Secret Lucidity

by E. K. Blair

  With a few more weakened efforts, I choke out a loud whimper, “Don’t make me do this,” as I go limp in his hold.

  He lowers us to the floor when my knees give out, and he hunches his body over mine as I wail, tears falling down my cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”

  “I’m not letting you go, Cam. You’re not running away either. I need you to talk to me.” He pulls me even closer to him, his chin coming to my shoulder before breathing in my ear, “God, baby, don’t cry like this.”

  But how can I not? The second I tell him the truth, he’ll realize the freak I am and want nothing more to do with me.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What could you possibly be sorry for?” he responds.

  I lock my hands around his forearms, which are wrapped across my chest, and take in a deep breath to calm myself. When I’m able to quiet down, he asks, “Did you do that to yourself?”

  Cringing in humiliation, I’m unable to speak when I pathetically nod my head yes.

  He sighs, and I can hear the disappointment in it.

  “Why?”

  I shrug my shoulders.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t hide from me because you’re scared.”

  He loosens his grip, releasing the tension in his muscles as he tries to turn my shoulders to face him. But I can’t. I’m too ashamed to look him in the eyes.

  “There is nothing you can’t tell me. You know that, right? If you’re afraid of judgment, don’t be. That’s not who I am.”

  “How could you not judge me?”

  He cups my chin and lifts my head up. And when I finally get the courage to look at him, he says with undeniable certainty, “Because I care about you. More than I probably should.”

  With his words, a few more tears fall helplessly down my cheeks. He holds me in his arms, and when I rest my head over his heart, he pushes, “Tell me why?”

  My face is hot against his skin but I curl into him regardless. And after taking in a deep breath, I reveal, “Because it feels good.”

  “You’ve got to help me understand, babe.”

  “Because . . .” I push my head harder against his chest, completely mortified. “Because when I cut, it’s the only time I can escape all my sadness. It’s easier to deal with physical pain.”

  “Have you always done this?”

  “No.”

  “And that blood . . . did that happen today?”

  Emotions well up again when I think about how lonely I felt earlier. “I’m sorry.”

  “What happened? When we spoke on the phone you seemed fine.”

  “I was missing my dad,” I tell him. “I went to his grave because I wanted to be close to him again.” I choke up, and my body trembles as I weep, “It’s not fair. I never even got the chance to say goodbye. One minute we were driving and the next I was waking up in the hospital.”

  “You’re right; it isn’t fair,” he says softly, threading his fingers through my hair. “I hate that this happened to you, and that you’re in so much pain. You can’t hurt yourself like this though.”

  “What does it matter?”

  He pulls back and looks at me dead on. “You don’t think what you’re doing matters?” Biting down in frustration, his jaw flexes before continuing, “It matters to me, Cam.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you matter to me. Because somehow, ever since that night in the hospital, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head.”

  “So you just feel sorry for me?”

  “No. That’s not it at all. There’s something far deeper inside you that’s been pulling at me for months now.”

  “But I’m so screwed up.”

  “We’re all screwed up, Cam. And yeah, life yanked the rug out from under you far too soon. Eventually, you’re going to have to pick yourself back up, and you have to stop doing this,” he says, pressing his hand flat over my stomach. “You feel like cutting, you call me.”

  I nod my head, knowing all too well it isn’t that simple. Because the fact is, as sick as it sounds, I don’t want to stop.

  “YOU WOULD HAVE ME BE the one to do this.”

  He smiles in devious amusement. “Don’t be shy, babe.”

  “Shy isn’t the right word here. More like disgusted.”

  David stands a few feet away from me and takes a pull out of his beer bottle, watching me in pure entertainment as I scrunch my face. With my sleeves pushed up to my elbows, I hold on to the cold, damp leg of the turkey and lift it before readying my hand.

  When I hesitate, he teases, “I’m so damn jealous of that bird right now.”

  I shoot him a sneering look from over my shoulder and then turn back, cringing when I shove my hand up the ass of this turkey.

  “Eeeew.”

  David laughs at my theatrics, and when I pull out the neck, I nearly dry heave.

  “Uuuuugh!”

  “Dude,” he says, appalled as strands of goo slip off and fall into the sink.

  I drop it and quickly turn on the water to wash the gunk off my hands, shuddering at the nastiness that will soon be our Thanksgiving dinner.

  “These things should really come already cleaned out.”

  David continues to laugh.

  When he asked me the other day what my plans were for the holiday break, he didn’t seem surprised when I told him my mom had yet to mention anything about Thanksgiving and probably would forget about it altogether. He insisted that I spend the day with him, and I agreed, even though I felt bad that he wouldn’t be with his family.

  It’s been easy for us to be together outside of the farce we are when we’re at school. My mother couldn’t care less about my whereabouts, if she even notices them at all. But if she did, it wouldn’t matter because most weekends are filled with swim meets, which serve as a perfect cover.

  Even though David called off our morning practices nearly two months ago, my times have been improving faster than what I had anticipated. I haven’t come in behind Taylor for a while now, which has only spurred on her distaste for me.

  “How did you learn how to do all this?” David asks as I slip pats of butter under the skin of the bird.

  “I used to watch my dad,” I tell him. “He was the cook in our family, and when he was in the kitchen, I was always with him.”

  “Yet, this is your first time manhandling a turkey?”

  “I guess my father was more of a gentleman than you.”

  “But you look so adorable when you’re squeamish,” he jokes, coming up behind me and slipping his arms around my waist.

  “I’m about to slap you with that turkey neck that’s still in the sink.”

  We both laugh, and when I pick up the roasting pan, he opens the oven door for me.

  “So what are your parents doing today?” I ask as he pulls the bag of sweet potatoes from the fridge.

  “My brother is with them at their house along with all our aunts and uncles and cousins.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother. Do you have other siblings?”

  Standing by his side at the sink, I start peeling the potatoes for him to cut.

  “No. Only Josh.”

  “Older or younger?”

  “Older.”

  “And all your family is here?” I ask when I hand him a potato to chop.

  He nods. “What about you? Aunts or uncles around?”

  “None. Both my parents were only children, which is probably why they were both satisfied to have just me,” I tell him, handing him another potato. “Are you and your brother close?”

  “Used to be. But he’s married with two kids, so he has his own stuff going on.”

  When morning shifts into the afternoon and all the food is set out, we look at each other, realizing we went a little overboard.

  “What the hell are we going to do with all this food?”

  “That’s a really good question,” he responds before filling his plate.

  Sitting down at the table, we eat our efforts until we can’t
go on in our gluttony.

  I eye his plate, noting everything has been eaten aside from the turkey. “What’s up with you not eating that?”

  He looks at me with a mischievous glint.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I question.

  “Don’t get mad.”

  My eyes narrow as I wait for what’s coming next.

  “I don’t actually like turkey.”

  “Are you kidding me?” I exasperate, throwing my napkin at him. “Then why the hell did you buy one and make me shove my hand up its butt?”

  He chuckles, “I don’t know. Because it’s Thanksgiving, and whether you like turkey or not, it’s what you cook.”

  “I cannot believe you.”

  “Everything else was amazing though,” he says, unable to stop his amusement at the situation, and I shake my head before joining him in his laughter.

  “Give me your plate,” I tell him in mock annoyance before excusing myself from the table to head back into the kitchen.

  This is my first holiday without my dad. A part of me didn’t even want to acknowledge the day, but I went along with David regardless. I thought I’d be sad, but here I am, smiling and laughing, nearly forgetting all the reasons why I should be crying.

  We continue bantering back and forth, and when all the dishes are cleaned and the food is in the fridge, we lie down together on the couch, and I soon fall asleep in his arms while he watches football.

  “Hey,” David whispers as he runs his hand along my back, waking me slowly.

  I look out the window to see it’s dark outside. “How long was I asleep?”

  “About three hours,” he tells me as we sit up. “Come on.” He stands, and I take his hand before going to his room.

  As often as I’m here, a few of my clothes have been left behind. Instead of letting me go so I can change into a pair of pajama pants, he stops me and holds me against his chest as we stand at the foot of his bed. He holds me like a woman, in a way Kroy never could. And with my head cradled over his heart, I take in a deep breath as I relax into the soothing beats.

  These arms of his have become my place of solace over these past few months. I’ve come to know the strength of them well, wishing often that I had them with me always. But I wonder if always would be long enough.

  We kick off our shoes and crawl into bed. Lying face to face with my body tucked in close to his, I run my hand over the stubble on his face.

  “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  I kiss his neck before saying, “For making me smile today.”

  He runs his hands through my hair as we look into each other’s eyes in the darkened room. Time stands still in this moment of peacefulness, and when he drags his thumb across my lower lip, I kiss it before he says, “I’ve completely fallen for you.”

  My heart triple beats, driving my urge to be even closer to him, and when I kiss him, I really kiss him. I tug on his shoulder, and he follows my lead, rolling on top of me. The pressure of his weight on me provides a sense of safety, that nothing could ever afflict what we have because it’s protected by him.

  We continue to kiss, but there’s something different in the way we’re moving. As if somehow, we’ve slipped off axis, and nothing else in this universe exists but the two of us.

  My hands run under his shirt and over his chest, trailing along his smooth skin, which is hot against my touch. He wastes no time, pulling it off and tossing it to the floor beside the bed. As we continue to move in this new way, my top soon joins his. He drops kisses along my collarbone, down to the swell of my breasts, where he kisses me above my bra. My body tingles in excitement when he pushes one of the straps off my shoulder and down my arm, pulling the lace with it until he has me exposed to him.

  My eyes fall shut the moment he covers my nipple with his mouth. He sucks, and I arch into him, a movement beyond my control because it feels too good to be this close to him.

  We’ve always kept unspoken boundaries intact, which I’m thankful for since I have very little experience with this stuff. Aside from the occasional make out session, my and Kroy’s relationship was very PG-13. But David isn’t a seventeen-year-old boy, so it’s been a relief that he’s moved slowly and cautiously with me.

  But right now, I need more from him, and he gives it to me as he rolls his tongue, hardening me in his mouth. I grip his hair and keep him close, but close isn’t close enough, and when he tilts his head up to look at me, I whisper, “Don’t stop.”

  Reaching behind me, he unclasps my bra and adds it to the pile of clothes on the floor. I have no clue what I’m doing at this point, but I don’t care. It’s a battle of emotions within, and when his hands and mouth are on me again, they all fade into the background, leaving behind only desire and want.

  He’s unrushed, and we take our time slipping off everything between us until we’re skin on skin beneath his sheets. I watch in puzzlement as he slips a finger into his mouth for a second before reaching down.

  My body jerks when his fingers slip between my legs, and I clasp my hand around his wrist.

  His eyes flick to mine. “Let me touch you.”

  My breathing catches when he glides his finger through the center of me. Sweat chills my neck in heated pleasure as my body struggles with how to respond to this foreign touch.

  He’s hard where I’m soft, and suddenly I become very aware of what’s happening and where this is leading. I feign normalcy, but I don’t know what normal looks like in a situation like this. I contemplate stopping him and telling him that I’ve never done this before. But then I fear I’ll scare him, remind him of how much life actually separates us. The last thing I want him to do right now is stop. Because I need this tenderness, I need this affection, I need everything his touch is giving me in this moment.

  I’m so lost in my head, that when I look up into his eyes, I become acutely aware of him when he pushes my thighs and spreads my legs. Trying to quell my staggering breaths becomes difficult when he holds himself in his hand and slides the tip along the most intimate part of me. My pulse rages, suffocating me in my own fears.

  I don’t know what to do.

  How bad is this going to hurt?

  Will I be a disappointment?

  Will he laugh at me?

  Will he be completely turned off at my absolute incompetence?

  Because what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to move? What am I—

  The ripping of the condom wrapper draws every bit of my attention back to him, and I watch him as panic breeds within that which thumps beneath my ribs.

  “Are you okay?” he murmurs when he lowers his body to mine.

  Attempting to act as calm as possible, I nod, but I can’t seem to relax my legs that are trembling against his hips.

  “You’re not okay; you’re shaking.”

  “I’m fine.” I can only manage those two words, so I press my hands into his back, needing him to keep going.

  But he doesn’t, and my heart sinks when I see his face drop. “Tell me you’ve done this before.” When I respond with nothing but embarrassment in my eyes, he backs away from me with a self-deprecating, “Fuck,” muttered beneath his breath as he turns to sit on the edge of the bed.

  Feeling much younger than I am, I sit up and pull the sheets to cover my naked body.

  “When you told me about your ex . . . I just assumed . . .”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So you weren’t even going to tell me?” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. “Jesus, Cam.”

  “I-I didn’t know wh—”

  “Fuck,” he sighs for the second time, dropping his head in his hands after he rips the condom off.

  If I weren’t naked, I’d already be in my car, driving home, but instead, I’m scorched in shame as I watch his reaction.

  “Cam, we shouldn’t—I mean, I shouldn’t be the one to . . .”

  I pull my knees to my chest, feeling my heart hollow from his rejection. The draini
ng of goodness that he’s given me over the past several months pangs dreadfully, and the heat of tears threaten when I think about losing him.

  A drop of vulnerable insecurity falls.

  “God, babe, don’t cry,” he says, coming back to me and wrapping his arms around my balled up form.

  I swallow hard, refusing to let another tear escape.

  With my head pressed against his shoulder, he says, “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

  “You didn’t,” I tell him before adding, “I want this . . . with you.”

  He squeezes a little tighter. “Why?”

  The answer comes immediately, but I hesitate to reveal what I’ve been so reluctant to admit. When I stall for too long, he draws back and looks me in the eyes. I know he can see the words I’m keeping back, but he still presses. “Tell me why.”

  Holding on to what I know is tethering us together, I give him my honest truth when I admit, “Because I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  He releases a heavy breath at my confession and kisses me softly before looking deep into my eyes. “I love you, Cam.” His voice is thick. “But this isn’t something we need to rush into. I don’t want to throw your age into this because I don’t look at you that way. I need you to know that. We’re in this together, but your first time is a big deal.”

  “You act as if I don’t know that,” I say, hurt disguised as accusation bleeding into my words. “Like I don’t know how important this is.”

  “That’s not it. Not even close. I know you’re self-aware, but I also know you’ve been dealing with a lot, and I just want to make sure your eyes are open.”

  “They’re open. And even with all that’s happened, I know how I feel about you, and I know that it’s real.”

  He swallows all doubt the moment his mouth falls to mine in an amorous kiss. A kiss only he’s capable of because it’s everything that I need right now. A kiss that heals on impact.

  Without parting his lips from mine, he questions, “What are we doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Because, what are we doing?

  We’re forbidden and scandalous, hidden behind lies and the protection of these walls. Fourteen years separated in a world of unforgiving judgment. And yet, here we are, feeding at the mouth of sin and sacrosanct. What I feel for this man is something that the law and social standards couldn’t possibly comprehend. This is so much more. It’s unable of description, solely ours to have and understand.