I was the first one to really get help, and even I’m not doing so well.
I sat my cup down and looked at the clock. Now five-thirty a.m, Zoe and Lissie would arrive anytime. They get up early, because they’re sick like that. They’re usually at the office by six; six-thirty if they had sex before leaving.
I can still remember what my mom used to hang herself. It was some kind of belt. I never wore belts again, because every time I put one on I saw my mom’s pale, dead face sticking out of it. Years of butt cracks followed my mother’s suicide.
I used a razor, because I wanted control over my death. I wanted to be the arbiter of my life and my death, and a blade gives you that control. With pills, you can fuck up and be a vegetable but not dead, with a shotgun the same thing, with the highway, you can be paralyzed. Blood loss is pretty straightforward.
I read somewhere that if you hang yourself, there is the possibility, if not inevitability, of being alive for a while, albeit paralyzed, while you slowly die. That terrified me. I try not to think of my mom in that position, for obvious reasons.
The door clicked open and in walked Zoe and Lissie.
“Are you sitting in the dark?” Zoe asked as she turned on the lights.
I shrugged, because I had been. It just feels weird to have the lights on while the moon is out.
“Only for a little bit while I was drinking my coffee,” I lied. No need to go into graphic detail about what this day means to me. The only other person I’ve told about my scars is Vic, and he’s living on the periphery of my life right now.
“Sometimes I do that,” Lissie offered. “It’s a cool sensory experience.”
I gestured “see?” at Zoe, trying to get the focus off me.
Zoe, apparently no longer interested, threw down a stack of papers. “Here is all we need to know about Smarty Pants. Let’s get started.”
Vic’s not one for writing letters. I’m not surprised by that either. The guy’s got an impressive music collection, but his bookshelf is quite pathetic. A third of his bookshelves are filled with maps, a few random classics, backcountry guides, and more maps. The rest are just shelves used to display art. He doesn’t have an e-reader either.
Typically, I wouldn’t consider getting serious with anyone who didn’t read. Dean had thousands of books and was so well-read he probably knew more about a book than its author did. Dean turned out to be horrible for me, though, and Vic turned out to be . . . well, everything. I guess that goes to show sometimes you can’t even trust your own rules.
Every now and then, I’ll get an anonymous letter. The first one I received made me nearly shit my pants, thinking Dean actually had returned from the grave to haunt me. It was around letter number five that I could finally open up the envelope without heart palpitations.
I keep all the letters. I’m a fool like that. I can’t move on, but then his letters don’t really give me a chance to move on. Not that I would ever want to take that chance.
Letter One.
Letter Two.
Letter Three (later the same day as Two).
Letter Four.
Letter Five.
Letter Six.
In Letter Seven, he gave me the rare opportunity to reply to his message; I didn’t. It was too hard. His letters keep me tethered to him in a way that I need, but by not responding I can continue to lie to myself that I’m moving on. I need that. I need to believe that there will be a future without Vic, because I can’t have a future with him.
Letter Eight came, and now I don’t know what to think.
I don’t know how to reply to that without jeopardizing my heart. It’s absolutely, without any doubt, the most beautiful thing anyone has written to me. I didn’t need a letter to know I was in love with Vic, though. I knew I was kamikaze-in-love with him two weeks after we met. All his letter does is make it harder for me to break my own heart and kill myself by saying goodbye.
I pulled out my pen and stationary and began to write an old-fashioned letter. It had been years since I’d done this. Everything was electronic now, after all.
I started the letter off by addressing it to him. When all was said and done, tears stained my cheeks like unwanted tattoos and dusk had turned into bitter night.
It was nothing, seeing as how I’d spent hours composing it, but it felt like I’d written it from the inkwell of my soul. Heaps of crumpled paper piled high on the floor and in my trash can. I’d written Vic entire sonnets and trashed them. I’d cursed him out, blaming him for everything. I’d cursed myself out, apologizing for what happened between us. In the end, that two-sentence correspondence was all I could make of our love.
If Vic came home tomorrow or even next month, I would do everything to try and be with him, but he wasn’t going to come home. In truth, I didn’t know if he was ever going to come home. I’d lost my chance with him, and the only thing these letters were accomplishing was pain. Each letter he sent gave me a sizable paper cut on my heart.
I had another dream. I was standing at a clear blue river. Across the way, I could see a woman. You guessed it, she was in white. I could go into the details of how I tried desperately to get across the river, because I wanted to talk to the White Lady. I wanted to ask her why she was always fucking up my life.
Halfway across the river I drowned, or woke up, you can look at it either way. When I woke, I felt refreshed, clear, and un-sad for the first time in months. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t cripplingly depressed.
I have a key to Vic’s apartment, the one he gave me way back when I was living with him. That was only a couple months ago, but it feels like a lifetime. Sometimes I go to his apartment; it’s a habit I can’t break. He’s in my dreams most nights, but recently I had a nightmare that he was dead. I had to go to his place in the middle of the night to make sure his stuff was still there. I fell asleep in his bed, and, instead of smelling like him, I woke up still smelling like me—it was awful.
Vic comes home sporadically, and when he does, we’re magnets. I know when he’s home, it’s like a sixth sense: my “Vic Sense.” I wish I could say I ignore him. I wish I could say that I’ve met someone new, but I haven’t. Whoever I meet vanishes the moment Vic is home. We have an Ouroboros relationship. Breaking up, making up, but never truly one or the other.
There’s a ghost of us playing out our past, present, and future. It exists in our hearts and keeps us both from moving forward. Neither one of us dares to exorcise it.
He simultaneously gives me pain and washes it all away. He is my red river and my blue river; he is the fog and the clearing.
I’ve got a billion and one shitty metaphors and excuses about Vic. When it comes down to it, though, none of them really matter. Only one thing rings true: I will always belong to Vic.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
The Annual Regal Halloween Party
The guitar and the piano go so well together in this song. It’s like they’re communicating to each other. Like me and Lenny. First goes the piano, strong and overpowering. Then comes the guitar, soothing the piano into compliance. It’s a dance inside the melody.
I can see Lenny talking to someone on her Bluetooth. She seems so in control that I nearly second-guess myself. Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Maybe I should finally cut the cord. Maybe it’s time I let her fly free without me. She’s doing well enough.
The place looks fucking fantastic. Like out of a fairytale, or if Tim Burton had a gay wedding. I know every time I show up it throws her further away from this, her dream.
It’s only been a a few months since she sent me the letter telling me to fuck off. I should’ve done that. I should’ve fucked off.
I can’t help it though.
I need her.
She’s my oxygen. She’s my water. She’s my blood. Without Lenny, I’m dust, only vapor. It’s just been a week since I saw her last. I was supposed to be gone for months, but her face haunted me. It was with me every second of every minute of every day I was gone. Leaving her aga
in wasn’t just torture—I could handle torture—leaving her again was death.
I took a hit, one that I’m going to have to pay back eventually, with my boss, and I came back. For her. For us. For everything that we could be. I’m not thinking about what leaving means for me, I’m just thinking about Lenny.
Lenny looked lost in thought, staring at the ballroom, at her masterpiece. Often I wondered if she thought about me like I thought about her. As much as I prided myself on reading her thoughts, she was as inscrutable as the night sea.
I couldn’t read her right now. Was she thinking of me? Or was she thinking of her schedule? I knew she fucked others when I was away, so had I. She’d even had semi-relationships, but they hadn’t lasted. I knew everything about her; I kept tabs on those I loved.
I wanted her to be happy, but of course I wanted her only for myself. I wanted her to be happy with me. I never wanted her to be with anyone else (unless I could watch). The idea that she was getting more than cozy with some random Joe made me want to rip out throats.
I pulled off my masquerade mask and walked toward Lenny. It was now or never. I was going to give her everything. The world, the universe, the fucking New York Knicks if she wanted them. I was going to give her my heart.
“Ms. Moore? The caterer says they’ve run out of gluten free almond cookies.”
I cursed as my assistant, also named Lennox (coincidence and inconvenience, but dammit if she wasn’t the best), gave me the bad news. I was hosting the Regal Halloween party. Just less than one year ago, I’d branched out on my own (with the help of Zoe and Lissie) and started an event planning company. A bunch of clients had followed me, Regal being the most renowned. It was a thrill.
It had been a hectic start, but to know that I was appreciated in the industry once more was the best reward. As I looked around the ballroom, I could almost cry. I had made it. This was my dream. Sure, my heart was empty, but I had fulfilled my dream.
“Well,” I said into my Bluetooth, “we paid for almond cookies the whole night. So, considering the party only just started, tell them that they better find some fast or this party is on them.” I liked sounding like a badass, even if inside I felt like a little girl throwing a tea party for stuffed animals.
“Yes, Ms. Moore.” My assistant signed off.
The ballroom was decorated lavishly. Deep and rich colors draped from the ceiling and black and gold lace filled the spaces in between. Regal had loved my masquerade idea so much the first year I pitched it to them, that they made it a tradition. I looked out into the sea of anonymous, lavishly masked faces, wishing one of them would transform in to him. Less than year since Vic and I had been a couple. I had been on dates since then. I even had a steady boyfriend for about two months, but it didn’t work out. None of them will ever work out.
Occasionally, Vic comes back. He still owns the building I live in. (I have since upgraded my apartment.) I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move out. Every time he comes back, I tell myself I won’t be romantic with him. I will be friendly, but that’s it. After all, you can’t have a relationship with a ghost and that’s what Vic essentially is: a ghost. He flits in and out of my life but isn’t really there.
When he returns, all of my pep talks go right out the window. I’m drawn to him like a moth to a fucking flame. For the day or week or month that he’s in town, it’s beautiful. We’re together and life is beautiful. Then he leaves, and my body is replaced by a black hole.
Slowly, I move on. Gradually, I get my shit together and begin to function without him. Then he comes back and the process is repeated. I’ve contemplated moving to another state, so when Vic comes back, I don’t have to go through the process yet again. I know I’ll never do it. It’s a sick, masochistic ritual that we take part in, but I need it like a Christian needs Christmas. Even if I did leave, I know he’d find me. Just like I’d always find him.
“Lennox.”
I jumped. What kind of person just sneaks up and says your name? Serial killers, that’s who. The Hannibal Lectors of the world . . .
“Vic!” I spun around, smiling so brightly I swear I could have lit the ballroom on my own. “I thought you were going to be gone for at least a month?” I asked him, not even caring what the answer was. Vic was here, in person. Vic, my Vic, had come back. My heart pounded in my chest, threatening to burst.
“Yeah, well. I couldn’t miss your party,” Vic grinned.
My knees turned into Jell-O. How do I survive his absences? How do I go so long without seeing that shit-eating grin?
I shook my head, unable to believe what I was seeing. It had to be a mirage. Vic had just been here last week. I never get to see him so soon again after he leaves. “You’re always gone for so long,” I said. I tried to hide the sadness that leaked through my voice.
“It’s hard to stay away with such an enticing woman waiting for me,” Vic purred, moving us into a dark corner.
The way I’d designed the layout meant there were lots of shadows. It was supposed to be haunting and mysterious. We weren’t hidden, but if someone were to walk by, they wouldn’t be able to see us much less tell what we were doing unless they actually stopped, walked up to us, and peered very closely.
I put my hands up to his chest. “I’m not waiting for you, Vic,” I said as firmly as I could muster. It was a total lie. I was waiting for him. I would always be waiting for him. I might as well put a candle on my windowsill and call it a day. Still, I wanted to pretend that I was a big girl. After all, I had a big girl company and wore big girl panties. Right?
Vic moved his hands along the curve of my waist, and I could feel my resolve melting with each touch.
“The best part of my assignments is when they end. I used to love my job, but now I can’t wait till they’re over. I get to see you.” Vic stared deeply into my eyes, as though he were seeing me for the first and last time. He dove down into my neck. “I get to smell you and feel you. I try to memorize every aspect of you before I leave, Lenny, but it’s never enough.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” I pleaded. Every time he left, my heart cracked a little bit more. If we kept going on this way, my heart would be one giant crevasse. I didn’t have the strength to leave him completely nor did I have the strength to be with him entirely. At least when we were together, we never mentioned the giant elephant in the room.
“To you?” Vic scoffed. “What can I possibly be doing to you that you haven’t already done to me? God, Lenny, you torture me.”
“I torture you?” I exclaimed, pushing him away.
He accepted the push and stood there looking like a puppy that had just been kicked.
I barely ever saw Vic anything but demanding and confident. I summoned all of my confidence to ignore his pain and have mine acknowledged.
“You swoop in after months away and use up all of me. Then you toss me aside and jet off like James Bond to be with exotic women and save the world. It takes me all the minutes until your next visit to piece myself together. You shatter me.” I heaved, feeling like I’d just thrown up.
Vic slammed his fist against the wall behind me, nearly missing my head. “Dammit, Lennox!”
I glared, refusing to cow tow to his intimidation techniques.
“I’m not James Bond. I don’t do exotic women. I do reconnaissance that no one else can. I’ve nearly died getting distracted by you—”
“I haven’t done anything!” I interrupted.
“I keep thinking about you and what you’re doing!” Vic breathed against my neck and said, “Who you’re doing. I can’t stand the idea that you’re with some other man. I nearly got my team killed because I couldn’t keep my head out of your pussy.”
My eyes widened at his words and my core clenched.
We both stood still. Bodies in masquerade moved around us, the music pounded, and time moved on, but we stayed the same. In stasis, just like our relationship.
“It doesn’t change anything,” I finally said.
&n
bsp; “I know,” Vic replied. “But goddammit, Lennox, I love you.” Vic pierced my mouth with his tongue.
God she tasted fucking incredible. I will never get over the taste. Like maraschino cherries and fresh water. It replenished me and yet made me crave more.
I pushed Lenny harder into the wall, groaning as she curled her thin fingers around my neck. When I’d envisioned our meet up, this was not how it went. I’d planned on pouring out my soul. Telling her how I needed her, how we were meant to be together—all that shit.
I did not plan on ramming her against the wall like a sex-crazed animal. But damn, when she looked at me with her dark blue eyes and uncertain, moving lips, I was furious. I needed to show her.
I needed to claim her. How goddamn caveman was that? Fuck it. She was mine.
Lenny released a breathy sigh. “Vic,” she moaned. I gripped her lower back, bringing her body toward mine.
“Yeah, baby?” If there’s one sound that will make a man do anything, anything at all, it’s the sound of his woman saying his name. When Lenny said my name in that breathy, gasping way, I was ready to slay a dragon for her.
Hell, I was ready to create and breed a dragon, just so I could slay it for her.
“I need you, Vic.” Lenny gasped as I pulled her leg around my waist. I was gonna explode, ready to come like teenage boy. When she said those words, I wanted to throw her on the ground and mark her in front of everyone. I didn’t want there to be any doubt that Lennox Moore belonged to Vic Wall.
“You have me, Lennox,” I hissed. Honestly, I’m not exaggerating when I say I’m about to blow a load in my pants. Just being in proximity of Lenny is enough for me to get a raging hard-on, so when she’s clawing at my back, apparently too hot to care about the fact that we’re in public, it takes all of my willpower not to jizz my jeans.
You Own Me (Owned Book 1) Page 26
