by Dawn Atkins
It was after supper and David was due for his first talk with Marcus. He carried his guitar, which Marcus had suggested, but he felt too low to play a note.
These talks sounded stupid to him, but he figured it was better than going to some stranger in Preston, with his mother grilling him the whole way there and back each time.
Lady was with him, sitting at his side like his bud. Lady helped. Lady was a friend. He ran his hand down her back, taking comfort in her soft fur, the appreciative thump of her tail.
The sound of feet on the stairs made him look up to see Marcus with his Martin and a wad of guitar strings. He sat and started changing out his strings. Whew. They would just sit quietly for a bit. He did get a feeling of peace and calm whenever he was around the guy.
After a minute or so, David got bored and found himself playing some chords for something to do. He felt so restless now. He couldn’t focus or think. He ran hot and then cold. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, explode into a million dots of nothingness in the air.
When he’d finished with the strings, Marcus strummed through a series of chords to test the tuning. “So what’s up with you right now?” he said suddenly, his gaze sharp on David.
He was so startled, he blurted it out. “Brigitte broke up with me. Over the phone.”
Marcus watched him. “You sound angry about it.”
“Yeah, I’m angry.” He thought he was mostly sad, but red flared in his head now. “She threw me away like we had nothing.”
“I notice your hand is scraped.” Marcus nodded at the oozing scabs across his knuckles.
“I punched a wall.” He studied his hand, which still hurt.
“That happen often? Hitting things when you’re angry?”
“Sometimes.” His mind went red and he just swung. That bothered him some, he had to admit.
“Rage always seeks an outlet. Hitting something is a natural way to handle it, though it’s usually better to choose something that won’t hurt you back.”
“I guess.” He shrugged.
“Unless that was what you wanted? To hurt yourself?”
His eyes darted to Marcus’s. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I wanted to stop feeling like shit. I wanted to do something.”
“And physical pain is better than emotional pain?”
“Sometimes. Yeah.”
“Would you like some ideas for how to handle your anger in ways that won’t, say, put you in a cast?” Marcus smiled.
“I guess.”
“Next time, we can go over that. For now, what else is going on with you besides anger?”
“Nothing. I feel empty. And stupid. I mean, we were in this together. This being apart and how much it hurt, like we were climbing a mountain together and Brigitte got tired and let go of the rope, letting me crash to the ground.”
“People handle separations in different ways. Some hold on tighter. Others withdraw.”
“She’s not even going to Europe. She’s going to ASU and living at home. It’s because of Rocky, this guy we know I think she likes.” David felt choked up inside, helpless and ruined.
Marcus didn’t speak, so David’s thoughts rolled on, deeper into scary areas. “When I go home I’ll look like a fool who got dumped. She’ll mock me behind my back. That’s what she does to people she feels superior to.” His voice cracked. “It hurts so much. Like it was all fake from her.”
Marcus still didn’t speak, just let David settle down. When he felt calmer, he said, “Should I call her? Try to work it out?”
“Is that possible?”
“No. She’d say I’m being immature.” He shook his head, miserable. “It’s over. I know that.”
“What are you telling yourself about the kind of person you are because of this?”
“I don’t know….” He paused, thinking. “That I’m a loser. That I’m boring. Too boring to stick in Brigitte’s head.”
“Were you boring when you were with her?”
“No. I was smart and funny and interesting.”
“Have you changed?”
“No. She changed. She stopped caring about me.”
“It’s good that you realize that. It’s common for people in a breakup to judge themselves harshly based on the other person’s behavior.”
“I still feel like shit.”
“Are you eating normally? Sleeping?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“Eating regularly will help stabilize you. Get plenty of protein, fruits and vegetables and avoid sugar, which puts your insulin into overdrive and can cause mood swings.”
“Food makes me feel like puking.”
“Try small amounts throughout the day. Also, stay with your usual bedtimes. Don’t nap to catch up. You’ll get back on track eventually. Exercise raises your endorphin levels, which creates positive feelings, so doing chores should help.”
“Great. Can’t wait.” He didn’t really care about all that “eat, sleep, exercise” crap. “I feel so hopeless.”
“The hurt is new, David. That will pass over time. For now, you’ll have to ride it out as best you can. It helps to stay busy.”
“With what? Chores?” He smirked.
“Play music maybe? Hang out with friends. Learn to make pottery. Read. Go for hikes. Swim in the river.”
“I don’t feel like any of that.”
“As the days pass, the waves of sadness won’t hit so hard. You’ll gradually feel better and more like yourself.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s the pattern with most people. If a month passes and you feel no better, you might want to see a therapist about medicine to boost you to solid emotional ground for a while.”
“Okay, I guess.” Marcus made it sound so easy.
“How are things with your mother?”
David shrugged. “Not great. She’s holding the fire over my head, to prove I’m a loser and a screwup.”
“Has she said something to that effect?”
“No. But that’s what she thinks.”
“What do you think?”
David stared at Marcus for a long moment, then he admitted the truth. “That I am a screwup and a loser.” He dropped his head, feeling the wash of horror from that night—his crazy drive to Brigitte, stoned and drunk, losing control of the car, almost getting hit by that truck, then learning he’d nearly killed people.
“How about we reframe that? You got upset and took some unwise actions. How about we say that you did some screwed-up things, but those actions don’t define you.”
“Means the same thing to me.”
“It’s a subtle difference, but it’s important.”
“Whatever.”
“So you feel that you made some serious mistakes. What are you doing to make up for them?”
“I’m helping with the repairs is all.”
“And you apologized, correct? To me, to your mother?”
“And my grandmother, yeah.”
“And you’re talking to me, right? What else?”
“I’m going to try to not do stupid shit again.”
“It sounds like you’ve had some insights, David, and that you have a plan to do better in the future.”
“Yeah? I guess so.”
“That sounds responsible to me.”
“It does?” He felt a little lighter and blew out a breath.
“Anything else on your mind at the moment?”
He remembered that Marcus had busted down his door to rescue him, risked getting burned up to save him. That made his nose sting with emotion. He wanted to say something, to thank him, but that felt babyish. “Not really, no.”
“Then how about we play some guitar?”
“Okay.” Relieved, David hit a chord. That hadn’t been so bad, after all. Maybe he’d feel like writing a song later. Maybe it would be about Brigitte, maybe not. Music could be an escape like Marcus said.
A WEEK AFTER THE FIRE, Marcus sighed and pushed away from the desk. While he wa
ited for copies of the ruined research printouts to arrive, he’d been reading over the three hundred pages he’d completed, making notes as he went. He was not happy. The book was too bogged down in research, too repetitive. He’d gotten too caught up defending his ideas. Making it shorter would help, but that wasn’t quite the whole problem. Something about the book felt dead to him.
He rubbed his tired eyes and looked out the open window. The moon was bright and a light breeze blew in, carrying the scent of the water. He liked the view of the cottonwoods from the room he’d moved to after the fire.
His talks with David seemed to be going well, so that was good. Christine, however, was making him crazy.
He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He kept remembering holding her, touching her, how right it had felt to be with her. He’d taken his own advice and kept himself busy, but in quiet moments, Christine filled his head.
In fact…was that her in the yard? He rubbed his eyes. Yes, it was—in a pale sundress, Lady at her side, walking toward the cottonwoods. She looked like a ghost from some Gothic mystery.
As if she sensed his gaze, she turned and looked up at him, wiggling her fingers in a hesitant wave. Heat poured through him. He wanted her so badly. This was pure torture.
Lady let out a howl, as if channeling his frustration.
MARCUS HAD CAUGHT HER staring at his window.
She did this every night on her walk with Lady, testing herself. Would she run to him or could she stay strong?
She could feel the scratchy edge of the condom packet she’d tucked into her sundress. She carried it with her each night in case she lost her fight against temptation.
She waved at him. He waved back. Electricity seemed to jump between them, eating up the distance until she could almost see the green of his eyes in the moonlight.
Lady let out a terrible howl, as if giving voice to her own longing. Christine’s heart hammered her ribs like hail on a window.
He’d seen her, she might as well go talk to him. About David. About his book. About anything. Where was the harm in that?
She just wanted to see him, feel his eyes on her, his mouth against hers—no, that was wrong.
Of course, David was in town with the twins, so there was no danger of him seeing her slip into Marcus’s room….
Lady jolted forward, toward the house, and Christine followed, as if pulled by a leash she did not hold.
The door was open when she got there. Marcus took her hand and pulled her inside. He paused, waiting for Lady to enter, but the dog dropped to her haunches, as if on duty, so he shut the door and took Christine into his arms. Thank God.
They stood there, holding each other, for long minutes, as they had that night in Dylan’s old room, the night of the mosquito salve and Marcus’s tragic story. She felt as she had then, as if she’d taken warm shelter from some terrible storm.
“I missed this,” she said against his neck, smelling the woods-and-fresh-laundry smell of him. He was breathing hard and holding her as if he would never let her go.
“Me, too.” He leaned back to look at her. “Is it safe for you to be here? What about David?”
“He’s in town.”
“That’s good then.”
“I know we had good reasons to stop,” she said. “For David and so I could stay focused.”
“Very good reasons.”
She swallowed hard. “But this seems important, too. I just…can’t stop thinking about you. It’s making me crazy. It’s making it so I can’t focus.”
“I understand completely.” His eyes swirled with held-back emotion, shining in the golden lamplight of his new room.
“Is it selfish? Shortsighted?”
“Perhaps.” He gave a quick smile, but held her gaze.
“Then I should go.” But her body seemed to have a mind of its own and her arms tightened on his broad, strong back.
“You probably should,” Marcus said. Christine’s heart sank. Why did he have to be stronger than her? “But I don’t want you to.” His voice was rough with need. “I want you to stay.”
Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, long and slow, letting the desire build and swell into a wave they could surf all night long.
Hurray. At last. She could give in, stop fighting this. And Marcus was right there with her, giving in, too.
He cupped her breasts through the soft jersey fabric, then frowned. “What’s this?” He patted her breast, then reached under the top and pulled out the strip of two condoms. He raised an eyebrow.
“I always carry them. In case of emergency.”
“Good girl,” he said, his eyes merry with humor. But beneath the laughter, heat simmered steadily.
“We really didn’t get a chance to see how we could be together, you know?” she said. “The fire happened and I panicked. Do you think we can keep it simple?”
“I have no idea. This is new to me. I never behave this way or feel this way or get so…overwrought.”
“Overwrought? Good God, Marcus, that’s not very sexy. How about insanely turned on? Passionately aroused? Utterly obsessed?”
“All I know is that whenever I see you I want to throw you against the nearest wall and take you standing up.”
“That works,” she said, his urgency making her even hotter. To drive a man as restrained as Marcus to such passion was a thrill. “Being together seems inevitable.”
“Nothing’s inevitable, Christine. We have choices here.”
“So I can’t use the we-got-swept-away excuse?” She couldn’t believe she was joking when she was electric with desire for this man, desperate to have him inside her.
“Not with a wad of condoms in your fist, no.”
“I guess not.”
He lifted her off her feet and walked her backward to his bed, lowering her to the mattress.
“We’re good for each other, don’t you think?” she said, trying for one more good reason. She tugged his shirt from his pants and over his head.
He pushed the strapless sundress to her waist, his eyes flaring at the sight of her breasts.
“I mean I wake you up and you calm me down, right? That’s good, isn’t it?” He’d been so wounded—by Nathan’s death, his professional crisis, the media mess, his divorce. Maybe she was helping him heal. He was helping her with David, giving her comfort and safety and friendship, erasing the loneliness she hadn’t realized she felt.
“What’s good is you’re here,” he said, tugging her clothes down her body and away, “and you’re naked.”
She could only gasp, having lost all her reasons along with her panties.
MARCUS WAS BEHAVING LIKE a lust-driven Neanderthal, but he didn’t care. Something about Christine stripped away his civility, left him bared to the bone, to basic drives. He wanted this woman and she wanted him. That was all that mattered.
He wanted to make her gasp with pleasure and buck wildly in release. He wanted to feel her convulse while he did the same. He didn’t care about any of her excuses. He knew one thing: This felt right. She belonged in his arms and in his bed.
He hardly recognized himself. He was flying without a net here. Whether he needed one or not remained to be seen.
He rid himself of his clothes and had Christine’s soft flesh in his hands, her gasps and cries in his ears. She yanked him into position and locked her heels into his backside, telling him in no uncertain terms where she wanted him and how hard and fast.
This time he didn’t resist. He filled her in one stroke, making her cry out in sharp pleasure. He pulled back and thrust again. Her eyes went wide and she lifted her hips, matching each push with a welcoming one of her own. He watched her face, so alive with heat and happiness and hope.
He wanted to make this last, to never stop, to look into her eyes forever. He was experiencing a biochemical short circuit, of course, as every pleasure enzyme in his brain fired at once, but he would enjoy it all the same.
They rocked together, slow at first, then faster,
moving together, two halves of a whole until they broke open together in climax, gasping for air.
Afterward, he pulled her onto his chest, his heart thundering beneath his ribs. He didn’t speak and neither did she. Once their breathing had normalized, he turned her on her side and spooned himself behind her, one hand on her breast, soaking up the quiet peace, resisting all doubts or analysis.
This was supposed to be simple. But he knew already it would be complicated as hell.
TWO WEEKS LATER, Marcus stepped back from hammering Sheetrock in David’s old room to take a swig of water from the jug David handed him.
“Can I take a break?” David asked. “Just fifteen?”
“Go ahead,” Marcus said, wiping sweat from his forehead. David had turned out to be decent with a hammer and he worked hard, clearly determined to make up for what he’d done.
Though David had continued to be hostile with Christine, Marcus had seen improvement. He was a good kid who felt emotions intensely, very much like Christine herself.
He decided to take a break, too, and make Christine take one, as well. She worked nonstop if no one intervened. Hell, he just wanted to be near her.
He filled his water jug from the container on the terrace, grabbed two peaches from a basket and headed downstairs.
Christine had turned Harmony House into a swarm of activity. Residents wielded rollers of bright yellow paint or brushes of white for the trim and terraces. The Barlow twins and some friends were painting the room doors in colors and designs sketched by art students from the high school and approved by Christine and Aurora.
Trenches had been dug for a Xeriscape sprinkling system in the front yard, which meant minimal water use. Desert trees and cacti rested in truck beds waiting to be planted.
Heading for the clay barn, due to be painted red, Marcus noticed David talking to one of the art students, Delia Dominguez, the daughter of Carlos’s nurse. Marcus smiled. David seemed to be moving past his grief over Brigitte just fine.
Inside the earthy-smelling barn, light filtered gently through the high windows, making dust motes swirl and dance around Christine, who was unloading clay items from the kiln.
She noticed him and smiled.
