The Lovers

by Eden Bradley

  I put my hand on his arm, and he flinches a little. He immediately turns to me and smiles, so I know not to take it personally. But his eyes are distant, a bit vacant.

  “Jack? Do you want to tell me what you mean?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.” He turns to look out at the water once more, then he lies back onto the sand, his gaze on the sky, his eyes squinting in the bright sunlight. “It was my last year in college.”

  “What?”

  I don’t know what he’s going to say, only that it’s something important.

  “That’s when I learned what an asshole I was.”

  “Jack…”

  “No, it’s true. And it was a lot more true then. A chip off the old block, isn’t that what they say? That’s true, too, you know.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know that at all. I think we’re each responsible for who we are, who we become.”

  “I am taking responsibility for who I am. I’m simply stating where I learned it.”

  “So, your father was not a very nice person I take it?”

  “He was a nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

  “Yeah, well…” He trails off, and we sit quietly for a while.

  The sun is beating down on my skin, but I don’t mind it. I turn my face into the golden rays, close my eyes, breathe in the ocean, Jack’s nearness.

  “Come here,” he says suddenly, pulling me onto my back on the sand beside him.

  I lay there, looking up at the sky like an endless blue dome overhead, punctuated only by the reeling gulls. The sand is hot. It’s soft and hard all at once beneath my back, and I can feel every vertebra in my back pressing into it. I don’t know what to say, so I stay quiet, hoping he’ll eventually open up to me a bit more. After several minutes in which I can hear my heart hammering in my ears, he does.

  “My father cheated on my mother. All the time. That was his M.O. That was just…what he did. And when I was a teenager—and I mean just barely, like thirteen, fourteen years old—he would sit me down at night, sometimes after my mom went to bed, and he’d tell me…everything. Too much. I didn’t know how to stop him. And frankly, a part of me didn’t want to. It pissed me off, that he was doing this to my mom. But at the same time, there seemed to be something glamorous about it. He actually made me admire him for it, in some weird way.”

  “You were a teenager. A kid.”

  “Yeah. But even as a kid you should have some moral code.”

  “That doesn’t mean you didn’t.”

  “Maybe.” His brows are drawn, scowling.

  “But you were angry with him.”

  “Not enough to do anything about it.”

  “He was your father. What were you supposed to do?”

  My stomach is starting to twist. There’s pain in his voice. I don’t turn my head to look at him, though. I don’t think he’d want me to right now.

  “That doesn’t excuse any of it. It doesn’t excuse what I did later.” I stay quiet, waiting. Finally, he blows out a long breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “I don’t know, either. But it’s okay.”

  He’s silent again, and I focus on the waves of heat shimmering over the sand, a watery mirage. A gull flies overhead, then another, and I watch them catch a current of air, spiraling upward together, their bodies dark silhouettes against the sun.

  “So,” he says, his voice low. “So…I became just like him. I cheated on all my high school girlfriends. The ones I had in college. I didn’t even know why I was doing it, but I felt driven to do it. And I thought nothing of it. I was so damn cavalier about it. I never thought for one moment about the consequences. But this was only the beginning of me being an asshole.” He takes a breath, then another. “In my senior year I met a girl named Sheri.”

  He stops again, and this time I turn to look at him. I swear there was a catch in his voice just now, and I am filled with dread for him. I know something bad is coming. He won’t look at me. He just continues to stare at the sky, but I know he’s not really seeing it.

  “What happened, Jack?” I ask, keeping my voice down. I don’t want to startle him, and I feel as though I might.

  “Well, I cheated on her, too, of course.”

  “And?”

  “And she tried to kill herself.”

  He says this matter-of-factly, his voice gone dead, dry. My breath hitches in my throat.

  “Jesus, Jack.”

  “Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, leaving his palm on his forehead. “That’s when I finally saw what I was. What my dad really was. That he wasn’t some cool guy who got away with being bad, which in truth was my completely childish version of what he did, who he was. What I’d been telling myself in my head. I finally saw that we were both just these selfish assholes. That we were hurting people. And I couldn’t fucking stand it.”

  “But you learned from it.”

  “Yeah. I learned that I would never do that to another human being.”

  “Why can’t you forgive yourself, then?”

  I shut my mouth so fast, as soon as the words come out of it, that my teeth clack together. This is so none of my business.

  “I have. As much as I can.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, it’s fine. Fine.”

  But his fingers are gripping his hair, buried in the dark curls.

  “And your father?”

  “He died a few years after, in a car accident.”

  “Oh, Jack…”

  “Don’t. Okay?”

  His tone isn’t harsh; it’s more pleading than anything, and I feel awful.

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

  “Fuck, Bettina, I didn’t mean that. I just…I’m being an asshole again.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re not, Jack.”

  He’s staring at me, watching me, a hundred shadows crossing his features. Finally, he says, “You’re a good person, Bettina.”

  “Oh, I’m not so great.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “What?”

  “Try to make yourself so small.”

  My chest tightens into a hard ball. “I don’t.”

  But that’s a lie. How is it he can see me so clearly, this man I barely know?

  He reaches out and pulls me into him, and when I resist, he pulls harder, until I’m on top of him. His skin is everywhere against mine and my bikini is suddenly nothing, as though the two small scraps of fabric don’t exist. And despite the seriousness of our conversation, I am burning for him instantly. Wet.

  His eyes are dark with desire; I can see it as clearly as if they are reflecting my own. Maybe they are. Maybe it’s only myself, my own need, I see in them. But whatever it is, I am lost.

  And then he kisses me.

  Totally, utterly lost.

  Demo version limitation

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dinnertime is a little weird. Audrey is still gone, with Charles, I suppose, and everyone pretends not to notice.

  I have no idea how to act with Jack. He’s off at one end of the kitchen with Leo, talking, laughing as they make an enormous salad. Every now and then he glances up and smiles at me for a brief moment, making me warm inside. But I have no idea what it means, what I’m supposed to do, how I’m supposed to respond.

  I feel as though what’s happened between us is private, it’s our thing. And because I don’t know what else may happen—or not happen—I don’t want to make it public.

  As I set the table I watch Jack through the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, the easy manner he has with everyone, even Patrice. He seems compelled to hug her, to loop an arm around her shoulders, which she pretends annoys her, but which I can easily see she loves.

  Who wouldn’t love Jack?

  Not me.

  I am being ridiculous. Even more ridiculous
over him than I was over Audrey. Because no matter what I say, aloud or to myself, I am having these entirely girlish fantasies about him. About permanence.

  I have never done this before. Why now? Why him, Mr. Unobtainable? I really must be some sort of masochist.

  Viviane comes through the door, a fistful of knives in her hand, Sid trotting at her heels.

  “I forgot we’d need these—steak for dinner.” She goes around the table, setting one at each place. “So, Tina, want to tell me what’s up with you?”

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing.”

  “Okay.” She lets me get away with this for about ten seconds. “Now you want to tell me the truth?”

  “Not really.”

  I sigh, straightening the silverware bit by minute bit, going from one place setting to another, until each one is perfectly lined up on the cloth napkins, relaxing into the small ritual. And after a few moments I look up and realize Viv is still there, watching me.

  “I…I do this when I’m stressed,” I explain, feeling a bit embarrassed.

  She shrugs. “We all have our coping mechanisms,” she says, making me feel a little less neurotic. “So, are you worried about the Jack and Audrey equation?”

  I’m relieved that she knows, that she isn’t beating around the bush. That she isn’t judging.

  “I’m confused. I just don’t know what’s going to happen next. With them. With Jack and me.”

  “With Audrey?”

  “I feel like I’m pretty much out of the picture at this point, as far as she’s concerned.”

  “Do you want to be?”

  “I’m not one hundred percent certain, but…I’m really more focused on Jack. I know that’s not good. I mean, to be focused on him at all.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Why do you say maybe, knowing what you know about him?”

  “Because it’s all growth, isn’t it? Jack, Audrey, coming here.”

  “Yes, I guess so. Although I don’t know that sleeping with half the group is exactly what my therapist meant by coming out of my shell on this trip.”

  “It’s only one-third.” Viviane grins at me.

  I laugh. “And that’s so much better.”

  “Could be worse. That’s all I’m saying, doll.”

  “Thank you, Viv.”

  “For what?”

  “For making me lighten up a bit.”

  “Lord knows you need it,” she teases.

  I groan. “I know!”

  “So, all joking aside, what do you plan to do now?”

  “Just take each day, see what happens. I feel like none of it is really up to me.”

  “Sure it is. You can decide if you want to be with him. Or not. You can turn him away if it’s going to hurt you, Tina.”

  “Maybe.” I fiddle with the silverware again. “Viv, the thing is, I’m not sure I can. If he wants me, I don’t think I can say no.”

  She’s quiet a moment. Then, “Tina, you do what you need to do. I can’t say that’s the best course of action where Jack is involved. But you can’t help how you feel.”

  “I’m discovering that. I guess I’ve always thought I could. That I could just shut down. And I have, for a very long time. But since I’ve been here, really since things started with Audrey, I’m figuring out that I can’t do that any longer. But maybe it’s good for me. Maybe it’s what I need. To feel something, even if it’s not all good.”

  “Then maybe these experiences are worth something, no matter what happens.”

  “Yes. I think you’re right. I think maybe this is what my therapist, Terry, wanted for me. Not to go through a terrible time, but just to experience…something. Because I think if we are really interacting with the world it can’t all be good. But that’s what life just is. And I need to learn how to deal with it.”

  Viv is smiling at me and nodding in agreement when Patrice comes in and sets the big wooden salad bowl on the table. “What’s with all the gabbing? We have a hungry crew to feed. Steaks will be up in a few minutes.”

  Viviane gives her a grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Viviane, I could use your help with the potatoes. You always give them a special touch.”

  “We can talk later,” Viv silently mouths at me, and I smile and nod.

  It felt good to talk with her, even if I didn’t really get anywhere. I am no less excited to see Jack coming into the dining room laden with an armful of salad-dressing bottles. And when I sit, I am all too excited when he sits next to me. In fact, my body is blazing, my cheeks hot. I hope the others will just mark it off as sunburn.

  Everyone finds their places at the big table, and we have our usual long, lazy meal, punctuated by conversation about the latest publishing industry gossip.

  During dinner Jack’s thigh rests against mine, and I have no idea if he’s doing this on purpose. He is talking, animated, arguing with Leo over the psychology behind some horror comic book figure, sneaking bites of food to Sid, who has parked himself behind Jack’s chair. And when I glance over at him, he smiles, but he smiles at everyone, doesn’t he? It tells me nothing.

  I can’t eat much. My pulse is racing, my stomach in a small knot. My sex damp. Excruciating. But also lovely in some odd way. Exciting.

  I can’t remember the last time I had this sort of butterflies over anyone.

  Dessert tonight is ice cream with a sauce made from fresh raspberries, but I can hardly touch mine.

  “You’re not eating your ice cream,” Jack says.

  “I can’t,” I tell him. “I’m too full.”

  “Mind if I have yours?”

  “No, of course not.”

  I slide the bowl his way while he grins at me.

  God, his teeth are beautiful. Perfect. And his eyes are dancing with the reflected light of the pillar candles Viviane always places in the center of the big table. And I’m on his left, so I can see the dimple in his cheek, the tattoo wrapping around the tight muscle of his upper arm. I want to run my fingers over the ink. I want to sigh in pure girlish admiration, but I don’t.

  Instead, I watch him eat the ice cream, spooning it between his lush lips, licking the raspberry sauce from the back of the spoon, his tongue darting out, pink and wet. I bite back a groan.

  “We should do something special tonight,” Viviane announces.

  “What do you have in mind?” Kenneth asks. He’s on his second bowl of ice cream, too.

  “We should have our Exquisite Cadaver night.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s!” Patrice chimes in, more enthusiastic than she usually is about anything.

  Leo nods. “Sounds awesome. Let’s do it.”

  “Everyone?” Viviane raises her brows in question, and Kenneth, Jack and I nod our agreement.

  Even though all I can think of is getting back to my cottage, being alone with my vibrator. Or with Jack. But I know better than to expect anything.

  As we stand up and start clearing the table, Jack brushes past me and whispers, “I’d rather take you back to bed and fuck you until you scream.”

  Lust is like a sunburst, lighting up my system, dazzling me momentarily. He’s gone before I can answer.

  We all help clean up, then sit back at the big dining table. Viviane has handed out pads of paper and pencils to each of us. Jack is beside me once more, distracting me with his presence, his whispered words echoing in my head.

  “…fuck you until you scream.”

  Oh, yes…

  “Okay, do you all know how this works?” Viviane asks, pouring more wine for everyone.

  I seem to be the only one who hasn’t played it before.

  “I know it’s the old parlor game played by the surrealists, but I could use more information.”

  “Yes, exactly,” Patrice says. “It was started by André Breton and his group, sometime around 1925. Someone begins by writing a word on a piece of paper, then folding it before passing it on so the next person can’t see what they’ve written, building a sentence. The surrealists believed you could
create expressionistic poetry in this way. Nicolas Calas characterized this as ‘the unconscious reality in the personality of the group’ resulting from what Ernst called ‘mental cognition.’ The surrealists always said that poetry must be made ‘by all and not by one.’”

  Patrice is as passionate as I’ve ever seen her, her dark little bird eyes lighting up.

  “Didn’t they do it with art, too?” Leo asks, and I’m a bit surprised that he knows anything about the surrealists. Maybe I shouldn’t be. Maybe everyone has more layers than anyone can easily see from the outside.

  “Yes,” Patrice answers, really warming to her subject now, I can tell by the flush in her sharp cheeks. “Some of them used drawings, rather than language, using the surrealist principle of metaphoric displacement. The results were fascinating.”

  “Tell us how you create the sentence again, Patrice,” Kenneth says.

  “The usual sequence is to write an adjective, a noun, an adverb, a verb, the word the and then an adjective and a noun. Thus the famous line ‘The exquisite corpse drinks the new wine.’”

  “Thank you, Patrice,” Viviane says, smiling to her and patting her hand. “That was very educational.”

  Patrice beams, her eyes glimmering.

  “So, who wants to begin? Kenneth?” Viviane asks.

  “Certainly.”

  He writes on a piece of paper, folds it, hands it to Leo, who does the same, then passes it to Jack. He pauses to consider, taking a long sip from his wineglass, scribbles something in pencil, then passes it to me. I add mine, pass it to Viviane, who hands it off to Patrice.

  There is a sense of quiet anticipation around the table. A bunch of writers quietly geeking out over the written word. I love it.

  “Okay,” Viviane says, “here we have our first one.” She reads, “‘The fragrant gangster strokes the lovely earth.’”

  Everyone laughs.

  “Wow,” Kenneth says. “That’s almost beautiful. Except for the gangster, perhaps.”

  Leo blushes. “I’ll try to be more poetic, keep up with the rest of you.”

  I’m laughing, too, but all I can think of is that Jack’s contribution was the word strokes. Why does that make me all shivery inside?

  We go again, this time ending up with “The slumberous monster kisses the angry lion.” And one more time, the sentence reading “The timeless library releases the lambent fire.”