by Mary Frame
After my first session with Jensen, I require solitude to figure out how I could lose control of myself so quickly. Even though the sensations I experienced were pleasurable, I’m not sure how I feel about my own overwhelming and reckless behavior and even worse, I’m not sure what to do next.
I also realize after some introspection that when I began this journey, I honestly believed I would never become a slave to lust, like everyone else. I was convinced of my own superiority and that I would be able to control my feelings and observe them in a detached and clinical manner. Now I know that I’m no better and the thoughts shame me. Of course I’m not better. I’m human, and therefore as fallible as anyone.
After a day of analyzing, I haven’t come to any conclusions other than confirming my own egocentrism, so I contact my brother Sam for a turn at the shooting range. Out of all of my brothers, he’s most like me. He’s smart, but in a more artistic way. He’s an architect and he’s the only one of my brothers who isn’t married. In fact, I suspect that Sam is somewhat promiscuous, but that’s not a topic I’ve ever broached with him, and I never will.
“I really don’t want to hear about you making out with some dude,” Sam says, a counterpoint to my own thoughts about his love life.
I’m standing about ten feet in front of him, positioning my arrow and trying to focus on my stance and the target in front of me, so I can’t immediately respond. I accidentally left my own bow at home, something I’ve never done before. I don’t forget anything, ever. The bow I picked out at the range is a bit too tight, but I’m okay with that. It makes me work harder to pull it back before the release. Luckily, the indoor arena is fairly empty in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. There’s only one other archer and he’s on the opposite side of the large room.
Pointing the arrow at the ground, I place the shaft on the rest and then nock it into place, pulling the bow up and into position, bow arm pointed straight out and my other arm pulled back so my fingers are resting against my face. And again, for the one hundred and third time in the last twenty-four hours, I’m reminded of Jensen and his hands on my face. Right before he kissed me.
I ease the fingers of my drawing hand and the arrow releases, shooting forward and hitting the farthermost ring of the target.
I relax my stance. “I never intended to tell you about making out with anyone.” I face him. “You’re the one who insisted I tell you what I was thinking. If you can’t handle the answer, don’t ask.”
His response is a laugh. “You’re really messed up, huh?” he asks.
I walk over to where he’s standing and waiting for his turn. “I am not messed up. I’m just not sure what to do. I don’t understand the things I’m feeling. I’m not used to expressing my emotions.”
“Yep,” he says. “You’re messed up. You’re not used to having emotions, period. But you always know what to do. And you never shoot this badly.”
“Okay. Fine.” I take a deep breath. “We’ve established that I’m ‘messed up’, so are you going to help me or not?”
He’s staring at me, not speaking.
“Sam?”
“You like this guy.”
“He’s nice.” I shrug.
“No, you really, really like him. I have to meet him.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “I barely know him. I like him as much as I like anything I feel a faint fondness for. Like peanut butter. And you can never meet him because you’ll do something to make him uncomfortable.”
Sam grins. “I know.”
Frustrated, I smack him on the shoulder, which is difficult to do with any amount of force because he’s over a foot taller than me.
“You’re not helping.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Luce. It’s not like I’m the expert on relationships. You should have asked Tom or Ken, they’re the married ones.”
“But they’re too old and they won’t understand. And I’m not in a relationship. I’m trying to experience emotions.”
“Well, you seem to be succeeding in that.”
“I guess so.” I release an exasperated huff. “I didn’t think having all these emotions would be so confusing and annoying.”
“Welcome to the human experience. What about mom?”
“She doesn’t understand me at all. She never has.”
“But she loves you.”
“I love her too, but we are very different people. She’s affectionate and open and I’m…” I trail off and shrug. I don’t have to finish my sentence. He knows.
He takes a deep breath and looks at me for a second.
“Okay, Luce. If you like this guy, you have to open up to him a little bit. Relationships aren’t easy and it’s going to be especially hard for you because you’ve avoided getting too close to anyone for so long. Or, like, ever.”
He walks passed me to the shooting line.
“I told you, it’s not a relationship. And I’m close to people.”
“I don’t count. And neither does mom. Isn’t a relationship the whole point of your little experiment?” He quickly finds his stance and nocks his arrow.
I frown.
Sam moves his arrow from aiming position to pointing it at the ground in front of him and faces me again. “You know what? You’re not that great about staying close to us, either. When’s the last time you called mom?”
“You know I don’t like talking on the phone.”
“You don’t like talking, period.”
“Do you have a point?”
“Remember when you were a kid,” he begins.
I stifle the urge to groan. Whereas I was born with a lack of verbal expression, my brothers, on the other hand, have the ability to talk and tell stories for hours, like it’s nothing.
“Tom and Ken were off at college,” he’s saying, “and Jon was in high school and way too cool to hang out with either of us. I was nearly a teenager when you were four, so you never had anyone to play with. The other kids on our street always wanted to play sports and get dirty, but you would rather hang out with mom in the kitchen or with dad in the garage. I felt like you were missing out on the typical childhood experience. I would mess with you, do you remember this?”
“Of course. Even if I didn’t remember it, you guys talk about it enough at family gatherings that I have it more than ingrained in my memory. You would leave frogs and spiders and other creatures in my bed.”
“And what did you do?”
I raise an eyebrow at him, wondering what his point is. “I would analyze them. Involve them in various experiments and then put them back outside. Once, one of the rats died so I embalmed and dissected it.”
“You were four.”
“And?”
“And you created your own homemade embalming fluid from cleaning supplies and crap you found in the kitchen.”
“What does this have to do with emotions and relationships?”
“The point is, if you really want to understand your emotions, it’s not going to be easy. You aren’t used to being…normal.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
He shoots, finally, and we watch the arrow slam into the target only an inch from direct center.
“Okay. Fine,” I say. “What do you recommend that I do?”
He turns towards me. “‘Courage is not the absence of fear but rather the judgment that something is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.’”
I’m a little surprised at this, it sounds much too poetic for my brother. “That’s beautiful, Sam. Who said it, Nelson Mandela?”
“No, Meg Cabot.”
I frown, racking my brain. “Who’s that? A poet? Philosopher?”
“She writes children’s books.”
“Oh.”
“Listen, Lucy.” He walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. “For once, stop listening to your brain. Follow your gut, your instincts, just let go. What’s your gut telling you?”
I look up
at him. “I don’t know.”
He smiles and gives a quick nod. “Good. You know everything. This’ll be good for you.” With that, he pats me on the shoulder a bit harder than necessary and hands me my bow. “You’re up. Try not to suck so much.”
***
