by Loomis, Lisa
“I know,” I said. “There wasn’t even a parking spot.”
I took off my shorts and lay down on my stomach. I watched the heat radiate off the sand which triggered thoughts of steamy sex with Trevor; Liz was on her back with her eyes closed. I thought about how one-dimensional our relationship was. I liked it best when we didn’t talk and it was kind of sad, just physical, no other connection.
“Liz, I feel like I’m broken. Like I can’t get back to that place of really caring again,” I said forlornly.
I sat up and got another beer out of the cooler and poured it into my plastic cup.
“You ready for another?” I asked.
Liz sat up and looked in her cup and then lay back down, closing her eyes again.
“Not yet,” she said. “And you’re not broken.”
I crossed my legs into an Indian style position.
“What’s it called then, Liz? I start out obsessed with Mathew when I was just a child. Although I didn’t think I was a child then, and I hung onto that fragmented, screwed-up relationship for years,” I said, mindlessly poking a stick into the sand.
“I meet Max who I think loves me, and I think I love him, and then learn through a car wreck and a tryst with the first love, hmm, maybe not enough,” I went on.
I jabbed the stick in and left it standing straight up. I picked up another stick and poked it in the sand. I followed that with several more sticks and twigs, jabbing and poking as I talked, creating a sort of forest of standing sticks.
“I decide to move to Park City to get away, maybe end Max and me. And even though I had some meaningless dates there I end up back home, back to Max, until that finally dies a slow death. Then bam, Mathew comes back into my life out of the blue until that ends. Next there’s Captain Blake, who is all the things I’m attracted to, except with him, I don’t want to be a number. An issue which didn’t seem to matter much before,” I rambled.
I picked up dried seaweed and placed it gently on top of the sticks to not knock them over, making a sort of canopy over my forest.
“Sounds like a fucking soap opera, even to me,” I said in annoyance.
I rolled to my side, back onto my stomach, and rested my chin on my hands. I looked through my makeshift forest. I wanted to be able to get small and go into it, escape to another world, forget my damaged feelings.
“You listening?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered, not moving. “Why did you go back?”
“To which one?” I asked.
“Duh, the two you went back to,” she said.
Damn, I wished I could be more like Liz in that department; she was so much less emotional than I was about men. She didn’t overanalyze; she was more middle-of-the-road. It was what it was, and she let it go at that. She could take them or leave them.
“Like I told Ryan, Max and I were done the day I drove out of town for Park City. We were, but we weren’t. I guess it was necessary to go round two.”
“That was a mistake,” Liz said. “Even I questioned that one.”
“I know. I feel stupid that it took me so long to figure it out.”
“Wasn’t the first time you were a slow learner, and Mathew?” she asked.
“Mathew and I were done when he let me walk away without fighting for us. I thought he would. I wanted him to prove that he loved me. I needed that. I thought we had been through so much, over so long, that things would change.”
“Sometimes men like things exactly as they are, they don’t want to change. Mathew wanted to “try” Morgan not change.”
I get that now. It was just hard watching Ryan and Karen on that trip; it made me want that connection again. I was feeling so lonely, worrying that I made the wrong decision not to try. When I picked up the pay phone in Bakersfield, I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. And I still called him hoping beyond hope that maybe seeing me he would profess his love. Does any of this make sense?” I asked.
“I understand it. It’s like Dave. I hung on because I knew us. It wasn’t right, but I kept hanging on, thinking maybe it could get right again,” Liz said.
“Exactly,” I said. “But now I don’t want to let my heart go. I want to play, I want to have fun, I want to have sex, but I don’t want to care, and that scares me. I need love, but I’m afraid of it.”
I picked up little pebbles making an entrance to the forest.
“Why? Men do it all the time, not care. Roll in the hay for just the sex,” Liz said.
“It makes me feel disconnected. Like with Blake, I wanted to be with him, wanted to sleep with him even, but he couldn’t give me a good enough reason. I think he was shocked a girl would tell him no.”
“Player. He wouldn’t have changed either you know?”
“We actually talked a lot, about all kinds of things, our communication was good, but you’re right. Now, with Trevor, I don’t want him to talk. I strictly want sex and then for him to go away. Broken,” I said forcefully. “I’m broken.”
She rolled her face to the side and opened her eyes, looking at me.
“Open me another beer,” she said.
She sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees, and stared out at the ocean. I watched her, waiting for her to say something; she seemed to be contemplating something. Her only movement was her blond hair blowing back from her face in the breeze.
“At least you’re not afraid of them,” she said at last.
“Of men?” I asked, confused.
“Yeah, of men,” she answered turning toward me.
“Why? Are you afraid of them?” I asked.
Her eyes narrowed and a small wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows.
“Afraid is probably not a good word. Leery, maybe mistrustful, I guess, is better,” she said then sighed.
She pulled her knees tighter to her chest, and rested her chin on her knees.
“What is it, Liz?” I asked, worried about how her mood had shifted.
“I’m going to tell you something I haven’t ever shared with you,” she paused, “not because I was hiding it, but because it’s not something I try to remember.”
Liz then told me a painful story of her being attacked by a stranger. She was in college and came home alone with groceries. She had opened her apartment door and left it open to set down the two bags filling her arms; when she turned around to close the door, he was there. He shut the door and came after her with a knife. He pushed her down on the floor and put the knife to her throat. When she tried to fight, he hit her in the face and broke her nose. He threatened to kill her.
“God Liz, how awful,” I said cringing.
“He tried to rape me, but I kept fighting, and he finally ran away. It happened when Dave and I first started dating, Dave found me on the floor, curled in a ball, covered in blood. He took me to the hospital, and then home, and stayed the night with me, on the couch.”
When she finished, tears were running down my face.
“Liz…” I stumbled, not knowing what to say, “why haven’t you told me this before?”
“I hate the story. I hate feeling mistrustful. It’s another reason I stayed with Dave so long. He knew the story,” Liz said, her voice devoid of emotion.
What she said made sense. Sometimes it was easier, even if it wasn’t working, to have someone who you thought understood you, who you had a history with.
“I’m so sorry, Liz,” I said, feeling inadequate, feeling a twisting in my gut.
What could I say? Nothing would ever make it go away, make her forget. Her telling me made a lot of her actions clearer to me. It made me comprehend her, why she was reluctant sometimes when I got wild. It made me recognize why she worried about me and my carefree attitude with men.
We stayed on the beach, keeping the rest of our conversations light while we enjoyed the sun. I tried to think of funny things, paint scenarios that would push the memory to the back of her mind. It was late afternoon before we decided to pack up and leave, a quiet thoughtfulness linge
ring between us.
“What’s that?” she asked, noticing my stick forest as she folded her towel.
“It’s a make-believe forest where everything works out and everyone is happy,” I said as I smoothed the sand, knocking the sticks flat with my hand.
“Hey,” she said. “I didn’t tell you about the attack to make you sad or feel sorry for me. I wanted to tell you because you said you feel broken. I wanted you to understand there are so many different kinds of broken. We’re all broken, even the men; it’s just in varying degrees and for different reasons. Everyone has a story.”
What Liz said hit me hard; regrettably she was absolutely right. Liz sharing her story gave me a lot of insight, into her, into people. I thought about the people who had been in and out of my life, and yes, we all had our issues. Love wasn’t like the movies, it was much more complicated than that. On my drive home, I thought about Ryan and desperately wanted to talk to him. I thought talking to him might make some of the sadness I was feeling go away. I stopped at a 7-11 a block from Liz’s place and called him from a pay phone. The booth smelled of rotting food and urine, making me cringe at having to put the receiver close to my face.
“Hey,” I said, trying to sound upbeat when he answered the phone. “I’ve been at the beach all day with Liz. I wondered if I could stop by.”
I kind of rushed the last part out, hoping his answer would be yes.
“I’m working tomorrow,” he said, not answering me directly.
“Please?” I whispered, running my finger over a silver button of the phone.
“Come on over,” he said with apprehension.
Chapter 22
I couldn’t stop thinking about what Liz had told me as I drove to Ryan’s apartment. As good of friends as we were, she had held it in until she felt telling me about it might help me. She explained it with so little emotion, it was almost as if it were about someone else, and in a way it was. I felt like seeing Ryan might brighten my mood.
Ryan opened the door when I knocked. He looked into my eyes with a worried expression as he reached out and took my hand pulling me into his apartment. His roommate looked up from watching TV.
“Hey, Morgan,” he said.
“Hey,” I answered.
“We can go in my room,” Ryan said dropping my hand.
His room was small and sparse, a queen size bed against one wall, a plaid bedspread covering it. A night table with a reading lamp on it sat on the right side.
“What’s up?” he asked, sitting down on the bed.
“I needed a friend,” I said shuffling my feet.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
“We had a few beers throughout the day, but no,” I answered.
He looked at me as I stood sort of awkwardly in his room. I knew he was waiting for me to revel my reason for wanting to come by.
“Do you want to shower?” he asked.
I suddenly had a visual of how I must look in my bathing suit with a tank top and shorts covering it, sand stuck to my arms, legs and feet, and in my hair. I definitely looked like I needed a shower, and I was sure he didn’t want me sitting on his bed.
“Can I?” I asked, feeling like the weight might be lifted.
“Of course you can,” he said, guiding me to his bathroom.
He pulled out a towel and showed me where everything was and then locked the door, pulling it closed behind him. I let the warm water run down over my head and down my back, the water stinging from where the sun had tanned me. The spray easing some of the tension I’d felt. I washed my hair with Ryan’s Neutrogena shampoo, realizing this was what I smelled on him sometimes. The scent I remembered from when we’d made love. When I finished, I put my shorts and tank top back on. My bathing suit was full of sand, so I rinsed it in the sink and wrung it out. Methodically I brushed my hair out with Ryan’s brush, and put some toothpaste on my finger and scrubbed my teeth. As I did so I tried to get my thoughts in order. I wiped away the fog again from the small mirror. Better, I looked a lot better.
Ryan was reclined in his torn jeans and T-shirt on his bed, when I came back into his room, his expression now relaxed.
“What happened today?” he asked, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
I sat down next to him.
“Nothing specific, I guess. It was a beautiful day. Liz and I talked about things that made me reflect back, think about the past. Sometimes it’s just depressing,” I said with a shrug.
“Why’s that?” he asked, trying to understand.
“I don’t know, things that happened, things that didn’t,” I reflected.
“I try not to look back,” he said. “Better to look forward.”
He put his hand on my leg and gave me a reassuring squeeze.
“Lay down, I’ll give you a back rub.”
I crawled onto his bed and lay on my stomach. I pulled my tank top up over my shoulders. Flipping my wet hair to one side I rested my chin on my crossed hands. Ryan moved close to my side and started massaging my back, slow deep strokes.
“Oh, that’s nice,” I said.
He ran his thumbs down the muscles on each side of my spine, small circles as he went. I felt better already.
“Tell me about the farm. I mean, what you did there, growing up?” I asked.
“Where do I start, the day I was born?” he teased.
He spread out his hands again kneading into my back.
“No, just general stuff. You said it was a small town, how small?” I asked.
“Small. Four corners, a bar. That was it, a don’t-blink kind of town,” he said.
“Seriously small,” I mused as I pictured a desolate place in the middle of nowhere, even worse than my first impression of Escondido.
“From when I remember, we didn’t have the farm. My dad had sold it by then, went to work for the post office and drove the school bus. I worked on a neighbor’s farm, though. For years, I helped Smitty milk the cows,” Ryan said.
I could hear his smile in his tone. I stared at his wood headboard as he massaged me.
“Did you like that?” I asked.
“I like animals, so I guess I did.”
An image of Ryan sitting on a milk stool milking filled my head. It seemed like it would be a peaceful thing to do.
“Why did you leave there?” I asked.
“I went to the same school, kindergarten through high school with forty-two people in my graduating class. I remember my friends and I would meet at the creek or out in the cornfields to party, and we talked about how we would leave once high school was finished. Get out of that little town and explore the world. Go west, go to California. We believed the song by the Beach Boys, about all the beautiful California girls,” Ryan teased.
His hand felt so nice on my skin, soft and comforting, I didn’t dare move, didn’t want him to stop.
“So did you and your friends leave together?” I asked.
“No, I was the only one who left,” he answered.
I lifted up slightly and looked back at him. He pushed my shoulder back down and continued massaging.
“I packed up my Jeep the week we graduated and headed to Florida, alone,” Ryan explained.
“Why Florida?” I asked.
“Because one of my brothers had a friend there I could stay with for a while.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“Then I applied to a junior college and got a couple of jobs, one at a restaurant, one at the airport,” he said.
I flipped over suddenly, taking my tank top off. Ryan looked into my eyes, avoiding my chest.
“Chest rub,” I said, pulling his hands to my chest.
He surprised me and didn’t skip a beat, ignoring my attempt at shock value. He massaged my chest and breasts lightly, not in any sexual way. Ryan adjusted his position and just kept on going and I wondered what he was thinking, how he could just act like nothing had changed, why he didn’t protest. Was he immune to my boobs?
“Did you like it there?”
I asked, moving my head trying to get him to look at me.
“It was different, busy. I was close to the beach. It didn’t snow there. I learned the world was a lot bigger than I knew, or even imagined. Like Park City, sort of a mish-mash of people from various places,” Ryan said, avoiding my eyes.
I wanted to laugh at his attempt at autopilot, but I stuffed it down. Two could play this game of pretending it wasn’t my breasts he was feeling.
“It sounds like you liked Florida.”
“I did,” he said, reflecting.
“But you left.”
“Because I thought there was more opportunity in starting my own business, and to do that, I had to go where the work was plentiful. Virginia was booming then.”
He suddenly stopped and shifted away from me.
“Put your top back on,” he said, handing me my tank top.
“Too distracting?” I challenged.
“Something like that,” he said, and stood up, going to the window.
He pulled back the curtain and looked out. I put my shirt back on and moved to the edge of the bed.
“Do you miss back home?” I asked.
He stood with his back to me like there was something that interested him outside. I figured he was just concentrating on not getting an erection, or making one go away.
“I miss family, not the place. When I left, I think they all expected me to come back. Instead I kept moving farther west. Now I’m here, California, where I said I wanted to go all along,”
“Are the girls as beautiful as you expected?” I pushed.
He turned around and looked at me.
“Pretty much,” he said with a small grin. “Feeling better?”
“I do. Thanks for the rub, all of it,” I said, getting up off the bed.
Ryan did make me feel better. He helped me stop thinking about Liz. He reminded me to stop looking back. He always made me feel comfortable and calm. I wondered why I wanted to shock him and then wondered why he hadn’t taken my gesture as an invitation. I smiled. He took my behavior in stride, not giving me the satisfaction.
Chapter 23
I thought about Mathew a lot that summer and almost called him more than once. In order to keep myself from going backwards Liz and I spent time in the bars, I hung out with Karen and Jackie, I even dated a little, but nothing that interested me. Even Ryan reminded me to look forward, every now and then he would call to check in, say hello. I invited him occasionally to things that were going on, and most of the time, he would come.
