If I Break

by Portia Moore

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!” I scream as loud as I can. My throat feels as if it’s on fire. My vision is so blurry I can’t even see him clearly. I walk over to the bed and rest my head in my hands. I’m completely drained. Every emotion inside of me is spilling over, and all I can do is cry. He walks toward me, reaching out. I get up to step away, but he pulls me into him. “Why? Why are you doing this to me?” I whimper, feeling too drained to push him away, and I don’t want to. I want to hold him and never let him go. I can feel myself completely breaking down.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, stroking my hair. But instead of being endeared by it, I feel like a helpless puppy about to be put to sleep at the pound.

  “No, you aren’t,” I tell him in a daze. I’m not even in this moment. I can only see past it. And I see nothing.

  “Yes, I am,” he says softly in my ear. I don’t detect a hint of sarcasm or amusement in his voice, which makes me start to cry even more.

  I wrap my arms around him tightly and look into his eyes. “Don’t make me ask you to stay.” I begin to cry harder. I can’t even control what I’m saying, what I’m feeling. I feel as if everything is crashing down around me.

  “I wish I could,” he replies in a whisper.

  “Don’t! Don’t you dare make this seem as if it's out of your control. If you wanted to stay, you would!”

  It takes all my strength, but I remove myself from his arms. My vision is so blurred that all I see is a vague image of him. I feel his hands touch both sides of my waist, and his lips meet mine. I don’t even respond. I can’t. I want to kiss him back, wrap my arms around him, but I’m numb, too numb to react, too helpless to pull away. I can’t even register this; I won’t believe this is the last time he’ll kiss me, that this will be the last time he’ll touch me. I close my eyes, pretending that this is all a bad dream and that I’ll wake up any minute. But when his lips leave mine, I know I won’t wake up. This isn’t a bad dream; I’m living this.

  I then feel his lips move to my cheek. “You’ll get through this,” he says after they leave it. “You’ll have to.”

  I wipe my eyes and look at him quickly, before they blur again. “If you’re leaving, go!” I say, trying to hold onto the last thread of dignity I have, the one thing that’s keeping me from begging him not to leave me. I stand up angrily and face him.

  “Leave.” I push him. “I hate you! I hate you, you fucking bastard!” I begin to hit his chest furiously, a hysterical, sobbing mess, and he stands there taking it, not even trying to stop it. He looks drained too, and I hate him for it.

  I hate that, even at this moment, I hope that he’s okay. I hate the fact that his expression is soft, and he seems vulnerable. It’s all a trick; he’s trying to convey that he doesn’t really want to go. How could he do this to me and make me feel sorry for him? Why, in this moment, am I worried about him?

  “Just go,” I whimper. I make my way to the floor, not wanting to feel anything, not even the comfort of the bed we once shared. It’s probably inaudible to him, but it doesn’t matter, because he doesn’t care. I can’t believe that he cares, not now. I have to believe he doesn’t. I won’t give away my anger. It’s all I can hold on to. The alternative is worse, but I feel it winning out. It’s about to take over and I silently pray that he leaves before it does, because I’m on the verge of it. It’s growing from the pit of my stomach—desperation. I squeeze my fists together and bury my head underneath my arms. His footsteps approach. His presence nears me and a moment later the steps grow distant, farther and farther away with each second. And then the door closes, and I feel like my heart has stopped. I lift my head and see that he’s gone. My imitation of a prayer granted, and that desperation that was welling in my stomach is now morphing into something else, something even more terrifying—complete and utter sorrow.

  I close my eyes and my new prayer is for sleep. I want out of this moment, out of this life I’ve fallen into—that I’m now trapped in, alone. My only temporary freedom is sleep. I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, and wish more than anything that it comes and comes fast. But it doesn’t, not in the following minutes or even the following hour. I feel catatonic, staring up at the clock over my bed. When I hear the door open again, my heart rate goes into overdrive, but I close my eyes, almost afraid to see him, wondering if he left something behind--if he forgot his keys, or something important enough to take with him. I keep my eyes closed and try to slow down my breathing when I hear him move around me. I hope he’ll get what he needs quickly and leave me to my despair.

  His footsteps near me again. I hold my breath, as if I hold it long enough he’ll disappear. But when his hands move underneath me and he lifts me into his arms, I lose my breath completely. I’m afraid to breathe and only do so when he lays me down on the bed. He lifts my legs, removing each of my shoes, and I don’t know what to do. Do I say something? Do I kick him away? A moment later, cool sheets cover me. Then his lips rest gently on my forehead and I feel frozen, knowing he thinks I’m asleep. His footsteps grow distant again, the light clicks off, the door opens, and that welling from earlier is coming up again, full force, and I shoot up from my zombie-like state.

  “Can you stay?!” I blurt out and immediately regret it. He stops in his tracks, his

  back toward me—there’s silence, and I remember I’m supposed to be asleep. But here I am, punishing him for his last act of decency toward me. “Just--just until I fall asleep,” I manage to squeak out without my voice breaking, my old self content that the words have been spoken, the jaded vindictive woman I’ve become the last few months cringe at the sound of them.

  He doesn’t answer, but he walks back over toward the bed. I slowly release the sheets trapped between my fingers. He sits on the edge of the bed, still not facing me, resting his elbows on his thighs, his hands clasped together. I feel the burning sensation in my chest starting, followed by the stinging coming up in my throat. In the next few minutes, I’m not going to be able to stop crying.

  I immediately regret asking him to stay. I tell myself he has to be here out of pity, or some fucked-up sense of duty, granting his desperate wife a last request. A wife who doesn’t even know where the fuck he’s going, and what’s causing him to sit so far away from me on our bed, like I’m disgusting? I changed my mind. I want him out, but I can’t tell him without unleashing what will be an uncontrollable, hideous whale. So I quickly force myself back onto the bed, pull the sheets over my face, and try my best to whimper as quietly as I can.

  His weight shifts and I know he’s risen. I knew this would be too much for him. Why should he have to sit here and deal with this? He’s leaving anyway, and being here now isn’t going to make the resolution of this any better. He shouldn’t have come back in. He should have left me in my grief, lying on the floor, alone. After all, that’s what he’s ultimately going to do.

  When the cover lifts off me, it’s like a splash of water on my face. When he climbs in beside me and pulls me toward him, it’s a comfort so conflicting it's almost giving me a headache. My mind tells me to push him away, overriding every other thought. I attempt to do it, placing my hands on his chest, but he pulls me toward him, wrapping his strong arms around me, and I don’t put up much more of a fight. He holds me tightly. I can feel his heart beating rapidly, but when I look at him his expression is calm. He stares past me, and I wonder if he’s here in this moment with me. I don’t know if I want him to be, but I do know what I want. I shift in his arms and he looks down at me. I bring my lips to his, pressing against them, holding my breath as I do. And when he pulls away, my heart drops, and I can’t face him. I quickly make a break from the bed, but he grabs my arm. He looks confused and conflicted and it’s just making things worse. One thing that Cal has never denied me is his kiss, his touch, his body—they were all mine, and it's breaking my spirit that he’s doing this now.

  “I--I’m still going to have to leave.”

  His voice is unyielding but soft,
and it causes me to melt, his grip on my wrist gentle but firm enough to not allow me to run away, which was my absolute intention. I wish I could stop him from running away so easily. I replay his words in my head, trying to decipher the meaning, and in my clouded, emotional state I realize he’s trying to give me a choice. For once, he's not trying to use sex as a bandage or as a means of control or as manipulation. But I have to say his timing sucks.

  I take a deep breath and command my voice to be steady. “I want to go to sleep,” My voice is raspy and somewhat harsh. I clear my throat and wipe away any vulnerability and sincerity. I want him to know that him giving me his body wouldn’t be a knife stabbing through me, that this is not about trying to keep him here--but that I need this, now. His guilt about it is not a priority to me now.

  “Put me to sleep,” I say, sternly commanding my normal voice to return, and his eyebrow rises skeptically. I can tell he’s surprised. Before he can say anything, I attack his lips, this time without hesitancy, with a swiftness I think has caught him off guard and with a force I’m shocked I’m able to muster, considering the state I’m in.

  I climb on top of him, entangling his body between my legs, and wrap my arms tightly around his neck, kissing him with an urgency I’ve never felt before. He pulls away this time, seeming to catch his breath, but he takes my face in his hands, searching my expression, his eyes finding mine—the tables have turned and he’s trying to figure out what it is I want. But I don’t have time for that; he’s trying to give me my last out, and I don’t want out, I want the one thing from him that makes me forget about everything else.

  “What are you waiting on?” I ask, breaking the solemnness of this moment. Before a second passes, he takes my lips in his, countering my hectic kisses and frantic need with a passionate patience that my fake bravado isn’t ready for, an unhurried desire that causes my stiffness to melt away. His lips hold onto mine like he’s trying to pull me into him. His hands slowly start to remove my clothes, but his pacing makes me feel vulnerable, almost innocent. The hard fa軋de I’m trying to create is going to break, but I try to hold on. I break our embrace, snatch my shirt over my head, and reach to undo his pants, somehow successful even with my rapid, clumsy movements.

  “Lauren!”

  I ravish his lips to silence him, throwing all of my body weight on him, which causes us to momentarily fall back on the bed. I realize my pants are still on and I swiftly shimmy out of them. When I try to climb on top of him again, he grabs my waist, stopping my pace. His eyes are downcast and his lips pressed tightly together—he’s upset, but right now, I don’t care. The confusion on his face is unexpected, but I don’t want to know what it’s about.

  I need to be distracted. My lips find his once more but, again, he's pulling me into that slow, sensual kiss that almost broke me before. I pull away. I rest my eyes on his chest—I can’t look at him. I work up my nerve to try again and kiss him hard, biting down on his bottom lip. This time he breaks our kiss, and my eyes can’t leave his face fast enough. There’s a glimpse of something I have never seen before, and I think I see heart, possibly disappointment and it stabs through me, but the expression is brief. Soon, his familiar wicked grin covers what was just there. His fingers slide between the lacy material on my hip and the skin there. He pulls it down, and I step out of it. Within a second, I’m on the bed, my arms above my head, trapped beneath his wrist. This is what I want. Lust—not love. Physicality—not intimacy.

  He’s fucking me figuratively, and I want it literally. I don’t want to be made love to—that’s over. I can’t let him in that place, not with him leaving. I won’t. I go to suck his neck, and he moves. His finger glides down my arm, and I try to ignore the tingling that jolts down my back at his touch, it’s something I’ll have to forget. He grips my hands, holds them together, taking the flimsy thong of mine from earlier and ties it around my wrists. It’s tight, but I don’t say anything. I don’t want tenderness, anyway. I want him inside of me. I want to be exhausted mostly I want to forget. I want to forget this moment, that this could be or is goodbye.

  When his lips find my neck, they stay there only briefly before his tongue glides down to the crook of it, sucking in the skin midway. His path is slow and tortuous, and I shift to stop his trail. His fingers ensnare my hair, forcing me to look at him, and I close my eyes, I won’t. I don’t want to see into him.

  His lips are at my ear. “Open your eyes.” His voice is deep and stern, but I ignore him. I can’t look at him. I bite my lips and squeeze my eyes shut tighter, and soon his tongue finds its way inside my ear. My body involuntarily arches towards him; the place he knows causes me to give him complete control. My eyes open. I pray that the tears welling up don’t escape them. I try to focus on the waves of lust going through my body and not on the fact that after all this, he’s going to be gone. That is what I want to forget. I want to forget that I don’t want him to go. I feel his hardness pressing up against me. It's torture, and I’m growing inpatient. I want him inside.

  “Now,” I demand, but it comes out more as if I’m begging, and I realize I’m helpless. I start to try to free my hands. His lips leave my ear, traveling down my neck, past my breasts, and when they reach my belly button I freeze as his tongue swirls around it. This isn’t what I want. I know now where he’s going with this, and it isn’t what I wanted.

  I try to move my body away from him, but he holds me in place as his lips trail lower and lower. I try to lock my legs together, but he easily holds them open and in place, and his tongue starts to trace the one part of my body I have absolutely no control of. I can’t help but cry out.

  “Cal. Cal, stop,” I pant. My mind is demanding that I do something to stop this, but my body is giving in to each stroke of his tongue, causing my thoughts and emotions to crash against one another, my moans of pleasure battling against my pleas for him to stop. This isn’t what I wanted. I cover my face as best I can with my arms as his tongue delves deeper inside of me. I try to inch away from him, and he grips my thighs tightly and pulls me to him. He goes more slowly, his pressure increasing, and my protests become shorter and inaudible. As my stomach tightens, he begins going faster, and I can barely catch my breath. I give in completely, and as I feel myself building to a climax, my legs trembling, I think of when we first met—our first kiss. I try to block these things out and focus on the absolute pleasure my body is feeling— no emotion.

  But my mind isn’t giving in. I see the night he proposed and our wedding day. Then, suddenly, our first fight, the first time he left for days without calling. I see him walking out the door and me alone on the floor, and I envision getting a phone call from Dexter telling me he’s dead. And at that moment, my body gives in, experiencing a pleasure that momentarily overwhelms these terrible thoughts.

  My body recovers and my legs stop trembling, an overwhelming sadness washes over me. I begin to catch my breath and recover from the eerie visions that are weighing on me. Now, more than anything, I want him to hold me. I want that slow, sensual kiss he gave me a taste of earlier, but he just undoes the thong on my wrist, goes into the bathroom and slams the door. I don’t know what to think or how to feel, my thoughts clouded. I rub my wrists that are now free and wonder what happens next. Is he just going to walk out? Is he going to say anything? He’s angry and I don’t know why he has any right to be angry. I put my t-shirt back on and hug my knees to my chest.

  When he comes out, he leans in the doorway, his lips held between his teeth, arms folded. “That’s what you wanted, right?” he asks in a sardonic tone. He’s fully dressed again.

  “What are you talking about?” I say, rubbing my temples, not wanting to look at him.

  “To get off. That’s what you wanted from me. A last good fuck, right?” he snarls, leaving the doorway and grabbing his keys off the nightstand. I can’t believe he would say that to me.

  “What? That wasn’t what I wanted!” Deep down I know it’s a lie. I didn’t want to feel him—I wanted to fe
el his body and he was trying to take me to a place I couldn’t go. I wanted him to give me something--to not think about him, to get away from all this. I know it’s wrong, but he’s the one fucking leaving at the end of all this.

  “Yeah. You wanted me to fuck you but you couldn’t even look at me.” He laughs cuttingly, his hand resting on the back of his head. I open my mouth to respond, but I have no valid comeback.

  “What do you want from me, Cal? What? You’re the one leaving. What do you want me to do? How do you want me to feel?!” I demand, getting angrier by the minute.

  “I wanted you to let me in.” He says it so dejectedly it makes my heart break.

  Why is he doing this? Why is he trying to take me to a place I have to leave in order to move on?.... But, I guess the reality is, he didn’t need to take me to that place. I’m already there living in it. Since the day I met him, I’ve been there, and he’s the only person I want to be there with.

  I swallow my pride and get off the bed. He’s hurt and he can easily spurn me, but I still move toward him. When I reach him, he looks down at me, his hands now stuffed into his jeans. I place both my hands on his chest and force myself to look at him and I know that once I do, the flimsy wall I’ve tried to create around myself today is going to crumble. And when I look into his eyes, it does.

  “You’re already in. You always have been and you always will be,” I say, unable to imagine how he can’t know this already. In the back of my mind, I wonder if this is a trick. Is this what he wanted to hear all along? Is this a card he can play, to know he can leave and waltz back into my life whenever he wants, because he can’t not know how much I love him, how much I need him, and how much his leaving tears me apart? It feels as if my heart is being ripped out of my body.

  “Promise me,” he says, and for only the second time in my life, I hear his voice sound unsteady and he really seems unsure. I nod furiously and stand on tiptoe. I kiss him as he did me earlier passionately, with controlled patience, and in return, he makes it so deep I it's as if he’s pulling my soul from my body and is trying to take it with him. His hands slide beneath my shirt, and he removes it. I do the same, tugging at his, and soon our clothes are both off and I’m back on the bed, this time with him fully inside of me, connected. He doesn’t pin my arms over my head, but allows me to dig my fingers deep into his skin as he takes me to places of ecstasy only he has. I take in his scent, his breath, his touch. I try to remember each of his kisses; his every single movement I capture in my mind. I allow him to go as deep inside of me as he wants, taking in the pain and the pleasure as one. I hold him tight. I say his name, and my body gives into him over and over again as it always does, even knowing the danger in which I'm putting myself.