by Solace Ames
It was something of a chore, and I didn’t want to do anything else like that for a living. But then, it wasn’t like my brother wanted to go to work at midnight and field complaints about phone bills for ten hours. And I doubted Miles’s romanticized view of pool cleaning would stand the test of time.
The topic shifted to relationships just as the sandwiches arrived. I was surprisingly hungry, and wolfed mine down while everyone else was still talking.
“I’ve been dating,” Valerie said with a strange kind of cautious pride. “Nothing serious so far. No horror stories, neither.”
“I’m glad you’re staying,” Paul said, and smiled.
She turned to face Chiho and me. “I was planning on moving to a different city and starting another life. And then I thought, what I got ain’t so bad, you know?”
“I’ve done it three times,” Chiho said. “I went away to Tokyo. Then Sydney. Now Los Angeles. I’m so tired.”
“Me too,” I said. “Not three times. But I feel like...I’m tired. I’m sorry. I’m not making a lot of sense right now.” With nothing to lose, I threw out the question that had always haunted me. “Do you think you have to love yourself before someone can love you? What if you don’t know who you are yet, what if you don’t know your own self?”
Paul raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t make fun of my crazy questions. He rubbed his chin like he was actually considering an answer.
“The self is an illusion,” Chiho said. I knew she was going to say that. I loved her, but I needed a different perspective.
“I think that’s a high standard for love,” Valerie said. “Too high. No. I disagree. You don’t have to love yourself. Just don’t be fighting yourself all the time, you know, ’cause then you drag the other person into your war.” She looked to Paul. “Or persons.”
“And that’s not fair,” Paul agreed. He caught my confused glance. “I’m in a relationship with a couple. We live together.”
“Oh.” Me, and Emanuel and Miles—could we have stayed like that, the three of us? God, no. I winced at the thought. We were good together for one night, and even that was tempting fate. I missed Miles terribly—as a friend, not a lover. And of course I mourned the death of our reunion dream. “How’s it going?”
“I’m very happy with them. They’re married to each other, and I’m not officially in the picture according to their families, but that’s not too hard to navigate. Not everyone has to know everything.”
“Very true. It sucks when people look you up, though. All they have to do is type the right name, and then—bang.” I was thinking of my sisters, and how they found out what I did. My mother had known better than to search. I needed to change this line of conversation, and fast, because I could feel the anxiety churning in my full stomach and pushing bile up my throat. “Is it a D/s relationship, too?”
“It didn’t turn out that way. We play sometimes. Is that something you’re looking for?” His tone was coolly curious, not prying.
“I kind of have it already. But everything’s up in the air.” I’d said that already, hadn’t I? “We’re long distance now.”
Valerie groaned and winced, Chiho sighed, Paul looked even more concerned.
It felt like I had a team on my side again.
I liked the feeling.
“I don’t know what is worse, the D/s or the LD,” Chiho said. “And he’s a rock star! No, that’s the worst.”
“You’re prejudiced,” I accused her. “If he was a rapper with a Lamborghini you’d be egging me on.”
“I am shallow. My nonexistent self is shallow.”
“Anyway, D/s is complicated, and it doesn’t mean he orders me around and runs my life. The last thing I want is a fucking suitcase pimp.” I turned to Paul. “Is that a big thing in gay porn too?”
He shook his head.
Fuck, I was obsessed with suitcases. “It’s more like the other way around. I want to carry his suitcases. Stand by his side. Make his life easier. I don’t know whether to call it submission or service, but I want it, and I want to be respected for it too.”
“Does he respect you?” Valerie asked.
“Yes. He does. Maybe that’s not enough, because it seems like the world is trying real hard to keep us apart, and I keep thinking we could only be together happily if we lived on a different planet, and I’m only going to drag him down, and...and...” I started crying into my napkin. Hardly any warning, it just happened, like a cough or a sneeze. I should have been terrified at losing control, but instead, I wasn’t afraid. I don’t have any makeup to ruin, I kept thinking.
Crying still hurt. And now my eyes would be so ugly.
Chiho patted me on the shoulder and made soothing noises. Paul and Valerie stayed quiet and readied fresh napkins to give me. I stopped after a minute and didn’t need another one, thank God.
“Don’t mind me,” I mumbled. “I feel better now. Love is...you know. You know what love is.”
Valerie nodded and touched my shaking hand, steadying it.
We stayed for another hour, and by the end I felt almost human. Right on the edge of being human. Like I was trapped in a mirror’s reflection, with only a pane of silvered glass barring my way, a thin pane to shatter and step through and claim my rightful place on the real side.
“Thank you so much,” I told Chiho as we walked away from the café. “I needed that. I needed to be around people again, people who understand.”
“Don’t think that I have a better heart than you do,” she warned.
“What? I guess I’ll take that as a compliment, you weirdo.”
“You just smiled,” she said solemnly.
“I guess I did.”
You’re a brave girl, I told myself. You saved your family. Now it’s time to save your love.
I wouldn’t push Emanuel away. I wouldn’t let him go without a fight, even if the person I had to fight against most was my own damn self.
I just had to figure out how to keep from dragging Emanuel into that fight...
* * *
That night, I managed to stay away from the bed until almost midnight. I watched a movie. Started a new book. Ordered in some pork belly adobo for a Pinoy comfort food dinner.
Emanuel called me when it was morning, his time. For once, I didn’t dread the sound of the incoming call. When he winked into vision he was charmingly disheveled, the collar of his shirt crinkled and bent. My hand jerked toward the laptop screen as if I could reach through and straighten it. “I wish I could touch you,” I said. “I’d straighten your collar. And I think you have glitter in your hair.”
He growled and ruffled vigorously at the top of his head. A few of the shining specks fell off. Most stayed. “I woke up missing you.”
“Mmm, tell me about it.” Sexual thoughts drifted into my mind for the first time in what felt like forever.
“I’d be happy to.” I loved his easy, lazy, pleasured smile. “I’ve never done anything like this over video, though. All my experience is in the flesh. You’ll have to guide me.”
The screen shook, his crystal clear features turning fuzzy. Tinny voices in a foreign language reminded me he wasn’t alone. How frustrating.
“We’re at a border crossing,” he said. I couldn’t see his face anymore.
“Maybe next time.”
We blew each other kisses and said goodbye.
I tried to imagine how it could happen, when I went to bed at last, naked under the covers, and popped a finger into my mouth. What I would say to him. Who I would pretend to be. I tongued my finger, then quickly pushed it between my legs, eager for a taste of the future.
Oh.
At first the fantasy didn’t work. The scenario was too abstract, and I was overly conscious of my body, and how alone I really was. I remembered, against my will, how m
y inner labia used to feel against my fingers, before I’d had them trimmed down to a mere hint, giving up sensation.
I couldn’t go back.
At least, not that way.
Things started working better when I replayed the memories of our last time together, and our first. My jaw tightened, my back arched, my cunt flooded with liquid heat. I worked at myself hard and fast, no mercy. I knew exactly what I needed right now, and how much friction my clit begged for. When the pleasure exploded it chased away all the tension, leaving me wonderfully limp and boneless, ready to be carried away into a true deep sleep.
I silently thanked my own body. At least for tonight, I was at peace with myself. No more fighting.
Yes.
I was halfway across the border into blissful sleep when the phone rang.
“Amy, it’s Xiomara. I’m in Hollywood. I think I’m having an overdose.”
Chapter Nineteen
I drove to a budget hotel two miles up the road from the Walk of Fame, so panicked and distracted I didn’t see the bottle bag in the empty parking space until I heard the soft explosion under my wheels. Fuck.
Fuck my life, in general. I didn’t want it anymore. If I could, I’d drop it off at the nearest pawnshop. One abortive porn career with codependent trimmings, $20 or best offer.
The streetlights shone down malevolently. I stalked to door number thirty-seven and started banging with my left fist. With my right hand, I got my phone ready. I’d count to twenty bangs, and if I didn’t get an answer, call 911.
Xiomara opened on the seventeenth. All she had on was bikini panties and a tank top. Her eyes were swollen. I slipped in and shut the door behind me.
“Sit down,” I told her, because she was swaying on her feet.
I thought I’d be angry. I wasn’t angry. If this was my fate, I guess I’d have to accept it. She was in pain, and all I wanted was to help her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and collapsed onto her side, digging her face into the pillow. “I couldn’t call family. Oh God. I didn’t even mean to take this much. Do I need to go the hospital?”
“What did you take?”
“Syrup. It’s in the bathroom.”
I went to the bathroom, examined the plastic bottle on the sink, factored in the empty mini-bottles of rum that flanked it, and sighed deeply. When I looked in the mirror, my eyes still looked terrible and my hair was stupid puffy. I’d take care of myself more today. I should put cucumber slices on my eyes and go surfing. Maybe even at the same time.
The situation wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d thought.
I left the bathroom and shook her shoulder. “Xiomara!”
“Do I—do I need to go the hospital?”
“You drank half a bottle of cough syrup with codeine. I’m pretty sure you can buy that stuff over the counter in Mexico. Any self-respecting junkie would laugh at you.”
“Oh.” I couldn’t read her reactions, not with her eyes shut. “What time is it? Did I wake you up? I’m so sorry. You can slap me.”
I sat down on the other double bed and gathered my knees to my chest. “Nah, I charge money for that. It’s all right. I’m happy I don’t have to go to the hospital, either. So what the fuck happened? Are you really sick?”
She cracked her eyes open. The swooping curves of her eyelids were an unnatural color between the eyelashes, and her hair had faded to an unfortunate denim blue, but she was still gorgeous. I looked closer, searching for traces of her kinship with Emanuel, and thought I found one in the bold shape of her jawline. She fluttered her ailing eyelashes at me, hacked horribly and wiped her nose.
“Definitely sick, then. I’ll take you to a walk-in clinic when it gets lighter. Just to make sure it’s not the flu. Where’s your man?”
“Puerto Rico,” she croaked. “I left him there. Got this bug on the plane ride back. And he’s not my man.”
“Well, you can tell me all about it when I wake up. I’m going to take a nap now. I need to make sure my circadian rhythms don’t get fucked up. Then we’ll have breakfast, and I’ll take you to the clinic.” I stretched myself out on the bed, kicked off my shoes, pulled the comforter over myself and fell asleep instantly.
When I woke up with the sun in my eyes and studied the glum lump that was Xiomara, I didn’t know what to feel, or rather I felt too many things at the same time. A hangover of anger because of the cough syrup bullshit. Empathy, because her own relationship with drug addiction via Miles had obviously warped her perspective, and just like her, I was a non-addict who knew addiction intimately. Nostalgia for the easy companionship we’d shared back at the mansion. Admiration for her searing talent.
And guilt for fucking Miles.
She stirred, straightened into a recognizable human form, and groaned. “I can’t believe I got this low.”
“This isn’t low. If this is your rock bottom, it looks pretty cushy. Call me when you’re puking blood in the basement of a whorehouse in Honduras, then I might believe you.”
She smiled faintly and ruffled her washed-out hair in a way that reminded me achingly of Emanuel.
We walked to the diner next door for breakfast. I had a big bacon and eggs plate. Xiomara ate plain oatmeal, and she ate it very slowly and carefully. Her nose was still sniffly, but the light began to creep back into her eyes.
“Did you get the emails I sent?” I asked.
“No. I’ve been on a blackout. I’m not even ready to log in anywhere. I got outed.”
I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. “Oh fuck. How?”
“Someone ran a face-matching image search and pulled a background check. It was only a matter of time, anyway. I was ready for it. But I didn’t like how Markov dealt with the situation. He went on telling everyone about how he knew and didn’t care, which is a strange thing to complain about, but in the context, it was like he was using me, you know? It was too loud for my taste. Gave me a bad feeling in my stomach.”
“So he got the scandal he wanted, after all.”
“Yeah. It worked even better than a gay kiss, because straight men play that game all the time for laughs, anyway. Being with me was—I guess it was more believable. Or maybe I’m more toxic. He’s been dropped from the crew, just like he wanted.”
“Did he want to stay with you after?”
“He said he did. But I need space. I thought I needed space from Miles. Turned out I need space from everyone. I can’t handle social shit right now. I’ll log on tomorrow but I know what I’ll see—trap jokes and wrong pronouns and people telling me to slit my goddamn wrists.”
I winced and cast about desperately for something positive to say. “I bet you’ll have some high fives too, and messages from girls like you.”
“Yeah.” She licked her spoon and smiled. “I guess that’s one hell of a silver lining.” Her long guitarist’s fingers traced the outline of her phone like she was getting used to the shape of things to come, practicing for a more complicated future. “I’ll be all right. At least everyone knows my name now. I’ve got options in the industry. I’m riding this wave, Amy.”
“Fuck yeah. And let me know if you need a virtual assistant to handle your social media, okay? A lot of people in Manila do that for a living.”
“I might take you up on that. But first, you have to tell me how you’ve been.”
“Emanuel had to leave on tour, a last-minute thing, and it was really rough on me. I’ve been in suspended animation, and I only started coming out of it yesterday. And you’ve got oatmeal on your chin.”
“Is my shame ever gonna end?”
She wiped it off and we sat silently for a while, sipping our coffees and soaking up the sun’s rising heat like lizards. After I’d absorbed enough energy to pay the emotional toll, I took out Miles’s little book from my purse and slid it over t
o her.
“It’s Miles’s book,” she said, her voice hushed.
“The last time I saw him, he told me to give it to you. And speaking of the last time I saw him, umm—” I sucked in another breath through closed teeth, and wondered if I sounded like the world’s most socially awkward vacuum cleaner. I had to stop making that fucking noise.
“Don’t tell me you had a threesome or something.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Don’t worry, Amy. I’m just messing with you. I don’t have a claim on him.” Whatever had made her so vulnerable last night—probably a combination of codeine, rum, jet lag and virus—she was getting a handle on it, and the guards were coming up.
“You were with Markov. And it was a one-time thing, a turning point. It changed something between Emanuel and me.” I had an urge to explain, both to Xiomara and myself, but she was obviously uncomfortable, her shoulders hunched, face turned away.
“Let’s just move on, okay?”
“Miles wrote you a message in back,” I said, relieved to drop the subject. “I haven’t read it.” I was already so tangled in her past—at least I could give her that small measure of privacy.
She flipped it open, pushed the tiny pages until she found it. Her eyes flicked back and forth until she closed the book with a snap, then rubbed at her eyelids in a gesture I was all too familiar with—the pain of small cuts, and knowing how impossible they were to guard against.
I drained the rest of my terrible coffee and waited.
“He says I should take all these songs,” she said tonelessly. “I should take them and sing them. I should fill in the blanks with my own stories, wherever he’s left blanks. Or write over the words. This is ours, he says, but since he doesn’t deserve it anymore, it’s all mine.”
I remembered what he’d said that night at Eispalast. You should be the lead singer. And she had an amazing raw voice, ranging wide with an icelike clarity in the high notes and a fire raging in the low ones.
“Do you want to try?” I asked her. “I think you could do it. I really do. The important thing is, do you want to?”
