by Leanne Davis
His words amuse me. Natural me? If he realized my misspent youth, he’d not think this. “In my youth, I was totally chemically dependent, almost all the time. I got hooked one summer when I was thirteen. It went on for two years. Ireena did not like that. She went after my ass to the point of getting a gun and holding it on me. She locked me in her bedroom and wouldn’t let me out. She probably could have killed me. Pretty crude form of detox. But it worked long enough to make me pause. I was doing horrible things to get it. I had no money so I’d do things with men in exchange for it. It was pretty awful. In response, she went off to that fucking private school and shamed them into giving her and me scholarships. We rode two buses to get there. I hated it and her for making me go there. But in the end, it saved my life.”
“Where were your parents? And hers? How does a teen hold another teen hostage with a gun, then proceed to detox her without her parents realizing it?”
“Parents? What parents? Mine were into drugs too. Ireena’s dad was a complete bully and asshole. They were neglectful. I don’t know. I don’t remember. I never saw mine, and hers weren’t much more visible. We raised ourselves; but mostly, she raised us. She looked after us. She got us out of poverty and shit and all the bad influences.”
“Why did you follow her if you hated the private school?” His gaze is glued on me. He didn’t know this part fully. The damn white knight in shining armor that Ireena symbolized for me. Why my loyalty belonged strictly to her. To the death. No matter what.
“It was Ireena. You couldn’t say no to her. Besides, I was vulnerable and not very strong. I stuck to her and she freaking got me through each day, through the withdrawals. Then she found ways to prevent me from falling back into it. She got me out. First, by physically getting me away from the neighborhood where we would have attended high school. That allowed us to get into college and we really got out. But it was all her doing. I never would have been living this life I now lead without her help. Never could do it on my own.”
He shakes his head. “She was extreme. She really pulled a gun on you? Was it loaded?”
“What do you think?”
“I hate to say this, but I think Ireena doesn’t fuck around with anything. That would include pulling a gun on her friend at age fourteen if she thought it was the best and most effective course of action.”
“You’d be correct. And the funny part? She might have been the only reason I paused. I finally quit all the shit. So, after I got off drugs, I preferred everything to be as healthy as I could to undo the damage I’d already done to myself, including my self-esteem and my longevity. I am mostly vegan now. Yoga. Exercise. Meditation. Naturopathic medicine. I never use chemicals unless there is no other choice. I’m not stupid. I know prescriptions and traditional medicine have their place and purpose, I just try to stay naturally healthy, so I don’t need to use them.”
He tilts his head again. “I feel like you’ve entirely redefined who you are, and why you are that way. I finally might actually get to know you.”
I shrug. “Lucky you.”
“I think so,” he says simply. Then he turns and spins on his foot. Dayshia’s stretching her hands and wiggling a bit so I’m thinking our quiet bedroom cocoon is over.
We wander out to the living room and I ask, “Breakfast?”
He sighs. “I have to be honest, Kaeja, none of your food ever looks good or appetizing to me. But I feel like I get it now and I should support it more. So… hit us up. What do you have? Kale? Flaxseed? Maybe some chia seeds?”
I scowl at him as I rise up from the drawer I’d been scrounging in. “I was going to offer toast with butter and/or eggs to go with it.”
His eyebrows pop up. “Oh, that’s very edible. I’ve even heard of it. And you eat real butter?”
“Organic whole food. It has to be natural, actual food.”
“Wait. What’s the bread like? Full of seeds and sprouts that could flourish in my garden?”
I snort. “It’s wheat and yes, some seeds, but not quite as dramatic as that.”
He sighs. “Okay. We’ll do it. Give me the garden-bread and butter and eggs.”
I smile. He smiles. I blink in surprise. “That felt…”
“Good.” He nods. “Decent. Kidding. Like the world hasn’t ended and we aren’t standing here watching it burn?”
“Yeah. That.”
“That’s why I ended up here. Hoping for more moments like that.”
“Then I guess you should come back. If only for those moments.”
He stares at me, his eyes glittering. I’m caught by his look. “I want to do that.”
Flustered, and warmed by his attention, I turn away. “What do you want?”
“To be here for the few moments that will make me feel less terrible. Can I? No, can we stay here?”
“Is that appropriate?”
“How is it not? Roommates? Friends? We have the right to be both of those things. Besides… why should we mention it to anyone? It’s our business, isn’t it? And haven’t we earned the right? We are the only ones feeling truly destroyed right now. It’s hard to be around everyone who isn’t… you know?”
“I know,” I state with a nod. “Yes. I want you to stay here too.”
I face him and we share a tentative, confused and comforting smile. Unsure. But also… grateful.
He stays a week…. Then two… Then a month.
We wake up each morning to Dayshia, the sweet, wonderful child that we care for and she takes the edge off everything. He takes her to his parents and family every day, explaining he doesn’t think he’s able to manage her care, which helps alleviate all the questions. Sometimes he’s home for dinner and bathing Dayshia. Other nights, he shows up at nine or ten with his sleeping daughter on his shoulder. We no longer discuss it. He simply walks her back to her bedroom and lays her down. Then he comes into my bedroom to take off his shoes and slip into my bed… as lavender is diffused into the air.
Is it right?
That question often crosses my mind so I have to wonder.
But at least he isn’t trying to feel me up. He doesn’t even seem to be aware of my female body parts other than as a presence beside him. A source of body-heat. Life reconfirmed. Kind of what draws him to me. Perhaps we derive comfort and strength from each other’s energy, which can’t seem to occur when we’re alone. And I don’t want to face the long nights alone any more than he does.
Plus, there is Dayshia. She is so… normalizing. Her routine feels normal and I like to indulge it. I kind of wallow in that.
Damion goes back to work after a few days. I think he was going a bit crazy and needed something to do. Maybe he couldn’t take the family scrutiny. I watch Dayshia as I work from home. I’m very lucky my small business can be done on a flexible schedule. It also keeps my brain alert and functioning.
During the day, he gives me crap about what I eat, how I exercise and my disciplinary attitude toward yoga and meditation. I try to convince him he needs it. But after we mess around with Dayshia, playing with her and feeding her, and bathing her together, we go to the park. We go shopping together. We seem like any ordinary couple taking care of a baby.
Then we go to my bed.
And slip inside it. We talk about Ireena. A lot. All the time. We talk until we’re both hoarse. We get through another night.
We survive.
Until the night Damion’s late at his parents’ house. He returns at nearly eleven. He texted me he would be late. I know in my heart how alarming it appears that he texts me like we’re a couple and this is his home. He hasn’t spent a single night at home since that first time and he hasn’t spent a night away from me since. I miss him this evening. I miss Dayshia too. I miss his teasing and even his sudden sadness that changes his expression from smiles and twinkles to being morose and quiet. I leave him alone. He gets to be like that.
Then we go to bed.
This night, he has to stay with his parents for some reason which makes me rese
ntful. Yes, for them infringing on our evening. We need our evenings. They get both of us through the long, sad days. That way, no one is sad. Or finds their days long. So fuck them. That’s how selfish I am about my grief. Our grief. About us. About us grieving together. About Damion.
Maybe, this might be too much. Too connected.
But I need him.
He needs me.
He can’t sleep without me next to him now. And I’m so lonely, I feel as if I’ll die if I’m left to myself. Like tonight. Oh, God, it’s too long and I’m lonely and I hate it. I can finally sigh in relief when the front door opens and… he’s home.
I hear his footsteps. He takes Dayshia to her bedroom. And then… he is here. There he is. He stands in my doorway. His hand resting on the doorjamb. He’s wearing dark black jeans, a thick leather belt and a black t-shirt. The hallway light illuminates him like a golden halo above his dark complexion and hair. I sigh again with gratitude and relief. He’s here. And my heart skips a beat as it races… which is new. Alarming too. I shake it off. He walks to the edge of my bed. His side of the bed. Dropping down on it as if the weight of the world has brought him to his knees, his shoulders slump and he shakes his head.
“Bad evening?”
“Bad day.”
That’s what we say when the day was particularly sad or long or grueling and our tears or memories overwhelm us.
He shakes his head and crosses his ankle over his knee as he starts to undo his shoelace. One shoe flops to the ground before he does the other as he sighs.
“A different bad? Or the same bad?”
Flipping around, he starts crawling towards the edge of the covers. He stops dead. His gaze pierces me. I physically feel like I can’t move. His eyes are dark and heavy on me. “Like I didn’t see you…” he says softly. My heart stops and lifts, then it shifts, and taps down harder in my chest. This happens over and over again. Our gazes are locked and loaded. Heated. He swallows. “And I hated everyone else around me. No one else fucking gets it. It’s all fake about Ireena. Everyone’s sad for me, but not for her.”
Grief. Sadness. Heartache. Sorrow.
That’s our connection. No one else loved the woman we lost. No one else gets it or all the implications. We’re the only ones who understand it. Each other. Personal anguish that is bottomless and unbearable; the thoughts of how unfair it is, how angry we are, how alone we feel in it. Sinking to the emptiness of a black, dark hole. I sometimes wake up wondering why should I even open my eyes? What terrible thing will befall me today? What do I have left to live for? I have no one and nothing. She was my connection for intimacy and human care. No one else. What’s the damn point if one day it just ends like that? With the snap of a finger, you collapse to the floor and no one finds you in time?
What’s the point? It plagues me. Like a coating of wax over my body, it makes it hard to even lift my arm, point my finger or flutter an eyelid. Everything seems too hard. I want to curl up in a ball like an armadillo and never open from it. I don’t want to face the sunlight or hear laughter or talk to people or see their smiles or go to work or run errands. Because it’s all pointless. Those are the feelings that dominate my head. They rule my heart. They are inside my soul; what’s the point?
The only relief I get? Damion. This man. His presence. Nothing he says or does, just his damn presence next to me makes me feel like there is something left to validate my life. There is someone to care about and for. Most of all, only he shares the otherwise unbearable grief I feel. He’s the only one who knows. He’s the only one who helps me through it.
I do the same for him.
It’s a goddamned powerful connection.
He and I don’t move. Or breathe. Why? Why is this so different? I don’t know. I can’t know. My head spins and my mouth goes dry as still we stare. He leans just barely forward. Just a hair’s width. But the motion brings me closer. Still our eye-lock persists. My breath becomes shallow in halts and gasps. My palms grow sweaty. My body clenches inside me. What the hell?
He just barely tips his head and I do mine. Our lips touch. So soft and innocent. Like two feathers crossing over my lips. He has a round, fat bottom lip that his upper lip tucks into. My lips are flatter and harder so his make the most perfect pillow to cradle mine. He releases the pressure slightly. Hovering. Our gazes are cross-eyed. Locked and really loaded now. Blinking in shock, but something more.
Our mouths find each other again. And again. Our kiss is so soft, I moan into it. Then his hand snakes around my neck, cupping it. His fingertips rub my hairline, and he slides his thumb slowly back and forth against the line of my jaw bone. Our lips meet and squish together and it’s so warm. So much closeness that my entire body sinks towards it. Seeks it, period. My heart swells as my hand inches up to cup the side of his face. He again lifts his mouth off mine. We stare at each other. Our message seems clear in the serious, round-eyed gaze we share.
Make me hurt less.
The words don’t need to be spoken. They are a prayer and chant. We are on a search for real treasure. Finding a purpose that will make me want to live. Depression that is so sharp and real hovers above my brain, and I think it’s just as strong in Damion.
He leans forward and this time, our lips fit together better. We turn our heads; I grip his face and he holds my neck as we stretch forward, putting power behind our tentative searching. His mouth opens wider and mine responds like a parched seedling in need of moisture to make it through another day. I sometimes feel that way. Only it’s a human connection that I need. Something only Damion can give me.
His tongue enters my mouth. He isn’t shy or hesitant this time. This time, he’s bold and there. There, exploring every crevasse and corner of my mouth. There waiting for my tongue’s response. His is hard and searching. Our tongues slam into each other. They rub and tangle as our mouths, lips, and faces turn and twist to enhance the experience. It all becomes suddenly crazy and our mouths become the focus of the entire world for me. My brain can’t think. I can only sense the zinging of nerve endings everywhere, almost instantaneously. The hammering of my chest reacts to the onslaught of my mouth.
Our lips entangle, our teeth clack and shift as we bite each other gently. Our saliva pools and slides between us, lubricating everything. Groans and sighs escape from us randomly. His hands slide up the side of my face and he pushes back my hair. I grip the material of his shirt in a fist and try to pull his face even closer to mine.
His mouth finally slides free of mine and he peppers kisses down my chin, to the indentation just below my mouth, to my jawline and over to the soft parts of my neck. I shiver and close my eyes. It’s different than the previous wild meeting of our mouths. It’s soft and gentle, a symbol of all the caring that I want. Warmth. Life.
His lips touch my collarbone and his nose slides along my neck as he breathes deeply, stopping at my hairline above my ear. Pausing there, his hand slides to my shirt. It’s darkly colored, sturdy, ready for our celibate sleepover. It reveals nothing. But now his fingers are playing with the hem of it. Is he contemplating? Doubting? Asking permission? I don’t know. How should I answer if he’s asking? I shouldn’t. His mouth feels like heaven. It’s soothing. Like smooth silk over dry skin that is cold and abraded.
He takes a deep breath and his gaze finds mine. After a long moment, he scans my face and his throat wobbles with a swallow. I can see the nerves at play in him. Like he’s never done this before. It melts my heart into a puddle in my chest. My fingertips run over his cheek and jaw, up into his hair line. He shuts his eyes at my touch. As if it’s a gift he’s been waiting for his entire life. As if I’m there to heal him from an injury.
His eyelids flicker open and he drops his head as his mouth nuzzles the crook of my shoulder and neck. His hand slips under the hemline of the t-shirt, sliding over my stomach, across the piercing in my navel. Pausing there, he gently fiddles with it as if he is memorizing it by feel. He follows the muscles that line my abs before heading upwards.
I’m strong and stacked at my core. More than Ireena. I’m bulging with muscles and yet nothing on me is slim or skinny. His hand stops at where my breast swells. I have B cups, but they’re still pointy even as I lie flat. His palm covers the nipple and he cups my breast in his hand. His hand is lying flat over my chest, on my breast and nipple. His moves his palm and his calloused skin abrades it. The sensitive tip goes hard and beady.
“Yes,” I whisper as my eyelids flutter shut. His hand fully grasps me and I let him. Decadently flaunting all inhibitions, I lap up his ministrations. Fingertips replace his palm and he twirls my nipples before pushing them like buttons and pulling them like latches. My nerve endings send shock currents down to my core that seem to extend to my freaking toes. It feels so good. He switches to slow and easy, as if he can’t get enough. He plays with the softness of my breasts and the stiffness of my nipples. As they point up, straining for him, he runs his knuckles over them lightly. Nearly massaging with his fingers, I start moaning and almost thrashing around. Touch. Me. Harder.
He kisses the side of my face as his hands leave my breasts, exploring the ridges and valleys of my stomach. Fingertips glide along my muscles, tracing them until he finally tugs on the elastic waistband of the gray lounging pants I wear to my chaste bed. But not now.
He pushes them, inelegantly stretching down as far as he can reach. Then his hand spans my inner thigh and I almost jump at the unexpected contact on the sensitive skin of my upper, inner thigh. I gasp and blink as my world concentrates on the triangle above there, where my body reacts. It weeps, lubricates and hopes.
I hope.
I hate myself as I open my legs as far as my pants will let me, and they bind below my knees. He rubs the soft skin along my thigh on both sides and I hold my breath. I all but thrash back and forth in anticipation.
He’s kissing the side of my face and touching my inner thighs. His tongue caresses my lips and goes into my mouth. His fingers push my panties to the side as they slip into my wet, slick lips. Tentatively. He lifts his face off mine and his breath feels steamy as the air around my arousal. “Yes?”
