by June Gray
I gave a shout when he entered me from behind. He grabbed my waist for leverage as he slammed into me, each thrust harder than the last. I leaned down on my elbows, lifting my butt higher, squeezing him with all that I had, my anger fueled by pleasure. Or maybe it was the other way around.
For a while, the only sound in the room was the slapping of our bare skin, punctuated by his grunts. I kept silent, intent on proving that he couldn’t completely dominate me.
I didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I realized that Henry had taken command of our entire relationship—he’d made me fall in love and taken it all away. But even if I had no jurisdiction of my heart, this—the fucking—was a war zone I could fight in.
He reached between my legs and fingered my clit, trying to get a rise out of me, but even through the pleasure, I bit my lip and made no sound. With his other hand, he grabbed me by the chin and tilted my head back, pressing his lips to my forehead while he continued to pound and massage me. It was almost too much, but I was determined not to give him what he craved.
“Elsie,” he ground out. “Come for me.”
“I’m not doing anything for you,” I said.
He released my head, stilling inside me, finally taking note of the change in me, but the element of surprise only lasted a few seconds. He recovered and dug his fingers into my ass cheeks. He held on tight as he began to pound into me again, hitting me so hard I was lurching forward with every thrust. I braced my arms in front of me, unwilling to give another inch.
Then he wrapped his arms around my waist and fell sideways onto the bed, taking me with him so that we were on our sides, his cock still buried inside me. His hand immediately snaked around to my front, lifting my leg out of the way before claiming my clit. With three fingers, he massaged me, alternating circles and quick flicks all the while pounding into me from behind. His other hand clutched at my chest, pinning my arms in place.
“I’m going to make you come so much, I’ll be etched in your mind forever,” he said against my ear and, despite myself, the pressure began to build. Still, I was determined; he wasn’t going to take this from me too.
I twisted my head around and kissed him. “I’ll forget you as soon as you walk out that door,” I said against his lips. We both knew it was a lie, but the bullet hit its mark regardless. He released me and pulled out, turning away from me. He made to crawl off the bed but he paused. He looked at me with his eyebrows drawn a moment before he was pushing me onto my back and sliding back inside.
My head was reeling. I didn’t know if he was coming or going, hot or cold, but the look on his face as he rocked into me was of pure agony. He rested on his elbows and kissed me soundly, almost reverently, whispering, “Don’t forget me,” over and over.
The frost wall I’d built around my heart began to thaw, the melted ice leaking out the corner of my eyes. I kissed him back to muffle my sobs. Of course I wouldn’t forget him. You could give me a lobotomy and somehow every cell in my DNA would still know Henry’s touch.
And then he gave in. I felt his hips jerk and he started to come, his arms clutching me tight against his chest as he continued to thrust into me.
I let go with a moan. I jumped off that cliff after him, my insides convulsing wildly as he throbbed inside me. Even though he was spent, he kept moving, instinctively knowing what I needed. My orgasm went on and on as I clutched at him with everything I had, wringing every sensation out of the moment.
We collapsed together, his weight on me as we caught our breath. After a long moment, he raised himself back onto his elbows, his fingers wiping the tears from my face. “I love you, Elsie,” he said, looking into my eyes. “That won’t ever change.”
“But you might,” I said, finishing his thought.
He gave the slightest nod, the corners of his mouth drooping down.
“I get it, Henry.” My lips trembled, but I managed to continue. “I understand what you need, but I don’t know if I’ll still be waiting for you by the time you figure out who you are.”
“I’d be a selfish jackass if I asked you to wait for me again,” he said. Still, he never said he wasn’t either.
He closed his eyes and kissed my forehead, inhaling deeply before pulling away. He gathered his clothes and began to dress. I noticed the scratch marks on his back, pleased that I had drawn blood. My only regret was that it wasn’t permanent, that my mark would eventually fade along with everything else we had together.
When he was done, he picked up my bathrobe and handed it to me. He sat on the edge of the bed, resting his arms on his legs, his head cradled in his hands.
“Henry?”
When he looked up, his eyes were red. “I’ve been in a fucking shootout without batting an eyelash, and I didn’t even think twice about running out toward that explosion on base, not knowing if there were other insurgents. But right now I’m scared as hell,” he said, his dark eyebrows drawing together. “I’m fucking terrified that I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.”
I said nothing because we both already knew what I would say. Instead I reached for his hand and threaded my fingers through his.
“I need to do this,” he whispered, his eyes pleading for me to understand.
“So go,” I said with a broken voice. “Get the hell out.”
He kissed my hand and stood up to leave, but some unknown force made him stop before he reached the window. He turned on a heel and crossed the space between us in three large steps. He grabbed the sides of my face and kissed me with such ache, shattering whatever was left of my heart.
I pushed him away, tears streaming down my face, the pain so fierce I felt like it was ripping my chest down the middle. I wanted to tell him to never change, to come back as the Henry I had fallen in love with, but I had already expended all my words, and tears were all I had left.
“Bye, Elsie,” he said, looking me over one last time before being swallowed up by the darkness outside my window.
5
OVER AND OUT
I slept endlessly. Every time I surfaced, I forced my eyes shut and emptied my lungs of air, trying to drown in my dreamless sleep where everything hurt less.
Eventually, though, I had to stop being so dramatic and get up. Life goes on, the world keeps revolving, and all of that, so I rolled out of bed and faced the day, slow as I was. I shuffled to the bathroom to pee but a different urge took over and I crouched over the toilet, vomiting the entire bottle of wine I’d imbibed the night before. Even after my stomach was completely empty, I stuck a finger down my throat and forced myself to throw up, to cleanse my body of everything that was making me hurt.
It didn’t work. I only succeeded in getting the full-body shakes from the emptiness. I bent over the sink and gulped down water straight from the faucet, intent on filling that hollow ache inside. Then I climbed into the shower and washed myself, every movement, every swipe of the soapy loofah, symbolic of my need to cleanse myself of the memory of Henry.
I was red and raw by the time I got out of the shower, but the memories remained. How could I possibly wash away someone who’s been a part of me since I was twelve years old? I’d have a better chance of forgetting myself.
I dressed and walked out to the kitchen to eat a piece of toast to calm my stomach. I was filling my cup with coffee when I heard voices at the front of the house. One deep, gravelly voice in particular made me want to retch all over again.
“Sir,” I heard Henry say as I crept closer, “I just wanted to have a word with you.”
I peered around the corner and saw them standing in the foyer, my dad’s arms crossed across his chest and Henry standing in front of him with stooped shoulders, holding a paper sack in his hands. Henry was taller by several inches but in that moment, my dad seemed ten feet tall, quite literally the lieutenant colonel berating the captain.
“What did you do to my d
aughter?” my dad asked in that tone we both knew well, the very one that made us know we were in deep trouble.
“Elsie and I broke up last night,” Henry said.
“I gathered that much,” my dad said. “Though it seems to me like you did most of the breaking.”
Henry looked down at his shoes. “I did, sir.”
“You going to tell me why, son?”
“It’s for her sake as much as mine,” Henry said, glancing around as if searching for words. “We grew up together. We are all that we know. Of course she fell in love with me, because I was always here. I just . . . I want to make sure she wants to be with me for the right reason.”
Dad studied him for the longest time, his lips stiff. Finally, he said, “And you think you might be with her for the wrong reasons?”
I held my breath, waiting for Henry to deny it, but he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. “I’m not sure. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
Last night I didn’t think my heart could break any more, but right then, I felt as if Henry stepped on the shattered pieces and ground them into dust with his heel.
I gathered what wits I had left and walked out from around the corner, trying to maintain a sense of dignity in my black sweat pants and TLC shirt.
Henry started, looking a little panicked at the sight of me.
“Elsie,” my dad said, his arms lowering to his sides. “Henry was just leaving.”
Henry nodded, then looked down at the sack in his hands. “I just wanted to give you this,” he said and held it out.
I looked at the paper bag for the longest time, guessing at its contents. “You brought me a good-bye sandwich?”
He shook the bag. “Just take it. Don’t open it until you get on the plane.”
I grabbed it and immediately looked inside. “A voice recorder and a few tapes?”
He gave a short nod. “Yeah. Doc Gal taped our sessions so I could go back and listen to them. She thought it might help me.”
“So you want me to bring this back to OKC for you?” I asked. “Because you’re out of space in your luggage?”
His nose was flaring in irritation when our eyes met. “I want you to listen to them.”
“Why would I do that? Is this some form of torture?” I was being insolent, sure, but damn if it didn’t make me feel a little bit better.
“You’re not making this easier, Elsie,” Henry said.
“And tell me, why the hell should I make your life any easier, Henry?” I retorted.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “You said before that it’s like you don’t even know me. Maybe you’re right. Maybe you don’t. But I’m hoping these tapes will get you started. Will you at least listen to them?”
I shook my head. “I’m not a masochist.”
He sighed and reached for the doorknob. “Well, keep them anyway. Just in case.”
“When’s your flight?” my dad asked him.
“I’m headed to the airport right now.” He turned to me, his eyes not quite meeting mine. “I can pick you up tonight when your flight arrives.”
I took a deep breath, unable to hold on to my anger. Even when he was being a dick, Henry was still thoughtful. I decided then that I would wipe his entire slate clean. Considerate, I mentally wrote with permanent ink. That was one thing I knew about him with all certainty.
“Please don’t,” I said hoarsely. I didn’t even know how I’d get through the night in the same apartment with him.
He nodded. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you later,” he said and walked out, latching the door soundly behind him.
* * *
Saying good-bye to my parents was a sad affair. Any other time, I would have felt only a little tug of regret but today, of all days, I was filled with a sadness that I didn’t know how to overcome.
“Can you stay a few more days?” Mom asked on the way to the airport. She sat in the backseat with me for moral support “Just to give you a little while to get over . . . things.”
“I can’t,” I said, wishing I were more impulsive. I was so tempted to quit my job and just stay in Monterey. Living with my parents again wouldn’t be so bad. “I have to get back to work.”
My mom looked pointedly at the paper sack that was peeking out of my purse. “At least listen to it, hear what he has to say.”
“It doesn’t matter what he has to say,” I said, shaking my head. “The end of the story is still the same.”
“This is not the end, sweetie,” she said, squeezing my hand. “The boy just wants to find himself first.”
“He’s not a boy anymore,” I said. “He’s a man. If he doesn’t have his shit together by now, then he never will.”
“Elsie,” my dad warned, giving me a stern look in the rearview mirror.
I leaned back into the seat and exhaled forcefully. “Great. You are both on his side?”
“There are no sides here,” Dad said. “We want you both to be happy.”
I looked out the window, feeling utterly defeated.
“Sweetie,” my mother said, rubbing my arm. “The only reason we’re not coming down hard on him is because we know him. We know he’s not trying to hurt you. I had a talk with him this morning after my walk, and he seemed really torn up. But at the end of the day, you’re my daughter and I want you to be happy. So if you want me to put a hit out on him, just say the word. . . .”
My mouth fell open at my mother’s words, then I began to laugh.
“Or we can just get someone to kneecap him,” my mom added with a tiny smile.
I leaned over and gave her a hug, feeling a rush of gratitude toward my parents. “I love you guys,” I said. “I think I’ll be fine.”
* * *
Our parting at the airport was brief by design. I hated protracted good-byes.
“We’re here for you, sweetie,” my dad said before I entered the short security line. “In case you need us.”
I gave them each a hug and went on my way. Once seated in the plane, I pulled the paper sack out of my purse and tipped its contents onto my lap. The voice recorder was an old Sony model, the kind that required mini-cassette tapes. It was so old it still used an analog three-digit counter with a plastic reset button as its timer. I didn’t know how something so old could tell me something new about Henry, but hell, I had a four-hour flight ahead of me and had time to spare.
I slipped the first tape labeled “The Henry Sessions #1” into the recorder and put the earphones on.
Henry’s deep voice came on the tape, sounding clear and bold. “My name is Henry Mason Logan. My earliest memory is of going to the park when I was two, maybe three years old . . .”
Henry knew me well, knew that I wouldn’t be able to resist listening to his side of the story. So I leaned back into my seat and absorbed his words, hoping that, somewhere in the collection of cassette tapes in my lap, lay the secret to finally getting to know him as well.
PART FOUR
THE HENRY SESSIONS
1
My name is Henry Mason Logan.
My earliest memory is of going to the park when I was two, maybe three years old. My nanny, Louise, took me to this tiny park down the street and I played with this kid I’d never met before. He kept referring to Louise as my mom and I never corrected him. I figured she was better than my mom, because at least she took care of me.
My parents were busy career-oriented people. My mom was an up-and-coming lawyer and my dad had his landscaping business. Mom was always working late or dashing off to meet with clients, and Dad, well, when he wasn’t working or drinking with his buddies, he was sitting in his man cave and needing his man space.
I was not allowed to enter the man cave unless he was having a football-watching party and he needed me to get them some more chips or beer.
For some reason I always though
t men loved having sons because it meant they had someone to teach baseball to or how to build cars. At the very least, they had someone to carry on the family name, but my dad didn’t seem to care either way. He didn’t do the other things that my classmates’ parents did. We never did Little League or Boy Scouts or any of that.
Why? Fuck if I know. He was a shitty parent is what I finally concluded a long time ago. Too selfish to have a kid, that’s for sure.
My mom would sometimes show some semblance of affection for me. When she had a spare minute, she’d give me a hug or a kiss on the forehead. You know, easy mom stuff. But what I really wanted her to do was stay home and take care of me, be there when I got off the bus like other kids’ moms. I wanted to come home to freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk. I thought that’s what moms were supposed to do, not rush off to work every day and come home in time to march me off to bed.
Have I started rebuilding that broken relationship with my parents?
Hell no.
Do I want to?
I don’t know if I should even bother. They are who they are and I hate them and love them regardless.
Just . . . sometimes I wish they would at least attempt to apologize, you know? Would it hurt them to say, “Henry, we’re sorry we neglected you and allowed you to be raised by a nanny”? I don’t know if that’s the magic salve that will heal all wounds but it’d be nice to hear them acknowledge it.
They never even called me to say good-bye before I deployed.
* * *
I was a bit of a wild child when I was younger, as you are well aware. I had my first smoke in fifth grade and tried my first beer in sixth grade. By seventh grade, I’d lost my virginity to this girl—I can’t even remember her name anymore—who was just visiting Monterey for the week. I bragged to my friends at school that I’d had a one-night stand but I remember wanting her to fall in love with me. I’m not sure what that says about me, that I wanted love and acceptance from a girl who wasn’t even going to stick around.
