by Tif Marcelo
He answers my trailed sentence with a deathly silence.
“Mitchell.”
“Okay, okay.” He laughs. “No salmon on the walls. No eating in the living room. What else? Geez.”
“You’ll really give me this day?” The seriousness returns, along with the headache that’s about to ensue with our conversation’s turn. My head lolls back to the door, and I face the dark ceiling.
“Yes. But I won’t let you have it alone.”
“I don’t want to talk about her. Not ready to yet.”
“Okay.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, and the question that’s been nagging at me surfaces. Mitchell insists on being in my life. He’s inserted himself into every part of the day. Shouldn’t I know more about him?
“What happened to you when you were deployed?”
“Bryn.” He says my name curtly.
“Everyone says you’re a hero.” I exhale. Turning the tables lifts the pressure off my chest. “And those pictures and pills in your kitchen drawer . . .”
“Don’t worry about those pills.”
“I’m not worried. I’m not judging you. But here you are asking me to trust you, to be your battle buddy, and yet, do you trust me? As your friend . . .”
“Friend,” he repeats.
“Well, aren’t we?” I double-check the definition in my brain, and a haze of doubt finds its way through the crack in my tone. Because we aren’t just friends, nor are we officially lovers. He’s attuned to my daily habits. He understands my quirks. He’s seen me half-naked and knows a kiss from him turns me into jelly. And the fact that he’s here now as a confidant smudges the lines, the terms, the job descriptions and roles.
Mitchell is more—he’s everything right now.
He laughs. “I guess I did help you stumble to the bathroom.”
I smile, remembering our first night together. “So you’ll tell me?”
After a pause, he answers, “Yes. On one condition . . . open this door.”
24
MITCHELL
The door’s handle clicks and I rise to my knees. It opens to Bryn, who is also kneeling, in a tank and pajama bottoms, with her hair down. Behind her is a darkened room. She looks exhausted, though still beautiful.
Now, facing her, I’m frightened. I’m ashamed. I’m not sure I can say my story aloud. With her on the other side of the door, it felt like a confessional with some semblance of anonymity, but now . . .
She repositions herself so she’s sitting cross-legged. Her fingers intertwine in her lap. I fall back on my seat, knees up. I look straight at the spot between my knees just to ease my discomfort.
As if sensing my insecurity, she says, “Mitchell? You don’t have to.”
“No. I promised and I never go back on my word.” I shut my eyes, take the deepest breath I can muster, and exhale until I’ve pushed out the last bit of hesitation from my body.
I start from the beginning. “It was a nice day, as nice as it could get living among mountains, dirt and rocks, and a huge-ass wall that separated our fire base from the outside world of northern Afghanistan. As transporters, we were always on the road. We moved equipment and supplies, provided security, got people across to the next fire base, all in armored vehicles that made you feel like you were locked up in a steel cage. I myself practically lived in body armor and a Kevlar helmet, and I generally felt safe. It would have taken a full frontal attack for me to fucking get hurt. Yeah, we looked at things in black-and-white like that.
“That day, the mission was low on the Richter scale of risk. Our mission was to transport fuel to the next fire base on a road we’d driven on dozens of times before. No major hazards, though the terrain was always unpredictable, depending on what had exploded or been wrought by the weather. It was winter, and the ground was packed with snow. We started our morning with our four six-person Humvee teams half-cocked and joking about what we planned to do that night. There was some celebrity coming off a helo to do a comedy show some of us were going to see. The others were going to crash out because sleep was a high-priced commodity.
“The trip out was uneventful, though it took longer than expected with the ice on the ground. When we got to the fire base, the sun was buried behind dark clouds. Snow wasn’t predicted for the rest of the day, so I made the call to head back home. It’s what commanders do, you know? We make split-second decisions, trust our instincts.
“We were three-quarters of the way home, and I’ll never forget it, but we all got sullen, nostalgic. Folks started to talk about their families. Sergeant Murray spoke of her son and husband back here in California, and out of nowhere, snow started falling. We slowed down, and that nostalgia? It was replaced by this eerie feeling. Like my insides were being hollowed out. I took my eyes off the road for just a second. I swear it was just a second.
“Then we felt it. An explosion, the vehicle turning on its side, of shit hitting me from all directions. A high-pitched noise followed. Goddamn, we were so close to home. Despite the screaming, all of us getting our bearings, some of us hurt, I called in our status on the radio and for help. We’d driven right into an ambush.”
Bryn gasps, waking me from my trance. Her fingers are against her lips. Tears stain her cheeks. “Oh no.”
“Everyone got out, except for Murray . . . Mercedes. She was knocked out, but I didn’t realize until we were safely behind some rocks. So I went back. I went back, and by the grace of God, somehow we got ourselves behind cover until help came.”
“You saved her. I looked you up, Mitchell Dunford, and you were a hero.”
I shake my head. “I pulled her from the Humvee, Bryn. But I’m not a hero. It was me who made the call to drive out, knowing the distance and the risk. I could have killed them all.”
“But you didn’t. You’re right here, with me. And those people are alive.” She inches closer and rests her chin on my arm. The weight of her body grounds me, and I let her words fall around me like the snow on that day, the worst of my life. “Is that why you were so happy you slept all night the first time we were together? Do you have . . .”
I nod when she hesitates and fill in what many might think is a taboo word. “PTSD. It’s fairly controlled now. It wasn’t before, when I didn’t know what it really was. I worked on it after the deployment, got on meds and saw a counselor. I made progress. When I transitioned over to the Reserves and moved back here, it got tough again. That’s why I disappear some mornings. I’m down the hill with a therapist.”
“I’m proud of you, Mitchell.” Bryn’s voice is sincere, and though I know she’s telling the truth, I still can’t meet her eyes, not until I say the next thing.
“Sergeant Murray is retiring. That’s the reason for her visit. She asked if I could say a few words at her retirement ceremony at the Presidio in a couple of weeks, but I feel like a fraud. How could she give me that honor when my decision could have taken her away from her family? One stupid decision.”
“Oh, Mitchell.” She squeezes my arm. “I don’t see it that way. Not at all. You fought for them. Just like you fight for this place. A few minutes ago, you were fighting for me. That means everything. Will you go to the ceremony?”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
I shake my head, as if waking up. “I’m a fucking mess, Bryn.”
Bryn rolls her eyes, though a smile still graces her face. “As if. Look at me. If anything, we match, right? What a day. What a year.”
“What a life.”
“True that.”
“But,” I add, “you’re not a mess. You’re perfect.”
“Mitchell, now you’re really blowing smoke out your ass. You got me to do what you want, okay. I opened the door.”
“I’m serious. If we’re really being honest here . . . you’re pretty fucking amazing. You’re doing this all by you
rself—well, along with my help in the agricultural department and as the other half of our live stream relationship. It’s okay for you to have a bad day. And it’s okay to ask me for help.”
Tears fall from her eyes. “You turned the conversation around right back to me. Sneak.”
“No, I didn’t. Just telling the truth.” I reach out and finger the flower tattoo on her neck, and then the compass on her wrist. “This tattoo . . . what’s it for?”
“It’s kind of a family symbol. To remind us where our true north lies.”
“Well, I’m glad you came east, Mary Bryn Aquino. You remind me I’m alive, and it’s a miracle.”
Her hand twists so our fingers interlock, our palms flattening together. I lower my legs, make room so she sits in between them.
I lean down, nudge my nose against hers so I can get close enough to feel her soft breath leaving her lips, and savor it. Savor all of it—the conversation, the enormous guilt she helped me unload, even if she didn’t expect it, and this exact moment of intimacy and trust. With this woman, I can’t seem to hold anything back.
Pausing, I lick my lips and whisper, “Is this okay?”
She nods without a trace of hesitation. Her lips meet me halfway and take mine wholly, as if with the kiss she is accepting me unconditionally. Our faces press against each other as we kiss, and I taste the salt of her tears—on her lips, her chin, her cheeks, and her neck. Needing her closer, I pull her in by the ass, so her legs straddle mine as we remain seated on her bedroom floor. I keep my hands on her bottom, gently squeezing her flesh as she wraps her arms and legs around me.
On the bed, on the floor, during the worst argument we’ve had, and now after baring our souls, I can’t get enough of Bryn.
She pulls my shirt over my head and it falls beside us. The fabric takes her hair with it, so it cascades across her face. We both laugh, and as I tame the strands of her hair, I kiss her on the mouth, relishing the feeling of the gentle claw of her nails against my skin.
My turn. I pull her tank over her head, exposing her breasts. I cup them, feel the softness of her skin. My thumb grazes her nipples, until they pebble under my touch and I hear that familiar sound of pleasure that tells me to keep going. Lifting her by the waist, I coax her to her knees so I can have her breasts in full view, and I feast on them with my mouth, my tongue, while her grip on my shoulders tightens.
I rise, pulling her mouth into mine. She follows my lead, standing with fingers pulling at the button and zipper of my jeans. She frees my erection, then pulls down my pants and underwear. Feeling the rough slide of fabric down my legs, and then seeing her on her knees, is like the crack of a gun. I’m up and fucking running. And I’m taking this woman with me.
“Come here.” I urge her up by the shoulders, then crash my mouth onto hers and knead her lips with mine until she moans. Her fingers seek my erection, but I push her hand away. No, today is for her.
Bryn’s wearing a pair of those boy shorts, tight against her body. With both hands, I cup her ass and push her up against me, to make a point. “I’m absolutely here. For you. You do this to me, Bryn.” My fingers crawl under the waistband and skim her warm flesh as I walk her to her bed. “Lie down.”
Amazingly, she does my bidding without protest, and I peel her shorts off and toss them to the side. If even possible, my erection hardens further at her perfect and curvaceous body and the anticipation of pleasuring her. Positioning myself on top while resting on my elbows, we’re skin on skin, lips on lips, tongue on tongue. We do what we do best: spar. Our bodies rock into a rhythm where we vie for control, gently resisting one another just to beg for more.
It’s me who wins the first battle. I kiss down the middle of her breastbone. My tongue laps against the skin between her breasts and down her abdomen. I pause at her navel, running my tongue around the ridge until she arches her back in pleasure. With her fingers gripping my shoulders, urging me, I make the descent to where she’s hot and wet just for me.
I’m soon lost in her taste, in the bliss that engulfs me. Her pulse against my tongue, her fingers wrapped in my hair, and the sound of her cries against my ears is enough. This is enough for me—making her happy, keeping her happy.
She begins pulling on my hair, and I raise my eyes to her. “Come here,” she demands.
I am at her will, but not wanting to lose contact I kiss back up her body, until I reach her lips. I’m met with a grateful kiss and arms that surround me. And with her magic words: “I want you.”
Adrenaline kicks in. I reach up to the side table drawer, then remember we’re not in my bedroom. “Do you . . . have . . .”
She looks up to the ceiling as if thinking, then says, “In the closet. I haven’t unpacked everything and I don’t have a reason to . . . except for you . . .”
“You don’t mind me grabbing one?”
She shakes her head.
I launch out of bed, fueled by need and my aching erection. Throwing open the closet door, I encounter dozens of shoe boxes. Shit, that’s a lot of shoes.
“The striped round hat box. Up top.”
“I see it.” Pulling it out of the closet, I set it down on the bed, where Bryn rifles through makeup and bottles of stuff, and finds exactly what we need. I take the box off the bed and swipe everything to the floor.
Bryn accepts me back into bed with a kiss. Lying sideways, we resume our frantic pace of touching and kissing. My fingers slide down to her parted legs. “Is this okay?”
A moment passes. A moment where I think she’s going to say no. Then I see her hand move lower. She grips my sex. And nods.
I watch as her eyelids flutter closed when my fingers find the warmth of her core. My tongue plays with hers as she slides her hand against my shaft to mimic my gentle rhythm. We tease and cajole until, fuck, I can’t think. I can’t think of details—I just want to move.
But I don’t want to come like this. “I need you, Bryn.”
Her words are breathless, almost frantic. “Yes. I want you inside me.”
I find the foil packet and tear it open with my teeth, and Bryn, my insistent, stubborn Bryn, takes it from me. She takes charge of this moment, sliding the condom onto me. She guides me by the shoulders as she lies down on her back, and leads me exactly where she needs me, where I’ve wanted her these weeks.
We become what we need for each other at this moment. We become one.
25
BRYN
Today is the reminder of the worst day of my life. But today is the first anniversary in five years I didn’t spend alone, that I haven’t selfishly shut out everyone.
Mitchell found his way in. He knew what I needed was someone to hold me, to be that unwavering support my mother once was, and today he became that person, physically and emotionally. Mitchell showed me a trust that broke down my walls. I gave myself to him for the same reasons he gave himself to me: Out of relief at finding someone whom we can share our worst moments with. Out of thanks. Out of a deep desire to express ourselves finally, after weeks of playing house.
A rush of endorphins zaps through my body at the thought of Mitchell and me, just two hours ago. At how the bed creaked and the headboard thumped against the wall. How I yelled his name at the moment of climax. And how we held each other tight after it was all over, sated and utterly content.
It will become the catalyst and inspiration for what’s to happen next.
I brush my hair down in sections, arm extending to reach the tips of the long and thick tresses I used to hate as a kid. My hair’s the type that’s a pain to put in a ponytail, too smooth to be kept up by rubber bands. Hence my everyday bun, to make doubly sure I don’t shed while working in the kitchen.
We always got our hair done together—Mom, Victoria, and me. When I was a kid, my mom took us to Noe Valley to Mrs. Wade’s every couple of months for simple haircuts. As we got older, we moved on to s
alons for highlights, ombré treatments, layers, and texturizing.
“Self-care,” my mother always said. “It’s the most important thing of all.”
Self-care is exactly why I’m here now. The retreat was her concept, the culinary part, mine. But after my mother died, getting my hair done felt like I was cheating on her. These days I wait until I can’t stand my hair and cut it myself, thanks to the magic of mirrors, YouTube videos, and generally a shot of liquor to dull the emotional pain.
I saw it fitting to mark today’s change. I would practice what the retreat represents: self-care.
“Um, I don’t know, B. This seems really drastic. We do have hairdressers here in Golden. Seventy-year-old Mrs. Nichols will do a better job than me.”
My heart squeezes at this new nickname for me. “Shh. Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.”
I’m sitting on the toilet, tank and boy shorts back on. My knees bump against Mitchell’s. He’s pulled up a chair, shirtless and in jeans. I tie small rubber bands around sections of my hair to chin length. Flipping a section to the front of my head, I tie a rubber band at the level of my eyelashes. Little beads of sweat form at my hairline from the effort of wrangling my mane. When I finally peek through my hair, I find Mitchell staring at the scissors in his hand, knees jumping.
“See? That. That alone is a sign we shouldn’t be doing this.”
“You said you’d be there for me.”
“I meant it, but I didn’t think that would mean me providing unlicensed cosmetology services.”
I lay my hands on his shoulders. “I promise, I’ll go to Mrs. Nichols for a touch-up. But today is the day. For a change. Okay?”
Hesitantly, he brings the scissors to one of the sections, slips it in between the blades. I hold my breath in anticipation of feeling lighter and free. But when I open one eye, Mitchell has lowered the scissors. “I fucking can’t.”
Mitchell and I have only known each other a little over a month, but I do exactly the thing I know will coerce him. I push my hair aside and caress both sides of his face. I plant a soft kiss on his lips. With that alone, color rises to his cheeks. “I trust you,” I say.
