Come Undone

by AJ Matthews

  She opens her eyes and pushes up on her elbows. “Can you get my purse? I need something in there.”

  I sit up and look around the room, spotting her bag on the dresser. I dart up and retrieve the bag, feeling a little odd walking around the room without clothes, and with a full-on erection. I hand her the purse and lie back down on the bed, a little self-conscious. I close my eyes, blocking the visual stimulation. The one lamp on in the room burns at my retinas. There’s so much stimulation going on, something has to give before my brain has a meltdown.

  I hear her bag hit the floor with a thud, and a slight crinkle of something in her hand. “Do you want to do this, or do you want me to?”

  I open one eye to look in her outstretched palm. Of course. A condom. The concept is not alien to me. I’d practiced. First on a banana, and later, when I masturbated once, on myself. “I got it.”

  I take the silver packet from her hand and tear it open. I switch the lamp off, and a flash of lightning illuminates the room. I roll over and slip on the condom, then roll back to her. Trini’s hands are on my shoulders, pulling me.

  “Is this what you want?” she asks. “I figure you’d want to be in control of how much we touch and how fast or slow. Because of …”

  Because of all my sensory stuff. She knows exactly what I’m thinking. What I’m worried about. I’m also worried about my lack of experience, looking inept, but she’s right. It’s better this way. I won’t have the sensation of being smothered or trapped.

  Trini slides up so her head is on the pillow, and I kneel between her legs. She reaches down, but before making contact, she asks, “May I?”

  I steel myself for the touch, and nod. “Yes. Show me what to do.”

  She guides me inside. “You’ll know.”

  She whispers these words against my neck as she moves so slightly, urging me to do the same. She’s so tight and warm. A million pins prick at my skin, but not in an unpleasant way. Like an acupuncture needle has honed in on every single pleasure zone in my body, sending tingles from my scalp to the soles of my feet. Touching someone this way is odd to me, but not the painful assault on my senses I expected. Scary, yes. Because not only did our bodies join, but our breaths are coming together in an easy rhythm, our hearts beating in time, like the best musicians in the world creating unbelievable music. No books or videos or second-hand stories could prepare me for this.

  What seems like an eternity later, but is probably a minute or two, my back and shoulders tighten. My body moves faster, my hips bucking against hers. Spasms radiate from my pelvis and through my legs and stomach. Trini wraps her arms around my back, drawing me closer to her, but I pull back. I want to see her. I need her to watch me loving her in a way I once thought would never be possible.

  And like that, I collapse on her, and my breathing slows to normal. She didn’t orgasm, and I will make it up to her. “I’m sorry.” I press my lips to the pulse beating hard in her neck.

  She chokes and starts to cry. “Oh Mac!”

  I knew I’d screw this up, but I never thought I would drive someone to tears my first time.

  “When you open your eyes to the truth, for good or bad, you’ll be freed to do things you never imagined.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  THE URGE TO SOB overwhelms me, and I can’t put my finger on why. Mac is paralyzed next to me, his body touching mine, but not actively holding me. He must be so confused. It must be killing him not to get out of bed and clean up. Like when he was covered in my vomit. He’s made enormous sacrifices on this trip. Getting on his scooter and finding me in Homestead was so far out of his comfort zone; he’s stretched the zone even further the last few days.

  Going to the super center, driving to Savannah when I knew he’d rather be home in familiar surroundings, holding me in the car at the gas station when I tried to binge. His meal times, sleep schedules, and everything else that’s important to Mac has been altered or obliterated. Here I am lying in this bed, after what was certainly not the best sex I’ve ever had, but with the most thoughtful, caring person. A person I didn’t deserve to call my best friend, or anything else.

  Stop.

  I’m good enough, and need to believe, in myself, and other people. Trust other people. I’d trusted Dean, and we know where that got me. I can’t believe Mac is similar. He’s loved me since I was a chubby new girl at school, through my various stages of crazy-dom. When other people stared at me, laughed behind their hands, Mac held my hand—well, I held his and squeezed—and he proudly walked down the hall with me. “Forever my friend” he used to say.

  When he wanted to call me his girl, he stuck by and still called me friend.

  I’m the first person he’s ever had sex with, and he asks me if it’s good, if I like what he’s doing. When I should be worried about how everything is impacting his sensory perception.

  Now, when he must be dying to get up and at least wipe down with a washcloth, he lies here with me because I can’t stop crying. I should ask if he needs to get up, but instead I curl into a ball and roll partially onto his chest. Mac isn’t “cut” like an athlete or a hot guy from a book. No six-pack abs or hard pecs—but he’s strong and solid and comforting.

  He’s everything I need. Instead of pushing me away, which I was afraid he might do if his skin was too sensitive afterward, he slips his arm around me and holds me tighter to him, absorbing the impact of my cries into his chest.

  He seems a little weird to other people, but when I think back, I wonder why I never noticed. Not that he loved me this way, but why I didn’t love him the same.

  Because now, I can’t imagine anyone else in my life who can fill so much space in my heart.

  “Once you’ve learned the truth, know I’ve lied/Will you be ready to run, sever all ties?”—Lyrics from “Confessional” by Mac Kelly

  TRINI FALLS ASLEEP against my chest, and once her breathing slows, I slip out from under her and take a quick shower. I leave the light on in the bathroom so I can see without flipping on the bedside lamp and grab clean clothes from my backpack. I try to ease the blankets over her, but she wakes up anyway.

  “Hey.” The single word in her sweet voice makes my head spin.

  “Hey. Are you okay?”

  She slides off the bed and finds her discarded clothes on the floor. She goes into the bathroom and I hear the toilet flush and the sink running.

  She comes out and points to the bed. “You mean the crying thing? Yeah, I’m fine. No idea where that came from.”

  I know what caused her tears. The sex was so bad—but I’m not ready to hear the words.

  Her phone rings, cutting off anything negative she might say. She slips the phone out of her bag. “Huh. He must be drunk.”

  “Who?”

  “Dean.”

  His name is like a knife to the gut. Partially because I suppose the ghost of her first boyfriend will always hang around, and partially because I never told her the full truth of what I found New Year’s Eve. Now that we’re, I guess, a couple, I should tell her.

  “Oh, so about him.”

  “What about him, Goon?” She crawls under the covers and pats the bed next to her.

  I’ll join her in a minute if she still wants me. Now, though, I have to tell her. “New Year’s Eve. I didn’t tell you the truth.”

  Her face screws up, the light from the bathroom casting shadows on her skin.

  “I didn’t punch Dean just for hurting you. I punched him because … because he was making out with some random girl in the alley.”

  I exhale sharply, checking her face for signs of what’s going on inside.

  “That’s it? The big secret? He’s an asshole?”

  “I thought you’d ask me what she looked like, who she was. You don’t want to know? You’re not mad?”

  “Mad? No. I knew you had a reason, misguided as it was. And no, I don’t care about the girl. Maybe I would have a few days ago, but things have changed.

  I switch the bath
room light off and curl up next to her. “I’m sorry.”

  “The one thing I’m sorry about, Goon, is not doing this sooner.”

  She lays her head on my chest, her hair tickling my nose, and I compose in my head, for the first time, a happy song.

  “Cutting through all the bullshit, and knowing who your real friends are, is the most important step in living a fulfilled life.”—Trini Díáz, Songs in the Key of Paradise

  WE SLEEP A FEW more hours and check out of the hotel around nine o’clock, stopping for breakfast, and then once more for gas after picking up Mac’s scooter at the motel in Homestead.

  I’d texted Mom and told her I was on my way home and I wanted to talk, but I have Mac’s bag and need to go to his house first. I had kept it in the truck with me so he wouldn’t have to ride back with it strapped on. I follow him to his house, and he pulls his scooter inside the gate. I park on the street, grab his bag, and head in to his room. I guess he had to go to the bathroom since he left the door to his room open. His space is neat, everything lined up and in its place, except for the dresser drawers. They’re still open, like he was in a hurry when he packed.

  In a hurry to find me.

  I close the door behind me and set his bag on the bed when the alarm on my phone dings. Another text from Dean.

  He doesn’t deserve any more attention, especially after Mac confessed to me what Dean did New Year’s Eve.

  Coupled with the fact I found him with Greg’s cousin, his apologies reek of shit-on-shit sundaes.

  Against my better judgment, though, I listen to the last message.

  Trini, please call me. I want to talk to you, I need to apologize. I made a huge mistake. Please let me make this up to you.

  My phone buzzes again with another text message.

  Dean: I know where you are. I’m outside. Come out please.

  What the …? This crap deserves a reply.

  Me: Stalk much?

  Dean: Your mom told me you were on a road trip with Mac. What the hell? I happened to be driving by and spotted the truck.

  Me: GO. AWAY.

  Dean: NO. I’m parked behind you. You can’t leave until I do. And don’t bring your boyfriend out either.

  I am about to lose my shit. What gives him the right to track me down? What I do and with whom I spend my time is none of his concern. He created this situation when he told me I was too fat to be his girlfriend. When he fucked around with other people so soon after the breakup. Before the breakup.

  I need to send the message that I want nothing more to do with him.

  Time is short, so I hope to make this quick. I walk outside and close the door softly behind me so Mac doesn’t hear Dean outside his house.

  Dean wears the blue-and-white plaid shirt I always loved on him. He’s also wearing a smug expression, like he believed I would give in to him. I cross my arms and lean against the bumper of the truck. I wish the daggers in my eyes could inflict a few shallow wounds on his little black heart.

  “So, Mac, huh? What’s that about?” His sneer makes his face even more smackable. I totally get why Mac punched him now.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Because seriously, he’s a much better person than you are.” I can’t believe it took me so long to recognize. “What do you want, Dean?”

  “You, Trini. I want you back. You taking off with Kelly made me realize I’m such an idiot.” He steps toward me, and I lean back, my shoulder blades pressing into the tailgate.

  “Why? You said I was too fat. What about what’s-her-name, or the other girls you hooked up with since?”

  He has the decency to appear ashamed, casting his gaze to the ground as the smirk slithers off his face. “Seriously, what was I thinking? They meant nothing. You, Trini, you are everything.”

  He does sound sincere, but my trust in him ebbed away a few weeks ago, and the tide never came back in.

  This time when he comes closer, I don’t move away. Instead, I take a couple steps toward him, and he leans in to wrap his arms around me. I do the same to him, holding for a few seconds. His body relaxes in my embrace.

  Then I bring my knee up to his nuts.

  He doubles over and grabs at his crotch, opening his mouth to say something, but all he manages is a little squeak. I dust my hands off and debate whether to spit on the ground in his direction, but decide against it. He got the message loud and clear.

  I square my shoulders and puff my chest out. I head back to the side entrance to Mac’s wing of the house. His bathroom door is open, but he’s gone. “Mac? Where are you? I need to tell you …”

  The door opening up into the common area of his parent’s house is ajar. I call in, but no one answers, which makes sense, with his mom not yet home from work and his dad probably out for the afternoon reef expedition he runs every other day. I go back into Mac’s room and find my phone. I text him, but I hear the telltale ding of his incoming message notification from his phone on the nightstand.

  Shit. Where did he go? Worse, what did he think he saw? Because if he’d witnessed me knee Dean in the testicles, he’d run out to celebrate.

  Fuck. Did Dean ruin something for me again? Like last time, when I thought everything was good.

  Since he thinks in concrete terms, if he watched me hug Dean, he wouldn’t recognize the ploy.

  I need to explain. He needs to know what happened, because he’s thinking the worst right now.

  First stop is his uncle’s bar, because it’s where Mac makes music, and music makes him happy.

  Now, I need to convince Mac he is what makes me happy.

  “Nothing more to prove/Nothing to hide/I can do anything with you by my side.”—Lyrics from “Fearless” by Mac Kelly

  WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED? One minute, I was washing my hands and thinking about what romantic gesture I’d make for Trini tonight—because girls like that, right?—and the next minute, she’s hugging Dean outside. What was she doing with him? I can’t figure out why she liked him anyway, and after what happened with us, she’s going to go back to him?

  Why does everything need to be so fucked up? This can’t be happening. Today was good.

  So good.

  I repeat it over and over in my head, till the words morph into so sad, so sad.

  Everything is different now. I’ve always been sensitive to touch, but at least with her, the sensitivity was pleasant. My lips touched hers again and again through the morning and early afternoon. When we stopped for breakfast, and again when we picked up my scooter. She kissed me back like she loved me, and couldn’t get enough of me. Can I survive since I’ve tasted what I’ve wanted forever, only to have it snatched away?

  I lie back on the floor of the small speed boat named after me, or what my Da has always called me, Big Mac. The lapping of the water against the hull of the boat is soothing, but I can’t resist the urge to lift my head and tap it on the floor. Not slam my head, like I used to, or hit myself with my fists. I need input to soothe me. I play a song in my head. Our song, the last song I should be focused on. I should sing Godsmack’s “Go Away” or another angry song.

  I wanted her to love me as I am, which is difficult to do. I’ve changed, though, and I don’t want to continue to live this isolated life in Key West. It’s beautiful here, but I’ve seen more now. I want more. I want my dream. I want to write my songs and play my songs for people. People might not want to watch me perform, but I should at least try.

  Even if things don’t work out with Trini, if she goes back to Dean, that doesn’t mean I can’t take the lessons I’ve learned into the real world by myself. Start small. Rent a room from someone in Key West, continue trying to make money at Paddy’s a few nights a week. Get another job, playing music or doing something else, to make ends meet. Then I can head east. Go to Miami, or one of the other college towns in the state. Yeah, it’s tough, and I harbor no illusions about real life. I’ll be hungry sometimes, or eat lots of ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese.

  “Mac and chee
se” reminds me of her. Reminds me she might go back to Dean, how she doesn’t want me because I am a freak. If she goes back to him, I can’t be her friend anymore.

  So sad. So sad.

  The grief of losing her friendship presses against my chest, and like when I was ten years old, I’m drowning. I want to sink to the ocean floor and never come back to the surface. It’s peaceful there, and no one can hurt me.

  I hum, trying to force myself to sing the angry song, so the thrashing guitar and heavy beat will drive her out of my head.

  But I keep going back to our song. “You’ve Got a Friend.”

  Footsteps pound on the stairs, moving at a furious pace, followed by voices. Not voices, but one voice. Out of tune, singing along with me. Trini?

  “Hey, Goon.” Her voice is low, almost a whisper. Like she’s afraid.

  I choke a little. She is here. “Hey, Cheese.”

  “What happened, Mac? Why did you leave?”

  “Dean,” I spit out.

  “What about him?”

  “I saw you.” I brush the tears away, ashamed for her to see them.

  “Not the whole thing. I wish you’d stuck around till the end.” Her laugh seeps into my skin.

  “What happened?”

  She sits down next to me. Not touching me, but I can feel her warmth nearby. “So you saw me hug him, right? Made you think I was getting back with him, huh?”

  I nod, afraid my voice will break if I try to speak again.

  “You missed the best part.” Her eyes wrinkle up as she smiles broadly. “I remembered the self-defense training from the class I took with Mom, and gave it to him in the nuts.”

  My laugh booms across the deck. “What? I’m sorry I missed that.”

  “Do you understand what this means, Mac?”

  I hope, but I want her to say the words. “Tell me.”

  “It’s you, Mac. It’s always been you. I’m not sure why it took me so long to realize this. I love you. I’m in love with you. We’ll make this work.”