by Mary Frame
I laugh. “Yeah, I’m real talented in the run-and-hide arena.”
“I’ve noticed.”
My smile falters. “They’re getting married.”
“Does that bother you?” His voice is hushed and quiet, probing but not demanding.
I take stock of the carefully held-back emotions hiding in the cave I’ve put them in, just like the box of photos in the closet. The same ones that were churning earlier. The box has been damaged by my confession and they’re easier to sort. They’ve settled down to smaller, more manageable piles now that I’ve unleashed everything all over Jude.
It’s not jealousy, not like that. I haven’t had romantic feelings for Chad in a long time. It’s been years since I realized I didn’t really love him, I loved the idea of him. The idea of falling in love with my best friend, the idea of having an epic romance. Just like my parents and grandparents and everyone else, and then when the dream was shattered into pieces, no one could make me believe in any of it.
“Not really. You know, once I got over the shock of it all, I wasn’t mad at them. More embarrassed. Ashamed. I felt so stupid that I hadn’t seen it. And by then so much time had passed and it was too late to go back. It was hard, though, for a long time. I was like a zombie. A shell. I didn’t know what to do. Losing Taylor and Chad was like losing my right arm but I couldn’t be around them and watch them love each other. I was the third wheel in the worst of ways, the third wheel who was pining for one of the wheels while it humped the other wheel.”
“How did you move on?”
“Writing helped.” The words fall out without conscious thought and I wish I could take them back because Jude is too clever to miss the subtext.
“Writing? Not journalism, though.”
“No. I . . .” I can’t share this with him. Can I? “I started taking writing courses after everything. While I was in Austin. They have a creative writing MFA I was interested in. I had no one to talk to about what I was going through, and writing was the only outlet. I wrote terrible poetry and angst-filled flash fiction and it was like a drug. It was the only way to get the shame out. I originally wanted to major in creative writing, actually.”
“Then why the switch to journalism? It’s not nearly the same thing.”
“It’s not.” I can’t go on.
Of course he can read me like a damn book. “Did something happen that made you feel like you couldn’t pursue it as a career?”
“Well . . . it’s not easy to find a job or make money to support yourself on something creative.”
“True. Doesn’t mean it’s not a worthy pursuit.”
“I was no good at it anyway.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Oh, you know, in class we would have critique groups and . . . the professors at UT . . .” I shrug. “No one liked it.”
“But that’s merely a few opinions. Surely you shared your work with people who know you, like family.”
“One professor told me I would be more likely to win the Olympic gold medal in curling than to get published. I tried to prove him wrong. I submitted my work all over the place, but I just got one rejection after another. To the point that I was spending all my time chasing a pipe dream and none working a real job to pay the rent.”
“But what about Fitz? Your parents?”
I laugh. “I can’t share things with them.”
“Why not? They’re . . . you and Fitz come from a good family.”
“They are good, it’s just that, well, Fitz would not want to read about my angsty love life and my parents, that’s a little more complicated. We didn’t exactly have it all easy, growing up. Money was tight. Don’t get me wrong, they’re great people, but Daddy was always working, and when I would vent to Momma about my problems, or when I was upset, she would take everything inside her and it would hurt. She cares so much, too much. Once I realized she shared my pain, I didn’t want to wear her down. Momma’s not strong enough.”
Which is why I’ve been avoiding her calls. But it’s more than just that. It’s also the shame of one failure after another. If I can’t even keep a paying job writing here in Blue Falls, what hope do I have elsewhere?
He sits back. “You’ve had no one to open up to. Damn near your whole life you kept your true feelings under wraps and every time you opened up to anyone, you experienced rejection in some form. Whether it was your mother, your best friends, the people who were supposed to care about you the most, strangers . . . everyone. No wonder.”
“No wonder what?”
“No wonder you’ve built a hard shell. If you keep yourself hidden, you can’t get hurt.”
My chest constricts. My eyes water without my permission. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
Is he right? I don’t know if I can handle all this truth.
His eyes are watching my face now intently, purposefully, like he can see into my soul, especially when he speaks. “All of this is why you don’t believe in love.”
I roll my eyes. “Not this again. I’m not like Fitz. He’s an eternal idealist.”
“Well, then explain your parents’ relationship. I’ve heard the story of their epic romance more than a few times from your brother.”
“That’s different. They’re a one-off. It happens, but it’s like lightning in a bottle. It’s two personalities that can cohabitate, not magic. I’m not my parents. I don’t need an epic love, I only need myself.”
He nods once. “You’re right.”
“I am? You’re not going to argue with me?”
“I’m only going to say that you can be alone, of course. But you can’t escape life forever. Humans are social creatures. You will suffer without connection. And with connection comes pain and vulnerability. It’s life. And trust me when I tell you that pain is better than nothing at all.”
“You sound like Reese.”
“She’s a smart lady.”
“You can have love and affection without the romance.”
“You know what I think? You don’t want the pain of rejection ever again and it’s made you think romantic love makes you dependent, but it’s not like that. Love isn’t about relying solely on another for happiness. It’s about sharing joy and pain and all of it together. Making each other stronger. Just like friends. Like Reese. She doesn’t suck your life away or make you miserable, she makes you better. You think if love doesn’t exist, that makes you safe, but what if that belief is keeping you from something great?”
Gone is the Jude I’m used to seeing. There’s no joking, no lazy grin or upturned lips. He’s serious and his eyes are the deep blue of a calm sea.
Too many emotions. They make my next words sharper.
“Something great,” I scoff. “What, like something with you?”
“I have nothing to do with it.”
“You’re right, you don’t. It’s simple science and hormones and you’re talking about emotion.”
“Emotion is part of the human condition.”
“Well I don’t think it has to be.”
“I think it does.”
“Why? Enlighten me, oh superior one.”
“Here’s the thing, Annabel.” He leans down so we’re on a closer level, his eyes burning into mine. “You are lovable.” He says the words with so much sincerity and conviction, it’s uncomfortable.
I squirm inwardly. I want to drag my eyes away, but I can’t. He’s holding me there like a bug trapped under a glass.
My heart pounds in my ears. “What are you talking about? Don’t change the subject.”
“It’s not that you don’t believe love exists, it’s that you don’t believe in it for you. Because of your experiences, you feel inherently unlovable, so it’s safer to say there is no romantic love than to believe it won’t happen for you.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
“Then prove it. Conduct an experiment to test your hypothesis.”
“How am I supposed to do tha
t?”
He sits back, making sure to hold my eyes with his. “Be with me.”
“What? What are you talking about? You reject me all the time.”
“No. I have never rejected you. I just want more from you than what you’ve been willing to give. I’m not talking about slaking your primitive urges with a one-night stand. I want more than that. Be with me. Date me. I want to take you out to dinner and pick you up and bring you flowers. You shared with me your shame, and I’m still here and willing. I will read your poetry and angst-filled stories and I won’t ridicule or condemn you. Trust me. Let’s be more than lust. Let’s be friends.”
“You’re kidding.”
His eyes are bright blue and intense on mine. “I’m not kidding. You know I’m not, but you want to pretend and joke like you always do because it makes you feel safer.”
Anger is bubbling inside me. “That’s not true.”
“Then again I say, prove it.”
How does he expect me to do such a thing? I can’t prove it that way. He’s such a jerk. I hate him.
Emotions stew inside me, a volcano about to erupt. He’s sitting there, calm and still and frustrating as all get out. I can prove him wrong.
I grab his face, lean forward, and kiss him.
Chapter Thirteen
He stepped down, trying not to look long at her as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
Jude
Annabel is kissing me, and I didn’t expect it. My past has taught me how to read people, but I can never predict her. She’s the one thing I’ve never been prepared for.
The action may be just as surprising to her because at first, there is no movement. We’re sitting there, our mouths pressed together, her hands on either side of my face. But then her mouth moves against mine, lips parting. Her tongue slips in and my mouth parts without thought and everything else disappears, every external sound, every open browser tab in my mind. The screen goes black.
My arms go around her, pulling her closer. She swings one leg over my lap and then her mouth is back on mine and her tongue is in my mouth and I fall backward onto the bed, taking her with me. This kiss is everything I had built up in my mind and more since the last time her lips were on mine. The reality is so much better than I remembered.
She’s on top, in control, but I have some tricks up my sleeve. I lick into her mouth and she’s soft and sweet and open. My fingertips trail up her thigh.
She groans and presses down on me, releasing my mouth on a gasp and arching her neck, giving me perfect access. My mouth moves to her neck and she murmurs something unintelligible and I should stop. This is going too fast and she’s trying to make me believe this is nothing more than a monkey mating dance, but I can’t stop.
She’s in my arms and I’ve been waiting for this for too long. Living with only a memory for too long.
I find that spot on her neck just under her ear and lick it and she moans and squirms against me. She’s perfection under my mouth and hands. The little sounds she makes send chills streaming up my arms and my heart thumping faster in my chest. I’m as hard as a rock.
She’s perfect—like every piece of her was made especially for me and me for her. The curve of her thigh was molded for the arch of my hand, her tongue was made to slide against mine, the moan in her throat to set off an ache in my chest.
Her hands are on either side of my head, holding herself up. One hand moves to my shoulder, clutching at me.
I slide one hand higher, under her skirt, chasing the line of her panties, trailing a finger around to her inner thigh. She gasps as I trace her heat through the thin barrier of fabric. Her hips move against my hand, begging for more without saying a word. She’s already so wet, and the knowledge makes me groan into her neck.
I might lose it before this can go any further.
Using both hands now, I slide down her underwear far enough to reach inside and run a knuckle along her seam. She moans above me, and then her eyes open and lock on mine, hot and intense, and when I press my thumb to her clit, her eyes fall shut and she groans.
“Jude, please,” she pants.
Using one hand, I rub against her wetness, varying my strokes between gentle and firm. Her dress is gaping open at the top and with my free hand, I reach into her falling neckline and my hand stills. She’s not wearing a bra.
“Fuck.”
I’m not one to swear, but the word falls from my lips anyway. My hand moves faster against her wetness. I push down the dress and lean up, sucking one hardened pink nipple into my mouth and she loses the last thread of her control, grinding and spasming against my hand, arching in her release.
I expect her to be satisfied and collapse into a heap against me. I’m actually looking forward to it, the weight of her in my arms, spent and relieved. But again, she surprises me. Instead of melting into a puddle of orgasmic bliss, she’s energized, reaching into my pants, wrapping warm fingers around my hard length.
“Wait.” I grab her wrist to stop her motions. It’s one thing for me to take care of her and her needs but she doesn’t want me. Not really. Not the way I want.
“Please, Jude.” Her voice is a low moan that echoes down into my toes and I nearly relent but then she says, in almost a whisper, “Make me forget everything.”
Hard no.
I roll over, leaving her on her back on the bed, and then stand up, even though it just about kills me to do so.
She sits on the bed, her face both endearing and heartbreaking. She’s watching me with shock and arousal smothered in embarrassment and I can’t.
“Not like this,” I explain. With one quick step, I’m in front of her, even though it might kill me to touch her again. I cup her face in my hands, her skin soft as silk under my fingers. “Not when you’re trying to escape the world. When we’re together, I want you to be here. With me. Not running from the past.”
Her face is flushed with arousal and she pulls back and out of my reach, eyes darting away. “Most guys wouldn’t care.” Her tone is snide, carrying the weight of her humiliation. Her nostrils flare, her arms wrap around herself, thoughts moving through her as she overanalyzes my every action and word.
“Annabel.” I wait until she reluctantly meets my gaze, her eyes moving to mine even as her head tilts away. I crouch so we are at eye level, placing my hands on either side of her legs, not touching. “I’m not most guys. You know how I feel. I like you. I want this to be real between us, not some fling.”
Her shoulders droop, the fight going out of her. She turns to me more fully. “I can’t be someone’s person.”
“I don’t believe that, but I can’t make you believe it, either. You need to know you’re worth the effort.”
“I don’t want to stay in Blue Falls forever.”
“I would never keep you from your dreams, darlin’. That’s not how this works.”
“Then how does it work?”
“Just like anything else, I imagine. I’m not asking you for anything you’re uncomfortable with. I want to be here for you, however you need me.”
She pulls away, walls re-erected. “How do you always know what to say? It’s like you know exactly how I feel.”
“Because I understand what it’s like to not be able to trust the people who are supposed to be closest to you. I know about hiding your true self because no one understands you. Our stories aren’t the same, not even close, but the emotions are. We all experience loss of faith, shame and suffering, tragedy and hope. No two experiences are exactly the same, but our humanity underneath the experience is identical. And the most beautiful part of it is that, having suffered, you can understand another’s suffering. My suffering gave me a gift. It allowed me to see you.”
Her eyes are shiny with unspent tears.
“Let me help you, the way Beast and Grace helped me.”
She blinks away the tears. “They saved you?”
“No. I saved my
self. But they helped because they listened to me and understood me and accepted me as I am. If you want to know the real truth, it all started with Mr. Bojangles.”
She laughs and then sniffs and wipes at her nose.
“I told you how I got him from the shelter. Grace actually got him for me. As soon as I picked him up, he put his little head on my shoulder and started purring. I was a goner. I had something worth fighting for. Beast and Grace . . . they’re better than any family I have because I chose them. I want to choose you.”
She blinks rapidly and I worry I’ve pushed too hard, too soon. She stands and turns away from me, wiping her eyes and taking a deep breath I only get to witness from behind.
Then she spins back to face me. “Are you staying the night, then? I mean just to sleep. I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate sensibilities by suggesting anything further.”
A grin tugs at my lips. If she’s teasing, she’s okay. “That’s a mighty fine offer. I would be pleased to take advantage of your hospitality. And your couch.”
She smiles, a small stretch of her lips, but my heart nearly stops in my chest all the same.
I want to see more of those smiles. Real ones. Sincere smiles that are so big they leave an afterglow behind.
She gets me a pillow and blanket and I make myself comfortable on her small, lumpy couch. It’s about as comfortable as mine, and I smile, remembering how I made Fitz and Reese take turns on my own crappy furniture. Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.
Annabel says good night and disappears into her room and I lie in the quiet darkness, remembering her in my arms and hoping she’ll find her way back there again. My mind runs through everything I said and did. What if they weren’t the right words? Did I pressure her by giving into her kisses and caresses? I take a deep breath. Those thoughts are for another day.
I toss around ideas for trapping David and fall asleep thinking about the games we play in life, the ones with stakes and the ones without.
The next morning, I’m awoken by the sound of Annabel moving about the kitchen, liquid dribbling into a carafe, and the smell of coffee filling the air.
