by Ally Sky
“I know everything. You can stop pretending.” I straighten up and look into his worried face.
“Talia, I am dead serious. What do you know?” he asks unsteadily.
“Everything. The pregnancy, the abortion, India, everything.” I don’t take my eyes off him.
“How did you find out?” He’s stunned, his face pale.
“I was looking for something to read and her letter fell out of the book.” I wonder if I should apologize for reading it.
“Fuck…” he mutters to himself. He sits down on the sofa and puts his head in his hands.
“Yes,” I answer drily. “Fuck.”
“Talia, only a few people know about it, and I want it to stay that way.” He looks at me anxiously.
“Are you kidding me?” I’m stunned.
“What?”
“Are you kidding me? First of all, I don’t talk about you to anyone. I’m certainly not going to raise the subject at supper. Furthermore, is that all you have to say? Don’t tell anyone?”
“What do you want me to say?” He’s squirming on the sofa. My man is tormented to the bottom of his soul and all I want to do is to save him. Save us.
“You’re totally fucked up,” I hiss angrily.
“Talia, what do you want from me?” He’s upset.
“I want you to talk to me.” I cross my arms purposefully. Just talk to me. What does he think will happen?
“There’s nothing to talk about.” He covers his face with his hands again, his breathing labored. How much pain can one soul handle? I want to hug him. I want him to talk to me. But his silence and his refusal to do so, especially after everything I’ve told him, hurts me just as much and make me so angry.
“Is that all you’re going to say? That there’s nothing to talk about?” My eyes narrow in frustration.
“You know the situation. Now you know about Jenny. It’s not important.”
His answer is like a damn knife in my heart.
“Not important? You really are fucked up. Is that why you don’t want a girlfriend?”
“I’m not discussing this with you.”
“Then you can get the fuck out,” I growl low, and his eyes, when he looks at me, are scared.
“Why?” he whispers in a tortured voice.
“Because there is nothing here for you.”
“Talia…” He panics. Why is he panicking? He can go find some other girl, someone who doesn’t want to know anything about him.
“Don’t Talia me! If you have no intention of talking, then get lost. I’m done being your toy.” The words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop myself.
“Is that what you think you are?” Hurt eyes stare at me. He looks tormented and confused. It only makes me flinch more. Talk to me…I won’t hurt you…I just need to know…
“That’s what you do to me.” I feel so hurt. A toy, no more no less.
“You and your victimization.” He gets up slowly and my eyes never leave him.
“So what’s it going to be?” My voice breaks.
“I’m going,” he answers painfully. His tone confuses me. For someone who only wants to have sex, he sounds pretty torn up.
“Fuck you,” I whisper, turning my back on him and walking away. I return to the smudged canvas I’ve been painting the entire afternoon. The pain in my chest intensifies and I can barely stop the tears. I hear his footsteps moving away and the door open and close. He’s gone. I collapse on the sofa and burst out crying.
He won’t talk to me, even now, even after I know. He doesn’t want to talk. I told him to leave, and he left. And now I’m alone and he has gone. And it hurts. It hurts so much.
I don’t know how long I cry. More than I want to. Eventually I sit up on the sofa.
A Facebook message beeps on my phone. I open it with shaking hands.
Ben Storm: What happened with Jen ended a long time ago, and I see no point in rehashing it again. It’s shitty, no matter how you look at it. What do you want to know, that it was terrible? You can guess that by yourself, so why talk about it? But to hear you talking about yourself, about us, like you did, that burns. I know I can’t give you more right now. But from that to being a toy…Talia, I’ve never lied to you, not even for a moment. It is what it is. You’re not a toy. You’re funny and sensitive and exciting, and I never expected that. You’re so beautiful. You deserve more. And I can’t give that to you. So if you have to leave me to find someone else who will love you as you want, then go. But don’t expect something from me that won’t happen. I told you, the last thing I want to do is to hurt you. I’m sorry that this is the situation, babe, but it’s not going to change. Go and amaze someone else just like you amaze me.
The tears start again. My head is spinning. His words have the power to make me or break me, and that surprises me every time anew. He’s doing it again, confusing me. He’s captured my heart, imprisoned it. And now he’s giving me the key and telling me to go free, without understanding that I’m his prisoner. He can torture me until there’s no tomorrow and I’ll keep on going back to him. This is what he can give me. He says it’s not going to change, but he doesn’t know, not really. Nobody knows what tomorrow will bring, and I’m prepared to wait—until tomorrow, until forever—for him.
His white door. A last-minute hesitation. If I knock on it now, I’m not ever going to leave. My backpack is hanging from my shoulder and I’m standing under the light in the entrance, in a knee-length purple dress and flats. My curls are gathered into a messy bun on the top of my head. My hand goes up to the white wood. And I knock.
The noise of the key, the handle goes down, and my heart falls.
It is what it is. For now. And there is no way I’m giving it up.
He’s standing there, in his black tank top and grey sweatpants, barefoot. Green eyes stare at me—bewildered and alarmed.
He opens the door in silence and lets me in. I leave my backpack next to the door and turn to him. My legs are frozen.
“Why are you here?” His voice is unsteady.
“I wanted to see you…” I answer.
“Talia…” He starts to say something, but I take a step toward him, and gently put a finger on his lips. Enough talking.
“I heard you,” I whisper, my eyes on his. “I heard and I understand—it is what it is. Now kiss me.”
He pulls me to him and, before I know what’s happening, he’s kissing me forcefully, his tongue in my mouth, devouring me. His breathing quickens, and I can feel his heart pounding. I put my arms around his neck, pulling him to me, and breathing him in.
“You’re such an idiot,” I whisper, kissing him so hard.
“I know.” He bites down on my lower lip and his hands lift my dress. He takes it off, exposing my breasts and I pull him toward me.
“You taste so good…” His tongue is doing magic in my mouth, sending waves between my legs.
I let him take me, against the wall. I let him have all of me…
Ben’s coffee is weak, just how I like it, certainly at this time of night. I take a sip, lean back, and sink into the small sofa on his patio.
“Have you finished the twins’ swing?”
“Yes, I sent it up north.” Ben takes a sip of his coffee, a lovely smile on his face.
“They must have loved it.” I’m enchanted by his smile.
“Myles’ son almost tore his school uniform on it.” He laughs. He leans back on the sofa and he looks peaceful. And amazing. My addicted heart…
“I can just imagine you in that ridiculous English primary school uniform.”
“Didn’t you have a school uniform?” he asks, intrigued.
I shrug. “Nope.”
Judging by the look on his face, he finds the idea inconceivable.
“So you could wear whatever you wanted?”
“More or less.”
He still can’t believe it. “I’d have loved to have seen that.” His smile widens, exposing perfect, white teeth.
“No,
you wouldn’t.” I try to smile. There is nothing attractive about shirts that I've cut in such a way they don’t hang properly on one’s shoulders.
“Were you wild...?” he says quietly, a small smile playing on his lips.
“Yeah, it wasn’t such fun,” I protest. Not fun at all and certainly not something I’d like to share with him.
“It sounds like it would be.”
“Not really.” The embarrassment on my face must be evident. I’m not used to these kinds of conversations. I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to them. But something about this man makes me feel as though I can tell him anything. Well, almost anything. And nothing will scare him away, not when he has nothing to run from. He’s not my boyfriend.
“Did you get into lots of trouble?”
“Too much.”
“Come on,” he teases, “spill!”
“Nothing interesting. Alcohol and cigarettes. No big deal.” I take a sip of my coffee. “What kind of teenager were you?” I change the subject. It’s best not to speak about me, and certainly not about those years. It wasn’t the most glamorous time of my life.
“Me?” He’s taken aback.
“Yes.”
“The average kind, I suppose.”
I chuckle. “What is average?”
“You know, I got up to the usual teenage nonsense, but in general I was a good boy.”
Oh, come on. He doesn’t look like the good boy he’s describing.
“You never got into trouble?” I continue questioning him.
“Not really. I left the troublemaking to Jake, which was quite a successful strategy. Everyone was focused on his bad behavior.” He laughs.
“Were you a good student?”
“Most of the time. School didn’t really interest me. I was too busy thinking about money and how to make it.” He shrugs.
“I think that worked out pretty well for you.”
“I’m not complaining.” He takes a sip of his coffee, not taking his bright eyes off me. I can’t take my eyes off his lips. God, I love the taste of those lips.
“You work hard for it.” I can’t ignore the fact he looks so different tonight. I don’t know if it’s because of what I now know, or because I was so angry with him. But between his surprised reaction in the basement, and his expression now, which I can’t completely fathom, something has changed.
“I try.”
“Thanks for employing me. I really love my job.”
“So, what do you want to do when you grow up?” He runs his fingers through my hair, pushing a stray curl behind my ear.
“Are you implying I’m not grown-up now?” I tease playfully.
“Do you prefer I use little and funny again?” He grins. “Well?”
“I want to be an author,” I answer shyly. “I want to write, to make a living from it, and to know I touch people with my words.”
I want to thrill people, make them laugh and cry, and I want to inspire them. I can picture myself sitting in a café with my laptop, writing and not worrying about a thing, just me and my thoughts spilling out onto the keyboard.
“That’s amazing. How many people read your blog?”
The blog he’ll never read?
“I don’t know. I think they have a bug in their software because in the past few weeks the numbers have gone a bit crazy,” I explain to him. Stupid computers. How can I make sense of anything that happened this past week?
He listens, waiting for me to continue.
“Before I came to London the numbers were about two hundred, but in the past few days it’s changed. It’ll probably be sorted out soon.”
He frowns. “How many readers did you have when you last checked?”
“A little over two thousand.” I wave my hand dismissively. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.” There is no way two thousand people are reading my ramblings.
“Why does it sound unreasonable to you?”
“Do you really think so many people read my blog?” I roll my eyes.
“What’s the matter with you? Why can’t you think positive things about yourself?” He sighs in frustration.
“We are not having this conversation now. It’s too late and I’m too tired,” I murmur.
“Too tired?” His tone leaves no room for doubt. I know what he’s thinking. My body reacts immediately, coming to life.
“Too tired for talking.” My smile broadens.
“So you’re not too tired?”
I get up and stretch an inviting hand to him.
“I’m never too tired for you.”
“Have you bought a dress yet?” Danny takes a sip of beer and leans back onto the sofa. It’s nine p.m. and he arrived home from work not so long ago, dealing quite heroically with John’s annoyed look. I’m drinking a glass of red wine in the living room and trying to figure out what he’s on about.
It’s a regular Thursday evening, and I’m tired from wandering around the city. I dropped by to see Gary at Brick Lane and spent the afternoon talking to him about his experiences of fatherhood. With my lack of knowledge about babies, I couldn’t help but laugh at his descriptions of little Ruthie and her mom. His exhaustion was as obvious as my own.
I can’t sleep. I toss and turn in bed, my dreams giving me no rest. I’m jumpier than usual, grumpier than usual, and more easily provoked.
“What are you talking about?” I look at Danny, mystified.
“For Saturday.” He gives me an inquiring look. I still don’t understand. “For the work event?”
“What event?”
“Didn’t Sarah tell you?” he asks in disbelief.
No, Sarah didn’t say a thing to me, and the more I think about it, neither did Ben. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning, when I slipped out of his house and back into my bed, pleased that no one saw me and I didn’t have to lie to Danny again.
“No, so will you please fill in the blanks?” I groan.
A work function? That doesn’t sound like much fun. Just another evening of pretending I don’t know Ben. That is, other than polite hellos.
“The annual Storm Buildings event. It’s a major thing, and you need a major dress.”
Fuck. What do I know about elegant dresses? I do all my shopping at Primark and at New Look, and my purchases usually end up being short and tight. I don’t think that’s what Danny has in mind.
“I don’t know where to buy a dress,” I complain.
“Aren’t you in luck we have John here? Honey, will you take Talia shopping tomorrow, so that she won’t have any excuses?”
“For you?” John gives Danny a little kiss. They seem to have moved past the crisis they’d had at the beginning of the evening.
“Excellent. Okay, buy a dress for Saturday. We leave at six.” Danny gets up from the sofa and John looks at me happily. At least I’ll get to spend some time with John.
Lying in bed, I open up Facebook and send Ben a message.
Talia Blum: This evening, during casual conversation, I found out I’m required to buy a dress for Saturday evening. It’s most surprising that you never said a word to me about it. Maybe we should try making some more time for talking between our (wonderful) moaning and groaning
As usual, he wastes no time and answers immediately.
Ben Storm: I’m surprised you didn’t know. I can’t wait to see what dress you choose And regarding making time for talking, I have no problem with that, especially seeing as your moaning and groaning really is wonderful…
Talia Blum: Dear Mr. Storm, you can take all the credit Would you like to hear more in about an hour and a half?
Ben Storm: Something’s come up at work, and I’m ashamed to say I’m still in the office. Which, may I remind you, is off-limits. For this evening, I will have to imagine you shouting out my name. At least I can take comfort in the fact that I get to spend the whole of Saturday evening with you…
Talia Blum: Pretending you don’t know me in the most intimate way? It doesn’t sound like too much fun to
me. Anyway, I’m going to sleep now and will think of you shouting out my name…
I log out. I’m starting to get used to the horrendous hours he and Danny spend at work. Danny keeps saying it’s temporary. Several new projects have come in all at the same time, or something along those lines. I’m not sure if it’s just an attempt to calm John down, or whether my men are just unable to wrap up a day’s work at a normal hour and come home. And now I’m left with my longing. Knowing I won’t be able to fall asleep, I put on my stained clothes and go down to the basement.
Walking down Oxford Street, I’m wearing sunglasses that, fortunately for me, hide my tormented look. What do I know about elegant dresses? I usually love shopping, but today I’m just not in the mood. I wonder if it’s because I didn’t sleep in Ben’s bed last night, or that I hardly slept at all. I only came up from the basement at around four in the morning. Danny and John had no idea, and I’m sure they would be unhappy to learn their present was keeping me awake.
John is waiting for me at the corner of New Bond Street. I only hope we don’t waste our whole afternoon doing this.
“Hi.” He gives me a warm hug. “Don’t look so sorry for yourself.We’re going shopping!” He laughs and leads the way. I stare at the sidewalk. I don’t care where he’s taking me. I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible.
We enter a shop. The dresses are stunning, but I’m in no mood to shop and don’t feel like being here. John takes a few dresses off their hangars and sends me to the dressing room with them. I try on three but I’m not happy with any of them.
Ugh! This is going to be a slow process.
I try on a fourth dress and look in the mirror. The black dress John has chosen has wide, asymmetrical straps, which cover my cleavage and I like it. It clings to my body in folds and falls from my waist in a wrap-around design, as though there’s a slit in the front, but it covers my legs to my shins. It really is gorgeous.
“Well?” John asks enthusiastically from the other side of the door, “are you managing in there?”
