by Elle Maxwell
I’d say my ex-soulmate suddenly being released from prison and showing up at my house definitely qualifies.
“And tacos?” I add hopefully as she checks our cabinets for brownie mix.
“I’ll put in an order from Anna’s.”
I thank her and sit back in a slump, resting my head on the couch cushion. Anna’s Taqueria is a local Mexican chain, and their food is our absolute favorite. After what just transpired, I seriously need to seek comfort at the bottom of their guacamole.
Marisa joins me on the couch a few minutes later and hands me a glass. A quick sniff tells me she’s mixed one of our favorite cocktails—tequila, soda water, fresh lime juice, and triple sec. We discovered this recipe our junior year of college, and it’s become our preferred tequila drink since neither of us can stand syrupy margarita mixes.
“You’re a goddess,” I say gratefully after taking my first sip. This will be perfect as an accompaniment to our tacos and guacamole.
“So, why the brownies?” she asks.
I can smell them starting to bake—she whipped that mix up fast! You’ve got to love a best friend who’s good in a crisis.
“Graham was here when I got home.”
She darts her eyes around as though expecting to find paw prints on our living room floor. I let out a tiny laugh and shake my head.
“I didn’t let him inside. Geez, Ris. He was on the front steps when I walked up.”
“Well, you can’t deny the boy is persistent.”
“He is that.” I take another long gulp of my drink before continuing. “I told him this isn’t appropriate behavior and asked what he wanted.”
“And what did he say?” Marisa prompts when I pause.
“He said he wants … everything. That he wants to be ‘us again.’”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit.”
I take another big drink from my glass, which is already nearly empty. I’ve consumed way too much alcohol this week—I never drink this many nights in a row! It’s something to blame on Graham Wyatt along with the 1,000 calories of baked chocolate goodness I’ll be consuming tonight.
I stare at our blank television screen without really seeing it, my mind once again lost in the thick blanket of contemplation that’s been fogging my brain ever since he left.
“It’s kind of … sweet,” Marisa says hesitantly.
“It’s confusing,” I correct her. “I really want to hate him, Ris. I want to look at him and only see the guy who spent the last five years in prison. But he doesn’t look like the guy who betrayed me and ripped my heart out. He looks like the guy who was the love of my life, the one I thought I’d spend forever with—only hotter, with the facial hair and the muscles!” I groan in frustration.
“So, you do want to give him a chance?”
“No!” I answer quickly. My brain gets to make the executive decision on this one, no matter how much my body and heart sulk about it. Those two have short memories—they’re only concerned with how he makes us feel, but my brain remembers how those feelings lead to devastating pain. “I told him not to do this anymore. It really isn’t healthy behavior. He needs to move on.”
“Are you turning your Psych degree on him because you don’t want to acknowledge that you still have feelings for him?”
“All I have is some nostalgia I’m more than strong enough to conquer, and the other feelings I can handle with a vibrator.”
She laughs and tips her glass to mine—probably toasting to vibrators, because it’s Marisa—and we both drink. My cup is officially empty, so she heads back to the kitchen to refill it for me.
I’m proud that my words sounded so certain, my voice firm and resolute. Now I need to actually be that strong, because inside I am not quite so certain.
I was once addicted to Graham Wyatt, and while I may be in recovery, the temptation is still there.
Here’s something that bothers me: While I loved the Twilight series as much as the next millennial girl (Team Edward, thank you very much), ever since Graham’s arrest I’ve had a new perspective. In particular, the people who swoon over that “you’re my special brand of heroin” bullshit aren’t thinking clearly.
Heroin, people.
It is the farthest thing from healthy to have someone in your life with that kind of power over you. The thing about heroin is that when you don’t have it, your body can’t function, the withdrawal so intense you are physically ill, incapacitated for days, weeks even. (I wonder if Graham went through that when he was arrested and had no access to drugs—was he addicted to them at the same time I was addicted to him?)
Addiction is not cute. It is not something to moon over or wish for in a great love story. There’s nothing romantic about debilitating co-dependence. Obsession is not the same thing as love—the same way needing another person is not a sign of a healthy relationship or a stable sense of self. Because, just like heroin, when the person you’re addicted to is gone, it’s excruciating. Life-threatening.
I survived coming down from him once, and I won’t put myself through it again. I am five years Graham Wyatt sober, and I’m not going to break that streak, no matter how strong the craving.
The fall isn’t worth the high.
08. DEVIL’S ADVOCATE
Mackenzie
“Ooh!” Marisa squeals. “What is it today?” She holds out her arms to me and flexes her fingers in the universal gesture of “gimme gimme.”
“I haven’t opened it yet—here, you do it.”
I toss the simple white envelope in my hand toward her, and she catches it. I’m glad someone is having fun with this, because all I feel is exhaustion.
Every day for the last week, I’ve come home to find an envelope taped to my front door, its exterior bearing only my name in handwriting I could recognize anywhere. The very sight of it smacks me in the face with nostalgia, the way encountering a scent from your past can immediately send you back to that imprinted memory. Graham.
Every day the envelope contains a piece of paper bearing a quote and nothing else.
“‘In case you ever foolishly forget, I am never not thinking of you’—Virginia Woolf,” Marisa reads aloud. “I like that one.”
“Pour me one of those?” I ask her, indicating the wine glass sitting beside her at the kitchen counter. I kick off my heels and finish peeling myself out of all the layers today’s frigid temperatures called for.
When I’ve taken my first sip of wine and pulled out the stool beside her at the counter, I tentatively reach over and slide the note toward me with one finger. I try to barely touch it as though it’s contaminated. I’ll look at it for a minute, drown in the letters penned by a hand that once knew every inch of me, then add it to the others in the pile on my closet floor.
“What does he hope to accomplish with this, Ris?” I groan. We’ve had some form of this conversation every day since the notes began appearing, but I still can’t wrap my mind around it.
“It’s romantic,” she says, her heaviest accent coming out with the inflection so her “r” rolls, the syllables undulating sensuously.
“Does he really think he can fix this with clever Googling? This cutesy stunt might fix things between teenagers who had a fight, but not the kind of baggage we have.”
“What’s his alternative? You won’t talk to him.”
I shoot her my fiercest glare.
“I’m just playing devil’s advocate!” she protests defensively. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just pointing out there’s something to be said for how hard he’s trying.”
“You know what would be trying?” I jump up from my stool as my voice rises on the same wave as my emotions. “Maybe writing me an actual letter where he explains himself … FIVE YEARS AGO!”
Our apartment seems to echo with the reverberations from my shouting.
“Did that feel good?” Marisa asks calmly as she sips her wine. She appears completely unfazed by my outburst.
I take a big breath and then exhale it out lou
dly, the way I have my yoga students do after a challenging pose.
“Yes, actually.”
“Okay then. Now sit your little culo down and drink your wine.”
* * *
It’s 10:00 PM and I’m lying in bed, willing myself to fall asleep so I can go to a 6:00 AM yoga class in the morning.
My phone chimes with a text, the lit screen a small beacon of brightness in the dark room. The message is from Jim, who I’d completely forgotten in the midst of all the Graham shenanigans. He wants to go out tomorrow night. I hesitate, experiencing a reluctance I haven’t experienced in prior interactions with Jim. I enjoy his company, we have good conversations, and although he’s only moderately attractive, he was a pretty good kisser the time we got that far. Before I can rethink it, I text him back accepting his invitation. Maybe Jim is precisely what I need to get my mind off Graham. Step away from the drama for a night and spend time with an adult.
I’m also re-thinking my standard dating timeline. Going to bed with Jim earlier than planned could help take the edge off some of this frustration. Dealing with Graham’s reappearance during a months’ long sexual drought is like going grocery shopping when you’re hungry. You don’t need all that food, and you end up making impulse purchases as a response to your immediate cravings rather than real life.
It takes me a long time to fall asleep. When I do, I dream of walking down the aisle of a grocery store, shoving Nutter Butters into my mouth from a ripped open package in my cart. At the cash register, a shirtless Graham scans and bags my purchases, but not before snatching a couple of Nutter Butters that he stuffs into his own mouth.
Calling Dr. Freud … WTF?
* * *
Graham
I make the now-familiar trek up Mackenzie’s driveway and stop at her door. I retrieve the little roll of tape out of my back pocket and pull off a piece that I stick on the envelope clutched between my fingers. I’ve spent a ridiculous amount of time on my laptop at the local Starbucks this week, hours and hours of searching for the perfect quotes to give Mackenzie. Pretty words have never been my skill, so I’m hoping to get through to her with the help of better minds who’ve written about love.
Right as I’ve taped my note to the door, it swings open. I jump back to avoid being hit and come face-to-face with Mackenzie.
“I didn’t think you were home,” I say. Because apparently, I’m only capable of terrible opening lines with this girl.
She rips the envelope off the door and throws it at me. Then her other hand appears clutching a pile of papers that must be my other notes and shoves them at my chest with so much force it would have sent a smaller man onto his ass.
“No more, Graham. Take them all!”
I grip the now crumpled papers with both hands, searching her face to figure out what’s on her mind. She looks pissed, but I can’t figure out why.
“I was trying to tell you how I feel.”
“By stealing quotes from a teenage girl’s Pinterest board?”
Ouch.
“Babe, I don’t do Pinterest,” I quip, going for humor to mask that she’s inflicted a wound.
“Graham, I’m serious. This is … aren’t you tired of this?” She seems tired all of a sudden, her body slouched and her face filled with sadness.
“I’m not tired of you, Mackenzie,” I say softly. “I’ve waited five years for the chance to make things right. I’ve learned patience. I’m not good at this, I know that, but I’m trying.”
I hold up the depressing pile of paper.
“Since you weren’t ready to talk to me, I thought I’d write. I chose the most romantic words I could find.”
“I don’t want their words!” she yells, back to being pissed off. “Don’t you get it? A million words from love poems couldn’t tell me what I need to hear. I want your words, Graham. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Her voice breaks a little, dying off at the end, and for a second, I think she’s going to cry.
“I can do that,” I agree quickly. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Just give me one chance. Dinner, tonight?”
“I can’t tonight. I have plans.”
“With the scarecrow?” The mere thought of him makes my hackles rise.
“His name is Jim, and you need to cut it out with the names. You don’t even know him.”
I shove the papers into my back pocket and take a couple of steps toward her, until I’m close enough to breathe in the fresh scent of her shampoo.
“Is it serious?” I ask.
“It could be.” She takes a step backward as I advance further.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
Her back hits the wall of the house, and I stop inches away, taking in every detail of her that I can while I’m this close. Her hair shines with a million shades of red, orange, and gold in the afternoon sunlight.
“And what if I am?” she asks, eyes glinting with a feisty spark.
I growl and put my hands on the wall on either side of her head, so I’m bracketing her in with my arms. Her chest rises and falls rapidly with her increasingly shallow breaths, but her face never loses that fire.
I lean in, towering over her as I cage her in between my body and the wall.
“Are you sleeping with him?”
My voice has an edge to it, a roughness that I’ve never used with her—it’s the tone I used in prison to intimidate any man who tried to mess with me. Her eyes go wide at the note of authority, but she recovers quickly, lifting her chin defiantly.
“I may just sleep with him tonight.”
My reaction is uncontrollable, primal. I growl again, channeling the animalistic urges stirring with me. I drop my head lower until my lips are brushing the outer shell of her ear. I hear her quick intake of breath as I briefly scrape the scruff on my jaw against that sensitive skin right below her earlobe. Then I speak in a low, dangerous rumble.
“You go ahead and try to prove something to yourself, Kenz. And when Slim puts his hands on you, when you let him kiss you … you remember how it feels when it’s right. You remember why you’re mine.”
My lips travel from her ear to her mouth, and before she can react to my words, I kiss her.
* * *
Mackenzie
This is why they call it chemistry. One second we are two stable elements, safe in equilibrium with inches separating us. In the next second, we collide, and the combination is immediately explosive.
We detonate.
At the first touch of his lips, I forget everything else as my body surges to meet his. There is no awkward repositioning or tentative exploration. Our mouths are not strangers becoming acquainted for the first time—they are puzzle pieces reconnecting, remembering exactly how to join and relieved to once again be complete.
My whole body is alive and coursing with desire. Every scrape of his facial hair across my skin sends chills of pleasure rolling through me. Everywhere our skin touches sparks with fire created by our chemical reaction. He tilts his head at the perfect angle that allows our mouths to fuse together as tightly as possible. Our tongues reconnect and explore so deeply, it’s like we’re trying to devour each other.
I can’t get close enough—my hands fist in his shirt to pull him closer, but he is already flush against me. I feel him hard against my stomach and it adds fuel to my frenzy. His hands grip my waist, his fingers landing where my hipbone meets my pelvis, making me crazy with the teasing proximity to my pulsing core. One hand slips beneath my sweater, and my skin chills for a moment as it’s exposed to the frigid air before the explorations of his wide palm and probing fingers quickly set me back on fire.
I rise to the tips of my toes, wanting more, more. His massive hands grab my ass and squeeze. Without a single pause, we move together, never disconnecting our lips as he lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, tugging his face closer to mine now that we’re level. I twist and tug, hard enough that it must be painful, but he groans with
pleasure and thrusts his hips toward me. This position lines us up perfectly. I grind down on him in shameless, mindless need.
His fingers move to the front of my jeans in an instinctual effort to get rid of the layers separating us. The loosening at my waist as he undoes the button breaks through my lust-induced haze, and I suddenly resurface to reality. I wrench my mouth from his and grab his hand with one of mine to stop him from pulling down my zipper.
“Wait,” I say.
My voice is barely louder than a breath, but he hears me. His eyes open to meet mine. I watch clarity return to him as he, too, remembers where we are. Outside my house in the middle of the day in clear view of the street. In the freezing weather of January, no less.
