by Jade Webb
“Oh, really?” he asks, with a sexy arch of his brow
“Oh, yes,” I say, remembering the time when we had driven down the coast for a quick weekend getaway. We had pulled over to the side of a deserted road, where we had pushed the driver’s seat all the way back and I had ridden Roman. The thrill of possibly being discovered had made my release that much more climatic.
“Yeah,” he admits. “That was pretty good.”
“I think that is when I first fell in love with you.”
“So, you basically fell in love with me for my ability to give you great orgasms?” he asks with a playful glint in his eye.
I roll my eyes and turn around to face him, resting my chin on his chest. “No, it was right before we started, and I was so nervous. I really wanted you, but I was scared of getting caught. And you said something really dorky about how if anyone tried to photograph us or any paparazzi caught us, you would go Rambo on them. It was so lame, but I just remember how safe you made me feel. I fell in love with you in that moment.”
“That’s a terrible story,” Roman says.
I laugh and shrug my shoulders. “I can’t help it. When did you know you loved me?”
I feel Roman stiffen beneath me and I turn to look at him. He wears a smile on his face as a powerful memory takes hold over him. “That first moment I met you, when you came over for dinner. That’s when I knew.”
“That’s impossible. You couldn’t have known.”
Roman shakes his head. “I did. You were just beginning to get really popular, and I remember I had seen you on this TV show earlier in the week. You had been wearing this like, sparkly dress, and I remember you looked so hot. And then, like some weird fantasy, the next day you were in my house. But you looked so different. You didn’t have all that makeup and you just wore these white jeans and this simple top. You looked so beautiful, and you wore every emotion on your face. It was then, I just knew that I wanted to be with you.”
“I admire how sure you always are,” I confess, as I prop myself up to look at him.
Roman brushes his hand through my hair, his blue eyes conveying more than his words ever could. “Only when it comes to you.”
26
Roman
“There’s a technique to this. You need to lick up the sides, and then you work your way from the top down. You don’t want it to melt too quickly.”
Daphni smiles as she demonstrates, her pink tongue darting out and licking up the long, white ice cream cone. Her tongue work has me instantly hard, and I press up behind her so she can feel the evidence of how easily she impacts me.
“Daphni, if you keep doing that, you’re going to end up in that back alley with me buried inside of you,” I tell her, my voice raspy and almost unrecognizable with desire.
Her eyes shoot open as she pulls away and looks down at my clearly visible erection straining against my jeans. She playfully swats my arm, but her eyes glint with a similar desire. “Pervert,” she admonishes.
I steal her ice cream from her hands and take a big bite off the top. “You love it,” I tell her before handing her back her pilfered treat.
She rolls her eyes before sliding her hand in mine. We fall into stride, our fingers interwoven as we walk down the quiet streets. Everything suddenly feels so easy. After we had made love last night, we had followed it up with two encores before finally falling asleep in each other’s arms. We were insatiable, just as we had been seven years ago when we would sneak away for stolen moments in locked closets or hotel rooms. The time only seemed to make the desire we had for each other stronger, more desperate.
“Oh, can we look in here?” Daphni asks, pulling me into a small store before I have a chance to answer.
The bell jingles as she pushes open the door and the strong smell of herbs and flowers hits us as we walk inside. Shelves piled full of old books, pottery, and small sculptures line the store. In the center of the store is an intricate, round table filled with jewelry and strands of necklaces hanging off tree branches. There's a strong whimsical feel to the store, along with a haphazard chaos that lends itself to being one of those places where you could accidentally find yourself lingering for hours.
Daphni’s eyes drag over the store as she slowly explores every corner. She stops when something catches her eye and she pulls her hand away as she walks toward one tall shelf. Her fingers reach out to pick up a large bowl. I follow her and stand behind her, my hands wrapping around her waist.
“That’s beautiful,” I tell her as I watch her fingers trail the bowl. It’s then that I notice the small lines of shiny gold covering the sides and inside of it.
“That is kintsugi.”
We both turn at the sound of the voice at our side. A small woman with white hair braided down her back and large, wire-framed glasses looks over at us. Her face is covered in deep-set wrinkles and she wears a pleasant smile as she looks up at us.
“Excuse me?” Daphni asks.
“Kintsugi,” she repeats. She traces the same gold lines with her short finger covered in silver rings. “You see these golden lines? It’s lacquer. This bowl had broken, and the artist decided that instead of throwing away the pieces, he would use this beautiful, very rare, gold lacquer to put them back together. It’s called kintsugi in Japanese. It’s crafted from the belief that the true beauty is in the flaws, the cracks. Instead of hiding those flaws, we can choose to celebrate them.”
I watch as Daphni inhales a sharp breath and looks over at the woman, her green eyes brimming with unexpected moisture. “That’s beautiful,” she whispers.
The woman places her hand on Daphni’s and offers her a warm, knowing smile. “It is only when we reveal our flaws and imperfections that we can appreciate how authentically beautiful we are. Our suffering gives us beauty.” She tilts her head to look at Daphni, her dark eyes crinkling as she assesses her. A lone tear escapes Daphni's eye and the older woman gingerly wipes it away. “Once you learn to accept your broken pieces, your beauty will change the world," she adds.
Daphni sucks in her lower lip before inhaling a long breath. She continues to look down at the bowl in her hands, holding it against her chest. “Thank you,” she says in a soft whisper to the older woman.
The woman offers a wide, toothy smile before stepping away. Daphni turns to look at me, cradling the bowl in her hands. “I never related to a damn bowl so much in my life," she says with a quiet laugh.
I bring her hand to my lips and place a soft kiss on her palm. “I wish you could see how beautiful you are. How I see you.”
“When I look into your eyes, I can,” she whispers as she lets her head fall against my chest.
I take the bowl from her hands and bring it to the register. Once it’s wrapped, we step back outside and I can sense a new, calm energy radiating from her. I don't think much of fate or destiny, but a part of me knows that we found that bowl for a reason. And while I never thought these words would enter my mind, I will be forever grateful we found that bowl, if only for the smile it put on Daphni's face. Because I would give anything in the world to put a smile on that woman's face every damn day of my life.
I keep Daphni's hand wrapped in mine as we continue to walk through the town, the warm afternoon sun above us. We slow as we pass by an old church, its white walls sparklingly bright against the vibrant blue sky. Three stairs lead up to the front doors, which are wide open and reveal a small chapel inside. Daphni pauses, stopping to read the sign placed on the front lawn, encased in a small glass case. I stand next to her and follow to where she is looking.
Weekly AA Meetings
Sundays at 7:30 p.m.
Main Chapel
“Do you think I should go? It’s tonight,” she asks me, titling her head to look up at me. At this angle, the sun shines perfectly in her eyes, and I can see tiny flecks of sparkling gold. Behind that, I can also see a combination of vulnerability and hope. I wonder if she knows how much of herself she reveals in her eyes, how much her eyes make me fall
even more in love with her.
“I think it might be helpful to be with other people fighting the same demons,” I tell her.
“What if they recognize me?” she asks, biting down on her lip nervously.
“It’s anonymous. If they do recognize you, they’re not going to tell anyone.”
She shakes her head. “You can’t guarantee that,” she says.
“Babe, you can’t guarantee anything,” I tell her as I pull her hands into mine, forcing her to face me. “What you can do is take a risk to try and trust again. There are a lot of terrible people out in the world, but a lot of amazing ones, too.”
She nods, taking a long moment to reflect on my words. “I think I will go. Maybe start putting some of these pieces back together.” She holds up the paper bag containing her bowl. "Maybe aspire to be more like my brave little bowl, here."
27
Daphni
“Welcome everyone. This is our weekly Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. My name is Bill and I am an alcoholic and the secretary of this group. Let us open the meeting with the Serenity Prayer.”
He takes a look around the room, offering a reassuring smile when his eyes catch mine. With Bill leading, the group quietly recites, “God, Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.”
A moment of silence follows the prayer. A moment that feels like eternity as I sit on the hard plastic chair, aware of every single feeling coursing through my body. Why did I do this? What if someone recognizes me? Takes my picture and sells it to the tabloids?
Before I can get too lost in my thoughts, Bill starts to speak again. “At this point, we would like for any new members to please introduce themselves.”
I look up to find eleven sets of eyes watching me. I guess this is my cue.I shift uncomfortably in my seat before standing. The old wood floor creaks beneath me as I stand. Keeping my hands stay coiled in front of me, I look around the room. Instead of seeing mocking faces with camera phones in hand, I see the caring faces of people who are here to listen, to help. The kindness in their eyes gives me the little bit of courage I need to continue.
“My name is Daphni and I’m…I’m an alcoholic.”
This all feels so cliché, like a scene ripped from a movie I've seen. But when I dig my nail into my palm, I realize it's not a dream: this is my life. I quickly sit back down in my seat. I’m nervous, clumsy and uncomfortable and I want to run away. To convince myself that I don’t need this, that I’m not an alcoholic. But I can’t keep lying to myself. There’s too much to risk now. I can’t lose Roman again and if I want to make this work, I need to get help. I need to be here.
“Welcome, Daphni,” Bill, the leader of the group, says as he presses his palms to his knees. “Now as you all already know, we are here as a fellowship of men and women to share our experiences, our success and our failures, to help others recover from their alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking. There are no dues or fees for A.A. membership; we a self-supporting through our own contributions. Our primary purpose is to stay sober and help other alcoholics to achieve sobriety.”
After Bill asks another member of the group, Doug, to read “How it works”, Bill opens the floor for whoever wants to speak.
A woman named Cathy starts. Her chestnut-brown hair is knotted at the back of her head. Her face is worn and tired and she looks like she’s in her mid-forties. When she speaks, however, her voice makes her sound so much younger. She cracks her knuckles as she shares that she almost relapsed this weekend after seven years of sobriety. It was the anniversary of her daughter’s death, and she had a big fight with her husband. Instead of having that drink, though, she called her sponsor, who took her out for a walk. She looks over at another woman, Marilyn, her sponsor, tears brimming in her eyes as she thanks her for the support.
The group claps as she finishes her story and she nods, accepting the accolades. An older woman sitting at my side, Betty, starts to speak next. With her cropped grey hair and bright blue eyeshadow, she looks like a rocker grandmother. She has been sober now for twenty-seven years. She had been abused as a child by a close family friend and for decades carried the shame with her. She turned to alcohol to numb her pain, and ended up losing her whole family when she chose the booze over them. I feel my own eyes water as I listen to her. Her story resonates so strongly with me. Like Betty, I manipulated those around me to do what I wanted and to hide my addictions. I would take out my anger and pain on those who loved me. Without fail, I would disappoint those around me in a futile attempt to sabotage myself. I was a powder keg and I was one more binge away from losing it all like Betty had. I didn’t want that for myself. I wanted to be free of this all. And seeing the faces of support around me, I feel a new found sense of hope bloom inside of me. I’m not alone. I can conquer this.
“Would anyone else like to share?” Bill asks as he looks around the circle.
Something inside me forces me to raise my hand. And before I can pull it back down, Bill nods toward me. I take a deep breath, summoning all my strength. Some innate force inside of me wants to share my story. Hearing everyone else share their stories tonight, seeing their ability to open up and be so vulnerable, made me want to say something, too.
“I’m kind of lost,” I start. “About seven years ago, I had something really terrible happen to me. And it felt like I became broken. So broken that it would be impossible to ever put me back together again without the world seeing how truly destroyed I was. So I stopped trying and I pushed everyone away and I used alcohol and pills to try and fix it. I don’t know why. I saw how it destroyed my mother and still…I needed to not feel anymore. And obviously that didn’t work out too well. I had a few breakdowns that were humiliating, to say the least. And then today, I realized that maybe I could try and fix some of those broken pieces, put them back together again. I think I was so scared to try, because I didn't want anyone to know. I wanted the world to think I was perfect. Because if I wasn't perfect, no one would love me." I shake my head as I feel tears brim in the corners of my eyes. "But I don't care about any of that anymore. Because more than I want to be loved, I want to love myself again." I look up around the room and see eleven sets of eyes, all watching me with compassion and understanding. Marilyn swipes a tear from her cheek and offers me a warm smile.
"Thank you," I whisper to the group as my own tears begin to trickle down my cheeks.
Betty clasps my hand, offering me a reassuring squeeze. I let her hold my hand through the rest of the meeting; I’m surprised how comforting I find this stranger’s touch.
As the group continues to share, each person narrates their victories and their challenges, their proudest moments and the times that crippled them. It’s one of the most humbling experiences of my life: a moment of true connection with a room full of strangers.
The two hours pass by quickly, and I thank everyone before walking outside with Betty. Roman is waiting for me, leaning against a tall tree. I smile the instant I see him. His features are obscured by the pale light of the street lamp, but I’d recognize him anywhere. And when I see him, I feel a visceral, chemical reaction in my body. Because Roman is more than just a lover or a friend: he’s the best parts of me, and my inspiration for choosing to live life rather than just endure it.
At my side, Betty lets out a low whistle. “Damn, girl, you don't need to be loving yourself if you have a man like that wanting to love you." She fans herself dramatically. "If that man wanted to love me, I would let him love me." She tilts her face at me, winking. “All night long,” she adds, before she walks toward the parking lot.
I choke back a laugh as I walk toward Roman. As I join him, he slides his hand over mine. “How did it go?”
“It was really, really nice,” I tell him. “I think this will be something good for me.”
He leans over and places a soft kiss on the crown of my head. “I’m proud of you."
>
As we walk, our hands interlocked, a comforting, serene feeling comes over me. Everything in this moment just feels so…right. Thoughts of my stalker, of the label and needing to finish recording my album, of Drizzle—everything that was so important to me a week earlier—somehow feels so inconsequential and insignificant now. All that matters is this moment, this time with Roman.
We walk into the dark house, the only sounds the soft crashing of the waves outside and our breaths. In silence, we climb up the stairs, back toward his room. Once inside, Roman sits down on the bed and brings me to stand between his legs. I drape my arms around his shoulders as I look down at him. His eyes have always been so open. I can read his every thought just by looking into his ocean-blue eyes. And tonight is no different. Tonight they show me all the love he has. For me.
I lean down and I kiss him. Soft and slow, our lips join as our breaths become one. His hands reach up to my waist, under my shirt, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on my skin.
I drop my head back, my eyes closing, as Roman’s hands move upward, slip under my bra, and reach for my breasts, squeezing them. I moan as I tighten my grip around his neck. His touch electrifies me, makes me weak at the knees. I crave it. Everything from him, I crave.
As his hands move to my back, unclasping my bra, I step back. I feel a swell of power as I watch Roman’s eyes, heated with desire, follow my every movement. I want him to feel the same hopeless attraction I feel whenever he touches me. I want him to know what it feels like for me to be completely and totally owned by him.
Locking my eyes on his, I reach for the hem of my shirt and slowly lift it over my head. Next, I lift my shoulders and shrug out of my bra. Keeping my eyes on his, I skim my hands down the sides of my body until they meet at my belly. I unbuckle my shorts and then slowly lower the zipper.
