by Stasia Black
“Here, have mine. I’ve eaten a million of these.” Kennedy pushes his barely eaten one toward me. Is that why he didn’t eat very much? He saw me pigging out and wanted to give me his?
“No, no,” I exclaim, waving my hands. “One is enough to stuff me.” I’m not joking either. The rich fare is definitely taking its toll.
“Suit yourself,” he says, pushing the soufflé bowl to the side. “I think it’s time for bed.”
The dark glint is back in his eyes. He gets off his bar stool, takes my hand, and then before I can really register what he just said or what it means, he’s walking with me firmly in the direction of the bedrooms.
Outside my door, he cups my face in his hands.
His features are so open, eyes earnest. He doesn’t say anything, but his lips come close.
I pull back without thinking.
“Not here.” It’s my knee-jerk response. I have rules.
His eyebrows drop slightly as he looks into my eyes, his hands still cupping my face. “I get that you need that, out there.” He gestures with his head to the outside world. “And I’m happy to give it to you.” One side of his mouth quirks up. “It’s hot as hell.”
Then his face goes serious and he steps into my space so that his chest touches mine, pressing my back against my bedroom door. His hands slide from my cheeks to my neck and then down to my shoulders, onward to my arms and down to my hands where he intertwines his fingers with mine. It’s such a sweet, intimate gesture.
“But I want us to be more. I want you in my bed. I—” he breaks off before looking back up at me. “There are things I’ve done in my life I’m not proud of, but I’m trying to change. You make me want things I didn’t even know someone like me could hope for.” One of his hands slides around to cup the back of my head. “You make me feel things—” He presses his forehead to mine, then presses his nose against the side of my nose, nuzzling me in that intimate way of his where I feel like he’s breathing in my soul.
With the hand still holding mine, he starts to draw me down the hallway. “Come to my bed.”
My head and body are clouded with all things Kennedy. But one phrase stands out from all the others.
There are things I’ve done in my life I’m not proud of.
Like stealing a man’s business from him when he had everything to lose.
“I can’t,” I cry, breaking away from him and running back to my room. I close the door with a slam and press my back against it. I blink furiously against tears, but soon they’re coursing down my cheeks.
Damn it. Goddamn it. My whole body shakes as I cry. The tears keep coming no matter how much I swipe them away. How dare he make me care enough to cry for him? After what he did to Dad? But knowing that my rejection hurt Kennedy, that he’s just down the hallway in pain because of me… God, that’s ripping into me too.
I put a hand to my chest and rub in circles, trying to soothe the ache there. It doesn’t help. Ever since I’ve known Kennedy, all he’s done is break himself open wider and wider to let me in. And what do I do? Slam the door in his face, figuratively and literally.
But whatever he’s feeling now is nothing to what’s coming. Not even a drop in the bucket.
I haven’t done anything yet. Not really.
What if I don’t ever go through with it?
The dangerous thought makes the air choke in my lungs for a second.
Because what about justice? What about my father? He died and I vowed revenge. During the worst of the past two years, it was what kept me going.
Or was it? Wasn’t it Enzo that kept me going? I wanted to make a better life for him. Isn’t hope a better reason for living than hate?
But God, it’s too late for second thoughts or regrets. I’m in too deep. It’s not just me and Kennedy in this. There’s Francisco and the 12th Streeters. Enzo’s with them.
But…
What if I could get Enzo away safely?
Oh my God, what am I even thinking? Have I really come this far to turn back at the last minute?
But then my stomach squeezes, remembering the look on Kennedy’s face as I pulled away from him a few minutes ago.
Kennedy.
Before I can overthink it, I jerk the door open and run down the hallway toward his room.
I know which one is his because I’ve delivered his food here. I knock but there’s no answer.
“Kennedy?”
No answer.
“Kennedy? It’s me. Look, I’m sorry.”
When there’s still no answer, I try the knob. It’s unlocked so I push inside. “Kennedy?” I ask, my voice tentative.
I’ve never been inside his bedroom before. He always instructed me to just leave food outside the door. I’m not sure what I expected, but the stark room without any decorations isn’t it. It looks like a guest bedroom or something at a hotel. There aren’t any personal touches. No pictures. No knickknacks anywhere. Not even any clothes on the floor. He must be neat to the point of obsession.
“Kennedy?”
Again, no answer. But then I hear a noise from behind one of the doors.
Maybe he’s in the bathroom?
After everything we’ve been through, there’s not really a line of intimacy we haven’t crossed. I walk on quiet footsteps over his plush carpet to the door I heard the noise from. I push the door open quickly and then I freeze.
Because there on the floor of what appears to be a closet is the person that I’ve come to care a great deal about, but— He doesn’t look anything like the dignified or put-together man I know.
No, instead he’s in his boxers on the floor with half a Twinkie shoved in his mouth, remnants of other snack foods smeared on his face and all over his hands. He’s looking at me, eyes wide with abject terror. He just sits there, frozen for several long seconds. And then he runs at me, trying to shove me out of the room.
“Kennedy!”
He keeps shoving at me, any part he can get a hand on to push me from the room. I smack at his arm, losing all patience and gentleness. The next time he tries to push me, I use his momentum and pull him out of the room with me. He tumbles onto the ground in the open light of his pristine bedroom. There’s chocolate and pastry cream all over his cheeks, even some in his hair.
What the hell?
He turns away from me and cowers into a ball. “Go,” he shouts, his gruff voice all gravel. “Just go!”
Oh my God. What happened to this beautiful man? I don’t know why the realization is just hitting me now for the first time—that I might not be the only one with history.
He never talks about his past. His family, or lack thereof. I did research on him before embarking on this. Rags to riches, the newspaper articles said. I watched that stupidly overwrought documentary. I knew he grew up poor and lost his mom, but there’s obviously more to the story. Where did Kennedy Benson really come from?
I walk on unsteady feet to where he’s crouched. When I lay a hand on his bare back, he flinches away.
“Come with me, honey,” I say.
His entire body is strung as taut as an overwound guitar string as I take him by the upper arm and encourage him to his feet. He keeps his face turned away from me, but he follows when I lead him toward another open door that I can now see is the bathroom.
He flinches and keeps his face averted when I click on the light. I take him to the shower and turn on the spray, making sure it’s a good temperature before I lead him inside.
I step inside right behind him even though I’m still in my dress from the club. I don’t care. Life is topsy-turvy. Up is down and down is up. I massage shampoo into my hands and then through Kennedy’s hair. He’s several inches taller than me and I have to lift up on tiptoe.
That’s when Kennedy drops to his knees and bows his head before me. He bends his body so that his forehead is to the tiled floor. It’s a position of shame and I have the feeling that’s why he’s adopted it more than out of any desire to make it easier for me to wash him.
Why? Why Kennedy? Why are you breaking my heart like this? Don’t you see, I need to hate you? Don’t you understand that’s the only way I’ll get through this?
I take the soap with me and drop to my knees beside him. I force his face up with my hand underneath his chin.
“Don’t you bow your head to anyone, Kennedy Benson,” I whisper as I gently rub soap over his cheeks and mouth. For the first time since I’ve entered his rooms, his lowered eyes rise and meet mine.
They’re heavy with unspoken shame.
I shake my head at him. “Don’t you dare let anyone or anything make you feel lesser. You are beautiful and amazing and so deserving of everything good and wonderful in this life.”
So much more deserving of someone than a poisonous liar like me.
I rinse his face and then lean in and kiss him gently.
He allows me to finish washing his body, never taking his eyes off me. Eventually I draw off his boxers. Even though he’s naked in the hot spray, the moment doesn’t turn sexual. No, this is just me taking care of him.
I don’t know what that was about in his closet… Or well, I don’t know if I can call that a closet exactly. More like a pantry stuffed to the max with junk food. There’s definitely something whack going on with that, but it doesn’t change the Kennedy Benson I’ve come to know and care about.
Because I do care about him, damn it. I can’t deny that anymore. Whatever happened nine years ago with my father…whatever Kennedy did back then… God, I still don’t know how to reconcile that with the man I…have feelings for. Mixed up, complex feelings.
We step out of the shower and Kennedy towels off, then pulls on a silk robe. I step out and Kennedy turns me so that my back is to him. Without a word, he unzips my sodden dress and peels it off my body. Then he turns me back around to face him. His gaze doesn’t drop even though my peaking breasts are thrust toward him. Instead he reaches out toward a peg beside the shower and grabs a second robe, this one terry cloth. He moves around behind me and helps me into the plush robe.
I blink, so confused by this entire night and the feel of the soft, warm robe around me.
After we’re both covered up, Kennedy nods for me to follow him and then heads out of the bathroom, through his bedroom, and toward his balcony.
I hurry to follow him. I’ve never seen him in a mood like this before. I don’t know what to think about it.
Kennedy doesn’t wait for me. By the time I get there, he’s already on the balcony in a chair right beside the ledge, one leg propped up, lighting a cigarette. Another secret. I didn’t even know he smoked. He’s looking out at the lights of San Francisco, the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance.
“You don’t want me.” He draws in a long suck on his cigarette.
“That’s not true,” I say explosively.
He laughs, a harsh sound I’ve never heard before. “Even the woman who gave birth to me hated my guts. Pretty sure I can tell when someone doesn’t want me.” He continues staring out into the distance. “You might like what I can give you. The public sex. That thrill. But anyone can give you that. You don’t want me.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I bite back. He thinks I would let just anybody— Does he actually believe what he’s saying? But by the despondent, cold look on his face, I can tell he does.
“Tell me about the closet.” I make it a command. In the mood he’s in, I don’t think he’d respond to softness.
He shrugs, still staring outwards and not looking at me. “I was seven when Dad took off. He said Mom had lost her looks and was an ugly fatass no one could want. He didn’t say anything to me.” Kennedy waves the hand holding the cigarette. He speaks impersonally like all of it happened to someone else.
“He barely noticed I was alive when he was there. Funny thing is, Mom wasn’t even big then. Maybe a size ten. She looked great. Dad was just a jackass who had played at being an adult for a few years, then decided he was tired of it. Barely even that. It was Mom bringing in the bigger paycheck. That was part of the problem, I guess. They fought about money all the time. Anyway, he was done with us, so he ditched us.”
Kennedy takes another long drag. “But Mama loved the bastard. Him leaving gutted her. And damn if she didn’t take that parting shot to heart. The one about her being ugly and fat. She believed no one would ever love her again because of her so called weight problem.” He exhales, the smoke rising into the sky.
“So fuck if she didn’t start making Dad’s prophecy true. With a goddamned vengeance. She ate everything she could get her hands on. I guess she’d had problems with eating disorders before—I didn’t find that out until much later. Yo-yo diets. That kind of shit.”
He stubs out his cigarette and then immediately lights another one. “Becoming a chef had helped her manage it. She said she controlled the food instead of it controlling her. When I was young, she worked at some of the best restaurants in New York. She was this great, interesting person. She had spent a year in France during college before meeting my fucknut of a dad. There was even a time when I was a kid when she still had that…” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, that shine inside her. But Dad wore her down, bit by bit, day by day until he shattered her the day he left.”
His eyebrows drop and his cheeks hollow on a deep inhale. “Anyway, the mom I’d known as a little kid was completely gone within a year of my dad leaving. Almost immediately she started up with the obsessive eating.” Another long stream of smoke billows into the sky on his exhale.
I frowned, confused. “So she had…bulimia?”
“Nah, she didn’t throw anything up. I mean, yeah, she did make herself sick at first, but not on purpose. She eventually trained herself to keep it down even when she’d eat fast. She’d just eat everything in the house. She’d go out, buy groceries, and eat it all within days. She ballooned to four hundred pounds the first year. She lost her job because she was caught stealing food. She ate her way through six months of unemployment checks. We lost the house and had to move to a shit apartment. Finally she just stopped leaving the house altogether.”
Another long pull on the cigarette. “By the time she was five hundred pounds we started getting disability checks. She got diabetes. A bunch of other shit. The checks went to food, of course. I was the one doing the shopping at that point since she couldn’t leave the house.”
He continues, his voice just as toneless, “But even when we had the money, it was hard finding food. We lived in a food desert. You know what I’m talking about?”
I shake my head. Food desert. Maybe I’ve heard the term before but I can’t remember the context.
He laughs and it’s so bitter and caustic, I swear it’s cutting me up on the inside.
“It’s where there are no grocery stores with fruit or vegetables or anything remotely healthy in a five-mile radius of where you live. We were in one of those. So the only food available was the kind of shit I keep in there.” He waves a disgusted arm back in the direction of his food closet. “But even then, I would try to make the money last all month, only go every few days and keep some for myself.” His face scrunches in self-disgust. “I kept food from my own mother. She’d be crying in the other room for it and I’d hoard it in my room, shoving it in my mouth so she didn’t come out, see it, and take it.”
He looks up at me, eyes meeting mine for the first time since I’ve come out here. He stubs his cigarette out furiously. In the dim light from the apartment, I can see the sheen over his eyes. “All day long, she cried for more food. She knew I was keeping it from her. I was her darling boy, wonderful and handsome on the days I brought her a stash.” He shakes his head, his mouth twisting, “But on the days I didn’t bring her as much as she wanted, she hated me. Said she wished I’d never been born.”
His hands shake as he looks away from me and pulls another cigarette from the small box and tries to light it.
I reach over and pull the lighter out of his hand. “Stop it. How old
were you when all this was happening?”
His entire body is trembling. There’s a chill in the air tonight, yes, but I have a feeling it has little to do with the cold.
“Kennedy, how old were you?”
“Well, like I said, I was seven when my father left. About nine when I started doing the shopping.”
I can’t help the anguished noise that escapes my throat. He carried the burden of a mentally ill mother who would’ve starved him if she’d had her way. All when he was just a little boy? And then she’d made him feel guilty for every piece of food he put in his mouth?
“Oh honey.” I pull him into my arms and stroke his back. It’s a reversal of earlier in the evening and he sinks against me.
“Come with me.” I stand and tug on his arm until he stands up as well. He follows me robotically as I lead him back inside.
I push him onto his bed and for the first time in minutes, his eyes light with something other than numbness. Surprise. Wonder.
And still, the underlying pain and guilt that he always carries. How have I not seen it before?
God, am I really so wrapped up in myself? He puts up such a good front all the time. He’s confident. Always in control. Why didn’t I ever ask myself what drives that unrelenting ambition of his?
The same ambition that made him run my father out of business.
I feel the stab in my own heart as I reach out to caress his face.
God, we’re both so broken. What he went through all those years… His mother choosing her demons above her own son.
Kennedy’s still watching me with wide eyes as I untie first his robe and then my own. Followed by lowering my body over his.
My father died because of this man’s actions. But I embrace that truth and the hurt of it as I wrap my body around him. I take the pain in my heart at the same time as I want to heal every wound Kennedy’s ever endured.
