Entangle

by Veronica Larsen

  I use my phone’s bright screen as a flashlight to illuminate my surroundings the rest of the time. I shove my underwear into my purse and pull the dress back on, thankful the zipper didn’t bust from the way I rushed out of it last night. My heels will make too much noise when I walk down the hall that leads to the door. I hold them in my hand instead. Resisting the urge to look back at Leo, I leave the room and close the door carefully behind me.

  It’s a quarter to four when the cab drops me off at my condo. I collapse into bed; my body is exhausted, unable to grasp onto a single thought before I slip into a dreamless sleep.

  I wake again, this time to brightness flooding in through the windows. But that isn’t what wakes me. My phone is vibrating on my bedside table, edging across the surface. I reach out to grab it. Someone is calling me. Leo.

  I hit ignore and glance at the time: 8 AM. Really? I’m sure I just shut my eyes.

  A text message comes in.

  [Why didn’t you wake me? I could’ve driven you home.]

  I don’t plan on responding, not yet anyway—I’m not sure what I want to say. My head is groggy from sleep and my pussy feels sore. But my finger accidentally grazes the keys on the screen. I curse under my breath. He will see the ellipses come up on his end, indicating that I’m typing a response. He knows I’m looking at his message right now. The phone suddenly feels warmer in my hands, as though sensing the awkwardness of the virtual silence. Another message buzzes in.

  [You should at least buy me breakfast. So I don’t feel cheap and used.]

  I smile despite myself and shove my head into my pillow as though I can hide from my thoughts.

  What did I get myself into? Was this really even worth it? I answer myself almost immediately. Fuck yes it was worth it. It was so worth it, I can’t even bring myself to care about the many ways this whole situation can go sideways. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat. I’d do it all again right now. But I can’t. I mean, I can, but I know I shouldn’t. We said one time and one time should be enough. That one time in particular should be way more than enough.

  I type my response before I make up my mind on the lie I’m going to tell.

  [Sorry I slipped away like that, you’re a heavy sleeper. I have early plans today. So that’s a no for breakfast.]

  I review my message before sending it. I want to edit it, make it seem less...I don’t even know. But I’m aware that he is waiting for my response. I don’t want him to see me hesitating, to think I’m reading too much into what happened. I send the message and wait for his response.

  [It’s probably too late to instill an honesty clause into our arrangement?]

  [Or maybe, a ‘no lying’ clause?]

  I stare at my screen. Somehow, he sees right through me, even from the other side of town. I realize that he’s right. I shouldn’t feel the need to lie to him. We were clear about what this was supposed to be about. If I start making the habit of tip-toeing around his feelings now instead of being straight forward, things will get messy fast.

  [It’s not too late. ‘No lying’ clause is in effect.]

  [You don’t have any plans, do you?]

  [I don’t.]

  [What are your objections to breakfast?]

  [Feels unnecessary. We said one time. One time happened.]

  [Fair enough.]

  Somehow, though my last message says exactly what I want to say, I feel compelled to add;

  [It was an incredible one time. Thank you for being a gentleman...for parts of the night.]

  [It’s already all I can think about. But don’t worry…I’ve got a good poker face.]

  [See you Monday.]

  I get a familiar sliding feeling in the pit of my stomach. I lock my phone and fling it across the bed before I can be tempted to respond.

  XVI

  Leo

  I wake to a tent forming in the sheets below me and an empty bed beside me. At first, I assume Alexis is in the bathroom, but I quickly realize she disappeared on me. It shouldn’t be a surprise. It seems to be the type of thing she would do, to avoid any sort of sober familiarity. I doubt she’s comfortable with the idea of us waking up in each other’s arms and spending the morning reminiscing and recreating.

  I spend the rest of the weekend wondering how I will ever convince Alexis that one time could turn into two, or five, without inciting the fear that a reoccurring coupling implies to her. I would be perfectly content with fucking Alexis for as long as she lets me, even knowing she won’t take me seriously in any other regard. Because why should I care? I don’t.

  Katy calls me late Saturday evening. I don’t answer. I’m sick of her by this point. I don’t even feel guilty about it anymore.

  She texts me soon after.

  [I left my student ID at your place. I don’t need it on a daily basis, but I will need it to get my books for next semester.]

  Bull fucking shit. I set my phone back down in a hard, reverting clang. Her wanting to come over has nothing to do with her ID. I know that. She knows that. It’s an excuse to see me.

  This is classic Katy. She is much too insecure to ever be straightforward about what she wants. She dances around subjects, shrouds them in pretense. Only occasionally does she accidentally tip the bucket to reveal snippets of her true intentions, but she is quick to pull it back and pretend she doesn’t care.

  I couldn’t care less at this point. And I couldn’t be more over her childishness. My ability to sympathize with her is depleting to an indiscernible level.

  [I’m serious, Leo. I need it.]

  [It’s not here. You lost it somewhere else. Don’t contact me again.]

  I’m lying, of course. I have no idea if it’s in my place, somewhere. I’m certain it’s not the end of the world; she can get another damn ID. She’s got plenty of time to replace it. But instead, she opts for being a sideways neurotic. She’s like a minefield of ‘don’t give a fucks’ and ‘look at my silently bleeding heart.’

  [Can I come look for myself?]

  I let my lack of response answer her. I didn’t want to resort to this, to being an asshole to her. But what choice has she left me? Katy is an adolescent trapped in a twenty-three-year-old’s body. It was stupid of me not to see it before. How could she blind me from seeing what I was getting myself into with her?

  Was I such a pathetic heap after Janet that I walked right into that stupid situation? I was blinded by lust, a lust that quickly withered down to a mere tolerance. A tolerance that is edging away with every attempt she makes to squeeze herself back into my life in any capacity she can manage. I’m not sure what she thinks will happen. She and I are simply not going to fall into fucking again. I confess, it happened once before, a few weeks after the breakup. But things are different now, way different. I’m not even really sure why, but they are. I’m different, I guess. Maybe I’ve gotten tired of the crazy ride that is Katy Adams.

  As I sit over breakfast on Sunday, a realization comes over me suddenly enough to jolt a humorless laugh out of me.

  Alexis is precisely my type. Emotionally unavailable, twisted in some invisible way, and incapable of a normal relationship. I’m not saying I want a relationship. But I don’t understand why I seem to gravitate toward those types of women. I just do.

  A small voice in the back of my mind tells me that Alexis is different. I think that voice only wants to excuse my desire to keep fucking her. The more I consider it, the more I think Alexis is the perfect blend of frankness and coarseness. Authentic enough to not attempt to manipulate me, jagged enough to keep her sensibilities out of reach. She enjoys being handled in bed, but it’s obvious that’s the only time she allows her armor to slip. Maybe she’s afraid that the more time she spends exposed to me, the higher the likelihood I will hurt her. But I’m not interested in her heart. Her body will do just fine. And I’m certain that is precisely what she wants as well. It all works out perfectly.

  How can I convince her that we both want the same thing?

  Alexis is pr
oud and stubborn. I know her type. We are similar in that sense, I think. If I push myself on her too quickly, she will push back even harder. She will have a difficult time going back on her word:

  We said one time. One time happened.

  She will want to feel in control of the decision and not pressured into it. I’m sure she doesn’t want to appear weak or indecisive in my eyes or anyone else’s. She needs subtle convincing. I’ll have to be patient.

  Alexis and I don’t talk for the rest of the weekend.

  Monday morning rolls around and I do my best to give her space. I make a point of stopping by her office as I walk past, just to say hello. Partly because I don’t want her to think I intend to ignore her, but mostly because my eyes are starved for the sight of her. She looks uncharacteristically relaxed as she sits behind her desk, wearing a loose-fitting, maroon-colored blouse that brings out her eyes.

  “Good morning.”

  “Oh. Hi, Leo. Good morning.”

  Her pupils dilate slightly when her eyes lock onto mine. Other than that, I see no signs of the wanton woman I recall squirming on my dick a few nights before. But the longer I look, the more I’m certain I see the memory of our long, passionate fucking pulsing behind her pale-green orbs.

  We smile easily at each other’s greetings and I don’t linger much longer at her door. I’m satisfied that, at the very least, the energy between us isn’t awkward. It’s tense, but tense in a good way. The kind that tinges the air with an exciting static.

  We go about our respective day pretending that not only has nothing changed, but there was absolutely nothing to ever change in the first place.

  I thought I was well versed in the art of self-restraint, but Alexis is giving me a run for my money. It’s bordering on impossible for me to resist touching her. To have her within arms’ reach and not pull her toward me. To see her walking by with that pencil skirt on, knowing exactly what lies along the inside of her thighs. Watching her in meetings and trying to not remember the sight of her naked body when it’s twisted and agonizing in elation.

  Neither one of us makes the slightest effort to avoid each other or even avoid finding ourselves alone. We tease each other with the mere presence of the other. Just a few stolen minutes, here and there. Nothing enough to notice, never enough to act upon. We linger in the conference room after everyone else walks out. Walk into the break room after seeing the other go in. We stay behind in each other’s offices after the conversation has ended, pretending to readjust papers in our hands.

  We don’t acknowledge it with words but our gazes dance in the air between us, passing secret notes back and forth and no one else in the room seems to notice.

  By late morning on Thursday, I crack. She wins. Her self-control far surpasses my own.

  I send her a text message.

  [I can’t figure out the coffee machine again, will you please come rescue me?]

  [It’s in my office. Under my desk.]

  Her response is immediate.

  [Very funny. Do you ever get any work done?]

  I don’t take her quip seriously. She and I both know that I’ve accomplished more in the short time I’ve worked here than my predecessor accomplished in the four months before me. What can I say? Shit falls in line when I push. I’m relentless.

  [Can I see you again?]

  [You just saw me not even five minutes ago.]

  [You know what I mean.]

  She doesn’t respond right away. I stare at my screen and wait.

  [I don’t know if that’s a good idea.]

  [What are you scared of?]

  [I’m not scared, I just don’t want to.]

  [Are you saying you don’t want more?]

  [That’s exactly what I’m saying.]

  I smile. She is lying and she knows that I know it. I enjoy our back and forth more than I imagined I would.

  [So you don’t want me touching you?]

  [No.]

  [Kissing you?]

  [No.]

  [Tasting you?]

  [I regret not tasting you. I bet you taste sweet.]

  [This conversation is over.]

  [It is?]

  [It is.]

  [Doesn’t seem like it…]

  [Can I ask you one last question.]

  [One question, that’s it. Then you stop texting me.]

  [What are you doing tonight?]

  [Because if you’re free, I look forward to giving you all the things I know you want in ways you never imagined you wanted them. I’ll leave it up to you.]

  The ellipses comes on then cuts off.

  Early afternoon, as I’m headed into the conference room for a meeting, I find myself doing a double take as I pass Alexis’ office.

  She’s kneeling on the floor, her arm reaching into the space between the desk and the wall, trying for something she dropped. Her position allows me to take in the sight of her curves from behind.

  I look around and, seeing no one in the hallway, I slip into her office. At the sound of the door closing, she spins around to face me. Her eyes go wide for a split second before she rearranges her expression.

  “Leo,” she says, in her professional voice. She straightens up and irons out the wrinkles on her skirt. “Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes, I think you can.”

  In two fluid steps, I close the gap between us and slide my hands to the back of her neck, guiding her face onto mine. We kiss in a frenzy; the drought that nearly withered us down ends abruptly with the breaking of a dam. This kiss. Flooding us, drowning us.

  My hands glide over the back of her skirt and my fingers tighten over her firm ass. She lets out a sharp breath of surprise. We stand nose to nose with me holding her up against my erection. I lower my lips to her neck and kiss her. I whisper into her ear, “I can’t stop thinking of all the ways I want to take you.”

  She goes still, as if holding her breath.

  I kiss her neck again and whisper, “Just tell me when.”

  I see the drunken glaze slowly shifting away from her eyes as I take purposeful backward steps to the door. I reach for the doorknob slowly, giving her time to readjust the wrinkles of her skirt and gather her expression. I turn toward the door and, before opening it, I tuck my erection into the waistband of my underwear, saving the rest of the office from the sight of it.

  XVII

  Alexis

  My mother fell for the savvy business model of a drug dealer. He gave her drugs for free the first time she asked about them. She’s an idiot and thought it was because he liked her. But, in reality, he knew that once is often enough to get someone hooked. And once she was hooked, he owned her. He had what she wanted, what she needed with every fiber of her being.

  A one-time, try it if you like it, no big deal if you don’t, thing.

  I’ve never touched a drug in my life. I’ve never understood the allure of wanting to lose control. But for the first time I do understand. Sex with Leo allowed me to lose myself in a way I never knew was possible. The best part was that there wasn’t the element of real danger, because I knew the real me was still there. When he slid out of me and I slipped back into my clothes, I was the same person I’ve always been. Except I wasn’t. Even after I return to myself again, the woman who requires control of all things in her life, a simple truth remains. Leo gave me a hit of him and now I feel utterly lost in the thought of more.

  I’ve never in my life experienced the type of rapture I felt with him. Sex with Leo wasn’t about the acrobats or contortions for the show of it. It was about the unadulterated, pure euphoria that our bodies are capable of, if only we know how to allow them. The act of being with him was tantalizing in every sense of the word. Every purposeful touch, every riveting pulse, flooded my body with chemicals I never even knew it possessed. I went off the deep end. Then he took me even further.

  It was an amazing ride and now I’m in the lull. The stillness after euphoria is practically torture. To be left with the memories and the lingering se
nsations over my skin and feel the sharp contrast of the reality without it all.

  Monday is the longest work day I’ve ever experienced. The seconds stretch out and even the rhythmic ticking of the clock over my doorway reminds me of Leo pulsing into me. The skin between my thighs is perpetually slick and I’m even more conscious of it whenever he’s around me. We are somehow holding on to an act of normalcy that we weren’t even able to feign before we had sex. We’ve resigned to the fog of arousal that clouds the empty spaces between our bodies. We’ve learned to manage it well enough to avoid idling awkwardly in front of it. Inhaling it and savoring it, instead.

  I don’t understand how he could appear this calm and unaffected when my skin is screaming for his touch. Can’t he hear it? I’m certain he can see the way my entire body ripples when he is near.

  Days later, he finally breaks our informal silence. This morning, he offers me another go. I want it. I want it bad. But I don’t respond right away. I want to give myself time to make sure my response isn’t knee-jerk reactive. If we’re going to fuck more than once, it can’t be an accident. I need to think about this. I’m not my mother. I don’t make impulse decisions. I can’t lose myself if I remain purposeful and my choices are consequences of my own deliberation.

  He tips my resolve when he comes into my office and pulls me under an intoxicating kiss that I had no idea I needed that badly. When he puts his hands on me, when he kisses my neck, I feel the grip slip from my sense.

  Finally, around 1 PM, I reply.

  [I lied. I do want more.]

  I put my phone back in my purse, not expecting him to respond. I know he’s in a meeting with his department right now.

  Some time later, my cellphone rings as I am gathering my things to go to lunch. I forget to glimpse at the screen before I answer.

  “Hey there.”

  It’s Jacob. I’m surprised to hear from him. We haven’t spoken since I called him to thank him for the flowers.