Infinite Us

by Eden Butler

  Where there weren’t bastards who lost their temper and struck out.

  “Don’t let anyone keep your eyes on the ground, my little pepper.” Dad had said that so often it had become something I repeated to myself as a reminder of what was expected of me. My parents expected me to be great, but I demanded perfection of myself. It was stupid really, but I wanted to make them proud. That perfection had been expected by Trent as well. And like the fool I was, I let him go on thinking it was alright to demand that perfection from me. But his idea of perfect and mine weren’t the same. They never would be.

  My lip still throbbed and when I wiped away blood, my anger rose something fierce. It became a ridiculous pulse of rage that I tried to keep down, deep inside my chest where all my worries and sorrows lived. It would not do to let my anger overtake me. If it did, then he had won, he had made me into something I didn’t want to be. Weak. Hysterical. Out of control.

  But it was damn hard reminding myself of that fact.

  My parents would be upset, not at me, of course. But upset that I had allowed myself to be so upset, to fall short of expectations. Trent had been sure to remind me of that. There were always expectations.

  “Your father won’t want Senator Mansfield to catch wind of this unpleasantness, Riley. You know that as well as I do. With my father working on the President’s staff, there’s just too much riding on getting the Voting Rights Act passed and we’ve all worked so hard. Your father, too. It would be a shame to let any other concerns worry your father or our office when they should all be focused on other things. Important things.”

  He was a coward. Trent was also full of himself. My father wouldn’t care what Trent’s father thought of him putting his hands on me. My father was a big man with a quick fuse when tested and I was his only daughter. He’d throttle Trent without thinking twice about it. But then, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Dad had worked tirelessly helping Mansfield get the Voting Rights Act on the President’s desk. It was monumental. Essential. I needed to remember that before I went off telling him that Trent Dexter had smacked me when I told him I wanted to end things between us.

  My folks were expecting me home over the weekend. Mom’s sister was flying in from Europe Sunday morning. But I couldn’t let them see me like this, split lip and weak with anger and shame. My parents had survived Hitler’s terror both on the battlefield and in the concentration camps. They were relentless and strong. I couldn’t let them see me being anything less than what they’d always been.

  My face felt sticky and wet and I sniffled so loud that the sound went around the library like a calling card advertising that I was being pathetic, crying over some bastard in the fourth-floor Politics and Religion stacks.

  It only took that small noise for Isaac to find me. He moved slow and quiet, stopping at the beginning of the row to look to his left, squinting to see me in shadows and darkness.

  “Miss Riley?” His voice was soft, as though he wasn’t sure of what he saw when he looked down the aisle. Then he must have spotted my red hair as it hung around my face, and moved toward me with a welcoming smile. It was only when I wiped my face dry with the back of my hand that Isaacs’s steps slowed.

  He squatted in front of me, arms resting on his thighs as he moved his head to the side, looking like he just wanted a glimpse of my face still hidden behind my tangled hair.

  “You didn’t show. I waited for you. Almost time to close up.” His voice was soft, the guilt of disappointing someone else, too, swam like piranha in my stomach.

  “I’m sorry.” I sniffled, using my nails to comb the knots from my hair. “I got into…there was something that came up and then I just…” I waved a hand, motioning around the books. “I ended up here.”

  Failure was not an emotion I generally felt. It simply wasn’t allowed in my father’s home. You worked hard, you were rewarded. You didn’t work hard enough and you tried again. I had not forced Trent’s punch and I damn well knew it wasn’t my fault, but that didn’t make the sensation burning me up from the inside any less painful.

  Isaac didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. He simply waited for me to say something else. The silence around us became too much, the weight of it too heavy for me to stand, and I forced my head up, to look right at him. I watched his eyes flick quickly to my busted lip, his gaze steely.

  I waited for ten full seconds as he stared at me. His focus was strong, felt like a wave over my features and I fought back more tears, wanting so badly to let him comfort me, but fearing to seem any more weak and pathetic than I already was. The silence between us was uncomfortable, as was the fierce anger that began to shift his expression. There was rage brimming behind his eyes and the disgust and hatred moved his nostrils into a flare. Unbidden, the collection of tears hanging onto my lashes dropped onto my cheek. It was then that he seemed to calm.

  “I’m a mess.” It was an excuse I threw out that he ignored, moving to lift a knuckle under my chin.

  “You’re so beautiful, Miss Riley.”

  My breath caught. No one had looked at me the way Isaac was; like I was remarkable. Like there wasn’t a dozen ginger-headed girls with dark brown eyes running around the city. Like my pale skin and a million freckles were exotic or interesting. Like that busted lip wasn't there, didn’t belong. Isaac looked at me like he saw me, really saw me and it took my breath away.

  My body shuddered when he palmed my face and I blinked, wincing when he brought out a handkerchief to my wet cheeks and still bleeding lip. He fixed me up without me asking, so gently, like it was something he’d do if I had or not and I felt the tension in my gut settle, release and vanish the longer Isaac went about cleaning me up.

  He made me feel safe, protected in a way no one but my father had before.

  “A man does this to a woman,” he said, brushing the hair behind my ears, “and he deserves to be put down like a dog.” Isaac paused, and I could smell sandalwood on his skin, chased by the smallest hint of bleach. “You say the word and I’ll put that dog down.”

  Something happened to me then, a fierce rush of something that made me want to do nothing but cling to Isaac, damn his arguments about our differences. I wanted to kiss him then, to hold onto him until we were breathless. He wanted to avenge me, to protect me from the danger I couldn’t protect myself from and some small part of me, a part that was ancient and primal, found this singularly attractive. Oh how I wanted to give him permission; I wanted to be protected. But the world we lived in, even in D.C. as Isaac had always promised, did not allow the freedom to attack and not be punished. Especially for someone like Isaac.

  “No,” I finally said. “Trent is not worth the trouble it would cause for you.”

  “He can’t go without being…”

  “He will be, don’t worry.” I inhaled and my chest constricted with scent of Isaac’s skin and the proximity of his body to mind. “I’ll take care of it.”

  It was then that I saw something from Isaac I hadn’t seen before. His stony resolve crumbled and whatever excuses had always kept him from wanting me, from allowing me to act as though I wanted him too, fell away when he began to lower his hand and I held it still against my cheek.

  His skin was warm and I could just make out the sharp bite of his calluses against my face. He had an arch along his top lip and eyes like a perfect circle, a play of amber and gold vying for dominance in his irises. Not hazel really, but somewhere in the middle, someplace that said Isaac came from people divergent and varied.

  “Riley…” he said, a warning I didn’t want to hear. My gaze didn’t falter; I may have stumbled with Trent, but still, I knew what I wanted, what was best for me, and that was not some overbearing, suit-wearing bully. And Isaac, sweet Isaac, took my lifted chin for the invitation it was, made a sound deep in his throat, and just like that, with a single tilt of his head, stopped fighting and kissed me.

  The world went away and I heard the song of hundreds of voices inside of me that sounded so familiar, yet were
unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Maybe it was that active imagination of mine working in overdrive. I had wanted Isaac’s touch for months, had daydreamed about it for hours and now that it was here, I realized that my imagination was dull and pathetic. Reality was so much better.

  He moved his mouth over mine, tentative at first, but fueled by my reaction and the awesome magnitude of what this felt like, he moved more confidently, more surely. Isaac wanted me and took what I offered freely—his lips soft, directing, his tongue teasing and satisfying all at once, careful of my broken lip yes, but oh, so absolute.

  He moved his hands, fanning his fingers into my hair, holding my head steady and I pulled back, feeling the smile against my mouth.

  “Miss Riley,” he said again, but the words were like a prayer, and I decided just then, with Isaac watching the strands of my hair slip through his fingers, that he could me call me anything he wanted as long as he kept touching me. “You could tempt an angel with this mess of fine hair. I like it. It suits you.”

  I responded, pulling him close, wanting the taste of his mouth again. He delivered, leading me in the movement, mouth and lips soft and sweet, a little desperate, a lot greedy and my breath grew labored, fanned out against his face and I lifted with him, following as he pulled us to our feet, as he pressed close to me and my back came up against the books on the stacks that surrounded us.

  My mind was full of the outline of Isaac’s hips and thighs as we pressed together and the sturdy, guiding strength of his hand as he held a palm against my lower back. I felt like a decadent sinner, taking and taking with no concern for consequences.

  But the heat of the moment and the shadows that hid us would not keep our secrets forever. As quickly as we had come together, a voice sounded at the end of aisle, a low, amazed curse, and we pulled apart to see Lenny’s grim face.

  “Time to lock up, man.” Lenny didn’t look at me. He kept his attention on Isaac, watching him as though saying more would cause the world to shatter.

  “I hear you. Give me a minute.”

  One beat, then two. Then the slightest nod of his head, and Lenny turned around, stalked off without a backwards glance.

  Isaac took a moment, watching after his friend, then he turned back to me. Before he could say anything, I spoke up.

  “I’m…I’m sorry,” I told him, hoping he didn’t think I regretted wanting him, what we had done. A quick jerk of his head and I smiled, eager to take that worried look from his expression. “No, Isaac.... I’m sorry we got interrupted.”

  A slow, easy smile spread against his face, then Isaac’s gaze drifted to my mouth and I thought he might kiss me one more time, but he frowned, pushing his eyebrows together as he ran a fingertip against the cut in my lip. “Did I make this worse?”

  “I didn’t feel a thing but the hum of your kiss.”

  “My kisses hum?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He watched me then, eyes sharp and focused and I wondered if he’d ever tell me about all the thoughts I could read on his face; all the secrets he protected so fiercely.

  “This thing between me and you, it could lead to a lot of trouble for both of us.”

  “Isaac, I’m not worried. Trouble comes even if we plan for it. It comes when we don’t.”

  He shook his head, smile sweet, those amber-glinted eyes sparkling like he thought I was naive or simple or a dreamer who wouldn’t be told to give up. Isaac gave me one last kiss, the first of what I prayed would be a thousand more, a million more, and then he pressed his lips to my forehead.

  “Come on then, I’ll walk you to your dorm and make sure you get inside safe.”

  And for the first time in hours, right then with Isaac, that’s how I felt—safe.

  Isaac and Riley cleared from my head as the fog of meditation ebbed until I realized where I was and what I was doing. Then, the realization hit me hard, a slap of comprehension and clarity I hadn’t felt before. I could still feel those broad hands against my back, those thick, full lips working hard over mine. Isaac had felt so familiar. He’d felt so real.

  He’d felt just like…

  “Oh my God,” I said, pulling Effie from her own thoughts, spurring her loud shudder and gasp with one loud oath.

  “What now? Man, I was in a good place…”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, jumping up from the floor to rummage around for a jacket. “I’ve got to find Nash. I have to tell him.”

  “What?” Effie said, following me as I found my tennis shoes and slipped them on at the same time. I was to my door, had it flung open before she stopped me. “Tell me. What do you think you discovered?”

  “I know why I feel something between us. It’s the past, Effie. Nash and me, I’m sure of it—we knew each other in another life.”

  Nash

  Roan had a limp, something I knew had gotten worse since I first met him as a punk kid at Howard trying to pass Chem 101. He’d taken time from his teaching duties to tutor me and something had clicked. He became the cool cat too old for students to notice, but to me, he was a man without limits. The kind of man I wanted to be. I kept in touch with him even after he retired, and he stayed my mentor through the years. It was Roan, in fact, who given me the push to plant roots in New York. “Opportunity,” he’d said, “lives with the masses.”

  I’d listened and while I waited for Nations to make a little noise, Roan kept his birds, spending most of his time on top of the pre-war building he owned downtown. It was a run down, shabby place that he hoarded, didn’t want company or tenants, preferring some quiet and solitude after years in academia, so I knew where to find him when my life was turning to hell.

  The pigeons cooed and sang like it was Showtime at the Apollo and Roan was Steve Harvey, laughing at their noise like it was the sweetest music he’d ever heard. He was somewhere upwards of 6’2, a wiry old man who wore his salt and pepper beard a little long, a little unkempt, but his clothes, which reminded me of some once-was player still keeping himself sharp and his swag on point, were pristine, ironed jeans with starched creases and a designer sweater, wool pea coat and a page boy pulled low over his busy eyebrows.

  “Nephew,” Roan said, laugh low, amused at the small tease he’d shot my way. I wasn’t his kin but he still liked to call me that and when he did, the word always made him laugh. Roan waved me onto the roof when I peeked out of the stairwell door. “Come on.”

  “My man.” I greeted him with a quick slap of our palms touching before he gave me a one arm hug. “How those feathery rats of yours?”

  “Watch your tongue.” He still smiled despite my insult, those light eyes of his, almost green, lighting up as he messed with one of the cages; two pigeons jumped on the railing in the center, flying closer to the other side. “What’s up? You lost? Haven’t seen you in going on two months.”

  “Been trying to perfect the code. Duncan is getting restless.”

  Roan nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching up as he continued to adjust the broken side of the pigeons’ cage. “Seems to me, from what you say, that Duncan is always restless.”

  “He’s ready to start making money.” This time Roan shook his head, nibbling on his bottom lip like he had to fight to keep something rude from coming out of his mouth. That never lasted for long. “Go on,” I told him, laughing as he shrugged.

  “It’s not my business…”

  “That’s never stopped you before.”

  He smiled outright then, pulling off the gloves he wore so he could push his hands into the pockets of his coat. Roan leaned against the low brick ledge that divided the roof into sections. All around us that brick was covered in graffiti, artwork from gang members or punk kids he’d scared off some years back when he bought the building. He’d never bothered fixing the place up and now, if I came here to see him and that paint was gone, it wouldn’t seem like Roan’s place at all.

  “This Duncan cat, you’ve mentioned him a few times and seems to me, every time you have, it’s to say so
mething about how he wants to make money.”

  It was the truth, but that had more to do with Duncan and what he always wanted to talk about than me projecting when I complained to my old tutor. “Well, that's kind of his job, I guess. After all, money makes the world go round, man.”

  “No.” Roan pulled all expression from his face and the deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes hardened just then. “Greedy men, sad men, that’s what they think. Money don’t rule the world, Nash. At least, not a world worth living in anyway.”

  The air was cooler than it had been the day before and I tugged up my collar as Roan pulled out another pair of gloves, these leather, not fit for messing with dirty birds or the mess they made. “I guess you got a point.” I hated the sound of my own voice, how the missing sleep had turned it to gravel, how the dreams and Willow had distracted me so that I couldn’t focus, couldn’t relax.

  My mind buzzed and simpered. It felt woolen and sharp with so much chaos, so many things twirling in my conscience thought, it was hard to quiet it enough to rest. And even when I did, my attention got split between the life of the girl who was so familiar, so comfortable and the echoes of images I didn’t recognize at all. Something with libraries. And the scent of sandalwood... and a hint of bleach.

  Whatever I felt must have been written on my face. Roan stop messing with his gloves and tilted his head, sizing me up like he thought I might be sick. “Boy, what is wrong with you? You look dog tired.”

  “I am.” That confession came out with a sigh and I closed my eyes, stretching my neck and shoulders. When I looked back at Roan, he was smiling. Never a good sign. “What?”

  “It’s a woman.” He nodded, that stupid, smug smile taking over his whole face. “Don’t I know it. Man, just looking at you I can see that much.”

  “You’re wrong, man. I got no time for females.” But even as I denied it, Roan’s laughter got loud, loud enough that the pigeons stopped their cooing.