Obscured

by Tara Sue Me

  My first night, I cry myself to sleep. The entire time, I think about how much I hate myself. Not because of my situation or because it’s a shitty apartment. No, I hate myself because some sick part of me misses Mike.

  He stays away for two weeks, and I hate myself even more when my heart pounds because he finally comes by to see me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t seem to notice how excited I am to see him. Calmly he steps inside, ignoring me to walk around the couch and glance over everything. His gaze travels to the bookshelf. Whoever was in the apartment before me left her books. I felt like I’d won the lottery when I discovered them.

  “I told them to clear out all her things,” he says with a nod toward the paperbacks.

  “If it’s okay, Sir, I’d like to keep them.” I beg him silently in my head not to take away the books.

  “I should probably have them burned. But, I don’t know.” He is amused and runs a finger along the spines. “A whore who reads Jane Austen might be a bit refreshing.”

  “Please.”

  His face has lost all signs of amusement when he turns back around. “How badly do you want to keep them, Athena?”

  The lessons that stick with you are the ones hardest learned. That day I learned a lesson that would serve me well for the next nine years: don’t feel anything and if you do, don’t let it show. Emotions will be used against you.

  I try to tell him it’s okay, I don’t want the books, but he saw my weakness and knows better. For months after that day, I can't think of a book without hearing in my head the slow slide of a man’s zipper and feeling the choking hold of his hands around my throat as he pushes his way into me. I don’t touch a book again for two years. Not until I stop drinking.

  Isaiah and I spend the rest of the day in companionable silence. It’s not until it’s dark out that things become uncomfortable. He approaches me almost sheepishly.

  “I’m going to let you have the bed tonight. I’ll sleep out here.” He’s got an armful of bed linens and throws a pillow on the couch.

  I look up from the book I’ve been reading. Of course. The sleeping arrangement. I should have anticipated this. “I can’t kick you out of your bed. I’ll take the couch.”

  “I’m not going to let you argue with me. I’m taking the couch. Besides, when I leave for work in the morning, if you’re out here, I’ll wake you up. This way you can sleep.”

  I can tell from his expression it’s not worth arguing with him. One thing I’ve learned is that smart people chose their battles. This isn’t a hill I want to die on, so I nod and say, “Thank you.”

  “I’m going to go ahead and try to get to sleep.”

  That’s my cue to move to the bedroom. I take the book I’m reading and head that way.

  “I put a new toothbrush out for you.”

  I don’t even have a toothbrush to my name. But instead of dwelling on the negative, I focus on the positive: I have a safe place to sleep. I have food to eat. And I have a friend who will protect me.

  I stay up late into the night reading. Old habits are hard to break, and I’m not accustomed to falling asleep until after two in the morning. My eyes finally feel heavy when I hear it. Someone’s yelling.

  I’m wide awake now, and my heart races because I can tell it’s Isaiah. I have one thought: Mike has found me. I reach for my phone, but realize I left it at the hotel with Theo, so instead I look around the sparsely decorated bedroom for something — anything —I can use as a weapon.

  There’s another yelp from the living room, and I run to the door and open it just enough for me to peek. It’s dark, and I can’t see anything, but there doesn’t appear to be any sort of struggle going on. Perplexed, I crack the door more.

  Isaiah’s having a nightmare.

  My hand clutches my chest in relief, but he groans in this sleep and starts to thrash around. I cross the room to him.

  “Isaiah?” I touch his shoulder tentatively. “Wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  “No!”

  “Isaiah?”

  His eyes snap open, and he grabs my wrist so hard it hurts. I jerk my hand back, but he doesn’t let go.

  “Ow, stop.” I yank my arm again. “Isaiah. Let go.”

  He blinks. “Athena? What are you doing?”

  “Waking you up. You were having a nightmare. Would you let go of my wrist?”

  He seems to notice for the first time that he’s holding me, because he lets go immediately. “Sorry.”

  “Damn, you have a grip.” I rub my wrist with my other hand. I’m probably going to have bruises.

  He sits up. “I’m so sorry. Let me see.”

  I take a place on the couch beside him and show him my wrist. “How’d a preacher boy like you get a grip like that?”

  “I played football in school.”

  I laugh in spite of the pain in my wrist. There’s no way the lanky Isaiah I remember played football. “You did not.”

  “I said I played. I didn’t say I was any good. Anyway, I was at practice one day and I broke my arm.”

  Ah, yes. That makes sense. That I can easily picture. “I bet your mom flipped.”

  “Isaiah Samuel,” he says in a perfect imitation of his mother’s voice. “What did I tell you about contact sports? A gentleman with your ambition need not associate with ruffians.”

  I roll my eyes. “She didn’t.”

  “She did. And just to piss her off more, I told her I’d changed majors and wasn’t going to law school and didn’t want to run for Congress.”

  “I wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that one.”

  “She got over it, eventually. I think. But that was the end of my football career. I kept working out though. I liked the way I felt. I lifted weights and ran. Still do.”

  “You run. On purpose?”

  “Yes, ma’am. On purpose. Now let’s look at that wrist.”

  He turns on a small lamp beside the couch and takes my hand in his. Carefully, he moves it from side to side. “Hurt?”

  “Just a little.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m supposed to be helping you and keeping you safe. Not hurting you further.”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him, and it is. I mean, seriously. I’ve had much worse. But I can’t get the words out because he’s lifted my hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside of my wrist.

  I suck in a breath. It’s a gentle kiss and completely unexpected. I’m ashamed that my first thought is that he must be expecting payment now. For letting me sleep in his house.

  “Isaiah,” I start. “I can’t. It’s —”

  “Shhh. Let me do this. You can tell me to stop at any time and I will.”

  I close my eyes as his lips return to my wrist. He’s only kissing my wrist. Nothing more. And I can stop him whenever I want. That, I tell myself, makes it different. I have a choice and I can stop this at any time.

  I don’t want to stop it. I want him to continue. I want to see if I can feel anything.

  I’ve never enjoyed sex. Even my first time with Mike, before I found out who and what he was, wasn’t pleasurable. Sex is something I do in much the way as I brush my teeth or wash my clothes. Except it’s also an act, and I know exactly how to act like I’m enjoying it.

  I don’t want to act with Isaiah, but as his lips travel up my arm to the crook of my elbow, I suck in another breath. Not because it feels good or I’m turned on. It’s because I feel nothing.

  He shifts on the couch and presses me down on my back. “Are you okay with this?”

  I nod. He gives me a small smile and slips his hand under my shirt. It’s all I have on. After all, it’s not like I packed to come here. I close my eyes and try to focus on what he’s doing.

  He takes his time exploring my body. His hands and lips are everywhere, and I can’t help but compare him to what I’ve experienced in the past. There’s a hesitancy with Isaiah the others didn’t have. Like he’s waiting for me to stop him.

  I won’t, of course. Sex is
nothing to me. If he wants it, he can have it. At least he isn’t going to hurt me. I run a hand down his back, and once more I’m shocked by how muscular he is.

  “Feels good having your hands on me,” he murmurs against my skin.

  He pushes my shirt up, and I lift myself allowing him to take it off completely. Once it falls to the floor, his eyes travel over me. “You’re so damn beautiful.”

  I’ve heard it all before. Men tell me I’m beautiful everyday. I suppose I am on the outside. No one ever sees the inside, the not-so-beautiful parts. I steel my body, preparing for what comes next.

  “Hey.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Where did you go?”

  “I’m right here.” I smile in a way I hope is seductive but he’s frowning.

  “No, you’re not.” He sits up.

  It’s ridiculous, but my first thought is, No, don’ t pull away. Mike will kill me. Then it hits me: I’m with Isaiah and I don’t belong to Mike anymore.

  “I’m sorry.” This is new for me. Apologizing for not being into sex. “I’m just so tired. I haven’t been to sleep yet.”

  “I’m the one who should apologize. After all you’ve been through and I jump all over you like....”

  He doesn’t finish his sentence, but sits up and runs his fingers through his hair. “I’m such an ass.”

  I don’t know what to say, but I know it’s my fault. Everything was going so well, and then I messed it up. “I didn’t want you to stop.”

  “Tonight’s not the right time, Athena. Not like this.”

  “Another night?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “Maybe.”

  “I’ll take that on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Come to the bedroom with me. I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

  He finally smiles. “I can do that.”

  We walk together to the bedroom, and when he gathers me in his arms, I think this is better than sex ever could be. I fall asleep quickly and sleep better than I have in years.

  ***

  I eye his hair again the next afternoon when he gets home from work. “You need to let me cut that mess.”

  I’ve been inside his condo all day, and I’m going slightly stir crazy. Since he’s been home, he’s been in the bedroom making phone calls ,and I’m trying my best to be patient and not be a pain. But seriously? Couldn’t he make the phone calls from the office?

  “This?” He’s sitting at the table and he hangs his head slightly. He sticks his fingers in his hair and rubs his scalp with a fury. When he brings his head back up, his hair sticks out everywhere.

  I laugh. “That is a sight. It’s also a disgrace.”

  “Completely unacceptable.” His chair squeaks as he pushes back from the table. “I’ll get the scissors.”

  He walks back into the kitchen moments later. He’s changed into an old T-shirt and has a towel draped over his shoulders. “You sure you can shape this up? I’m not a vain man, but I don’t want to look like I’ve been to a butcher.”

  I motion to the chair, and he obediently sits down. “I never had any complaints in the past, Preacher Boy.”

  He places a comb on the table. “That’s because you had pointy metal scissors in your hands and they were afraid you’d stab them.”

  “Shut up and be still.”

  “Only because you’re holding the scissors.”

  I straighten the towel around his shoulders, resisting the temptation to rub his back. He fills out the tight shirt and his shoulders move steadily with each breath. Is it my imagination or does a faint shudder run through him?

  I close my eyes before touching his hair. Will it be as thick and silky as I think? Can I really do this? While I’ve cut some hair and trimmed a wig or two, I’ve never cut a man’s hair before. Surely, it can’t be that different.

  I tentatively touch the top of his head. Run my fingers through the hair there. It’s so much thicker than I imagined. Your average woman would die for such thick hair. My own is long and wavy, not as thick as his, but not thin and brittle either.

  “You have nice hair,” I say, all nonchalantly, like I don’t want to spend all afternoon with my fingers buried in it. “You know, for a guy.”

  He snorts. “It covers my head. I can’t complain.”

  I smack the back of his head. “You have hair like this and that’s all you have to say? It covers your head? You are such a man.”

  “I decide to obsess over something on my person, it’s not going to be my hair.”

  “Uh.” I pick up the comb and work it through the tangled mess. “Now you sound all eighteenth-century. Your person.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate the phrase. I saw you eye my collection of Henry James and Sherlock Holmes.”

  I run the comb and my fingers through his hair one last time before picking up the scissors. “They surprised me.”

  “What? That I read?”

  I snip the ends from a section of hair I held in my left hand. So soft. How did a man’s hair get so soft? “No. Yes. Maybe.” I slap his shoulder. “I’m trying to concentrate here.”

  “Stop hitting me.”

  “Hush.”

  I bite my lower lip as I continue to snip ends. Slips of hair fall to the towel as I work, covering the soft terrycloth in patches of wispy brown strands. My fingers, the scissors, and comb work almost of their own accord. I tug his hair gently to ensure everything is even.

  Satisfied, I take a step back to see better, and my gaze falls to the table. His hands rest in front of him, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles are white.

  “Isaiah? You okay?”

  He relaxes slightly. Or at least he unclenches his fists. “Yeah. Sorry.”

  It’s because I was touching him, I’m certain of it. “I’m almost done.”

  His only response is a nod.

  I go back to cutting his hair, but it’s not the same. I can’t concentrate on how nice it feels to touch him, to be near him, to breathe him in as if he’s my own.

  He’s not.

  I finish with his hair as quickly as I can. Snipping here and there. Brushing his shoulders ever so slightly. But my touches are quick and business-like.

  He relaxes and a deep breath escapes his body.

  “Ta da.” I step back, giving him room to stand. “All done.”

  He shakes his head. “Feels so much better.”

  “Wait till you see it.”

  “Why? Will I hate it?”

  “No, I’d just rather you get the full effect before you start issuing compliments.”

  He turns, and his wicked grin is back. “Or complaints.”

  “No complaints, ever, remember?”

  He nods toward my right hand. “Pointy, metal things, remember?”

  I wave the scissors at him. “Into the bathroom with you and tell me what you think.”

  He laughs on his way down the hall and disappears into the bathroom. I bite the corner of my lips and wait for some sort of acknowledgement, good or bad. What if he hates it? Moments later, he reappears.

  “It looks great,” he says. “Thank you.”

  “Not just saying that because I still have the sharp, pointy things in my hand?”

  “No, I think you did a fine job. I look all respectable again.”

  “You never stopped looking respectable.” I gather the discarded towel and sweep the hair from the table onto the floor. Unlike me.

  Something in my demeanor must give away the inner workings of my brain, because seconds later he touches my shoulder.

  “Athena. Let me be your friend again.”

  His gentle touch brings tears to my eyes.

  “We were never meant to be friends,” I whisper. “We were meant. . . we were meant to be more.”

  His grip tightens.

  Don’t. Don’t say it.

  “I can’t offer you more.”

  I knew what he would say, but the cut is still there – sharp and sure – yet, maybe not as deadly as I’d th
ought. I close my eyes and concentrate. If I try hard enough, I can rebuild part of my fortress.

  Not enough, of course, it might never be enough again. Seeing Isaiah, talking to Isaiah, has changed me. I can accept that. But still, a few stones, stacked haphazardly, here and there. Maybe it’ll be enough to get me back to where I can function again. To a place I won’t be so vulnerable.

  I push back the urge to throw my arms around him and instead focus on the anger. Anger at myself for letting the conversation with him go as far as it had. Anger at the men who kept me in work for all those years. And then, even though it’s unfair, I funnel all that anger at him.

  “You think I’m asking for more?” I say his eyes widen with surprise. “You think I have the privilege of asking a man for anything?”

  Whatever he is going to say is interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He looks at the display and sighs. “I have to take this.”

  I nod, and he goes into the bedroom and closes the door. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. My mind knows he’s a pastor and must have confidential meetings and talks with the people in his church. Talks that would be inappropriate for me to listen in on. But for some reason, it’s almost as if he’s keeping a secret.

  Without him in the living room, the apartment is eerily quiet. Even though he was gone all day, it’s such a stark contrast to what it was like mere minutes ago. It makes me nervous. I walk into the kitchen to see what I can find to make for dinner, but as I pass by a window, the headlights from a car sweep across the glass and I jump out of the way.

  Has Mike figured out that I’m with Isaiah? If he thinks I’ve skipped town, he won't connect the two. But if he believes I’m still in town, he might. For all I know, that was him in the car that went past me. Or maybe Harris. He’d probably have Harris do the drive-by.

  I’m sitting at the kitchen table when Isaiah comes out of the bedroom, and I must look like I feel, because the first thing out of his mouth is, “Are you okay?”

  I don’t want to bring up the conversation we were having before his phone rang, so I change the subject. “Has Mike asked you about me?”

  He sits down across from me. “He called me at work today and said you were late for a meeting and if I saw you to let him know.”