by J. R. Rogue
I briefly considered canceling since it had taken him hours to respond. It wouldn’t be the first time I canceled a date last minute. I always felt nauseous before one. I preferred to meet someone at a bar. Not this whole dance. I didn’t like being picked up, being dropped off. I was already anxious about the goodnight kiss.
If I liked the guy, I kissed him. I didn’t make him wait. And when I didn’t like the guy, it was very obvious. I’d never been one to hide my feelings from my face. I would rather be tortured than put myself through this business. I’d rather hook up.
I thought of my front porch. The wind had blown one of my potted plants over when it was sprinkling. The wood was covered in black potting soil and tracks from the stray I fed on occasion. There was no time to run out, to clean it up, but I couldn’t risk it.
Connor showed up for our date in his old muscle car. I still had no idea what it was. Classic cars were beautiful, but my knowledge of them was minimal.
I heard him coming as soon as he entered the park. My stomach lurched at the sound and the hairs on my arms stood on end. He was bringing a beautiful car into the wreck I called home. I briefly considered not answering the door. I caught my eyes in the mirror as the silly thought flashed through my mind. I needed to woman up.
I didn’t let Connor come inside. I rushed out, and was halfway down my rickety steps as he opened his door. He stilled at the sight of me.
There’s something thrilling about the power a woman can have over a man. I blushed at his eyes on me. His face spread into a grin and I returned one in kind. Those beautiful teeth, those large dark eyes. I loved the fact that his arms didn’t have a lot of hair on them. I noticed these little things.
It was a warm spring day. His skin was pearl, glowing against his dark hair.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
I liked that he was open, unafraid to give the simple compliment. “Shut up,” I replied, laughing a little. I dodged him and walked to the passenger door, but he followed, beating me to it, opening it for me. I rolled my eyes but still had a smile on my face. He was too good at the nice-guy thing. It was turning me off, and I hated myself for it then. I still hate myself for it now.
My shoulders made an awkward sound against the leather of the passenger seat when I moved to buckle myself in. Connor was walking around the hood of the car, away from the sound, thankfully. I flipped the visor down to check my makeup up but found no mirror. Damn old cars.
Connor opened his door and the old frame rocked as he sat down. He turned to me before buckling in. “So what would you like to do? I had a few ideas in mind.”
I stared ahead. Direct eye contact was something I avoided until I had a few drinks in me. “I don’t know,” I said, fiddling with the hole in my favorite jeans. “What were your ideas?”
“I was thinking dinner and then we could go ice skating.”
I turned to him, eyes wide. “Ice skating?” I knew Connor was a hockey player in college. The guys had brought it up in conversation recently, and my eyes turned at any mention of him now. I had skated once in my life. I was twelve and I spent most of that miserable hour busting my ass on the ice or gripping the railing of the rink. I never again had a desire to get back on the ice. Especially in front of a hockey player.
The corner of Connor’s mouth turned up as he took in my panicked expression. I felt sick to my stomach. We were still in my driveway. Still in front of my trashy trailer. I wanted to be on the way to a bar. On the way to somewhere that offered me a weapon. Alcohol was the blade that I could use to cut into this tension. A cold ice rink would leave me vulnerable, awkward.
“We can just go get a drink if you want,” he offered.
We barely knew each other, but he wasn’t a fool. I wondered what the guys had told him about me. I turned forward, my eyes locking on the black soil spilling out of the overturned pot on my porch. I never ran out to pick it up. “Just surprise me.” My smile was less real, a little awkward. Similar to the way I would be if I didn’t take a shot to shoo away these nerves.
I ended up getting my liquid courage. Connor could sense my uneasiness.
We quizzed each other on the drive to a restaurant in The Hill, St. Louis’s Italian restaurant neighborhood. I remember the moment I let my armor down. He asked me what my favorite movie was, and I answered with The Shawshank Redemption. I had barely answered when he hit the brakes of his old Chevelle. I now knew what his car was, thanks to our twenty questions round.
“You’ve gotta be shittin' me. That’s my favorite movie, too.” He laughed; it was quiet, mostly the shaking of his shoulders, and I liked the way his skin wrinkled around his eyes.
Historically, he was the opposite of my type. If you lined up all the men I had slept with or dated, it would pull a laugh from you. They were all so similar. Tall slender blondes, with blue or green eyes. Connor was tall too, but the similarities stopped there. His hair was as dark as mine, his eyes as dark. His arms were solid, his ass in his jeans was something any warm-blooded woman could appreciate. I wondered what his legs looked like. All that time on the ice had to have made him hard and beautiful in all the best places.
At dinner, I ordered two drinks. My tongue felt loose in my mouth and my cheeks were hot, warmed by liquor and his attention. He looked me in the eye when he spoke, and I was finally finding the courage to do the same, fluent glances, but still I was getting better at it.
Under the table, as we ate dessert, he tapped his shoe against my tan wedges. It was a tiny touch, no skin involved, but I liked it. The tipsier I got, and I was a lightweight, the more I liked him. My judgment wasn’t the easiest to trust, but it felt different. I had hooked up with a few guys since Avery. Nothing stuck, because I pushed it away. Connor was someone I saw myself wanting to keep around.
After Connor paid our dinner tab he reached for me, helping me out of my chair. When we exited the restaurant, my hand was still in his. It felt intimate and my mind was frantically searching for reasons to pull free. The liquor in my veins was battling my flight instincts. When we reached Connor’s car he let go of my hand, oblivious to the ridiculous war inside of my skin. He opened my door for me again and I didn’t roll my eyes or act like an asshole this time. I thanked him and smiled as I sat down.
When Connor got back into the car, he started it without a word. I had left it up to him to decide our next move. We drove in silence to our next destination, which thankfully, was not an ice rink. I had spied two sets of ice skates in his backseat when I got out at the restaurant earlier.
Our destination was a bar. I breathed a sigh of relief when we pulled up to neon lights. He gave in, didn’t push me out of my comfort zone. Something, deep down, I wish he had been brave enough to do.
It only took one more drink for me to feel completely at ease. He leaned back, his body angled to me as I talked. When his mouth wasn’t smiling, his eyes were. It had been a while since I had seen that look in a man’s eyes. It was a desire beyond physical.
He wasn’t into art the way I was, but hearing me ramble on and on about it engaged him.
“I can’t get enough of Sylvia Plath. I love being inside of her mind.” It was dark, scary, an untamed forest of sadness. I was becoming more and more unbalanced in my manic mind.
“Didn’t she stick her head in an oven?” He ran his thumb over his stubble, his mouth was a straight line. I was impressed that he even knew who she was. Not many men I talked to knew a damn thing about the great poets of the past.
“Yes. Over a man.” Too often they pushed us to extremes, with their infidelity, lies, and their lack of empathy to our sadness, our dark holes.
I stared off, past Connor’s shoulder, then shivered. My skin was on fire as he ran his fingertips over my knuckles. I pretended I couldn’t feel his touch there; giving in was not on my to-do list for the night.
If I hadn’t liked Connor, I would have invited him in. I would have used him. But because I wanted to see him again, the plan was to go slow. I knew
I had it all backward, but that’s the way I operated. If I liked a guy, I wanted to wait to have sex.
I was sure he was feeling the same; he made no move to kiss me until my left leg lifted from the passenger seat. I felt a tug then. His fingers pressed into the palm of my hand. I dropped back into the black leather seat and turned to him
His lips were soft and my fingertips grazed his jawline, so many sharp angles there. I had thin lips and his were full, the kind women paid money to have. I liked the way they felt against mine.
His hand traveled up my arm, into my hair.
We broke away. The contact brief.
As far as kisses go, it was tame, but I liked it that way. I wanted more time to explore him, down the road. I wanted to savor him.
He texted me before he left the trailer park. I was splashing cold water on my face when my phone lit up.
Connor: You’re something else.
I smiled at my reflection. I had him. I had the power.
I saw him again five days later. He walked into Paul's after 9 p.m. Blane was whispering some stupid joke into my hair. I saw something flash in Connor’s eyes but he recovered quickly. I didn’t want a guy I had to hide myself from. He knew who I had been with and I was tired of explaining away my desires. I didn’t want Blane anymore. My attention was fully on Connor now, but the dynamics between my friend and I couldn’t completely change. I would not be cold to him. Not for some guy I had been on one date with.
Still, I pushed myself from my chair and walked to Connor after a quick laugh at Blane’s shitty joke.
“You came,” I said, raising my margarita glass to him, motioning to the bar. “What’s your poison gonna be?”
“Beer, I think. I don’t know how you can drink those. The mix kills my stomach.”
I usually felt like I had been run over by a train on Thursdays because of the drink, but they were effective.
Connor had a camera with him. He set it on the table and went to the bar to get a drink. I picked up the heavy piece of machinery and fiddled with the knob at the top. When he returned, I put it back on the table. “Trying to capture the world, eh?” I asked.
“Yeah.” He let out a half laugh. “I don’t know what I’m doing with that thing. I don’t have the same skills my mother has." He told me on our date that his mother loved taking pictures.
“Maybe she could teach you?” I had always wanted to get a nice camera, to learn about photography, but I didn't have the money to spare. I wanted a nice DSLR, but Connor’s old camera drew me in. I liked that the pictures that were taken with it were captured moments. Un-posed.
The world was moving so fast and would only begin to move faster. I downed my drink and glanced at his fingers, lightly tracing the side of the camera as he talked to one of the guys at the table. He always had his hands moving. I noticed that about him on our first date.
He had a low-frequency nervous energy. It was unlike mine, often loud in my ears.
11
Escape Routes
"Why did you need a drink for your first date?"
I bite my lip, stare at my hands. I try not to think of what she can see on my face. "The liquor made me feel free. Or some form of it. I felt transformed. New again. I felt like I had something to say. Or, that all I have to say is finally able to come out. I am a closed door without it. I have clenched teeth and a closed heart. With a drink, I am love and touch and warmth."
"And you couldn't be that way sober?"
"I didn't know how to let it out without the warmth of a shot. The warmth of my cheeks when that first sip rolled down my throat." I pause, feeling my eyes well. She let me have the silence. "Men loved me like that. Connor was back and forth. In the beginning, like that first date, it was beautiful. But then the jealousy hit. He wanted the warmth for himself. He got the warmth sober, he didn't want me to spread it around. Spread myself around. I think some girls like when a man is jealous. It makes me see red. I don't want it. I never have. There is no peace in that conflict. The flitter of hearts. The red makes me see escape routes. Search for flights out of state, just to entertain the idea of leaving. I never understood it. The way a man’s anger could twist and turn me. I don't like the raised voices. The veins in neck." I reach up and wrap my hand around my own neck. It's a comforting tic. No other hand can go there but mine. "The fear is real. It courses through me."
"Has anyone ever hurt you? Physically?"
I pause. The story changes when this truth comes out. I look like a fool, pining for my vibrant and volatile ex. "Avery threw me against a wall. He was drunk and didn't remember it the next day. I called my mother that night crying. She made me put him on the phone and he cried to her about his ex-fiancée. I was that girl. The one who couldn't leave a situation that everyone knew was hopeless."
"You loved him."
"Not just him. The safety he made me feel. That was the only night he didn't make me feel safe. So I pushed it away. Swallowed it. And, again, the liquor controlled me." I hate the next part. Over ten years have passed, and I still wear shame on my skin. "I had no driver’s license due to a recent DWI and Avery was taking me to and from work. I needed him in a way I hated. I still remember the day I told my mother about the DWI. She recalled the one she got, my mother who never drank, and blamed herself. I cared more about my mother’s heart than my own. I wanted to be good for her, so that she may never suffer. So that she may never fear she failed. It explained why I hid my abuse from her. I didn't want her to blame herself. I would choke down the blame for myself if it meant I could spare her."
"How long can you live your life sparing others? Is it selfless or cowardly in your eyes?"
"Both?"
We are both quiet for a moment. The air swollen.
“Did you need a drink for your second date?”
“No, just a few days before. And it was hot.”
12
Live Wire
The guys told me that Connor played hockey in college. That it was his dream to go pro. What they didn't tell me, what Connor didn't even tell me, was that his uncle owned the St. Louis Blues. I found out on our second date. If I had known before he picked me up I would have been even more nervous. I would have convinced myself even further, to a much harder degree, that I was trash, that I was beneath him. When I was ten years old, I was called trailer trash for the first time. It was on the school bus by a kid named Fisher who was a year older than me. He said I was skanky trailer trash. The insult was aimed at me and my brother and it pissed me off more that my brother heard it. I didn’t want him hurt. I pulled my brother into a seat and sat down, facing forward when I heard it. There were too many cool kids in the back of the bus. I didn’t stand a chance. I thought idly about asking my mom to start taking us to school but I couldn’t handle the humiliation. We lived just three miles from school and it would have been easy for her to take us in, but we would have heard about it at recess. Would have been called cowards. I would take the teasing over that. So yeah, if someone had told me that Connor came from money I still would have gone on the date, but I would have worked myself up even more before it. He knew who I was and where I lived, my reputation and all that, but it would have been there, boiling under the surface, that little voice telling me I wasn’t good enough. I’m so glad I hadn't known yet. Because it was a great date.
He was different one night at the bar, a few days before our second date. I let him be more forward. His hand was on my thigh underneath the table. He was whispering into my hair. I let him be tender and forthcoming with me. I let him be affectionate in the open. It wasn't really my style. Affection needed to lead to sex. With someone I didn't care much about losing.
This was a guy I had just went on a date with. Someone who liked me. I was thinking maybe I deserved it. To be into a guy who was into me, too. For the right reasons. Maybe it would be more than a distraction. More than just someone to get my mind off Avery for a night. Maybe someone to help me move on. Fully. Completely.
It was a p
retty far-fetched idea. But I could dream. When he brought me back to my trailer that night, I wasn't embarrassed. I drank enough to forget about the fact that I was in an expensive car with a man who wore expensive clothes. And I was wearing some cheap low-cut shirt from Walmart. Living in my uncle's shitty trailer. He really didn't seem to care where I lived or about the shitty car that I drove anyway. He was into me the way I wanted to be into him.
There was something familiar, but foreign to my idea of him, in his eyes that night. I worried he was too innocent, too kind to keep my interest. But tonight was flipped, frantic with new energy, a buzzing.
When he put his car in park, I crawled over the gearshift on top of him.
His hands were under my shirt and my skirt bunched up around my thighs. I moved around, pushing off my little boots. I found his neck, traced my tongue there. His fingers were inside of me before he even kissed me and I moaned.
This is what I wanted. I wanted to see this side of him. See if it matched up with mine. See if he liked to play the way I did.
He seemed so clean-cut. Audioslave played through the speakers of his car as he worked me up close to the edge. He wouldn't push me over. No man had been able to. But I like the ascent.
Suddenly his phone started ringing on the dash, the vibration blasted through the car and we stopped, startled, looking out the windows, and then locking eyes and laughing.
"I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me that way.”
“What way?” I brushed a strand of hair from my sweaty forehead.
“Like you mean it,” he said as he kissed me on the forehead, and then the spell was broken a little. It was such a tender act and it wasn't what I wanted.
I didn't deserve tender acts from tender men. I deserved the hell I had been living in. I untangled myself from him and fell back into my seat as he grabbed his phone. He looked at it briefly before tossing it in the backseat, then turned to me.
