by Noelle Adams
***
“Don’t you think you should tell Gideon the truth?”
The question was from Dr. Jones at one of our appointments the following week. I’d just spent twenty minutes spilling out what was going on and how anxious I was about everything and how I felt like such a failure since there was no reason for me to be spiraling down this way.
She’d listened without interrupting and then thought for a minute before asking the question.
“What?” I replied.
“Don’t you think you should tell him the truth?”
“About faking orgasms?” I did feel kind of guilty about that, but I was convinced it wasn’t that big a deal.
“About everything. About what you’re really feeling. About what you’re really afraid of.”
I stared at a spot in the air just past her shoulder. “I’m afraid of everything.”
“No, you’re not. And the fear that’s driving you now, the fear that’s making you so anxious, is not the same fear that used to drive you.”
“Gideon already knows all my issues.”
“He doesn’t know this. You’ve been hiding it from him. Don’t you think you should tell him?”
I swallowed hard, suddenly feeling tears burn in my eyes at the thought of having that particular conversation with Gideon. “What good would it do, except hurting him?”
“It would give him the chance to tell you the truth too.”
Stupidly, tears started to slide out of my eyes. I swiped them away with my fingers. “He always tells me the truth.”
“But does he always tell you the whole truth? Do you let him?”
“What do you mean? I never stop him from telling me things.”
“Not directly. But maybe you do it in other ways. Maybe you already know you’re not going to believe him when he tells you. Maybe he doesn’t feel like he can really say it yet. Do you think that’s possible?”
I tried to think through the question. I really did. But it was too hard, too confusing, made me too emotional. So I ended up mentally pushing it away. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Why do you always just ask me a bunch of leading questions? Why can’t you just tell me something straight out, so I can actually start to feel better.” I was still crying, and my tone was rather rude.
She didn’t react to the rudeness at all. She just offered me a box of tissues. “I could tell you that every woman deals with this stage of recovery after rape differently, so there’s nothing unnatural about what you’re dealing with. I could tell you that a lot of women have trouble with intimacy for a long time afterwards—not just physically, but emotionally. I could tell you that, but I think you already know it. And I don’t think it will make you feel better.”
I sniffed and mopped my face with a tissue. I nodded to acknowledge her words.
“The thing is,” she continued, “sometimes knowing isn’t enough. Sometimes we have to do something to feel better. Sometimes we have to change.”
“Well, what do I have to do?”
She gave a graceful half-shrug. “I can’t completely answer that for you. But I think a good place to start is to tell Gideon the truth.”
I sniffed. And then sniffed some more.
“Diana, sometimes the loudest voices in our heads are telling us lies. Sometimes they tell us that we’re broken, that we’re not good enough, that we’re not worthy, and because of that we can never really be loved. Sometimes the lies are so loud they’re all we can hear, but that doesn’t mean we have to believe them. It just means it’s even more important for us to hear the truth.”
The tears were coming again, so quickly I had to grab two more tissues. When I’d gotten the emotion under control enough, I managed to say, “It’s not as easy as that.”
Dr. Jones leaned forward, her eyes unexpectedly kind. “I know it’s not easy. I know how hard it’s been for you. I know how much you’ve had to fight for every step forward you’ve taken. But you’ve fought every fight, Diana. You’re not in the same place you were when I first met you six months ago, but you’re acting like you are. And I think this—this one thing—isn’t as hard as you’re making it. You need to tell Gideon the truth. And you need to hear him when he tells you the truth too.”
***
I thought about what Dr. Jones had said the whole night after the appointment, and then the whole day after that. At first, I was persuaded I should hash things out with Gideon, but the more I agonized in my mind, the more I was convinced she didn’t really understand what I was going through.
The anxiety didn’t go away.
On the Saturday, Gideon’s team at work decided to have a spontaneous cookout, since it was a gorgeous, unseasonably warm day for early December. He invited me to come, and I had absolutely no reason to refuse.
Of course, I needed to come. I was his girlfriend. It was the job of a girlfriend to go with a guy to his work functions.
Whether she wanted to or not.
Just so it’s clear, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to be part of Gideon’s life. I wanted that more than anything. I always made sure he shared with me about his work, and his family, and his day, and his dreams, and anything he wanted or needed. I didn’t want to be cut off from this important part of his world, but I kept brooding on what it would mean.
Gideon was so proud of me, and he assumed everyone else would see what he saw. But they would know everything that had happened, since they’d been involved in the operation, the arrests, and the trials. They would know, and I had this lingering dread that Gideon would see me differently when he saw me through his coworkers’ eyes.
I made myself ignore this fear, since I knew it had no logical foundation. And I put on a cute, stretchy t-shirt and flattering jeans. I also worked on my makeup so the others would at least think I was pretty. And I made sure not to say anything that would give Gideon a clue that I hated the idea of going to the cookout.
The afternoon wasn’t bad. There was a volleyball game beginning when we arrived, so we joined in. I’m okay at volleyball—not great but not embarrassing—so I could mostly not draw attention to myself and enjoy Gideon’s obvious competitive camaraderie with his friends.
We all sat around afterwards, drinking beer and grilling burgers, and I kept a smile on my face and tried to fade into the background.
I knew his coworkers and their spouses watched me sometimes, checking me out, but I wasn’t actually put on the spot. Until after we ate.
I had gotten up to collect some plates and napkins to throw in the trash, and Gideon wasn’t in his place when I returned. I stood next to the benches stupidly, wondering where he’d gotten to.
Then an arm slipped around me from behind, and a head tilted down to kiss the side of my throat. I knew it was Gideon. I knew it. But my heart still jumped up into my throat.
I managed to hide my reaction this time, and I didn’t pull away when he kept his arm around me and pulled me back against his front.
“Are you having a good time?” he asked, his voice low so only I could hear.
“Yeah.” I made myself smile, but I was fighting the instinct to yank myself away from him. I couldn’t stand the feel of his body behind mine.
He knew I had problems with him coming at me from behind, but I made myself not feel resentful about his forgetting. It wasn’t his fault. He thought I was fixed. He thought he could finally let down his guard. Not be on edge constantly for fear of triggering one of my issues. I wasn’t going to take that away from him. If I made a fuss, he would start to scrutinize my every move and then he couldn’t relax and enjoy regular life like any other man.
“We can leave whenever you want,” he said, planting more little kisses on the side of my neck.
“No hurry. Whenever you’re ready.” I turned my head to look up at him, and he kissed me on the mouth.
“Hey! None of that! There are kids around.” That was Jeff, a friendly, middle-aged member of his team. Even after just one afternoon, I recognized h
is voice.
Gideon chuckled and gave me another little kiss. “Tell them to look away.”
I was blushing when I turned back to face everyone. They were all smiling at us, some teasing and some almost paternal.
It made me incredibly uncomfortable because I knew what was prompting the looks. They were all so glad that Gideon finally had a real, functional girlfriend. While he certainly wouldn’t have told them the ins and outs of our relationship, they had to have known that he was unfulfilled in the relationship department for a really long time.
Another guy on his team—this one a little younger than Gideon—said, “I’m glad you came today. We’ve been waiting a long time to meet My Diana.” His wife elbowed him, making it clear that this wasn’t something he should have said.
I frowned in confusion. “What?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t listen to Rick. He’s an idiot.” Gideon said it loud enough for Rick to hear, although he only sounded faintly annoyed. Then he muttered, “Shit,” and released his hold on me.
One look told me he’d realized what he was doing, holding me from behind, and he felt bad about it. He looked apologetic, but I shrugged it off. I certainly wasn’t going to get into that discussion now.
Instead, I asked, “What did he mean by My Diana?” I looked from Gideon to the rest of them. Obviously, everyone knew what it meant except me.
Gideon looked sheepish, and it was Jane, one of the women on the team, who actually answered. “It’s just our way of giving Gideon a hard time. For a while, whenever he referred to you, he’d stumbled over what to call you. Friend, girlfriend, what. So it was always something like, ‘I’m going to my...my...Diana’s house.’ So we took to kidding him about My Diana.”
“Oh.” My stomach was twisting horribly, but I couldn’t possibly make a big deal over such a little thing. “That’s funny.”
I hated the idea of them talking about me, laughing about me. Not that they were making fun of me, but their teasing made it very clear that they’d all known how much in limbo Gideon had been for such a long time.
Now they were all happy because I was fixed and Gideon could at last be in a real relationship, where he wouldn’t have to stumble over what to call me.
Except I wasn’t fixed. And Gideon really deserved someone who was.
I made sure to hide this response, and I laughed with the others. I was getting good at faking it.
***
The cookout broke up a little early because half of them got paged. Something work-related had come up.
I was relieved, since it meant I could go home.
Gideon gave me a quick kiss and told me he’d be late, so he’d just call me tonight and see me tomorrow. That sounded exactly right to me.
I drove out to my little cottage and tried to unwind. There was no reason to feel this way. I hated myself for feeling this way.
I didn’t even have as many nightmares and breakdowns as I used to. I just felt anxious all the time.
I tried to read and then tried to watch TV, but I couldn’t seem to focus. So I sat and brooded until I was absolutely convinced that the most ethical thing for me to do was break up with Gideon.
I didn’t want to break up with him. I couldn’t imagine having the strength to do it. But I kept thinking through how it would be best for him, and then I felt guilty for not wanting it.
After a long time, something unstoppable propelled me to my feet. And I saw myself, felt myself, going into my bedroom, putting on my old shoes, and getting onto my elliptical trainer.
I felt better when I started to push myself, so I didn’t stop.
Eleven
The next day, I was sore and exhausted and disgusted with myself.
I had Sunday brunch with some of my friends, and then we did some shopping. I had a good time and felt better afterwards, determined not to fall back into the emotional state I’d been in months ago.
On my way home, I went to a gourmet grocery store and bought salmon, couscous salad, olives, cheese, and chocolate mousse. Gideon was coming over for dinner, and I wanted to have a romantic dinner to remind myself there was no reason for me to be feeling the way I had yesterday.
I lit candles and turned on music and put on a pretty, low-cut top I’d bought earlier in the day with a pair of soft, slinky pants. When Gideon arrived, he was obviously surprised, but he seemed to appreciate the effort.
Dinner went well. His parents wanted to meet me, but his mother refused to get on an airplane so we tried to work out some plans get out to the Midwest to visit them.
We were cleaning up afterwards—I was washing dishes as he brought them from the table—when he suddenly turned me around and pulled me into his arms. The music was still playing, low and sensuous in the quiet cottage, and he eased us into a rhythmic slow dance.
He wasn’t actually much of a dancer. I’d known that for a while. But we rocked together in an embrace in the middle of the kitchen, and I completely forgot that I still had a dishcloth in one hand.
“You’re in quite a mood tonight,” I said, smiling up at his handsome face. Then I screeched to a mental halt when I saw the look in his eyes.
They were darker blue than normal in the artificial light of the kitchen, and they gazed at me with tenderness, need, passion, hunger, trust...something like awe.
And I saw right then, as clear as day, what I’d been stewing over for the last several weeks, ever since we’d started having sex.
The person he thought he was looking at—the person that provoked that awe in his expression and in his heart—simply wasn’t me.
I ducked my head against his chest, pressing a few little kisses on his shirt, so he wouldn’t see my expression, the bleak knowledge that had finally taken shape in my mind.
He nuzzled my hair and tightened his arms. “Baby,” he murmured hoarsely, “I’m so crazy about you I can’t even begin to tell you.”
And it hurt so much. That he meant it. He believed it. But he didn’t know what I knew.
I couldn’t let him keep talking. I couldn’t stand to hear any more, since it felt like the words might rip open and expose my chest. So I raised my head and pulled his head down into a kiss.
He responded immediately, passionately. He was already aroused. My body was pressed up against his, so I could feel him hard against my middle. It never took long for him to get turned on. He wanted me all the time.
Or he wanted the person he thought I was.
The kiss grew deeper and I relaxed into it, not letting the ache growing inside me affect my response to his lips, his hands, his body.
“I think the dishes can wait,” he rasped, tugging the dishcloth out of my hand. Then he swung me up and carried me into the bedroom.
He laid me down on the bed and moved over me immediately, kissing first my mouth and then slowly moving down my body.
I closed my eyes and let him. I let him take off my clothes, arouse my body, murmured tender little endearments as he did so.
I wanted it. Wanted it desperately. I wanted him and all of his strength and kindness and passion and generosity and devotion. I wanted all of him but knew it wasn’t right.
Tears burned in my eyes, but I didn’t let them fall. I arched up as he suckled my breast and then mouthed a line down my belly.
When he moved lower on my body, I didn’t resist—since it felt like punishment, this clash of pleasure and grief. He spread my legs to make room for his head, and then he skillfully, tenderly, made me come and then come again with his fingers and mouth.
I gripped the headboard and dropped my head in a silent cry as my body released. I kept my eyes closed. Didn’t dare to open them. Didn’t dare to let him see that I was so completely broken.
When he moved back up and over me, I had to open my eyes again. But I kissed him and took off his clothes so we weren’t looking each other in the eye.
He positioned himself between my legs and slowly entered me in a series of little thrusts, and I gasped and jerked my head t
o the side, squeezing my eyes tightly closed, as the penetration deepened.
He was breathing heavily as he started to move, our motion coordinated, rhythmic. We knew each other’s bodies now. We knew how to move together.
I kept my face pointed away from him as the motion intensified and he started to huff. One of my hands gripped the headboard still and the other gripped his ass.
“Baby.” His face was close to mine, but I still couldn’t look at it. Couldn’t see that look in his eyes again. Couldn’t let him see what was in mine. “Baby.”
I could tell from the way he said the word that it wasn’t just an expression of pleasure. He was trying to get my attention.
“Yeah,” I responded on a taken breath. I bent my knees up to bring him deeper inside me.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” He was still moving above me, inside me, and I could feel heat radiating from his body.
“Nothing. It’s good. It’s so good.” I arched up, panting from the pleasure in my body and the aching emotion in my heart. It felt like me. The core of me. This hopeless clash, this contradiction, one that would never be reconciled.
He groaned low in his throat, and I could feel him reining in his need, slowing down his primal motion. “Then why won’t you look at me?”
I knew I was in trouble then. If I didn’t look at him, he would stop. But if I looked at him, he would see.
Taking a few slow, shuddering breaths, I pulled back the overwhelming ache so it wouldn’t reflect in my eyes. Then I turned my head and opened my eyes, smiling up at him. “It’s just so good I...I can’t stand it.”
The words were actually the truth, and I thought maybe they’d be convincing.
But he stared down at me, a slight sheen of perspiration glistening on his skin, and his motion between my legs slowly came to a stop.
“What?” I asked, fighting a flare of panic. “I was enjoying it. I want it.”
Something horribly tight was closing down in his face. “No, you don’t. I saw your face just now. You don’t.”
