by Noelle Adams
Gideon was still sitting on my couch. He hadn’t moved. I couldn’t seem to get rid of him the way I wanted.
Finally, I went back, carrying a new bottle of water.
He was watching me silently as I walked over and sat back down on the couch beside him.
“You’re not going to push me away by saying things like that,” he said after a moment. “So you might as well not even try.”
I knew he was telling me the truth, so I thought for a minute and took a different approach. “Despite what everyone says, pouring out all your innermost feelings doesn’t really fix things. I did all that at the Center. It didn’t help.”
“See, I don’t think you were really talking through your feelings even then. You were just giving people what they expected.”
I had absolutely no idea how he knew that. But it was true. It was entirely true. And I resented it. “You have no right to assume something like that about me.”
“Maybe not. But I do.” He pushed a hand through his thick hair. It was getting longer now, and his fingers mussed it so that it stuck out in various directions. “Diana, I’m really not trying to make you mad. I just want you to be honest. No matter what the truth is.”
“What good will that do? What possible good will spilling out all kinds of horrible things do, except make you feel horrible too?”
He gave another rough burst of sound—either bitter amusement or disbelief. “Do you think I don’t feel horrible right now? I know it’s not going to fix things, but—if nothing else—maybe you won’t feel so alone with it.”
All the anger dropped out of me like the air from a popped balloon. I was shaking inside and out as I stared down at my twisted hands in my lap. “I am alone with it.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice was so loud and so impassioned that I almost jumped. And then I almost jumped again when he reached over and placed one hand over both of mine. “No, you’re not, Diana. Don’t you dare think so. I was there.”
I couldn’t possibly shape a word or else something unspeakable would shatter to pieces inside me. I just kept staring down at his big hand on both of mine and shook my head.
He used his other hand to tilt my head up so I had to look at him. “I was there, Diana. I was there with you. I couldn’t stop it, but I was in that room with you.”
But they’d pulled me out of the room. They’d taken me away from him. He’d been beaten and bloody on the floor, when they’d dragged me away. And then I’d been alone.
I still was.
“I’m still right here,” he murmured, softer now. Almost broken.
But I was broken too. More broken than him.
I pulled my hands away from his, and he had no choice but to draw back.
I stuffed all of the shuddering pain back into a little ball where I could contain it and was hit with a way to deal with this conversation, to take away its power. “Okay,” I said, finding my voice. “Fine. We’re supposed to be friends? We’re supposed to share things? Then that goes both ways. How much honest sharing have you done about your issues?”
He blinked, obviously not following the shift. “What?”
“You were undercover with monsters for eight months. How many of your innermost feelings about all of that have you poured out—to me or anyone else? Have you found that it makes you feel better to talk about all the things you saw, all the things you experienced, all the things you had to do during that time?”
I was on a roll now, the words coming to me like a rushing stream. Gideon just stared as I went on.
“You can’t tell me it didn’t make you sick, to be one of them for so long. You can’t tell me that you didn’t sometimes wonder if you were turning into them. That’s why you feel so guilty about me—because you’re afraid you were like them in some way. So, until you open up to me about how you really feel about all of that, then you can’t expect me to open up to you. If you think that’s the way it’s supposed to work between us, then it has to work both ways.”
I was breathing heavily when I finished, and I was consumed with a dark satisfaction. I’d silenced him. I knew it. I could see it in his face. Because I knew as far down as my bones that he would never open up to me about that. This friendship or relationship or whatever it was had always been one-sided. I was his little project—one he was obviously committed to, but a project nonetheless. He was in it to fix me, and he’d never let it go the other way.
He left not long afterwards, and I tried to feel vindicated about that.
As soon as I saw his SUV disappear down the drive, I turned on the opera, ran into the bedroom, hurriedly put on my shoes, and scrambled up onto the elliptical trainer.
I rode it until my body felt as bad as my heart.
***
Despite the way we’d left it that evening, Gideon called following day, and our conversation was mostly normal.
He stopped by unexpectedly on Sunday afternoon and caught me in the middle of a session on the elliptical. I’d just been going about an hour though, so he thought it was simply a hard workout and didn’t seem suspicious.
I told him, as nicely as I could, to call before he came by from now on.
That week, I skipped my appointment with Dr. Jones, since the sessions were starting to upset me too much, and I was already upset enough by the argument with Gideon.
He came over for dinner the next Friday evening, the way he did every Friday night. I felt bad about the fight we’d had the week before, so I bought good steaks, which I knew were his favorite, and grilled them up with salad and French fries.
Maybe we could have a nice evening, and things would return to an even keel between us again.
He obviously appreciated the gesture, and we had a decent time over dinner, since he wasn’t secretly analyzing me and he kept the conversation light.
We were cleaning up when I said something stupid.
It was really my fault. We were both trying, and the evening probably would have gone fine if I hadn’t let something really stupid slip out.
I was washing the second dish and handing it to him to dry—there was a dishwasher in the cottage but I hardly ever used it since it took so long to fill up with just one person—and we were talking about an annoying colleague he had at work.
I was actually laughing a little at his description of the argument he’d had with the bossy, obnoxious guy that afternoon.
“It was all I could do not to dump the coffee all over his lap,” Gideon said dryly, still wiping the dishcloth over the plate, even though it was already dry. “You might have noticed that I don’t take well to people telling me what to do.”
I laughed again—just a little, not uninhibitedly, but any laughter is better than none. “I might have noticed that particular characteristic,” I told him, turning off the water and drying my hands. “Although I tell you what to do sometimes, and you haven’t yet dumped coffee on my lap.”
“True,” he said, still drying the already dry plate. He seemed to have forgotten about it. His eyes were resting on my face, and they were unusually warm. As warm as his voice. Strangely warm. “But you’re a special case.”
I tore my eyes away from his, suddenly jittery and uncomfortable. There was no reason for me to feel that way. It was just a casual conversation. Nothing intense or personal or deep. But I didn’t like it. And it was because I didn’t like it that I ended up saying something incredibly foolish.
I took the plate out of his hand and turned my back to him in the process of putting it back in the cabinet. “Special cases? Is that what you’re calling your projects now?”
See, when you know someone well enough, there are things you know you shouldn’t say. Certain things you skirt around by habit because you know it will hurt them or make them angry or raise their hackles.
There was no excuse for me here. I knew this was one of those things I just couldn’t say to Gideon because I knew how he’d react. And stupidly I said it anyway because I was uncomfortable with the way he was
looking at me.
As soon as I’d said the words, I knew they were wrong. I knew it even before I turned around and saw his expression.
“What does that mean?” he demanded, all of the warmth on his face closing down in a frown.
“Nothing,” I said quickly, hoping to take it back. “It was just a silly joke. Sorry.”
He wasn’t going to let it go, though. He put a hand on my shoulder to keep me standing in front of him, since I’d started to step away. “What did you mean by that, Diana?”
“I said it was nothing.”
“You said you were a project.”
“It was a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t a joke.” His body had gotten as tight as his expression, and I knew he was troubled by the implications. All along, I knew he would react this way, which is why I never should have said it. “You meant it. You think you’re my project?”
Now I was upset and uncomfortable in an entirely different way than I’d been the minute before. “Why are you making a big deal about it? It was just a random thing to say.”
“Except it wasn’t. You really think it. How can you think you’re just my project?”
I should have just said I was sorry and closed the conversation down. He would still have been bothered by it, but it wouldn’t have had to go further. But I was too upset now in too many ways to reason this out in my head. Instead, I just burst out, “Because I am. I am your project. You’re in this to fix me. You feel guilty or responsible or something, and you’ve gotten it in your head that fixing me is the way you can make things right. We both know that’s true.”
I was clinging to the edge of the counter with one hand as I stared up at him, breathing heavily.
Gideon was a beautiful man—with his strong jaw and strong forehead and well-cut cheekbones and expressive mouth, with his broad shoulders and lean hips and long legs and well-developed arms and thighs. He could have been a Greek god with his light brown hair and blue eyes. He was beautiful. Like a work of art. And he was full of strength and humor and deep emotion and kindness at the heart of him.
And he was impossibly distant, too far away for the person I’d become to ever reach, even as he stood right in front of me in that kitchen.
“That’s not true,” he said at last, a hoarse edge to his voice. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. Maybe you’re not even consciously aware of it, but it’s true. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you’ve done for me because I really, really do. But I know what I am to you.” I had to look away because the expression in his eyes was too painful to process. “I’m a project. A thing to be fixed.”
“That is not what you are.” He sounded confident now, almost angry. He must have figured out a plausible way to deny what was plain as day, staring us both in the face. “You don’t get to impose that on me. I care about you, so I want you to heal. It’s not about being a project.”
It was a good answer, but I didn’t believe a word of it. But this conversation suddenly felt dangerous, so I needed to take immediate steps to end it. With a little shrug, I said, “Okay. Good. Whatever.” Then I turned around to walk out of the kitchen.
Gideon caught up to me near the table and grabbed my arm, swinging me back around to face him. “You’re not a project to me, Diana.”
I shook my arm out of his grip. “I said fine. I get it. Let’s let it go.”
“I’m not going to let it go. So, all this time, you’ve thought that I saw you as nothing but a project? And, what, once I thought it was done, I would just label you as complete and move on?”
He sounded strangely betrayed, but I knew for a fact that this was exactly what would happen. Naturally, he wouldn’t all of a sudden stop calling or coming by, but eventually the visits would taper off until there was nothing.
A man like Gideon—as good and attractive and remarkable as he was—didn’t pour himself into a broken shell like me. Not when he was getting nothing in return. Not for long, anyway.
“Can we please just let it go? I shouldn’t have said anything.” My voice sounded slightly shrill as the demons started rising inside me, roused by too many emotions I couldn’t control.
“No, we’re not going to let it go. We’re going to talk about this.” He was angry. I could see it in his eyes and in the set of his shoulders.
As angry as I was scared.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped, trying to block out the panic, the memories, the remembered pain, that was starting to rip through me. “You’re blowing one little comment way out of proportion, and I don’t want to have this stupid conversation.”
“I don’t care if you don’t want to have it. It’s important, and we’re having it anyway.”
“No, we’re not.” I was definitely shrill now. “You don’t get to decide things for both of us. I don’t want to talk about it. I want you to just leave.”
There was something blazing in him with his anger and intensity—something I hadn’t seen in him before. I didn’t know what it was, and I didn’t understand it, but it was too much, too intense, too blinding. “I’m not going to leave until we talk about it.”
I could tell he meant it. He’d planted himself in the middle of the room, and he wasn’t going to be moved.
I knew first-hand how strong his will was. I’d seen it at work on the first night we’d met, when he’d planted himself in front of me in that terrible room, in the face of three armed gangsters. It had taken even more than the three of them that night to move him. To break him.
But he had been broken that night, and then I’d been broken too.
I was still trying to live in the wake of it, and Gideon had, at this moment, become a threat to the way I was surviving it.
So I used the only weapon left I could think of, however unfair it was. “You are going to leave. You’re going to leave right now. This is my home—my family owns it—and it’s private property. I’m telling you right now to leave. I’ll call the police on you for trespassing if you don’t get out of this house right now.”
His face changed as he realized what I was doing. “Diana,” he began.
“No! I want you out!”
He stared at me for a long moment with an aching expression that wounded me so much I had to look away. He didn’t really have a choice though. He went to pick up his phone from where he’d set it earlier on a side table, and then he walked to the front door.
“I’ll call you later,” he said, glancing back at me once more.
I didn’t answer, and he closed the door behind him quietly with a click.
I heard his engine start and then the sound of his tires crunching on the gravel where he always parked.
I doubled over suddenly, hugging my arms to my stomach, trying to hold it all in.
I gasped a few times and then ran to the stereo to turn on music, turning the knob until the familiar strains of Carmen filled the room, the whole house. I turned it even louder than normal so I couldn’t even hear myself think. Or feel. Or anything.
Then I put on my shoes and climbed onto my elliptical.
I pushed myself harder than normal, so hard my legs were almost numb after an hour. I turned my ankle painfully at one point but didn’t let that stop me. I just pushed through the pain, trying to feel nothing except the pulse of the music and the numb ache of my body.
I don’t even know how long it was. At least a couple of hours. I was sweating so much that my clothes clung wetly to my body and my hair was a damp tangle around my face.
My chest hurt so much that I was suddenly scared—some instinct in my body that still fought for self-preservation, no matter how much I tried to drown it out. I couldn’t stop what I was doing, though. I literally could not stop.
Then suddenly the music went off.
It was like I’d suddenly gone deaf. I couldn’t hear it. I couldn’t hear anything. I had no idea why.
Until I realized someone else was in the room.
I wasn�
��t scared or even startled. I was too far gone for anything like that. I knew who the person was—the only person it could be. He was staring at me from the doorway with what looked to my fuzzy eyes like horror.
I couldn’t stop moving. Even now. It was like something alien had possession of my body.
“Oh, fuck, Diana,” Gideon said at last in a thick, soft murmur. “What are you doing?”
My face twisted from emotion that kept forcing its way up, despite my best efforts. I barely had enough air left to speak, but I managed to rasp, “Please help me.”
I really didn’t think I could stop.
He came over immediately with four long strides. He turned off the machine and then, very gently, put his hands on one of my legs to make the motion ease to a halt. He actually had to pry my fingers off the handles to get me to unclench. Then he lifted me off the pedals and carried me over to my bed.
I didn’t want to lie on my bed with so much sweat dripping off me—I washed my sheets almost every day so they never felt anything but clean—but there was no way I could move somewhere else. I couldn’t even stand up. My legs would never have supported me.
I was trembling helplessly, and the muscles of my arms and legs occasionally spasmed, causing my whole body to jerk.
Gideon worked on taking my shoes off, and I heard him suck in his breath when he took the first one off and saw the bloody sock. Then he worked on the second one. I could hear him murmuring occasionally, “Oh, God. Oh fuck.” But he didn’t seem to be talking to me, and I didn’t have the strength to answer him anyway.
He went into the bathroom then and came out with a wet washcloth and the antiseptic wash I kept for my blisters. He mopped up the blood and applied antiseptic. They were so numb I couldn’t even feel it.
Then he went back into the bathroom and came out with another washcloth. He used this on my face, wiping away the pouring sweat from my forehead, cheeks, and neck.
It should have felt good, but my skin was blazing so painfully the cool sensation barely got through. I was still gasping for breath. Not anywhere close to thinking or speaking yet.
He seemed to know this. He didn’t say anything. After a few minutes, he went to rinse and wring out the washcloth again. It was cool again as he brushed it very gently against my cheeks. This time, I could feel it more.
