Bound to Accept

by Nenia Campbell

  “I don't like it when you talk to me about your relationships with other girls because—” you can do it, Kelly. Be a big girl “—I like you. And it puts me in a really awkward position. I don't want to be in the middle.”

  Tristan stares at me like I've gone green and sprouted antennae. Slowly, he lowers his coffee cup to the table.

  “You like me,” he repeats. “How long?”

  “Since, oh, probably since middle school, although it's hard to tell because we were all pretty much emotionally stunted in middle school.”

  I laugh nervously. He doesn't, and the sound dies in my throat like it's ashamed to be alive.

  “I didn't want to say anything, because I was afraid I'd screw things up, and because I kind of hoped you'd figure it out on your own and make the first move—

  “But then I started to think that maybe I was making things worse not saying anything because I was starting to feel so bitter and resentful all the time and that's not me. Or at least, it's not who I want to be. So…now you know.”

  Say something.

  He doesn't say anything. He just sits there, blinking at me robotically like a Furby. His eyes bounce all over me, like he's seeing me for the first time.

  What does he see?

  Do I want to know?

  No, no I don't.

  I push back from the table, and catch my feet in the chair. Luckily, I regain my balance before I can fall over, even though my messenger bag whacks me in the butt with a meaty THUNK.

  “Well,” I say. “I'm going to go now. I'm glad I could…um…help you out with your girl problems.”

  I wait for him to call after me, to stop me. He doesn't. So I run out of there, before I start giggling uncontrollably—because at this point, it's either going to be that or a jag of ugly-crying.

  Because I'm pretty sure I haven't just ruined my chances with him—no, I've also gone and ruined our friendship.

  Chapter Two

  In my heart of hearts I know I'm not unattractive—I may even be better-looking than average—but I still have a lot of hangups about my looks, especially my weight.

  A lot of those inadequacies date back to middle school. I was the awkward girl on the social fringe. I had friends, mostly Tristan but a few other nerdy girls, too, but the more popular kids still made mincemeat of me. Especially the boys. I remember this one group who used to sing this song about me. It went, “Kelly Hauser, face like a schnauzer, fat like Mario, scaly like Bowser.”

  Middle school kids are not known for their compassion.

  I developed humor as a self-defense tactic, because I learned that if people were too busy laughing at what I said, they'd be too distracted to laugh at the way I looked.

  Now I feel like I can't be serious when it matters. When I get nervous, I crack jokes. I blow things off, especially important things. I don't take risks.

  People are always telling me I'm immature, and that cuts deep, because it's like they're saying to me, “You are a child in adult's clothing.” Unless I'm wearing Hot Topic shirts or something from a convention. Then it's, “You are a child.”

  Even though my parents do their best to support me, I know they're disappointed by my career and lifestyle. They always assumed I'd be married out of college and have a nice, braggable cubicle job. Not fucking off as a writer.

  Now, after this business with Tristan, it's like I've messed up the last intact facet of my life, and everything is about to come tumbling down like a house of cards.

  What have I done? I've screwed everything up.

  “Walking on the Sun” chimes from the depths of my messenger bag. I don't bother rooting around for it, and the song ends. A few minutes later, it begins again.

  He's being persistent. Maybe he actually wants to talk.

  Yeah, to tell you that it's over.

  I wait. If he calls back a third time, I tell myself that I'll answer it, but he doesn't, and so I feel like a coward.

  It's a twenty-minute walk to my apartment from Tapioca Barn so I have plenty of time to brood.

  My cat comes running up as soon as he hears the jingle of the key in the door, and I push him back with my foot. “No, Garfield. Bad.”

  He swipes at my sneaker, and gets his claws stuck in the canvas tops of my Converse. When I bend down to free him, he scratches my hand for my trouble.

  I live in a loft above an indie coffee shop. I only pay about $700/mo. because the owner of the property is a good friend of my parents. Most of the furniture is from Ikea, and not very exciting.

  I fill Garfield's food and water dishes, dumping my bag beside my desk. The desk is right beside my bed, which is sectioned off from the rest of the room by a Japanese folding screen I picked up at a thrift store. A bra dangling from the glossy wooden edge ruins the effect.

  I yank it off impatiently and sit down at my computer. My book sales are way down today. Also, I've received two scathing reviews. One of them calls me “a purveyor of insipid wet-dreams.” Wonderful.

  I fold my arms on the desk and rest my head on them, feeling very sorry for myself. An army of plastic figurines stare back at me. “Why does being an adult suck so hard?”

  The plastic figurines have no response. That's probably a good thing—I'd be worried if they did.

  I pick up the white plastic unicorn and think about how much easier it was to be a kid, when the biggest concern regarding boys was whether you could catch their cooties. Life got a whole lot more complicated when boys became sexual entities.

  “Walking on the Sun” plays again and with a sigh, I answer it. Time to face the music. “Hello?”

  “Why'd you run off like that?” he asks. “I tried to follow, but you'd already gone.”

  He followed me? “I'm sure you can figure it out.”

  “Shit. You must think I'm a total douche.”

  “Not a total douche, though it was a little uncomfortable when you just sat there and stared at me after I poured my heart out.” I try to make it sound light-hearted, but it just seems snide and petty. “You hurt my feelings.”

  “You definitely caught me off-guard.”

  So he doesn't think about me that way.

  “I'm flattered,” he says into the silence, “because you know how amazing I think you are—but I really don't think it would work between us.”

  I set down the unicorn figurine. “You…don't?”

  “You know how I said things with Ashlee didn't work out because we were into different things?”

  I nod, then remember he can't see it. “Yeah, so?”

  “It'd be the same with you, I think—except…maybe even worse.”

  “Worse?” I squawk, indignant. “Um, hello. I've seen you in Power Rangers boxers! I sat through all those Nicholas Cage movies with you! I—”

  “Kelly.” He speaks shortly, in a way that sounds very adult—no, authoritative. The kind of tone that brooks no argument. It stops me short. “I don't think we have sexual compatibility.”

  Are you fucking kidding me? He's all I can think about, and he thinks we don't have sexual compatibility?

  Now I really do want to cry.

  At my lingering silence, Tristan seems to realize that this is another one of those things he shouldn't have said quite that way. He swears softly under his breath.

  “I didn't mean it like that.”

  They never do, that's the thing.

  “It's really nothing to do with you, and everything to do with me.” Before I can tell him to can the platitudes, he drops a real ball-buster. “I like…rough sex. And I'm kinky. Really kinky. The kinds of things that I like to do to women often make people uncomfortable. Might make you uncomfortable.”

  I sniffle discreetly. “Like what?”

  There is another pause. “What I'm trying to tell you is I'm into BDSM.”

  “You mean like that book?”

  “That is not at all representative of—” he must realize he's raising his voice, because he stops himself and begins again. “Nothing like that
book. I participate in BDSM, but I wasn't abused as a child. I don't hate women, or particularly enjoy hurting women. Sometimes I make them feel pain, but it's consensual, it serves a purpose—to get them off—and they can indicate that they wish me to stop at any time. I do like the power I get from total submission, and the trust that my partner puts in me to give me everything, from her mind to her body, while expecting nothing from me in return—except the understanding that I won't violate that trust.”

  “But you do like tying people up and stuff, though.” I say it like my heart isn't beating double-time. Like I'm not imagining him tying me up right now.

  The thought is far from displeasing. I cross my legs.

  “Yes.” I think I can make out a smile in his voice. “That, amongst other things.”

  Which reminds me, I still need to look up “pony girl.” I open up a new tab on Google. “That doesn't sound too bad. I have friends who write books about that stuff.”

  “That probably won't help you understand. In my experience, the romance novels written about BDSM have about as much in common with actual BDSM relationships as a child playing with a jump rope.”

  “Oh,” I say. “So spankings, is that a yes, or a n—oh my God, that woman is pulling a cart.”

  “What?”

  “There's this woman, on Wikipedia. She's, like, naked, except for this leather harness. And she's pulling this old man around in a cart.”

  “Pulling—oh, Jesus, you just looked up pony girl, didn't you?”

  “Is that what that means? Oh God.”

  “Kelly, get off Wikipedia right now,” he says.

  “You're not into that?” I say. “Are you?”

  “No,” he says. “Pet play isn't really my scene. And neither are spankings—unless, of course, the sub has been a very bad girl. I do believe in punishment.”

  Oh my God, the way he says it, his voice becomes this sexy, sultry snarl of darkness. I can feel my face heat up. Thank God we're on the phone and he can't see me.

  “So it's called a scene,” I stammer. “Like a bar scene, or a music scene. A BDSM scene. Okay, that's cool.”

  “Get off Wikipedia,” he repeats. “Some of the more hardcore stuff can freak novices out.”

  “I'm not freaked out.” I close the Wikipedia tab.

  “I can hear your breathing,” he reminds me. “You sound like you're hyperventilating. I'm starting to think bringing this up with you was a bad idea.”

  “No! It wasn't. When I said I liked you, I meant in spite of all your weird quirks and idiosyncrasies. This…this isn't so bad.”

  “You make it sound like something unpleasant. Like getting a shot.”

  “Isn't it?”

  “No, it's not,” he says. “Or at least, it isn't supposed to be.”

  “What is it supposed to be?”

  “Erotic,” he says immediately.

  I mull that over. “What else are you into?”

  “That's a very personal question to ask over the phone.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don't be sorry. Ask me again. In person, next time. I'll give you a different answer. Maybe I'll even show you.”

  There's a pause.

  “Are you on Wikipedia again?” he says, somewhat sharply.

  “No. Why?”

  He doesn't respond, but I think I hear him laugh. After a few minutes, he says, “What are you thinking about now?”

  “How strange it is that I've known you for this long, and never saw this side to you.”

  “It's not like I wear my sexual preferences on my forehead,” he says dryly.

  “Might be easier that way,” I mutter.

  “Part of the fun is discovery.”

  I shiver. An image comes to my mind—wrists bound—a body laid bare, covered with paint: a map of eroticism.

  “I have to go,” he says. “I have to do a conference call. Talk more tomorrow?”

  “Okay.”

  I wonder if it really is okay. And I really hope Tristan doesn't actually go around hitching leather-clad naked women to chariots.

  As if reading my mind, he says, “Don't Google anything else. If you have any more questions, save them for me.”

  Tristan has a point about Google, especially since we both know I can't help myself. Instead of giving into temptation and possibly freaking myself out further, I pepper Kayla with messages on Facebook.

  Tristan broke things off with Ashlee

  Told him how I feel

  Think I might finally have a chance ;)

  She doesn't respond right away. Today is Monday, and that's when she tutors French to two bratty kids on the posh side of town. I make myself some Sleepy Time Tea in my Grumpy Cat mug and play Candy Crush until she gets on.

  Two hours of life whoring later, and subsequently annoying all my Facebook friends, Kayla finally logs in.

  OMG so proud! GOOD FOR YOU, GIRLFRAN. And it only took 15 years, haha. When's the wedding?

  I roll my eyes, secretly pleased by her enthusiasm.

  How 19th century of u. Just bc in relationship doesn't mean have to tie knot. Might just keep him on as love slave.

  Except, if what he's told me is any indication of his sexual proclivities, I might just end up being his love slave.

  LOL. So are you 2 going out?

  T wants to meet tomorrow to talk.

  Uh oh. She writes. Talk? That is never a good sign.

  I'm tempted to tell her about the whole BDSM thing, but that's Tristan's business and seems kind of private. After all, I'm his best friend and he never even told me.

  I have a good feeling about this, I write, wondering even as the words appear on the screen if that's really true.

  Is this really what I want, or am I forcing myself into a box to get the guy of my dreams? I suppose I'll find out tomorrow. I trust Tristan, and like he said on the phone, he doesn't take trust lightly. I'm pretty sure he won't force me into something I don't want.

  That makes me feel better. Confident, even. Telling him how I feel was the hard part.

  How was tutoring, btw?

  Kids are a bunch of merdes. As usual. Good luck! Will keep my fingers crossed for u :)

  Thanks, I need it!!

  Mind if I tell Lydia & Amy? They will be so happy for u!

  K, I type. But make sure u tell them nothing's offish.

  I'm afraid if I put too much stock in this, I'll jinx myself and end up wrecking everything. But I really want this to work. I wonder what he'll want to talk to me about.

  If he wasn't interested, he would have said so.

  Would he, though? Men are confusing. Sometimes they think the easiest way to let you down is to say nothing at all and hope you'll lose interest and go away on your own.

  Chapter Three

  I don't sleep well. I spend half the night tossing and turning from nerves. I may have gotten about four hours of sleep all told when I finally get up the next morning.

  Tristan said he'd call, but I don't want to be waiting around my apartment until he does. I catch the bus going downtown and do some window-shopping. Then I go to a sushi takeout place I've never been to before—Lucky Sushi, the name seems fortuitous—and order the spider roll. It looks delicious, made of soft shell crab and avocado.

  I take the sushi with me to the park nearby and sit down on one of the benches. It's hazy, but not as foggy as it sometimes gets, and there's a bit of sun to keep it from being too chilly. I eat the sushi with a pair of wooden chopsticks, and watch the people strolling by.

  I wonder how many of them like the kind of sex Tristan does. The punk with a purple mohawk? The woman in the Chanel business suit? Both? Neither?

  There's a lot to think about.

  Tristan calls when I've got the last bite of spider roll in my mouth. I swallow, and shift the chopsticks to one hand so I can answer the phone. “Hello, Tristan.”

  “You still want to meet up today?”

  “Yeah. I just grabbed lunch, though.”

  “That's fine.
I'm not hungry. Where are you now?”

  “The park.”

  “Which one?”

  I tell him, and he says he'll be here in twenty minutes, which gives me enough time to dispose of my trash and sit there for another nineteen nervous minutes.

  My phone vibrates against my leg, but it's only Lydia, who wants to know if “u lovebirds talking yet?”

  She's probably proud of herself. She's been pushing me to ask Tristan out for years.

  Waiting for him now, I text back, because I know she'll back off. I love my friends dearly, but sometimes their unconditional encouragement is frightening in its intensity. Especially when they act like pimps.

  My phone buzzes again. Here.

  I look up, and my heart stops when I see him pull up on his bicycle. The bay breeze ruffles dark brown hair as he lifts his hand in a wave. The sun burnishes him in gold, and I am in love, and I might just end up shattering into pieces for it, but I don't care. He is beautiful, inside and out, even if he occasionally walks on the dark side.

  He must have just gotten off work. He's wearing slacks and a dress shirt. As he dismounts from the bike, I think again to myself how long his legs are. How it might feel to wrap mine around him and—

  “You look nice.” He's never really paid much attention to the way I look before. But when he's close enough, he lifts a strand of my hair. “Did you curl it?”

  “No.” I swallow. “It's just a little humid.”

  He rubs the lock of hair between his fingers, looking down at me. Is he going to kiss me? I part my lips, and he says, “Are you going to say something?”

  I shake my head.

  “Then I'll start.” He releases the lock of hair. “I realized almost as soon as I said we didn't have compatibility what a shit thing that was to say. Especially after what you confessed to me. Obviously, you feel some attraction towards me.” He smiles. “But when you've known someone for—what, fifteen years—it's a little weird to have all that change all at once. You're very attractive—” He thinks so? “—but I never allowed myself to think about you that way. I have to compartmentalize. You were always off-limits.”