by Penny Reid
“He showed up at the end of the last set.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. Now, why would he be here? I thought you two were over.”
I tugged my hand from Abram’s and crossed my arms over my chest. My heart was racing now.
“We are over. But we’re…we’re friends. I’m staying with him.”
“You’re staying with him?”
“This week. I’ve been staying at his place in Manhattan for the week.”
Abram’s hands moved to his hips and he released a frustrated sigh. “If you needed a place to stay, you could have called me. You don’t have to stay with your douchebag ex.”
I scrunched my face, not liking that Abram was calling Martin a douchebag. I knew this reaction was silly as he’d done it before and I didn’t object. But things between Martin and I had changed. I’d always cared about him, yes. And now that I’d let go of my anger about our breakup I didn’t want people calling him names.
“Listen, he’s not a douchebag. Like I said, we’re friends. It’s no big deal.”
“And nothing’s happened?”
I grew very still, but felt compelled to ask, “Why is that any business of yours?”
He grit his teeth, his eyes abruptly dimming. “I guess it’s not. It’s none of my business.”
We stared at each other for a long moment in silence and I could see him building a virtual wall between us. He was making his mind up, having a conversation in his head, while I stood here and waited for him to give me a real response.
But he didn’t. He closed himself off, burying his thoughts and feelings, and I realized Abram and I were extremely similar.
He wasn’t fearless. We were both feelings hoarders.
He may have suggested a few weeks ago that I sleep with Fitzy, or use him as my rebound guy and whatever that entailed, because I wasn’t in any danger of falling for Fitzy. And then Abram wouldn’t be my rebound guy. He wanted to be with me, but wanted everything to be just right, just perfect, and all sorted before really putting himself out there.
I briefly wondered if the scene I’d walked in on earlier was Abram trying to push Fitzy in that direction.
I felt a smile of ironic understanding claim my features and I exhaled a small laugh, realizing that if I wanted bravery and honesty, it was going to have to come from me.
“Look, I think I like you. And I think you like me, too. I don’t need a rebound guy. In fact, I don’t need any guy. But I would like a partner. I would like to be part of a team.”
Abram’s cold expression didn’t change but I did see something pass behind his eyes, a flicker of acceptance, of understanding.
He cleared his throat, his gaze moving to the carpet then back to mine. “It’s none of my business, I know. But we’ve had, at least I’ve had, a really good time with you this week. So, what are we doing here? Are you back with your ex?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Are you over him?”
I hesitated, my attention moving to a spot behind Abram as I thought about the question, how to answer it honestly. “I don’t know. He was my first everything. I’m starting to think it’s not possible to ever truly get over that person, the first person who made you feel like… But maybe it is possible to move on.”
He was silent for a beat, then acknowledged quietly, “I get that. I know what you mean.”
We gave each other quick, commiserating glances and flat smiles. I twisted my fingers while he stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“Katy…do you want to be over him? Do you want to be with me?”
My eyes collided with Abram’s and I saw it cost him something to ask the question. As much as I wanted to respond, Yes, I want to be over Martin. Yes, I want to be with you, I couldn’t. Because my feelings were so much messier than a yes or a no.
He nodded, just a subtle movement at first, as though I had spoken, as though I’d already given my answer and he was processing it.
Before he got too far ahead of me I rushed to clarify, “I don’t like feeling this way. I don’t like being stuck in limbo and wanting two completely different things. Yes, I want to be over Martin. I know he’s moved on, as he’s had a girlfriend since we broke up—at least one that I know about. And, honestly, I don’t trust him not to hurt me again. But part of me feels like things aren’t finished.”
“That’s just you wishing.” He didn’t look upset, he looked resigned. “But I get it. I do. Because I didn’t feel like things were finished with me and my ex. I hadn’t moved on and I kept wishing things could be different.”
“Did you tell her?”
“No. I was a coward.” He uttered this with no bitterness, just a matter-of-fact assessment of himself.
“When did you stop? When did you feel like things were finished?”
“Not ’til recently. Not until I met you.”
I sighed. His words, made with his powerful and deep voice, his soulful brown eyes, caused my heart to ache.
“Abram—”
“Does he know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re still wishing?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. Abram gave me a sardonic smirk and shook his head, his eyes teasing but also a little sad, like he felt sorry for me.
“You and I are a lot alike, Katy.”
I returned his smirk and shrugged at my weakness. “I don’t know how to tell him. I feel so paralyzed. I don’t want to ruin our friendship.”
Abram closed the distance between us and threw his arm over my shoulder, tucking me close to his broad chest and steering us back for our last set.
“If he hasn’t moved on and he’s wishing too, then you need to put him out of his misery and tell him what’s going on in your head. Be brave.”
“Ha! Says Abram. Self-professed coward.”
He continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “But if he has moved on, you need to know for sure. Because then you can move on, too.”
***
Martin was in the audience. He was standing by the bar and was surrounded by people. I spotted him almost immediately when we took the stage; I explained away this phenomenon to myself, reasoning that he was several inches taller than everyone else.
But really, I found him so fast because he was Martin. I think my blood chemistry had changed when we were together, because locating him in the crowd had been exceptionally easy.
His eyes lifted and found mine, and he held them until I looked away. I felt his gaze on me for the duration of the set. At first it was distracting. But then I settled into it, accepted it, and it began to feel oddly comforting.
When we finished the last song I think we were all surprised at the round of applause we received. The night had not started well, but Janet’s idea of punk and rebellion seemed to do the trick. I lifted my attention to the audience, again my eyes immediately finding Martin. He lifted his cell and gestured to it. I interpreted this to mean, check your phone.
Backstage, Fitzy was waiting and jumped between my bag and me. “Hey, so, you want to grab a drink?”
I walked around him. “No thanks. I’m really tired.”
“And she’s got someone waiting for her,” Abram chimed in, pulling on his heavy coat.
Fitzy glanced between us. “Who? You?”
“Nope.” Abram’s eyes met mine and I was impressed by all the different sentiments I saw there: humor, regret, acceptance, exhaustion, and a subversive pleasure in giving Fitzy a hard time.
I checked my phone, saw that Martin had sent me two messages; the first provided directions on where to meet him. The second read,
Martin: Don’t go out with the band, I’m driving you back to my place. I haven’t seen or talked to you all week.
I frowned at this second note, felt like it was an unnecessary addition. The more I studied the text, the more it looked like a command. I rolled my eyes. Typical Martin. I quickly typed out a response.
Kaitlyn: You’re not the boss of
me.
Martin: I know. But sometimes I act like I am.
Kaitlyn: Why?
Martin: Because you like it.
I stared at his last message; it set my heart off at a gallop. I did like it. I liked arguing with Martin, challenging him, bucking under his attempts to boss me around. Or, I had liked it when we were together.
Abram was right. I was still wishing. And yet, there were still so many things unsettled between us. Even if I told him I still had feelings for him and he returned them, would it matter? All of the reasons we split before seemed to have evaporated except for the biggest one: he’d chosen his revenge over us…or maybe he hadn’t.
The way Emma described the situation, it sounded like Martin hadn’t put his revenge plan into action. And yet, he’d let me walk away in the spring. GAH! I was confused. I didn’t know if I could trust him.
Nevertheless, there was the girl in the pictures. Even if he’d ultimately abandoned his revenge, he’d still been able to move on with someone else and I hadn’t.
Absentmindedly, I gathered my things and left the backstage area, only peripherally aware that Fitzy and Abram were still talking and that it might have something to do with me. I easily found the elevators, the sounds of the remaining party fading the farther I walked from the event space.
But then I became aware that someone was behind me and I turned, finding Willis. He looked grim.
I gave him a questioning look, stopping and facing him. “What’s up?”
“I thought we talked about this.”
“About what?”
“You and Abram. You and Fitzy.”
I breathed my relief. “Nothing is going on with Abram. He and I are friends.”
“What about Fitzy? He’s looking at you lately like a sushi roll with no tuna.”
“Nothing is going on with Fitzy and me either, at least not on my side.”
He crossed his arms. “Don’t shit on my leg and tell me it’s frosting.”
The elevator dinged, announcing its arrival.
Meanwhile, I did an admirable job of not laughing at the mental image of me defecating on Willis’s leg then trying to pass it off as chocolate frosting.
“Again, nothing is going on.”
“I told you before, I don’t want you going on any mattress tours. This stuff between you and the boys needs to stop.”
“Willis, I have no part in their boy-angst. Whatever they’re arguing about is between them.”
Willis nodded thoughtfully, but then his attention snagged on something behind me. I twisted to see what it was and found Martin standing just inside the elevator, his eyes narrowed and focused on Willis.
“Oh…oh!” I turned completely around, feeling my cheeks flood with warmth while I wondered how much of that conversation Martin had overheard.
“Do you want something?” I heard Willis ask.
“Yeah. Her.” Martin lifted his chin toward me as he leaned forward, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into the elevator.
Willis snorted. “Take a fucking number.”
“Hey!” I objected.
Martin ignored me, moving me behind him, obviously misunderstanding Willis’s meaning. “You don’t talk about her that way.”
I heard Willis sputter, “I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, son.”
Uh oh… Of all the things Willis could have called Martin, son was probably the worst.
“Those are big words coming from a little man who’s all washed up. So listen, grandpa, you treat her with respect or I’ll—”
“You’ll do nothing. He’ll do nothing.” I jumped in front of Martin, covered Martin’s mouth with one hand and pushed the close-door button with the other. “Bye, Willis. See you tomorrow,” I squeaked as the doors slid shut.
When the elevator finally started its descent, I let my hand drop from his mouth and leaned heavily against the wall behind me, letting my head fall back with a thud.
“That guy is an asshole,” he said. No, actually he growled it.
I sighed, closing my eyes, “Martin…”
“What?”
“That guy is my boss.”
“You need a new boss.”
“Can you try being a little nicer?”
“What did I do?”
“You weren’t very nice to Willis.”
I heard Martin move, the rustle of his coat. “He deserved it.”
“You misinterpreted the conversation.”
“Really? I misinterpreted, ‘Take a fucking number’?” He sounded really angry.
I sighed again, opening my eyes and sliding them to the side, peering at him. “Yes. Willis can be crass. But he wasn’t insulting me. I promise.”
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t like that guy.”
“Just because you don’t like people doesn’t mean you can go around treating them like crap. What is so hard about being nice?”
“It’s time-consuming.” He said this completely deadpan and of course it made me laugh.
“Oh, Martin…” I wiped tears from my eyes. I was laughing so hard I was crying, but also I was just completely exhausted.
After a minute of watching me laugh at him, he reluctantly smiled and shook his head. “Besides, I’m nice to you.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel special? That you deem me worthy of kindness?”
“Yes.”
The doors opened and Martin grabbed my bag, hoisting it to his shoulder and leading me out of the lift with a hand on my lower back.
“Well, it doesn’t,” I said tiredly. “My self-worth does not rise and set based on your treatment or opinion of me. I want no special treatment, I insist you treat me like you treat everyone else.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Why not?”
He didn’t answer at first. In fact, he didn’t speak for so long I started to think he wasn’t going to respond. He guided me out of the building’s main entrance to where his car was waiting. A man stood next to it, like a valet or a guard and had been waiting for us. Martin opened the passenger door for me, took my hand, and helped me inside.
But right before the door closed I heard him say, “Because you’re Kaitlyn.”
CHAPTER 9
Liquids and Intermolecular Forces
We didn’t talk in the car, mostly because I fell asleep during the quick ride. I woke up briefly when Martin lifted me from the car and into his arms. I curled into him because I was drowsy and he smelled like Martin. On the short walk to the elevator I fell back asleep, but this time I dreamt.
We were back on the boat. The sun was setting. The air was hot and salty. Martin carried me down the steps to our cabin. His hands were loving, caressing, amorous, as were his looks. We were both dressed in almost nothing, scraps of bathing suits, the feel of his skin against mine, and our combined warmth was intoxicating. He laid me on the bed, climbed over my body. He slipped his callused hand into my bikini. He touched me. I sighed. I trusted him. His oceanic eyes captured mine. He leaned down to kiss me…
I woke with a start in the present as he laid me on the bed in my room in his apartment and moved to take off my shoes. My body was humming and confused. My mind was still preoccupied with my dream, of us together, and all the ways I desperately wanted him.
“I’ve got it.” My voice was unsteady as I bent my legs and sat up a bit, pushing my hair out of my face, needing him to leave before he saw my disorienting desire and embarrassment.
“Go back to sleep.” He grabbed my right foot and took off my shoe.
“No, I got it.” I wiggled my leg, trying to break free from his grip.
“Kaitlyn,” his hand slipped into my pants leg, caressed my calf, making me freeze but also sending a lava flow of Yes, please to my center, “go back to sleep. I’m just taking off your shoes.”
I couldn’t respond. His hand on the bare skin of my leg meant I was rendered speechless. His eyes were visible even in the inky darkness and I couldn’t look away. How pathetic was I? Martin i
nadvertently touches my leg, looks at me in the eye, and I’m mentally begging him to take off his pants. Then my pants. Then our underwear. Then...
But he doesn’t. He holds my gaze as he takes off my shoes. He sets them on the floor at the foot of my bed. He turns. He leaves. And I experience a sensation I imagine is akin to falling off a very tall building.
As soon as I heard the soft click of the door, I lay back in the bed and stared at the ceiling, restless and overwrought, my center throbbing, aching. I tried to bring my breathing under control as well as the intensity and sharpness of my longing.
And the strangest thought occurred to me.
Really, it wasn’t that strange. I’d touched myself in the past, but not since being with Martin. Before, it had basically been an experiment, an exploration of sorts, born out of detached curiosity. I’d wanted to make myself orgasm at the time because I wanted to know what it felt like, what all the fuss was about. My experiment had never yielded anything, just me feeling immeasurably silly.
But now—the specter of my dream and his lingering scent filling the room—the idea didn’t feel silly at all. In fact, I could still smell him on me, expensive soap and aftershave. My desire, my craving for him felt abruptly overwhelming; I couldn’t breathe. I was suffocating with it.
I knew he was in the apartment. I could hear him moving around. I closed my eyes and pictured him. I unbuttoned my shirt, unhooked my bra at the front, then let my other hand drift down my stomach to my pants, under the waistband, into my panties. I was on autopilot, my movements compulsory.
I was already wet. And when I touched myself I was shocked at how sensitive I was, how responsive. I glanced down—my fingers on my bare breast, my smooth stomach illuminated only by the city lights, my wrist disappearing into the waistband of my tuxedo—and imagined Martin watching me, seeing what I was seeing.
Maybe he was sitting on the edge of the bed, telling me to do this. Instructing me, giving me praise and loving—yet dirty—words of encouragement. Just the thought of him seeing me this way and liking it made my breath become ragged, and I felt myself edge closer to release.
