Julia lifted herself off me and smiled. Her eyes roved over my face, brimming with memories. “Yes, you looked so tired and out of it. Like you couldn’t wait to get out of there. I didn’t even mind the whole confusion. I couldn’t take my eyes off you, standing in the corner, away from everyone.”
“What did you see when you saw me? What did I look like?”
“Heartbreak. I saw heartbreak when I looked at you. I saw devastation. That’s why I kept coming back. I knew I could fix it.”
I remembered Julia’s interest in me. She made me feel desirable, seductive. Not the girl whose mom had just died. I teased her with light touches whenever she’d come around the salon. I’d play coy, the victim. Well, I had been the victim, right? I was motherless, new in town, stuck in a job I’d hated, living with Mom’s estranged sister. Julia was my ticket out.
“And what do you see now?”
“I see this need for me, for my love. This brokenness only I can fix. It makes me love you even more.” She kissed me once again, totally turned on by my helplessness. “I love you,” she whispered against my lips, grinding her body against mine.
I moaned. “I love you, too.”
I didn’t know what those words meant, but I always said them. Whatever Julia and I had was not love. It just helped me survive. And that was more than enough.
As I drowned in Julia’s kisses, I saw James’ gray eyes behind my closed ones.
****
James
It was the dead of night, and I was in the bathtub once again, fully submerged, the world soundless around me. Everything was peaceful, so calm until my burning lungs brought me up to the surface. Back in the world, the splash of water on the tiled floor was the first sound I heard.
After Katie went to sleep, I had spent hours poring over the scientific journals, outlining next week’s experiments, and then going over my plans with both Mason and Brandon. In the midst of chaos, that was the one thing that lent me peace. My work. I was good at it, useful even.
But now the emptiness returned. It had sharp teeth and digging edges. It told me that it needed something, the very thing I had been trying to avoid for the last few hours.
I got out of the tub and stood at the vanity, staring at the shiny blade. The itch on my skin returned, especially around the area of my right hip. As if my flesh called to the blade.
With trembling fingers, I picked up the blade and pressed the edge of my thumb against its sharpness. I see-sawed the blade over my palm, slowly and gently, before lowering it to my right hip and making the first cut. The droplets of crimson blood welled out, and I hissed at the sting. It had only been a couple of days since I last cut myself, but it felt longer, too long.
I had never been a cutter, not a regular, devout cutter, anyway. Not since Nat found out about it years ago. She had been afraid, terrified, but most of all, she had been ashamed. Of me. Of who I was.
When I cut myself, I was a different person. Not a disappointing son or a husband or a liar. I was…better, somehow, with the guilt flowing out in the form of blood.
The very first time I cut myself was purely by accident. One day, months after Father’s abandonment, Mother refused to come out of her study. I thought something had happened to her, that she was gone, too. My tiny fists banged at the door as I screamed and screamed. Then Mother came out, unkempt, her eyes red-rimmed, a snarl at her lips. What is your problem, James? Why can’t you give me a moment’s peace? Go away. I wanted to tell her I was hungry and so scared in the house alone, but I didn’t. I deserved to be punished for driving Father away.
The solace came to me in the form of a sharp object—a knife. I had accidentally cut my finger on it while slicing bread. It scared me how much I liked it, how much it made me feel better.
Years went by, and I forgot about that incident until I turned fourteen and a bizarre urge to hurt myself manifested. New school, new people brought the memory of the knife back to life. I tried to resist the urge, but one day it had gotten so big, bigger than anything I had ever felt, that I picked up a blade and ran it across the pad of my left thumb. Instant euphoria washed over me in waves. It felt…good. So good. I almost felt ashamed at feeling that good. It felt undeserved.
After that, I resisted as much as I could, only cutting when it became extremely necessary. And when Nat entered my life, it did become necessary.
I cut myself the day Nat said she loved me. The blade over the thick flesh of my abdomen eased the guilt. I had done it again during the weeks leading up to our wedding, making cuts with safety pins, gouging out my skin. It was much more painful that way. But then she found out, and I stopped.
Now, I started back up. My wife died because she was tired of me, so tired that she was running away, leaving Katie alone. Leaving me alone. And when I told Katie the truth about Nat’s death, what if she did the same, found solace where there was none to be found? This was my legacy, after all. This was what I would leave behind.
Keeping my eyes on the blade, I made a series of half moon-shaped cuts on my abdomen, sighing with my entire body.
My cock hardened, making me grunt. I wanted to touch it, stroke it. It had been a long time since I had pleasured myself. I could not remember the violence of an orgasm. The tensing of balls, the contraction of muscles, the racing of heart, the flesh weeping in relief, sweat and semen. But I did not deserve pleasure.
I looked up, and the fogged mirror reflected a man—diseased and inhuman—with tiny streams of blood snaking down his torso. A liar. A coward. A disappointment.
Chapter Four
Madison
I stood at James’ cottage door.
No, I wasn’t stalking him. I was here to clean. I was the maid, remember?
He lived in cottage eleven, the one I passed during my runs, the imperfect one. Somehow, it suited him. I couldn’t wait to see the inside of the cottage. I knew it would be decorated similarly to the others, all plush and soft. But I wanted to look and pick out his signature in there. Like a stain on the rug or a shattered mug or him standing in the middle of the living room, looking haunted, something that would tarnish all this fake beauty.
A charge sizzled, fizzled up and down my arm, which carried a laundry basket with a bag inside. I wiggled my toes inside my sneakers and knocked.
A click sounded, and the door opened just enough for me to see his haggard face. He looked at me silently like he didn’t know what to say. His jaw was scruffier than yesterday, his hair messier, and he wore horn-rimmed glasses today. Was he nerdy or what? The charge leapt higher.
“Housekeeping,” I said, lifting the laundry basket when he didn’t say anything.
He nodded, looking disappointed somehow, and swung the door wider so I could get in. With a deep breath of anticipation, I entered, running my eyes over the room—the beige velvet couches, the oak coffee table, Tiffany lamps, the leather dining chairs. Everything looked pristine, untouched, except for a stack of magazines on the coffee table, with one half-opened. But other than that, it looked like no one lived here.
“You wear glasses.” I stated the obvious, turning to face him.
He took them off and rubbed his jaw. “Only while reading.”
“Do you read much?” My eyes went to the stack of magazines.
“Yes.”
“You’re a nerd, aren’t you? One of those teacher’s pets.”
Abashed, he dipped his head before looking back up and pocketing his glasses. “I’m not anyone’s pet, Madison.” Clearing his throat, he went on, “I cleaned up already. I don’t think we’ve got anything more than the laundry.”
“You cleaned up?” It came out as an absurd accusation.
He slid his hands down his khaki pants and nodded, frowning. “Is that a problem?”
I shook my head “No. No problem at all. Less work for me, right?” I pointed my thumb over my shoulder. “Laundry’s in there?”
“Yes, let me get it for you.”
“I can do it,” I said quickly. I wo
uldn’t let him rob me of the chance to look at his bedroom. Maybe I’d find something in there. It all sounded so fucking crazy in my head though.
The bedroom was pristine, like the living room. The king-sized bed was made, not a wrinkle in sight. The oak chest under the window held a few folded clothes. It was a maid’s wet dream, everything so clean. The hamper was next to the bathroom, and I dug inside and transferred the clothes to the laundry basket.
James stood by the bedroom door, blocking it with his body. His gray shirt was immaculate as well. I didn’t like him so clean, so artificial. I picked up the filled laundry basket and walked toward him slowly, with a deliberate sway in my steps. He grew alert—all taut and bunched muscles.
As I drew closer, I pretended to trip on my feet, and his arms reached out to steady me. His fingers around my shoulders felt hot and thick.
“You okay?” he asked with a frown.
I felt bad for fooling him. But making him uncomfortable was too good to pass up, and I drew even closer to him. “I guess. Thanks for the save.”
Swallowing, he said, “It was nothing.”
I smiled at the fact that he still had his hands on me. “It was. Something, I mean.”
He stared down at me for a beat before taking his hands off me. “Sorry,” he muttered and took a step back.
“Nope, it’s totally fine. If not for you, I’d be face first on the floor.”
For some reason, I wanted his hands on me again. This time without the barrier of my shirt. “So…”
“So?” He looked at me suspiciously.
“So…I didn’t take you for a boxer.”
“I’m not.” His eyes flitted over my face.
“Right. So what do you call punching a punching bag?”
“I don’t know, but I’d assume you’d call it boxing.” His lips twitched, giving me a glance of the man underneath the stony surface.
“Oooh! A sense of humor. Never would’ve guessed that either.”
“It barely ever comes out,” James said with a lopsided smile, finally relaxing.
“Is that because of me, then? Do I bring it out in you?”
“Maybe.”
“I’m flattered.”
He ducked his head before lifting his eyes at me. “I’m not a boxer, not really. I’m just trying something new.”
“But you looked so good in there,” I whispered, inching a little bit closer to him. “It looked like you were a pro. So what made you take it up?”
“Curiosity, I guess. I wanted to see how it felt.”
“Bruising your knuckles?” I scoffed. “Men are fucking idiots.”
“That’s a generalization. And those are always unfair.”
I studied his face. “Yeah, I guess. Not all of them are idiots. I mean, you’re pretty different.”
“How is that?”
“I don’t know. You just don’t feel like other men to me.”
“What do other men feel like?”
We stood watching each other, lost in our own worlds. To be honest, I didn’t care what we were talking about as long as we kept talking. That very thought woke me up from this trance-like feeling.
“Come on, you can’t seriously tell me that you don’t know your own kind.” I rolled my eyes.
“My own kind.”
“Mmm-hmm. You know, men, especially when they find out I’m the maid. Someone beneath them. They don’t give me a second thought.”
He blinked, thought about what I said, looked me straight in the eye, and murmured, “I find it hard to believe, someone not giving you a second thought.”
My lips spread into a slow smile as I tapped my finger on the laundry basket. “Yeah? Did you? Did you give me a second thought?”
It was as if my words electrocuted him. He jerked back and coughed again. “I don’t…”
I moved in on him, taking a step closer. “See, I told you, you were different. Very goody-two shoes. I bet you always do the right thing.”
James’ gaze flicked over my face. I let him study me. Small currents were flaring back up inside my stomach. His collar-bone peeked from the V of his shirt, prominent. Two thick veins snaked through his neck, down the bump of bone, and disappeared under his shirt. I felt like touching them, tracing them to see how much farther down they’d go.
“I try to,” he said at last.
“Huh. I was right again.” I cocked my head to the side, smiling. “So…”
His lopsided smile returned. “So?”
“Tell me about yourself.”
“I…ah, there’s nothing to know about me.” He turned away to walk into the living room and stood leaning against the kitchen counter, trying to look everywhere but at me. He was kind of adorable like that.
I was pretty good at reading men’s desire. My mom’s various love affairs/hook-ups taught me that, at least. A hundred ways to tell if a man wants in your panties—cotton or otherwise. James was trying to avoid looking at me, but he couldn’t. That spoke of desire, too. A reluctant but growing fascination.
“You’re lying,” I said when he remained quiet.
His eyes snapped up to mine. Finally. His knuckles turned white where they gripped the counter, tight and strained.
“I’m pretty sure you’re a very, very interesting person,” I pressed. “Extremely interesting.”
“Shouldn’t you be working?” He pointed to the laundry basket. Classic evasion.
I waved my hand, dismissing his observation. “Eh, my girlfriend is the manager. I can take a break. You know, perks of sleeping with the boss.”
“You mean, Julia?”
My mind went to that kiss, which wasn’t a kiss really. It was something a kindergartener would do. But still. It was something. It made him look.
“Yes. I mean Julia. The love of my life.”
He remained silent for a long time. Had I made him speechless? I bet he hadn’t expected me to be romantically involved with a woman.
“You’re lucky then. It’s hard to find love,” he said with a blank—almost cool—face. Disappointing, to say the least. I would’ve preferred a more telling reaction.
“Isn’t it? Love is so elusive, slippery, almost. It could be a myth. Don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
A heavy silence followed. The kind that was almost an obligation after a profound conversation—What is life, really? What’s real, what’s not?—that kind of crap. I wondered who put love in that category.
I decided to break the silence. “So where are you from, James?”
“New York.”
“Is it fun down there? I’ve never been.”
“It is…enjoyable. Crowded, though. I prefer small towns.” His grip on the counter had loosened. Maybe, like me, he hated heavy silences and profound talks.
“Small towns are boring. Everyone knows everyone. You can’t keep a secret in a small town.”
There we went again. His knuckles gripped the counter even harder. What was with the guy? I was beyond intrigued.
But he recovered quickly. “Well…if, uh, you’ve never visited. You should.”
“Maybe I will. And maybe you can show me around.” I bit my lips.
His eyes widened, and I couldn’t stop my chuckle. “Relax. Just messing with ya. I don’t think you’ll have much time for me down there. Aren’t you a doctor or something?”
“Yes, sort of.”
“You can be sort of a doctor?”
“I’m a scientist. Not a medical doctor.”
“So what do you study?”
This seemed to have put him at ease. He stood taller; his posture grew relaxed, and his eyes gleamed with interest, passion even. “We’re looking at the human genome, mapping the genes that carry cancer. Mostly, we’re interested in colorectal cancer. We’ve been looking for gene functionality and how that relates to congenital cancer. We have a team of statisticians that calculate the hereditary risk factors and such.”
“Wow, I understood everything.”
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I tend to get a little carried away when it comes to work. Anyway, I’m a geneticist. I study heredity and genes, things that make us who we are. That connect us to people who’ve come before us.”
“Now, that I actually understood.”
He chuckled again, and currents inside me surged.
“So where’s Katie?” I asked.
“She’s outside, playing with a friend.”
I took a deep breath, because now came the part I’d been waiting for. And for this part I wanted to see his face, study it. “She’s a cute kid. I’m guessing she has smart genes. Dad’s a scientist, and Mom’s one, too. Though she told me that she wants to be like her mom.”
James’ body stilled. He stilled, as a whole. Tightened. Stiffened. He might even have stopped breathing. Only his eyes darted over my face, with fear at first, and then they, too, stopped and turned hard. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes, she does want to be like her mom.”
“Where’s she again? Katie told me she’s at the ocean.” I could taste it. His despair. It tasted sour, so very sour. It had to be death. It had to be. I couldn’t be wrong about this. My skin tingled as goose bumps sprouted all over. It hurt to look at his naked, thrashing pain. But I couldn’t look away.
“She’s in Florida. For, uh, a project.”
Wrong answer.
I felt frustrated even though I had no right to feel that. “That’s…great. Katie misses her a lot,” I said as if accusing him of something. “You must miss her, too. Especially when you’re here on vacation. I bet you can’t wait to see her.”
James’ jaw pulsed. I think he’d figured out that something was off. Fantastic. I wanted him to. I lowered my face and pinned him with my eyes, like a secret signal. You can tell me.
“Yes. We miss her very much,” he said, suspicion and anger warring in his eyes. “But she’ll be back soon. In about twelve weeks.”
A War Like Ours Page 5
