Kiss Me Like You Mean It: A Novel

by J. R. Rogue

  I looked down at the single bowl of mashed potatoes in my hand, at the pathetic single tear on my thumb.

  The bowl fell in slow motion, a dramatic descent to my cheap, ripped, linoleum floor. My dog Holly hopped up from her bed and ran to lap up the contents. I couldn’t tear my eyes from my laptop on the dining room table. A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving played softly in the background.

  I deactivated my Facebook. I couldn’t look at Connor and pumpkin-faced-Tracey anymore. I would end up leaving it deactivated for a year.

  The rest of the holidays went by slowly, achingly brutal. I spent most of the hours I wasn’t working in my bedroom of my tiny trailer watching Friends and Buffy reruns. I took on extra hours at work. My car broke down twice and I had to take the bus for a while.

  Blane, who I no longer slept with since we lost interest in each other’s skin, would pick me up for the bar on Wednesdays so I never had to miss out.

  I flipped through them. Men. Men with hands like a salve.

  First, there was Jesse, he was twenty, and I met him online. We slept together twice, so I never counted it as a one-night stand. Eventually, I ghosted him.

  The next guy was the reason I stopped meeting guys online. I had to kick him out of my trailer after a frightening hour on my couch of heavy petting and no’s that were repeated too many times.

  Sex had become a weapon. Men and women wielded it in such strange ways. I just wanted someone to crave me beyond flesh. I wasn’t sure what I would do with someone like that, they weren’t Connor, and I felt foolish for holding onto my desire for him. We had such a short time together. I was fixated on the idea of him as a partner. The white picket fence life.

  I had a tiny chain link fence behind my trailer. It was rusty, one side was held together by some zip ties I bought at Walmart. I worked with my hands all day at work. When I got off, I didn’t want to move. I wanted to lie in bed, relax.

  There was no one to help with the things that were falling apart at home. Did I find Band-Aid fixes for everything? My trailer had three bedrooms. One was full of everything personal my uncle owned. It was a storage shed for all the things he wanted when he got out of prison. There was a large tool chest in there and sometimes I would rifle through it looking for nails, a hammer.

  All things eventually come to an end, right? The year, the shitty year, would finally bleed away. 2009 promised something better. They all did. We stepped into January hoping everything would be different.

  I promised myself I would be different. No more fucking nameless, faceless nobodies. No more texting Connor; he never answered anyway. And that made me want him even more. Knowing that if he was with me, he would ignore another girl's texts. It's such a silly thing. His faithfulness to Tracey, the way he pretends I didn’t exist, still pulled me to him.

  But I promised myself I would let him go in the new year. I would find a distraction that was more permanent. More than just fucking. But skin and liquor were the only things pulling me out of my hole, one that was sinking deeper and deeper beneath my feet.

  Sometimes an unnamed grief took over. Something gnawing, something I couldn't pinpoint.

  That's where I was at then. It was a different time, we didn't talk about those things, and I didn't know anyone who suffered from any sort of mental illness. It seemed like such a damning phrase then. Mentally ill. I wasn't certifiable. I thought idly about killing myself, from time to time, but in that not-so-serious way.

  When things would pile and push I would think that tomorrow was something I did not want to see. I never thought of actually ending it. I didn't want to die, but I didn't want to be alive. I had my dog and my cat to feed. They relied on me. Sometimes it felt like they were the only ones who needed me. They truly relied on me, in the way that simple friendships and casual hookups could never compare to.

  I think having someone really rely on me would be too much. How would I fare as a mother? It wasn't something I thought about too often at that point. I couldn't even keep a boyfriend. Should you have children if you shy away from hugging? Skin-to-skin touch that is not sexual? Sometimes when I was drunk I liked to hang on my friends, hug them. That was about it though. No funny hand holding or friendly kisses on cheeks. I liked to hug. Only then though. A sober hug was an act of intimacy I didn't want, nearly as scary as hand-holding.

  The odd thing about being someone who proclaims themselves as someone who doesn't like a hug, is that more people want to hug you. They want to pry one from you. They want to feel special, to say "she doesn't like hugs but she lets me hug her”. I didn't understand it. Why would you want to purposely make someone feel uncomfortable? It made me resent people. I wonder when it stopped, my giving away of hugs. Was I a child that loved hugs? Did I stop at some point, for some reason? I’d seen videos of myself when I was five years old. I talked and talked and I was loud, happy, boisterous. When I was a teenager, things changed. But aren't most teens supposed to be moody?

  I didn't want to be hugged. I hated being caught in a bathing suit. I was very curvy, voluptuous. I didn't want grown men, especially anyone in a father type position, to look at me.

  It was strange to have something so spelled out for you, and to not see it. Denial is a powerful drug. I ached for every little girl who was forced to hug her creepy uncle. To sit on a stranger's lap because he was dressed as Santa Clause. My mother showed me pictures of myself with Santa. I was always screaming, in pure terror. Why was I forced to try again every year? Traditions are hard to break away from. We are all victims of “this is what you're supposed to do” guilt.

  I wouldn't force these things on my child if I had one. No forced affections, no forced feelings.

  Imagine a little girl being in control of her own little body. I wish I had known what that was like.

  I wonder what childhood will be like for little girls, hundreds of years from now. If we will finally be where we need to be.

  I believed in reincarnation. I believed I would see it one day, those horrors far behind me.

  I was once obsessed with an Everclear song about an absent father. I never heard it on the radio, but I pulled it out from time to time. A form of forced suffering. A séance of sorts. I wanted to exorcise my demons. Stare them in the face.

  I didn't want to keep going to bed with them.

  I didn’t want to keep falling in love with them.

  But I would.

  26

  Push It Down

  “I know it may sound surprising, from someone who fell into bed so easily with men she didn't care about. From someone who doesn't like to hug, or hold hands, but, my favorite thing to do is kiss. It's such an intimate thing, but I could kiss a beautiful man for hours. The next guy I would find myself caring about, god, he could kiss. But every time I think about the simple, somewhat innocent desire, I am pulled back to when it spiraled. Slowly, surely."

  "Did he take something from you, this guy?"

  It's still so fuzzy, so blurred. I can never name what it is, what it was. "He wanted to, and he wasn’t the first, so I’m not surprised I push it down, away in the far corners of my mind. I explain it away, remember his lips on my own, how delicate he could be."

  27

  The Fringes

  I’ve never paid much attention to other people’s reputations. People like to talk, and everything said isn’t always true. I know some pretty nasty shit has been said about me. Some may be true, most not. I’d been warned to stay away from Rich. People say he is bad news. And honestly, he looks like bad news. He has a mean face. It only seems warm when he smiles. He isn’t my type. He wants me, so that doesn’t work. What a laugh, right? I might as well tattoo daddy issues on my forehead. I want what I can’t have. I didn’t want Connor while I had him, not the way I do now. I’ve spent night after night obsessing over him. Sometimes I think I just need to go on a date with someone new. Make out with someone new. Drown myself in bad habits and cheap sweat. I think I may know exactly who to test that theory out on.

&nbs
p; Rich was one of those guys you always saw on the fringes. I’d see him at a party with mutual friends. At the bar. Sometimes the guys would drag me to a Friday night football game at their old high school. Rich was always there. And he always flirted with me.

  His voice was deep. He liked to call me “Mama”. It drove me insane, but no one had ever called me that. It was ridiculous and annoying, but behind every eye roll was a smile. He told me every time he saw me that I would eventually go on a date with him. I always told him he didn’t have a chance in hell. He, of course, was friends with Connor. I reminded him of this. His response didn’t get much of an argument from me.

  “Are you and Connor dating?”

  “No,” I said. I was sitting in the parking lot of the bar, with my car door open. Waiting for a drunk Blane to pay his tab.

  “Then what does it matter?” His large hand was on my doorframe. His dark eyes were peering at me and I was avoiding them, avoiding the tingling of my flesh.

  Rich had the most beautiful smile I had ever seen on a man. It lit up his face and lit up anyone he aimed it at. He had a mop of curly brown hair on his head and his eyes were like the sky on a moonless night.

  “It matters because he’s your friend, okay. It just matters.” I hated being around drunk people when I was sober. I had no intention of going out that night. I was curled up in bed watching a Friends marathon when Blane texted me needing a ride. His booty call had stood him up.

  “Well, if it doesn’t matter to me and it doesn’t matter to him, then I wouldn’t sweat it.”

  “It doesn’t matter to him?” I whipped my head, locking eyes with him. How did he know it didn’t matter to Connor if he took me out?

  “Well, no.” Rich knelt down and leaned onto his heels. He had never been so close to me. I always danced away from him at the bar, at people’s houses. I didn’t want to feel the sliver of attraction I had to him. So I kept my distance. The scent of his cologne filled my tiny hatchback. He was sucking on a mint. “He’s dating someone. Pretty sure.”

  I hated the way he said it. So casually. As if it wouldn’t gut me. Why offer that reminder? I didn’t know if Connor was still with Tracey, due to my social media blackout, but I assumed. Maybe Rich and Connor weren’t close friends at all. I had never seen them together. I just knew of their friendship through the grapevine.

  I looked at the clock in my car. 12:30 a.m. I was about to drive off and leave Blane behind. I didn’t have time for this shit. I was wearing the shorts I often went to bed in, an old band t-shirt, and flip-flops. My long hair was in a haphazard bun. Rich drummed his fingers on the frame of my car, staring at my profile.

  "So, are you in, Betty?” The first night he met me he called me Betty. When I asked him why, he said I reminded him of Betty Boop. Pale skin, dark hair, tits, and ass. I shoved him and avoided him the rest of the night. Now I kind of liked the nickname.

  When he yelled it from across the bar, I turned my head. It was natural.

  Movement in my rearview mirror caught my eye and I watched as Blane exited the bar. “Sure,” I tossed the word out as I reached for my door. Rich stood and let me close it. He tapped on my window so I rolled it down. “Blane has my number." He was smiling. Victory finally in sight. The man in question opened my passenger door and dropped his tall form inside my tiny car.

  “Hey, Blane buddy, your girl Gwen has finally agreed to let me take her out. You got my number still?”

  “Yeah, man.”

  “Be sure that she gets it.” He rapped his knuckles twice on the top of my car and walked into the night. When I turned to Blane, he was grinning ear to ear.

  “What?” I spat.

  “He’s a moron.”

  “I know,” I agreed, turning back, staring into the parking lot. “Give me his number.”

  28

  Fragile, Breakable

  My first date with Rich was exactly the kind of date I liked to go on. It was at our bar. I was in a familiar setting. I felt safe. We sat at a table with all of Rich’s friends. There was no one-on-one. No reason for me to feel nervous. I needed that. I needed this.

  Rich behaved completely different that night, he was a stranger. His booming voice was low, subdued. When he spoke to me he leaned in close, so only I could hear him. The Rich I knew wanted to make sure everyone in the room heard his jokes, his stories. I didn’t know this guy sitting next to me. Or maybe I did.

  I had spent the weeks leading up to our date feeling him out through text messages. The Rich at the bar wasn’t the Rich in private conversation. He didn’t annoy the shit out of me, like I hoped. I would find myself smiling at my phone, getting a thrill when I saw his name there. I pushed our date off though. I made excuses, the way I always did. He called me out every time and I lied through my teeth. Redirecting the blame back to him.

  When we finally set a date, he told me it was the last time he would ask or reschedule with me, so I stuck to it. I let him pick me up at my trailer. Rich never struck me as snobby, so I had no worries.

  He opened my door and laughed when I struggled to pull myself up into his huge black pickup truck.

  As the night went on I worried about my numb fingers, my smile that was on fire. The liquor mixed with his smile, it could be deadly. Our date was a midweek casual affair. I had to work the next day, so I told him I needed to be home by ten. When nine rolled around, I was regretting it. I wanted more time.

  I looked over and saw his wrist resting on the table in front of him. He was turned away from me, talking to a friend, when I brushed my fingertips against his. The response was instant. He dropped his hand down and found mine. I knew I was in bad territory but I could not stop myself. Hand-holding on the first date? With a guy I always wrote off as a loud-mouth dick? It was the damn smile. The way his dark hair curled around his ears. He wasn’t conventionally beautiful, or my type. He had a scruffy beard that didn’t quite cover the acne scarring on his neck and jaw. He wasn’t as tall as most of the guys I went after. When he smiled it made my stomach dip. It was different from the other times he had used it on me. He was enjoying himself with me. Enjoying the fact that I was having a good time, wondering if I was wrong about him.

  When he dropped me off that night, I didn’t ask him in. We sat in his truck and talked for a half hour past my self-imposed curfew. I couldn’t stop chatting. I wanted to kiss him and I had to figure out how to initiate it. He was leaning back in his seat, angled toward me, but keeping his distance. All my instincts had told me he would be all over me if I went out with him. He was proving me wrong and it only made me want him more. I needed to taste him.

  I told myself I had one more question and then it was time to woman up.

  “So, you were pretty quiet tonight,” I said, eyeing my porch light through the windshield.

  “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It felt like you were a completely different person. Which one is the real you?”

  “Both,” he laughed. “I just had a lot on my mind all night. I’m sorry if, for any moment, you felt like I wasn’t having a good time. I’ve had the best time with you tonight. I almost canceled on you. I know you tried to cancel a million times though so I couldn't do it.”

  “Wait, why did you almost cancel?” I crossed my arms, but I wasn’t pissed. I wanted to mock him, but the look on his face stopped me.

  “I needed to get out of the house tonight. That's why I didn’t cancel. My grandmother died this morning.”

  “Fuck, Rich. I’m so sorry. Seriously, you didn’t have to go out with me tonight. I would have understood.”

  “I didn’t want to though. It was a shitty ass day and I wanted at least one good thing to come from it. I've been wanting to see you and have this date for so long. And I’m glad I did. I had a great time tonight despite the shit in my head.”

  I leaned forward, untangled my arms, reached for his hand. I liked the way it fit into mine. It felt natural. Everything with him felt natural tonight. It was s
o unexpected, I wasn’t sure where to go with it.

  He looked at the clock on his dash and into my eyes. “You need to get inside, beautiful girl. You have to be at work early tomorrow.”

  “I know,” I groaned. I attempted to pull my hand from his but he squeezed, pulling my gaze back to his.

  “Thank you for taking my mind off of everything.”

  “No problem.” My words were an awkward mumble. He had that look in his eye. I blushed and looked down at his lips. Full and pink. When he leaned forward, I came to him. The kiss was surprising. I felt it in my center. It kept going, and I felt my fingers curling into his shirt. When I pulled away, I didn’t worry over embarrassment. “What the fuck?” I whispered.