I both hoard and desperately shove away. “I love you, Cypress.”

  “No,” I whisper again, shaking my head. “You can’t. I can’t…”

  “You’re right. You won’t. You won’t open yourself to the possibility that maybe, just maybe, your parents’ story doesn’t have to be ours. You won’t allow yourself to hope for more, because if reality doesn’t meet your expectations, you’ll be crushed. You won’t let yourself believe that while you definitely don’t need a man to complete you, you need one—me—to be whole. ‘Step out of the history that is holding you back. Step into the new story you are willing to create.’ That’s one of your quotes, right? Maybe it’s time to stop reciting everyone else’s advice and start living it.”

  I close my eyes, as if that can shut out the world. Shut him out. Unfair, throwing one of my idols, Oprah Winfrey’s, words at me. Yes, he knows me. Knows how to take direct aim and the weapon to use.

  “Look at me,” he softly demands.

  Unable even now, I can’t give him what he wants from me. Well, that’s not exactly true. He’s requesting I give up my freedom, my future for him, and that I can’t do. But this—to look at him—I can give him. At least one last time.

  “You love me.” Before I can confirm or deny it, he continues. “Whether you can admit it or not, you do. But you fear ending up being abandoned and hurt again more.” The accusation, though soft, almost tender, is still an accusation.

  And it stings. No, damn that. It burns, bright and hot. Because it’s true.

  “Yes.”

  He wants me to confess that I’m a coward? Fine. I am. I’m terrified. And the risk of drowning in the confusion, loneliness, fear, and anger that shaped my childhood and adulthood isn’t worth a chance—a slim-to-none chance—that we could possibly have this grand Harry-and-Meghan fairytale couple ending. In my reality, princes don’t fall in love with commoners, and Jude can’t promise me forever.

  Resignation flashes in his eyes, hardens his expression, before his face wipes clean of all emotion. He nods, shifting back and away from me. One step. Two. Three. A couple more, and he stands near my suitcases.

  “I can’t make you trust me, Cypress. And without trust, I could never convince you that I love you more than your insecurities, doubts, and past. You’re my future, my everything. I’d fight for us—Dan, my mother, this whole world—but I can’t fight you. This time it’s you walking away from someone who loves you. Not the other way around.”

  Turning, he pulls open the front door, then picks up my car keys from the small table next to the open entrance. He tucks them into his pocket and, arranging all the pieces of my luggage in his hands and under his arm, exits the apartment.

  He doesn’t return.

  I stand staring at the empty doorway for… God, I don’t know how long. A big, hollow void yawns wide inside me, damn near swallowing me whole. Part of me yearns to tumble head first into it and never claw my way out.

  Somehow, I move my limbs. Packing up my last few remaining items, I hike my purse and bag over my shoulder, and then close the door to the place that has become more like home to me in the past few weeks than any other I’ve called by the same name.

  Tears sting my eyes, and I don’t try to stop them as I descend the steps. There’s no one here to see them anyway. I force myself to go forward, to leave. Locating the car keys Jude left under my driver’s seat, I slide inside and turn the ignition, refusing to look behind me. If I do, I might not drive away.

  In the end, I do.

  I drive. And keep on driving.

  Damn. For these past few months, I’d believed quitting my job and slinging drinks at a dive bar was hitting rock bottom.

  I stand corrected.

  This is not only the bottom of that rock, but I’ve jackhammered a few inches lower.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cypress

  I shiver against the late March wind and ring the doorbell of Dan and Katherine’s house one more time. I’d called ahead to let Dan know I would be dropping by, so he should be here. Anxious to get this errand over and done with, I aim my finger at the bell once more, when the door opens.

  “Cypress,” Katherine greets with a warm smile. “Dan said you would be over. Please, come in.” She steps back, waving me in.

  “Thanks, Katherine. It’s nice seeing you again,” I say, a lance of pain shafting my heart. God, just looking at her… Her youngest son might be the son with her eyes, but the shape of them, her smile—they’re all Jude. And the reminder of that son—of the man I haven’t seen in ten days—is almost too much.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” She closes the door behind me, and briefly touching my elbow, guides me down the hall. Unlike last time, I don’t check out the framed photos on the wall. Like a horse with blinders on, I train my focus ahead of me, but the temptation to scan the pictures and study Jude’s image needles me, a splinter under my skin that no amount of pushing or prodding can release.

  “No, not this time,” I belatedly answer. “I have work in an hour.”

  “Oh, too bad. Maybe tomorrow for Sunday dinner?”

  And sit across from Jude? No way in hell. “Maybe,” I murmur.

  “I’ll take that.” She offers me another smile and another glancing touch on my arm. “I hope you can make it.”

  I look over at her—really look—and wait for the familiar vestiges of bitterness, resentment. I dive deep, searching out even the tiniest scraps of the feelings that I’ve associated with this woman for thirteen years.

  Nothing.

  Maybe it’s because I see Jude in her, and I can’t find fault in anything that resembles him. Maybe it’s because I finally realize and accept that she didn’t have anything to do with the disintegration of my parents’ relationship, and it isn’t showing my mother disloyalty to like Katherine.

  Maybe because I’m tired of feeling anything, and that includes any lingering animosity toward her.

  When I walked out of Jude’s apartment and drove toward Mom’s, a blessed numbness had encased me. But a couple of days later, that frozen state melted, and since then, I’ve been a chaotic mess of grief, pain, loneliness, and anger. At myself.

  “Everything okay, Cypress?” Katherine’s question drags me out of my head. Thank God.

  “Sure.” I dredge up a smile, and from the concern in her blue eyes, it’s an epic fail. “Just tired. I’ve been pulling extra shifts,” I lie. But how to tell her I can’t close my eyes without pictures and memories of her son bombarding me? That instead I stay awake and stare at the ceiling? Pretty certain that wouldn’t go over well.

  She pats my shoulder. “You’re like my boys. Work too hard. I tell them all the time to slow down, take care of themselves. But do they listen?”

  “No?” I guess, arching an eyebrow.

  She chuckles. “You’d be correct.” We stop in front of the open door to the den Dan and I spoke in weeks ago. “He’s in there watching the baseball game.” She rolls her eyes, her lips curling in an all-too-familiar smile. I jerk my head away, inhaling through the red pulse of pain emanating from my chest.

  “Thanks, Katherine.”

  Walking into the room, I spot Dan on the couch, sock-covered feet crossed and propped up on the coffee table, and a beer resting on his stomach. It’s so reminiscent of the times when I walked into our old apartm
ent to find him in the same position, beer in hand, cursing out the Cubs, that I stumble. I’d run in from playing outside with the kids on the floor under us and jump on the couch next to him. He’d sling his arm around my shoulders, dragging me close to smack a kiss on the top of my head. Then we’d settle down and watch the game together, even though I knew nothing—still don’t know anything—about baseball. It hadn’t been about the sport, though; it’d been about spending time with my dad. Being Daddy’s Girl.

  I’d convinced myself I didn’t remember those good times. But since staying at Mom’s, I have no choice. I can’t walk out of my old bedroom without being bombarded with memories, and not just because of her framed shrine. It’s like stepping into the past and being able to do nothing but bask in it, analyze it, break it down from a twenty-six-year-old’s perspective instead of a child.

  The revelations have been…eye-opening.

  “Hi, Dan,” I say, stopping next to the sofa.

  He looks away from the television and, spotting me, quickly comes to his feet. Setting the beer can on the table, he crosses over to me, pauses, then pulls me into a short, awkward hug. He releases me before I can embrace him back. Or decide to.

  A beat of silence reigns in the room, the only sound the crack of a ball hitting a bat and the commentator’s excited recount of the play.

  “So.” He clears his throat and waves toward the couch and chair next to it. “I was surprised you called. What brings you by?”

  I opt for the arm chair, and he resettles on the couch. Opening my purse, I withdraw an envelope and pass it to him.

  “I wanted to return this to you. The money you’ve paid for Mom’s bills,” I explain as he slips a finger under the flap. “Thanks for paying it.” The proceeds from the condo closing had arrived yesterday morning, and I hadn’t wasted any time depositing it. God, seeing those six-digit numbers had been a huge relief. For the first time in months, the worry of money had lifted off my shoulders, and it’d been freeing.

  He opens the envelope but doesn’t peer inside or remove the check. Instead, he frowns. “Cypress, you didn’t have to do this. I didn’t ask you to repay me for that money.”

  “I know you didn’t. But like you told me before, taking care of Mom’s bills wasn’t the original purpose of the money you set aside. And Mom is no longer your responsibility either. So this”—I nod toward the check—“makes us even.”

  “Here.” He extends it toward me, shaking it for emphasis. “Take it.”

  “No,” I say, zipping my purse. “C’mon, Dan. It’s not like the money was a gift. It certainly wasn’t free.” Okay, so maybe some of that resentment and bitterness still lurks inside me. Rising to my feet, I shrug. “Use it or don’t cash it. I’m not taking it back.”

  “Cypress,” he says my name in a tone I haven’t heard in a long time, and my reflex is to halt in my path toward the den door. I turn around, a little shocked. “I talked to your mother.”

  “I know,” I reply, arching an eyebrow and struggling to bar the anger from entering my voice. “I was there to clean up the pieces after the phone call.”

  He winces, and oddly, I take no pleasure in it. “I’m sorry. I’m…sorry for a lot of things.” He tosses the envelope onto the chair I just vacated and bows his head for a long moment. When he returns his gaze to me, I swallow a gasp. The shadows there are deep and so full of sadness, I’m stunned into silence. “One of my biggest regrets is our relationship. So many times over the years, I wished I could go back and kick the ass of the man I was and tell him not to be so damn selfish, not to be so prideful, not to be afraid to apologize to my little girl. I told myself you were too young to understand my decisions and that they didn’t affect you. I was a fool. I broke our home and expected you to comprehend and accept what even adults have a hard time doing. I knew the state your mother was in and didn’t consider—or didn’t want to consider—the burden that placed on you. And when you refused to come over for visitation any longer, when you pretty much stopped talking to me, I told myself when you were older, you’d get over it, and we’d be close again. But that never happened. And I only have myself to blame.”

  “Dan…” I rasp, still paralyzed by the shock gripping me. Never—never—had I believed these words would come from him. A part of me still can’t grasp them. Not completely. But the other half… The other half that secretly longed for this is listening, hanging on every syllable in rapt attention.

  He flinches. “Do you know how much it hurts me every time you call me that instead of Daddy, like you used to? And it’s worse knowing that it’s all my fault. I did that. I haven’t been Daddy to you in a long time, Cypress, and it all falls on me. I used to tell myself the phone worked both ways, that you didn’t call or reach out to me either. But I’m the father, and no matter how old you get, you’re my child. And letting you know how much I love you, how much I want to get to know you again and try to build a relationship with you again, is my responsibility.”

  “Mine, too,” I breathe past the huge fist of emotion lodged in my throat. Hope is a fragile bird with newly mended wings in my chest. But there’s also the fear—fear that if hope takes off on its fledgling flight, rejection and disappointment will send it crashing back to the ground.

  “When you came to Sunday dinner, I thought maybe it was our new beginning. But then, in this room, I realized we were as distant from each other as we’d been when you were on the other side of the country. I got afraid again. Looking at you—looking at all that I’d lost in the face—I was afraid. You accused me of placing Katherine above you, and you were right. My only excuse is because she’s all that I have left, and I was afraid of losing her as I’d already lost you.”

  Fear. Loss. Leaving.

  This was our legacy.

  But it didn’t have to be. The curse could stop here with me.

  Step out of the history that is holding you back. Step into the new story you are willing to create.

  Jude’s voice reciting the Oprah Winfrey quote whispers inside my head. It’s always been one of my favorites. Mainly because all these years, I thought I was doing just that; I prided myself on leaving my history behind, not letting it hold me back. I believed I was creating my own present and future. But standing here in front of my father with the little girl warring with the emotionally scarred adult, I can no longer refute the truth. I’ve been letting the past control me, influence my decisions to the point that I’ve hobbled myself.

  When people get too close, I erect walls, keeping them out. When people want intimacy, I give them sex and show them the door.

  When people—Jude—offers me forever, I run, believing I’m only worthy of “right now.” And afraid of reaching for more.

  It’s not too late to change. It can’t be.

  Because I’m damn sure not the lost, hope-battered woman I was when Jude walked into The Rabbit Hole and sat at my booth. He’s shown me kindness, selflessness, acceptance; even when my blood family couldn’t or wouldn’t sacrifice for me, he did, sharing his own space with me and demanding nothing in return.

  I arrived in Chicago disillusioned. Wounded. And he tended to each bruise, restored some of my faith in people. I still have a ways to go, but without the example he set for me, I would’ve remained the cynical woman with a poisoned spirit. His goodness, his…love has lanced that sore, his heart a balm healing what time couldn’t.

  Out of panic and fear, I’d convinced myself Jude wanted me to give up my freedom, my future for him; I lied to myself to justify me walking away. When the bald, deal-with-it truth is he wasn’t asking me to give up my future—just share it with him.

  Share my life with him.

  A shiver ripples through me.

  Because along with this revelation comes another one fast on its heels.

  I want to. More than a murky future, more than my lonely pride, more than my fear of being abandoned, I want that life with him.

  “I hope it’s not too late to change,” Dan says, eithe
r echoing my thoughts, or more likely, I’d voiced them aloud. “Or to try and correct my wrongs, even a little bit. Which is why I brought up your mother.” He pauses, running his fingers over the knuckles of his other hand, a nervous tell I remember from years ago. Funny how I’m just recalling that. “I’ve spoken to your Mom a couple of times, the last one a few days ago. She mentioned you moving back in with her. But she also told me about you coming over with a young man. She called him Jay, but from her description, I’m guessing it was Jude.”

  A week ago, I would’ve had an excuse at the ready, but now I just nod. “Yes.”

  “Then I’m also assuming you didn’t stay away from him like I asked.”

  “No,” I say, about to add that I’m not sorry. ’Cause I’m so not sorry.

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” He beats me to it. At this point, he should be incapable of surprising me, but apparently not.

  “What?”

  He shakes his head. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he repeats. “I had no right to impose that ultimatum on you. And from what it sounds like, Jude was there for you like I haven’t been. And I can’t begrudge him that. You deserve someone who will be there for you, support you, and won’t let you down.” He frowns, but it doesn’t seem to be directed at me as much as at himself. “God knows I didn’t do that for you. Katherine… With losing Connor and then the relationship between Knox and Eden, she’s had a tough time of it. Of handling change. But she’s going to have to eventually. And keeping her in a bubble isn’t protecting her, it’s hurting her. Besides, love isn’t black and white. God knows we all know that. Your mother and me. Knox in love with his brother’s wife. You falling for your stepbrother. If there’s one thing this family knows is messy love. But”—he shrugs a shoulder—“I don’t know if that necessarily a bad thing. So I guess what I’m trying to say is, if you love Jude, then I’m not standing in your way.”