by Adore Ian
My heart stops.
In the back row, on the side nearest me, Marrin twirls around a pole. She’s elegant and charming, yet deadly and cruel. She whips around, bending and arcing and turning upside down. Each motion is effortless, fluid as ribbon caught in the wind.
She’s mesmerizing, ensnaring. The spider at the center of a web. She commands my gaze, my attention. The dance is a story, her body the words.
She slides down the pole, landing in a split.
Her gaze sweeps the crowd. Our eyes meet. The collision lasts forever but ends too soon. Her eyes keep moving, don’t stop.
But it’s enough.
Recognition and fear flicker through every line of her body.
I want to look away. I should. But I can’t. She’s alluring and haunting. A woman I’ve never seen before.
When the lights go out and the dance ends, the spell is broken. Something terrible coils in my stomach.
I’ve just violated Marrin’s privacy.
The one boundary I’ve always respected. The one I promised to always respect. Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
Elle reappears. “You need to come with me,” is all she says.
I follow her through a side door out of the lounge. We enter a bright hallway that must be staff only because suddenly we’re standing at an industrial looking elevator. I step on and Elle does so only long enough to push a button before jumping off.
She says nothing. The doors close and I descend.
I step off on a sub level and into a too-white hallway. It’s stark and sterile. To my left, a pair of glass doors. I’m not surprised to see Gavin standing just beyond. He points past me and I look to my right.
Marrin stands at the end of the hallway next to a door marked with a glaring red exit sign.
I walk to her. She’s wearing track pants and a thigh-length silk robe. She’s lost the wig and her silver-white hair is pulled back. She’s staring straight ahead, motionless.
I approach, palms up. “Marrin, I’m sorry I—” I’m close enough now to see how emaciated she looks. “Baby, are you okay?” I reach for her.
She swats my hand away, finally looking at me. “No, I’m not.” The words like venom. “What the fuck, Damian? What the actual fuck?” She looks on the verge of hysterics.
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to talk—”
“So you show up at my work like some stalker? I trusted you.”
Indignation flares in me. “I’m not stalking you—Jesus. I just wanted to talk.”
“Then text me like a normal person.”
“I tried,” I half yell. “You didn’t answer.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to talk to you.” She paces, arms wrapped around her middle to hide how badly she’s shaking.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shown up here.”
“I trusted you,” she whispers more to herself than me.
The hurt in her voice is crushing. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“I think you should leave.” She pulls my phone out of her pocket and hands it to me.
“Okay, but can we please talk about this later when you’re off?”
“No. This isn’t going to work, Damian.”
Everything grinds to a halt. “What...?”
“What you saw tonight… ” She shakes her head, unable to look at me. “You and I are two different people from two different worlds.”
“What are you saying?”
She finally looks up. “I think we need to stop seeing one another.”
I blink. Try to breath. Blink again. “No.” The word as broken as I feel.
“Why, Damian? You’re not my boyfriend.”
The statement hits me like a blow to the face.
“Then what am I to you?” A desperate kind of panic takes over. “Because we certainly act like we’re together. Maybe not in front of our friends, but we go on dates—you asked me on a date, remember? We spend all of our free time together. You’re my best friend. I won’t let you go. Not over something like this.”
“Why not?” she yells.
I’m not sure what answer she’s looking for, but I get the feeling there is a wrong one.
And from the profound sadness limning her anger, one she wants to hear.
“Because.”
“Because why, Damian?”
“I can’t,” I yell, arms wide. Words spill from my mouth. “You’re like a siren, you call to me. It’s like you’re inside me. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying whenever you walk into a room. When I’m not with you, it-it’s like someone stole the sun. Like I’m a patchwork of pieces that only come together when I’m with you. You’re the fucking thread. I don’t make sense without you.” Tears rim my eyes. “Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about—I know you feel it, too.”
She closes her eyes. Her throat bobs, chin trembles. “Love needs trust and you violated mine by coming here tonight.”
“Trust? You want to talk about trust? You told me you were a waitress, Marrin. Not…” I struggle for the right word.
“Not what?” she challenges, matching my anger.
“A dancer.”
“A stripper. I’m a stripper. And a waitress here.”
“And I don’t fucking care,” I shout. “You could turn tricks behind a KFC and I wouldn’t give a shit as long as you came home to me every night.”
“Yes, you would—”
“No. I. Wouldn’t. I don’t give a flying fuck what you do to make money as long as you’re mine.”
She says nothing.
I rake my fingers through my hair. “Is this what you’ve been hiding from me? The big secret you’re too scared to tell me? Is this where your stalker came from?”
Her eyes go wide, and for a second, I think she’s going to pass out.
Against my better judgment, I push. “Come on, it wasn’t hard to figure out. You move a lot, there are a million locks on your front door, one on your bedroom. You were scared as hell on Thanksgiving and freaked when I asked if you wanted to get your car. And there was this look you had when Jake mentioned some guy from your old neighborhood asking about you. I’m not an idiot, Marrin. I’m sick of being dicked around. Tell me the truth.”
“This conversation is pointless. You’d never understand. Just go.” She points to the exit.
“Never understand? Understand what? That you come from a shitty neighborhood, you get paid to dance, and you have a stalker? Baby, this is me understanding. I don’t care.”
“Bullshit,” she spits. “You come from money. You’ve had privileges people like me only dream of or see on TV. Privileges you never even realized you had because it was normal for you. Don’t sit there and tell me that being a stripper is normal in your world, okay? You have no idea what it was like for me growing up.”
“And whose fault is that? You don’t tell me anything.”
“Fine,” she yells. “You want to know what my childhood was like? It fuckin’ sucked. We lived in a shit neighborhood, had no money, and my mom was a drunk who cared more about her boyfriends than me.”
It takes us both a moment to process her confession.
She says, “So don’t stand there and preach about understanding. You have no idea what it’s like for people like me to be around people like you.” She wipes her hands over her face and I see nothing but exhausted resolve. “You’re the kind of guy who pays to come to a place like this to watch a girl like me take off her clothes.”
“Wow,” I say incredulously. “I mean—wow. First of all, you continuing to think I’d care about you taking your clothes off for money is insulting. That’s your insecurity, not mine. Don’t put that on me. What I saw on that stage wasn’t stripping—wasn’t just stripping. And even if it was, why the hell would I care? Stripping is a legitimate profession and one that some people are damn good at. Why would I shame that skillset or think less of people who can make money that way? If you think I’m that shallow, then clearly you don’t kn
ow me as well as I thought.
“Second, don’t you dare try to tell me that I’m incapable of understanding or empathizing with a shit childhood, okay? You wanna know why I almost had a damn anxiety attack that night we went to Back Cellar? Why I thought I wasn’t good enough for you?”
My ribs constrict, breathing shallows.
Shit, I’m really gonna do this aren’t I?
“My dad’s business partner, a trusted family friend, molested me for months when I was a kid. Months. I was thirteen years old and no one noticed. Not my mom, not my dad. They were too busy ignoring their kids. When I finally worked up the courage to tell my parents, you know what happened? Nothing.” My voice cracks. “Not a fucking thing. They were more concerned with their public image than their own kid.”
“Jesus,” Mar breathes.
“The worst part is, the guy didn’t deny it when they asked. He offered to buy their silence and my parents accepted to avoid a scandal. I signed off that I’d never speak about it again, and got a disgusting amount of money for it. When I asked my mom why we weren’t going to the police, you know what she said? She said, ‘What am I supposed to do? Your father says you’ll be a man one day, and if anyone finds out what happened, it will embarrass this family and ruin your reputation.’ My dad golfed with the bastard at their country club every weekend until he died two years ago. He spoke at my dad’s funeral.”
I rake a hand through my hair.
“Just because my childhood was gilded and shiny doesn’t mean it was any less abusive, or that I’m somehow unable to relate to you. Abusers are all the same, mine just wore designer clothes.”
“Damian, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I don’t want an apology from you. I want you to understand that if you can accept a truth like that and still love me, then there’s nothing—nothing—you could confide in me that would change the way I feel about you.” I walk to the exit. “I know someone hurt you and I’m not asking you to tell me what happened, I’m just asking you to trust that I won’t throw away what we have because of it. Think about it. And if you want to be my girlfriend, you know where to find me. I don’t want to be another one of your secrets. I’ll have you as my girlfriend or I won’t have you at all.”
I push through the door and walk out.
Marrin
The door shuts and a wedge of tears clogs my throat.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, why I can’t just tell him what happened. Why I can’t trust that he’ll still love me when I do.
A door creaks, and I turn around to see Gavin at the other end of the hallway. He probably followed me down because he’s overprotective and nosy. I fold my arms across my chest and walk toward him.
“Enjoy the show?” I say when I get to him.
Standing on his left, I can clearly see the scar that runs down the edge of his face and neck.
“Just keeping an eye on you. It’s none of my business.” He hits the button for the elevator then leans back on the wall next to me.
“No sage advice?” I push angrily.
He shakes his head.
“You’re not gonna tell me what my problem is or how I can fix it?”
He side eyes me. “Do you want me to?”
I look away. “I don’t know.”
“That boy loves you, Marrin.”
“I know.” My voice cracks and the tears fall. I slide to the floor and hug my knees to my chest. The elevator dings and opens.
Gavin doesn’t move. Instead he joins me on the floor. “This is about your scars isn’t it, kid?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I wipe my face.
“How long have you and Damian been seeing each other?”
I give him a flat look. “Like you don’t know.”
He and Alice know everything about the people who live in my building. And if Damian got a membership to the club, they probably did a background check.
“Knowing about him and prying into your personal life are two different things.”
I watch the elevator close. “Almost four months.”
He crosses his ankles and his arms. “Has he seen the scars?”
“No,” I admit.
“Damn, kid.”
“I know. Guess I’m really good at hiding my shit.”
He nods, considering. “Did Alice ever tell you how I got this?” He taps his scar.
“No.”
“She must’ve asked a thousand times how I got it, but it wasn’t until right before I’d planned to ask her to marry me that I told her the truth.”
“Why?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Why do you think?”
“You were ashamed.”
“In my mind there was no way she could ever want me after she found out. What I did, how it happened… I hated myself for a long, long time. The kind of hate that drives people to drugs and alcohol, to take advantage of the people they love, to want to die slowly over years because that’s what they think they deserve. I did horrible things, was a horrible person and all because I couldn’t forgive myself. Because I didn’t think I deserved to be forgiven.”
I know it’s tacky but I ask, “What happened?”
He weighs and measures me with a look. “I drove an armored vehicle into a kid. I was on deployment, out with my team, and we were on our way back to base when we got intel that enemy combatants were mobilizing in the area. It was late in the day, I was driving through a small village where we’d spent some time previously. We were almost through when this kid, who I recognized, ran into the street waving his arms at us. Our orders were not to stop because the ambush potential was too high. After I hit him, I drove over an IED.”
I exhale sharply. “He’d been trying to warn you.”
He nods. “The explosion knocked me out, I came to when Kiley pulled me into the back of the vehicle. We were stuck in a huge crater and under attack. It was chaos and I was useless from a concussion. We got hit with an RPG and Kiley managed to push me over so that instead of getting gutted like a fish from a flying chunk of metal, I came away with this.” He points at his scar.
“But… even if you’d stopped the vehicle, you still would’ve been ambushed, right? So it wouldn’t have mattered. The kid likely would’ve been caught in the crossfire.”
“We could what-if that shit all day, but it doesn’t change what I did or what happened. Nor does it change what I have to live with.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you. That you were put in that position, asked to make that kind of sacrifice. That‘s awful.”
He nods.
“How did Alice react when you told her?”
A smile lights his eyes. “She hugged me. She accepted it—me. Then she asked me to marry her.” He grins. “Pulled out a fuckin’ ring and everything.”
Now I’m smiling. But Damian’s words about my insecurity echo through my head. I know it’s a stupid question, but I ask, “Did you worry she’d, like, pity you or see you differently?”
Gavin’s face softens. “Is that what you think Damian will do if you tell him?”
I shrug. “He’s not like me.”
“I don’t think you honestly believe that.” He stands and pulls me to my feet before hitting the button for the elevator. “Look, there’s no moral to this story. I can’t tell you what to do, and I’d be lying if I said the truth will set you free because sometimes it doesn’t. But I’ve been where you are, I know what it’s like to be scarred by something from your past—physically and emotionally. If I’d never told Alice, it would’ve eaten away at me until either I confessed, or stayed silent and let it slowly destroy us. The things that scar us have power. If left to fester, that power grows until the weight becomes unbearable. But once it’s revealed, once it’s no longer a secret burden only you carry… I don’t know, it loses its power I guess.”
The elevator doors open and we get on.
“I will say,” Gavin adds, “that Damian kid is crazy about you. To the point that he did the emot
ional equivalent of getting naked in public and prostrating himself at your feet.”
“You heard?”
He nods. “For anyone to say what he did takes guts. But for a guy to say that to the woman he loves…” He shakes his head. “That took a kind of bravery even I don’t think I possess.”
17
Damian
Two days after Christmas, I’m back in town. It’s been a week since Marrin and I broke up.
I exit my therapist’s office and get into my Jeep. There’s snow in the forecast, so I head to the store for supplies before going home.
I spent the holiday at my grandparents’ house with my brother. My mom and her manfriend spent the holiday on some beach somewhere. Thank fuck. If I’d had to deal with Nadia, I don’t think I’d have shown up at all.
I’m unloading groceries at my apartment when my phone rings to the tune of Darth Vader’s theme song.
I stare at the screen.
Nadia’s calling.
She called me on Christmas, too, but I didn’t answer. I talked about her with my therapist today. We went over what she said on Thanksgiving and what I’d confessed to Marrin in our argument. I feel better about both things now. I know not to expect anything from Nadia and to be patient with Marrin. As my therapist is so fond of saying, “We can’t change other people, but we can change ourselves.”
When I answer the call, I don’t expect my mom to apologize or acknowledge her failings as a parent. I don’t expect anything remotely motherly either.
“What’s up, Nadia?”
“Damian. I’m surprised you answered.”
That makes two of us.
“What’s up?” I repeat, stuffing bottled water into the pantry.
“I was calling to see how your holiday went.”
Uh…
“Fine.” It comes out like a question. It kind of is. My mom never asks how I’m doing. If we’d ever had that kind of relationship, then I doubt it would’ve taken me a whole summer to confess I was being abused.
