by Ward, Deena
“No. You haven’t.”
“He cheated on me so many times I lost count. But he was all I had, my only family, so I forgave him, and after a while, I didn’t notice anymore. Or at least, I acted like I didn’t, to myself. It was foolish and didn’t work.”
“You deserved better,” Gibson said.
“I agree. It took me a long time, though, to figure that out. And cheating wasn’t the only thing wrong between us. He was a taker, never gave anything in return. When I divorced him, I swore I’d never sell myself short again. Then I met Michael, and promptly did exactly what I swore I wouldn’t do. The only difference was it didn’t take ten years to figure that one out.”
Gibson watched me with sympathy, though warily.
“I think,” I said, “that I’ve always had this need to give everything to the important people in my life. My grandparents. My boyfriends. My husband. You.”
“Me.”
“Of course. You wouldn’t let me give you everything physically, sexually, because of the trust and safe word problem. And I thought that was the end, that there was no making us work anymore. Then I realized, I could still sacrifice for you, but in a different way. I could make everything okay.”
I smoothed the blanket under my palm. “I wanted it to work with you, Gibson. You’re the worthiest man I know. So I told you I could forget everything, forget that you don’t trust me, and that you blame me.”
“Nonnie, I don’t —”
“No, please. I have to finish this.”
He looked at me, hard and long. I waited for his decision. Then he nodded.
“These past weeks together, this bittersweet time,” I said. “It’s been my sacrifice. To you. I gave up what I needed for you. And for me, too. Because I couldn’t stand to lose you.”
I took a deep, steadying breath. “But I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry, Gibson. I can’t forget and it’s getting more bitter every day. As much as I dearly wish I could, this is a sacrifice I can’t make anymore. If I did, I’d be selling myself short ... again.”
“I deserve your trust, Gibson,” I continued. “I can’t settle without it. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. It weakens me, don’t you see? Wears me down. You used to make me feel like I could do anything —” My voice caught in my throat then, and tears threatened, so I stopped, to keep myself together.
Gibson appeared lost, as if he didn’t know what to make of it. Or more likely, he didn’t want to acknowledge it had been between us all this while, simmering right under the surface of our serene charade.
“I thought we were fine,” he said. “You seemed happy.”
“You, too. But I know better. You can’t tell me you don’t.”
His denial dropped away then, and he shook his head, slowly. “Tell me what I can do to make this right.”
“I will. I’m getting ready to take a big risk and I need you to listen with an open mind. I need you to hear what I have to say, to set aside what you think you know about me. I’m going to tell you something I swore I’d never tell you.”
“Okay.”
“You think you know what happened between Michael and me on that video, the one when we were in the shower. You said it was rape. I told you it wasn’t. You argued and I let it drop. Remember?”
“Yes.”
“He didn’t rape me. He used me. He had sex with me, that I agreed to, and there was no pleasure for me. He made sure of it, by bringing me close to orgasm and then denying me.”
Gibson’s hands clenched.
“I know it’s hard to hear,” I said. “But you have to understand. And you can only understand if I tell you everything. Later, in his bed, he used me again. I was even more sore then. Once again, no pleasure. And then in the morning, after he took me home. Twice, maybe three times. I don’t remember exactly. Each time it was the same. He brought me close, then denied me. He took his own pleasure, used me with my permission. I could have made him stop, but I didn’t want to.”
“Here’s the part I need you to hear,” I said, giving him a level look.
“Then say it already.”
“While it was happening, it was sexy, in an abstract way. A mental eroticism, maybe because physically I wasn’t capable of much. But later. When it was over, and he was gone, and I’d slept and catalogued all my hurts, it became something else. Bigger. Huge. The memory of what we’d done was intensely erotic. I’d never been so turned on.”
He stared at me, his features falling into stillness.
“And it was that way for a long time,” I said. “Even after I broke up with him. I thought about it countless times. I analyzed it every which way, and when I thought I had it figured out, it turned out I didn’t. That time with him, it didn’t lose its power to arouse me until Michael’s betrayal destroyed the memory.”
I tried to pour all my sincerity into my next words. “Since I’ve been with you, Gibson, I’ve wanted to give you what I gave him. I know that as good as it was with Michael, it would be infinitely better with you. I’m not suggesting that you do what he did. That’s not the thing. It isn’t the act itself. It was that I gave him what he wanted, without consideration of myself. And he took. And in doing that, it turned out I got everything in return. Am I making sense?”
He only nodded. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking now.
“It’s not what you thought. I’m not trying to martyr myself for you. I don’t want you to be Michael. Don’t you see? I’ll get as much from it as you will, later for certain, if not in the moment itself. You think I’m not ready for whatever it is you’re holding back from me, but you’re wrong. I crave it for my own selfish reasons. What I did with Michael wasn’t wrong. Nothing so sublime could be wrong. My only mistake was in giving myself to the wrong man.”
I reached out to touch his clenched fist. “It should have been you. You’re the right man. The only one. And it’s not about the sex, or whatever you choose to do with me. It’s about trust. You simply have to believe in me, believe in us. Trust me, Gibson. Trust that I know myself.”
I wanted to shake him, to make him tell me he was hearing me, that he was getting it. Nothing. He gave me nothing, verbally or visually.
So I waited. Maybe I shouldn’t have told him everything, potentially making it worse rather than better. But I was desperate. It was all I had left.
I waited.
Finally, he pulled his hand out from under mine. I saw his face change. Saw his expression morph from nothing to ... please, no, I thought, not that ... to sorrow.
When he spoke, his voice was gentle, but resolute. “You’re asking something of me I can’t do.”
“Nothing I said changed your mind in any way.”
“No. It’s more evidence that I was right all along.”
“But Gibson —”
“I can’t do it.”
“Even though it’s something I must have?”
“Even though.”
“Can’t you at least try? We’ll go now, to the dungeon. If you tried, even if it failed, I could hope that someday we could get there. Give in to it. I know you want to.”
“You don’t know what I want.”
I could hardly speak from the crushing weight bearing down on my chest. “I thought you wanted me.”
“I do.”
“Not enough to try.”
“I can’t risk it. It would be wrong. So it would only end the same as it has before.”
“My God, Gibson. Do you understand what you’re saying?”
So sad, he was, grief bending down the sides of his mouth, the corners of his eyes, pushing a slump into his shoulders, making him seem older. “I do. Stay anyway.”
“I can’t pretend anymore.”
“Stay.”
“I told you. I owe myself more than that.”
We looked at one another. My hand clutched at my robe, over my pounding heart. Tears built inside and I struggled to hold them off. He didn’t want this. He couldn’t want it to end this way.
&n
bsp; I thought, but I love you.
Then I said, “So this is it.”
“I don’t want it to be,” he said.
“Then change.”
“I can’t.”
No compromise. Not even a half-hearted offer of one. There would be no bending from him. And I couldn’t do it. I’d nearly broken myself with trying.
No options remained. I was decimated by the recognition that I’d hardly acknowledged I loved him, before I lost him.
I sat up straight, stiffened my spine. I deeply felt my next words.
“I’m grateful” I said, “that I’ve had you in my life as long as I have, Gibson. The way you fought for me and helped me when nearly everyone else abandoned me ... I’ll never forget it. I can’t thank you enough. You’re a good man. I’ll always believe in that, and you.”
I stood up. “I’ll stay the night in my studio. Pack up tomorrow if that’s okay.”
“You don’t have to move out,” he said, his voice rushed. “Stay in one of the other bedrooms if you want. Think about it. Don’t let an impulse decide for you.”
“This isn’t an impulse. It’s been over for weeks. It’s time to let it go.” I couldn’t take anymore. I sped over to the dresser, pulled out some clothes and headed for the door.
I heard him get off the bed, walk toward me. I turned.
He stopped a few feet in front of me. “Don’t.”
A strange feeling came over me then, a rush of rightness mixed with regret for myself, and powerful sorrow for the proud man who couldn’t bend for me.
“I don’t want you to leave,” he said.
Ah, there it was. No help for it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but this time, it’s not about what you want. It’s about what I want. And I guess I’m the only one who’ll ever give it to me.”
With that, it was well and truly the end.
Chapter 20
“What is it?” The frizzy-haired man held out a package to me.
I sighed, looked up from my drawing pad and scanned over the item he held. “I have no idea.” I returned to my sketch.
“Well, you work here, don’cha? It’s your job to know.”
“It’s my job to take your money and tell you to have a nice day. Beyond that, you’re on your own.”
“No pride in the workplace anymore. You’d think you didn’t want to sell nothing.”
I sighed again, louder this time, set my pad aside and took the cellophane-wrapped package from his outstretched hand. “The writing on it’s Japanese, I think. From the smell and look of it, it’s probably some kind of dried seaweed or algae. Though it could be dehydrated squid guts for all I know.”
“You sell dehydrated squid guts?”
“Anything’s possible.”
He reached over the counter and took the package back from me, eyeing it warily this time. “What do you think it’s good for?”
“No idea. I’ll take a stab at it, though, and say it’s probably not for indigestion.”
“You aren’t very good at this,” he said with a frown. “I’d think they’d hire somebody knowledgeable to work here.”
“You’re right. I’ll take it up with management. You going to buy that stuff or not?”
He scratched his frizzy head. “I don’t know.”
“Alrighty then.” I picked up my pad and resumed my sketch. The man didn’t know it, but I was drawing him. I quickly added a hand to scratch his head, changed his features to comic befuddlement.
I heard the bells above the shop door jingle and did a mental rolling of my eyes, not bothering to look up. Another customer. Two at once. What was it? Rush hour?
One of the best things about my job was that the place never got busy, leaving me loads of time to do whatever I wanted. Another great thing was that the shop attracted a high proportion of eccentric people, the interesting sort that were fun to draw.
The owner didn’t care that I knew absolutely nothing about health food, or any of the other weird, health-related items that were crammed into every nook and cranny of the place. I was a warm body who held down the fort, showed up when I was supposed to and didn’t leave until someone arrived to take the next shift, or until closing time, whichever came first.
In other words, he had minimal staffing standards, making me an ideal employee. Being someone who just wanted to pay a few bills and do as little as humanly possible along the way, the job was as perfect for me as I was for it.
I’d been lucky to find it. After I left Gibson, I quit my job at Roundtree for obvious reasons. I stayed with the Hoytes for about a week while I searched for an apartment and a job to pay for it.
I wanted something close to school, so I wandered around the surrounding blocks. When I ran across a help wanted sign in the window of a dusty health food store, I stepped inside on a whim.
I learned from the owner that a small studio apartment over the shop was a perk of the job, available at a discounted rate as long as I worked in the store. Right away, I knew I’d hit the jackpot. I was moved in and gainfully employed by the next day. I’d been there ever since.
It was March now. In some ways, it was hard to believe I’d been there so long. In other ways, it seemed a lifetime.
The fuzzy-haired man cleared his throat. “You sure about that indigestion thing? I get acid reflux sometimes.”
“I said it’s probably not for indigestion. Not. Meaning ... well, not. Geez.”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘is’ good for it.”
“Not.”
“Oh.”
Remarkably, that was not the stupidest conversation I’d had that day. No, that conversation involved a woman seeking an organic laxative for her pet Madagascar hissing cockroach (which she brought into the store in her purse) and an elderly gentleman who wouldn’t stop complaining that we had a leak in our non-existent radiators.
I rapidly drew in the sparse whiskers on the frizzy-haired man’s chin, made his eyes a little squintier than they actually were.
“I just don’t know,” he said. “It’s pretty expensive.”
“How much is it?” I asked, glancing at him to check the size of his ears. Big. Yeah, that made sense.
“$12.99.”
“Well, that is pretty pricey if it’s a package of algae. But if it’s dried squid guts, it might be a great deal. Hard to say.”
“That’s a good point.” He said, turned the bag over, peering at the other side as if it held the answers to the mystery of bargain hunting.
I was starting to like the guy. “You could come back tomorrow. The owner’s usually here in the morning.”
“I don’t think so. I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“For the acid reflux?”
He shook his head. “Ingrown toenail. That’s what I actually came in here for. Thought you’d have something for it.”
“I see. And then you got sucked in by that shiny bag of whatever it is that you’re holding.”
“Yeah.”
“The evils of marketing.”
His eyes glittered. “They know just what they’re doing.”
“Undoubtedly.” I knew he’d like that. Most of our customers enjoyed hating on marketers and rampant consumerism.
I went back to sketching, leaving him to ponder whatever he was moved to ponder. I started a second sketch. This time, I drew him with a suspicious expression.
“Do you think,” he said after a while, “that this stuff might fix my ingrown toenail?”
“I have no idea.”
“Yeah, but what’s your opinion?”
“I don’t have an opinion.”
“But do you think it would make it worse?”
I opened my mouth but was cut short by a woman’s voice, a powerful and commanding voice.
“Oh for crying out loud,” she said. “Give me that thing!”
She stepped in front of the counter. This was a surprise. It was Paulina Martin, all tall and slim in a classic navy coat, her platinum bob sleeked ba
ck into a shiny bun.
She grabbed the bag from the stunned little man and scrutinized the contents with a scowl. She crinkled it a few times and poked at it with a manicured, blood red fingernail.
“It’s dried seaweed,” she proclaimed with her usual air of confidence. She shoved it back at the frizzy-haired man. “And it’s an excellent aid in digestion.” She shot a pointed glance at me.
“Okay,” I said, “but if it had been dried squid guts, that would be different. That’s all I was saying.”
She sniffed loudly. “Why would the store carry dried squid guts?”
I shrugged. “Why does it carry dried seaweed?”
She waved her hand at me and turned to the small man. “Ignore her. She’s being amusing. Or thinks she is, anyway. My advice to you, and you’d be well-served to take it, is to go to the doctor tomorrow like you planned. You could have an infection, or worse.”
“Then,” she continued, “you’ll need to address the causes of your condition. Likely it’s ill-fitting shoes or cutting your nails improperly, or both. There are other causes, but from the looks of your shoes, I’d guess it’s that.”
The man stared down at his feet. “I thought my shoes were nice.”
“Niceness is neither here nor there. It’s about the fit.”
“Hmm,” was all he said, still transfixed with his feet.
Great, I thought, between the shoes and the seaweed quandaries, I was never getting rid of the guy.
“So are you going to buy the seaweed or not?” Paulina asked, looking down her nose at him.
“Oh. Yeah.” He returned his attention to the package. “I don’t know. Is it good for acid reflux? I mean, if it’s not good for my toe, then it needs to be good for something. $12.99 isn’t cheap.”
Paulina arched a shapely eyebrow at him, then turned to me. “If I were you, I’d have a stun gun back there, and whenever someone like this ... person asked too many stupid questions, I’d zap him then roll him into the alley just to be shut of him.
The frizzy-haired man looked at Paulina with more than a little concern.
“It’s a thought,” I said, “but I’d hate to lose a potential sale.”
