Appreciation

Here’s the thing kids.  If someone/something isn’t in your life, they/it aren’t supposed to be.  Holding on to memories of that, which isn’t, does you no good.  If you can’t beam with pride at those around you and you're babbling beauty about someone who isn't…..Release. 

I’m not quite sure where life is taking me, but lately I’ve been kind of ebbing in a place of purity. By which, I mean, what is, is.  The rest, fuck it.  If it’s around me and it’s real, I buy it.  Wondering, thinking, regretting, questioning – meh, not worthy of my thought.  This is all I have.  Now.  And I’m lucky because I have a lot of awesome around me.

Sure, I’m human and I remember moments – I remember laughter.  I remember when.  I remember and miss shit that hurts and makes no sense but then when isn’t then anymore and then isn’t now so why bother?

I’m not an easy person to love.  I’m a selfish pain in the ass but I’m loyal as fuck, which is why I presume the people around me stick around.  And now, they are all I care to think about.  The grass isn’t greener.  Its just grass.  I’d rather play on ground that I’ve tended to, than to leap sideways for the hope of something that might be better – cause I am slowly beginning to realize, there is no better.  I’ll take years of allegiance over moments of ambivalence any day.

And so that is what this is all about.  Don’t think about what you don’t have, cause you aren’t supposed to have it.  And you’re better off for not.  Trust me.   The Universe gives you exactly what you are supposed to have and has placed you exactly where you are supposed to be.  Look for more, try to manipulate it, and you will be without far greater. 

Just be, people.  Appreciate.  Stop.  Listen.  Breathe.  Say thank you to those that put up with all of your ambivalent bullshit because chances are, they would be far better served elsewhere but they happen to love you too much to look.  Say thanks, wave your hands in the air, shake off those that missed out on you and embrace those that haven’t.

Capiche?  

Thanks for listening. And here's a little ditty to enjoy...

The End....For Now...

It’s March 28, 2012.  This story is done.  

I had been sort of vibrating in a state for weeks with memories hovering over me, unwelcome.  Moments that I felt had long since shifted away from me were flooding back.  Drowning me in emotions I didn’t want to remember but that I could no longer contain.  All of this writing.  Resurfacing.  Plaguing.  My release.  I was finding myself pacing.  Edgy.  Wondering.  Thinking far too much.  Like the old days.  I was her again. Reactionary.

I broke down last weekend.  I typed his name into Google and clicked enter.  There he was, right there on Twitter.  Wow.  How modern of him playing in the arena he had always mocked me for.  He would be displeased to be so easily found, to have himself so public.  I quickly scan his Tweets and easily stalk on over to the girl I had heard he was seeing.   I’m not proud of it and it’s not something of my norm but curiosity got the best of me.  I needed to know.  A handful of Tweets down, she had posted a picture of them.  I stop.  I take a deep breath and click. 

I look at the picture.  I know that I know him.  The structure of his face looks familiar but there is nothing about it that resembles him.  I literally hear myself gasp.  It’s him. He must be sick.  Something is wrong with him.  No, Tarah, nothing is wrong with him.  You would’ve heard – you would’ve known.  His hair once chocolate is now all but grey.  His thick, full hair, now thin and closely trimmed to his head.  He has sagging skin on his neck.  My strong, larger than life Iceman now looks gaunt and slight.  He looks tired and although his eyes are hidden behind sunglasses he seems vacant.  His arm rests on her shoulder.  He used to hold me so tight, pulling me into him, often times with his hand holding on to both my arms as if to tell the camera and the world that I was his.  He is present in body, his spirit has shifted and I recognize nothing about him anymore.  That man that used to stop me in my tracks and make every part of my body tingle when he walked into a room was now just a shadow.  Had he been this way for years and I just hadn’t noticed?  Always seeing him as who he had been, not who he had become?  Perhaps.  I don’t know.  

He has a slight pursed grin.  A grey smile.  He used to have such a wild youthful, open mouthed smile when we were together and we were good.  He looks resigned.  As if this is the best it will ever be again and so here he will remain.  I know his energy.  I can read his every thought through one photograph.   She is insignificant and completely unaware of anything about him.  She smiles broadly.  I feel sorry for her, she has no idea.  She is perfect for him.  She is enough.  She will do.  She will keep him company, unchallenged company and he will no longer have to be alone.  I can see that.  I have no envy, only pity and sadness staring at the ghost of my past. I had seen enough.  I had seen all that I needed to see.  His future passes quickly across my intuition and I release it with my breath.  Now I know.

Here I have spent weeks writing, purging.  Remembering so much passion, remembering this man that I had loved so deeply, and how when it was good we were like children; all of our inside jokes, our nicknames, the magnetic energy that for years brought us back and forth to each other, the solace and guidance we found in our words to one another.  Through my writing I was falling in love with him again, that time, the chaos, the insanity.  I had been feeling every memory.  I had been feeling him.  And in one moment, one look at a picture, it vanished. 

For so long I have been tormented believing that he got the best of me, my best years.  My youth.  It was the exact opposite.  I had the best of him. I had his energy, his passion, his soul, now buried so deeply and irretrievable within his guilt it suffocated the air around him.  I had released all of mine.  His, he carried everywhere.  His totem. Whatever I have carried all of this time was gone with that realization.  The questioning, the regretting, the self-loathing.  Gone.  

In truth, it was done in July of 2010 when we sat on the beach and he asked me to marry him and I gave him no reply.  I knew then that I could never go back.  I knew his words were meaningless and that he only wanted to win.  He never really knew what he wanted and I knew it would only be a matter of time before he tried to unravel himself from his proposal. The years of confusion and chaos had done nothing but push me further and further from any semblance of passion for him and although I had wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with him, he had destroyed too much for me to believe in it.    

I knew when I last saw him in New York and he said to me, “You’ll never look at me the way you used again, will you?” that I never would.  In my memory I could, through my writing I could, but in the now, I couldn’t as much as I desperately wanted to.  And he saw that in my eyes.  And in some way that broke him. Just as he had broken me a thousand times before.  I have always believed that I was the broken one.  Unfixable.  It somehow made it easier on me that way.  But I’m not.  And although so many parts of me feel that in the end he left me - that he gave up, I realize now that it’s me who despite my promise, had left him many, many years before.  It just took awhile for my soul to catch up to that realization.  

That picture of him will forever be emblazed in my mind now.  No longer pictures in my mind of what was, but what now is.  His emptiness.  There is no want in me for that, or to try to bring it back to life, to try to save him from himself again.  I prefer to save myself now. It is gone. He is gone.  Whoever I loved is no longer inside of him.  It’s as if his life has leapt forward 20 years and mine had stood still and now I have all of the hope in the world to get back to it again. I am here again. 

To finish the story and to write out the rest of the years had been my intent, but I have no use for it anymore.  It is removed from me and I can no longer remember him in that light.  That picture is all I see and that picture has erased all memory from me. Perhaps in time and perhaps in a way that no longer is my memory but a fictional story based on some of it.  Who knows? Our story has never really had an ending and I find some comfort in just leaving it as an ellipsis....For now, I would like to revel in my freedom for a bit.  I’ve been a prisoner of this story for a long time.  

And so it ends for now like this…It was the best of times.  It was the worst of times.  And it is over.  Thank you Google for setting me free. 

The End.

Synopsis

It’s important for me to write a bit about these chapters.  Explain them.  I’ve been receiving lots of questions and I’ve even been questioning myself so here goes some explaining.

First and foremost, why am I doing this?  Well, for two reasons.  1.  Because if you are an outsider (and even an insider), it truly is a good story.  A fucked up story but a good one none the less.  2.  It’s a release for me.  This story was in fact my life.  This story has made me who I am. It is still making me who I am as I continually learn from it. So I consider this a new form of therapy.  I feel that another story can’t welcome itself in until I finally let this one out.  It’s coveted me for far too long.  The difficulty is in that I’ve begun a process that is resurfacing significant emotions for me – none of which I have any pride in – and it’s been as of late, emotionally spiraling to remember it all.  But, it’s a process, not an event and so my current state is part of the process I’ve grown accustomed to accepting.  I’ve been trained well by John. 

People have asked me if it’s all true - (a lot of inquiries re: the elevator scene).  Yes, it’s all true.  However, it’s my version of the story and all that I remember and/or the bits I care to tell.  He has his own.  Timelines etc. and sequences of events may be skewed as I extract the most poignant bits that express it and ‘us’ most effectively.  What you have to understand is that this story transcended the better part of a decade so there’s a lot to tell.  The first 3 years is my current focus now, ‘Book 1’ so to speak. 

There is a lot that I won’t tell.  Some secrets are best left in closets.  And although 50 Shades of Mommy Porn is the current trend, I can’t quite go that route yet.  Descriptive details of my intimate life are sacred to me and likely will remain that way. 

Why have I chosen to change every name except my own?  Because it’s my story and right now it doesn’t feel natural to have my memory speak to me as someone else.  I’ve changed everyone else’s name because it’s been easier for me that way - except John.  His name is real as well.  I couldn't see him as any other way. There are so many more people to this story – will I be able to add them all in?  Perhaps.  ‘He’ will never have a name.  Those in my personal life know it.  Those who aren’t, never will. 

What I’m struggling with, as this is a new form of writing for me is the detail.  These ‘Chapters’ as I’m calling them are just brief synopses.  I’m trying to get the memories down and if I’m so compelled and if it evolves into something worth doing anything with, I will explain things with much greater detail.  For now, I’m keeping things high and tight however it frustrates me to not explain things at length, as I would like.  I’m just sort of writing at mock speed in an unconscious fury to release it from myself so I can’t go deeper.  Yet.

Most importantly, the detail of Quinn and the magnitude of his presence I’ve yet to be able to articulate.  He was, and still remains the hero of this story, of my story, of my life.  I want him to be yours as well.  He deserves that.  You will start to see him appear more and more.  I hope I can do him justice. 

I’ve done a lot of insane things in my life.  This to me, is by far the craziest.  Literally, through my writing I am standing raw and naked in front of my friends, family, and strangers.  It’s not easy.  It’s frightening.  But, if it gets me to the other side of the tunnel I’ve been standing in then it’s all worth it, right? 

I may just suddenly stop one day and if I do, that just means that the story is done for me.  I’ve said enough, something else has made it’s way in and that its time for me to face the sunlight again.  Until then, as always, thanks for listening. 

Much gratitude. 

Chapter Eight

I wake up.  It’s still dark.  My body is pulled into him, his arms and one leg wrapped over me.  He sleeps.  His breathing makes an occasional low whistling sound that makes me smile.  It soothes me.  I turn to look at the clock.  It’s 1:53AM.  I want to sleep, be at peace for a bit but I can’t.  My stomach turns in knots. 

We are codependent.  Emotionally and physically addicted to one another.  He’s my drug.  This is my drug.  I could’ve left.  Gone somewhere, anywhere.  Called Quinn and escaped to the safety of the city but I didn’t.  I stayed.  Watching it all unfold and play out exactly as I knew it would.  Maybe he really will stay this time.  I know the answer before the words escape my mind. 

He feels guilty for loving me.  As I do for loving him.  He’s tortured by having no control.  Everything about his life until he met me had always been so controlled.  I was unexpected.  He wasn't prepared.  

In the beginning it was just pure unadulterated sex.  Tons of it.  Everywhere we could find a minute to be inside of one another we did.  I felt myself changing.  Feeling passion in my life for the first time in perhaps forever.  I became a woman.  Someone that was sexy and empowered. I started wearing lacy bits and dressing differently.  I started believing I was beautiful because that’s how he made me feel when I was with him.  I believe I made him feel the same.  This younger woman lusting after him.  Everything about him was perfect to me.  His body a vehicle for my pleasure that fit me so completely.  We had both fallen into something that needed no words.  It just made sense to us and fulfilled us.  When I wasn’t with him I felt empty, as if the other half of me had been removed. 

And then we began to talk.  Staying up for hours on end, sharing the stories of our lives.  Laughing, giggling.  We began to have secret dinners in far away places where nobody would know us.  We would dance slowly, naked in my apartment.  I always just felt so tiny in his arms, his stature protecting me. Together we were free.  I was falling in love.  Maybe at the time I was in love with the excitement of it all.  With the passion, with feeling alive again but it consumed me.  And when I found out a close friend from college passed away and I called him frantically needing support and after listening to me cry, he whispered, “I just need to see your face and know that you’re ok.” That was it for me.  I told him that I loved him that night.  He was my everything.  My rock.  My lust.  My soul partner.  And that’s why I stayed.  Why I tried to forgive him for his guilt and confusion.  Why I tried to accept his need to go back and regain control.  That was why I was still lying in this bed.

He stirs.  His body heating me.  I unravel myself from him so that I can turn to see his face.  His face looking boyish while he rests.  His hands now tucked under his cheek.  “Peaches…” he whispers.  He had named me this months ago as I was grimacing down at all the small bruises on my shins.  “What’s did you do?” he asks.  “Who knows, I’m anemic, I bruise easily.”  “Like a peach!” he grinned back.  And so it was.  In moments of endearment he would call me Peaches. “Go back to sleep.” He commanded.  “Stop thinking.  You always think too much.  Shhhhh…” he gestures, with his eyes still closed placing his index finger to his lips. 

I slip out of bed to pee.  The lights making my eyes wince.  I stare at my gaunt body in the mirror.  Perhaps this was the only thing that I could control.  My own form of self-mutilation.  It wasn’t a conscious act by any means – simply a reaction of my nervous system but it was in some way the only thing left of me that was mine.  I had given the rest away to him.

I crawl back into bed; he’s now placed a pillow over his head to block the light from the bathroom.  He removes it slowly with his index finger still on his lips, “Shhhhhh….” I elbow him.  He knows I like to talk in the middle of the night.  It calms me.  “Are you still coming to the wedding with me?”  My sister was getting married in two weeks.  It also happened to be my 30^th birthday.  I had planned on ‘debuting’ him as the new guy I was dating.  It all seemed simple enough until I broke down and told Amelia the truth.  “Yes.” He mutters.  I know all of this makes him uncomfortable but he also knows how important it is to me so he’s appeasing me.  He knows he had to appease to make amends. 

I’m relieved.  I want him with me.  I’m always so proud to be with him. 

He pulls me into him and kisses me.  That quiet passionate way we kiss that at times alone through just the shear motions of our lips is enough to make us both erupt.  He kisses every part of me, making amends, asking for forgiveness, pleading for me to stay with him without words.  He climbs inside of me and then stops.  With tears in his eyes he looks down at me, kisses me passionately and says, “Please don’t ever leave me.  No matter how bad I fuck up I need to know you’ll never leave me.”  I’m so shocked to see my Iceman melting on top of me, his tears quietly falling to my cheeks that I begin to cry as well.  He looks so lost.  So terrified.  “I won’t ever leave you.  I promise.  I love you.”   

And in that moment, I meant every word. 

Chapter Seven

“What are you doing here?” I snap icily overlooking the copious amount of sunflowers everywhere.  I am broken and angry and he is not going to control this conversation.  Act, Don’t React, Tarah, I whisper internally.

“I live here.” he responds looking at me with trepidation.  I know this angle.  He’s playing easily on my heart strings.  He’s a salesman after all.  He knows the powers of negotiation, when to concede, when give so that you can get.  All I had wanted was for us to be ‘official’ - to start an actual life, free from hiding and our history.  He’s playing the part, playing his card so that I will break.  I’m not going to break this time.  

“No, you don’t fucking live here.  This is my apartment.  My name is on the lease.  I pay the bills.  You live in the building next door.”  I think of the empty apartment he was renting as a 'stage' in case 'people' came to visit. I am posed, calm, looking at him with laser sharp eyes.  What I want to do is run into his lap sobbing in gratuity that he is back but I won’t.  I can’t.  He needs to know he’s gone too far this time.  He needs to understand my hurt.  “Is that language really necessary Tarah? And yes, I do live here.  Would you like me to give you money for rent to make it official?”  I want to stab him.  “No, I don’t need your FUCKING money.  I want my key back.” “No.” He responds, completely disregarding my request.  

“Where have you been?” He asks.  “Home.” I respond throwing my bag down and walking past him.  He looks relieved, as if for a minute he questioned me leaving him for someone else. “It’s not your home, Tarah.  You don’t live there. This is your home.  You live here – with me.” “This is a holding pattern, this is no fucking home.” I snap back.  “Did you sleep with her?” I ask facing away from him.  He doesn’t respond.  I can hear him breathing.  He shifts.  He doesn’t like this.  He wants to pretend nothing happened.  He wants to get what he wants and make the rest disappear.  My anger is rising.  My stomach twisted and distorted at the thought of him with someone else.  He is mine and I am his.  I don’t give a shit about legal documents.  He is my universe and we are connected through energy and time and there is nothing else for me.  

“Did…you…sleep…with…her…” I say again with a fiery heightened voice.  Act, Don’t React.  “What does it matter?  I love you. I’m here now.  It’s the past, we don’t need to talk about it.”  I bend down and remove the wooden flip flop from my foot.  I walk coolly towards him and in one swift flick of my arm; bash him across his temple with it. So much for not being reactionary.  Note to self to not mention this to John on our call tomorrow.

I’m shocked by what I’ve done but I don’t show it.  I’ve lost all control over my emotions.  I’m frozen.  Waiting.  He doesn’t move.  He sits keeping a steady eye on me.  Did he just like that?  Punishment?  The dramatics.  I can see him thinking.  He’s plotting his next words.  What will he say next?  I’m half a second away from completely breaking down and he knows this.  He’s seen this before.  “Leave.  Please just leave.” My voice cracks.  “I can’t do this anymore.  This is killing me.  This isn’t love.  This is so fucked up.  I can’t pretend this  is ok.  You either love me or you don’t.  You either want this or you don’t.  You’re either sure or you aren’t.  But you can’t keep walking out on me expecting me to welcome you with open arms when you decide yet again that it’s me that you really want because maybe, just maybe I won’t be here anymore.  This is my life.  This is not a game.  Just leave.  Stay gone.  I’m used to it now.  Go back to the big white house and live your life.” Tears are streaming down my face and I don’t mean any words that I am saying but I’m resigned to not live my life like this anymore.  I’m terrified that he will leave but I don’t have the energy for trying.  I’m already so broken that what difference would it make any way?  “Just leave.”  

He stands up, moving slowly towards me.  “I’m sorry.  I’m not going anywhere.  I tried to go back.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  To try.  You were everywhere.  All I saw was you.  I missed you terribly.  I missed my best friend.  I promise, I’m not going anywhere.  I love you.  Come here.” He motions holding out his arms.  I shake my head no.  “T. C’mon.  We can fight all night if you want but I’m not going anywhere.  I’m sorry.  You know you love me so let’s just stop this.”  I shake my head no.  Tears still streaming down my face.  

My head hurts.  So many emotions.  So many thoughts.  Will it always be this way?  Will he always leave me?  Will I always spiral so out of control?  Will he always come back?  It's been over a year of this why aren’t I enough?  How can he love me and hurt me so much.  How can I just always be here waiting?  Everything aches.  I feel unsteady.  The one thing I need is him and the worst thing for me is him.  Standing in front of the person I love, his arms extended I feel wretchedly alone.  

I can’t speak.  There are no words.  I have no defense against him. No arguments.  No sales pitch.  I turn and walk away.  He stands still.  Waiting.  Observing.  I walk into the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror.  I don’t recognize anything about myself anymore.  All I see are sunken, lost eyes peering back at me.  My clavicle protrudes from my sundress.  I am so weak.  

I turn on the shower.  I have nowhere else to go but here.  To hide under water.  Water.  My safety.  My church.  I am not sure if I’m even breathing anymore.  I’m sobbing so uncontrollably but so stifled that I might vomit.  I want someone to come take care of me.  Make all of this go away.  I want him to make it all go away.  I want to run away.  I want to crawl inside of him.  Broken.  Broken.  Broken.  And before I know it he’s standing behind me in the shower yet again.  Watching, observing.  “T.” he whispers and he wraps his arms around me.  “I love you.  I’m sorry.  I promise I’ll make it up to you.  I won’t ever leave you again.” Yes you will floods every part of me and I collapse onto him.  

And then we do all that we know how to do to get ourselves back to each other.  Communicate without words. 

Chapter Six

It’s June 2, 2003.  I’m sitting at the Stamford Marriott bar.  Fidgeting.  Waiting.  Waiting for him.

Days earlier he had called me into his office to negotiate the timing of this meeting.  I feel so small and insignificant standing in his office in front of him as he sits behind his desk. I'm usually so confident and assertive.  I don't understand these emotions. “So what night works best for you?” he asks bluntly referring to my earlier brazen “Just name the time and place” comment.  My palms are sweaty.  I mean is this seriously happening?  

His office is all windows.  I glance outside seeing Quinn saunter across the courtyard joining the two buildings of our offices together.  The sight of him calms me.  

“Erm.  I don’t know. Whenever I guess.  I don’t have much of a life here.”  He looks at me mildly disinterested in my self deprecation.  “Well, I have a friend who’s away,” he responds, “We could go to his house or there’s the Marriott.”  “The Marriott.” I quickly respond.  “I don’t think I’d feel comfortable in a stranger’s house.” I’m a bit disappointed he’s even presented the option.  “The Marriott it is then.  Thursday?”  “Thursday,” I respond with acknowledgment.  “Ok.  6:00. We can meet at the bar and have a drink.  See you there,” he says dismissing me verbally from his office.  So formal.  I feel like an awkward school girl.

Holy fuck.   This is crazy.  

The bartender places a napkin in front of me.  It’s 5:55.  I’m early for everything.  “What can I get you?” she asks.  What do cool people that meet CEO’s at a bar to have a one night stand drink?  “Martini.  Up.  With olives.”  That seems sexy.  I don’t normally drink hard liquor but nerves are about to get the better of me so I need something with a punch.  She places it quickly in front of me and I gulp.  Ugh.  Vapor burn sending calm to my nervous system.  “Ms. Cammett.”  I look up.  He’s here.  He’s looking down at me with a slight grin.   

Holy fuck.  This is really happening.  

He stands in front of me.  I study him.  He’s an attractive man.  He commands attention when he walks into a room.  He’s wearing a freshly pressed blue Ralph Lauren shirt and jeans with a suit jacket.  He has chocolate hair and these eyes, these caramel colored observing eyes.  His lips look soft.  He places his hands on the bar to sit beside me.  He has nice hands.  I like a man's hands. Thick fingers.  Groomed.  He smells clean.  No cologne.  Just soap.  He scans the room.  

The bartender scurries over to him. He gives an acknowledging nod to her.  “Grey Goose on the rocks.  Splash of soda.  Extra limes.”  He turns to look at me.  Ugh.  I wish I had done something with myself.  I have no glamour.  I’m wearing a black and white striped strapless cotton dress with a denim jacket over it.  My hair is still wet and stuck to my head and I only have a hint of lip gloss on.  Why is he even here?  I fidget.  What are you doing you freak, you don’t fidget.  What do I say, what could we possibly have to talk about?  “You should sit up straight, slouching isn’t good for you.”  He looks at me, disapproving my posture. I perk up and shoot my shoulders back.  My insecurity wells up into my chest. “I’ll have another martini please.”  He raises an eyebrow.  “Thirsty?” he asks.  “I’m nervous.” I whisper back.  “Me too,” he says.  This shocks me.  He, the Iceman is nervous.  I calm. I do better when someone else is in need and I’m relieved that he’s actually human.  

After 3 martinis and some small talk he hands me a hotel room key.  “You can go up first.  I’ll follow.”  Holy fuck.  “Ok,” I grumble nervously.  I bolt out of the bar and run first to the nearby bathroom.  My cheeks are flushed.  There’s nothing more I can do with my appearance.  I flip my head upside down, fluff my hair and head to the elevator.  In that moment a tiny voice whispers in my head.  You can leave Tarah; you don’t have to do this.  I shush her.  It’s just going to be one time.  It’s an adventure I reassure myself.  Just a one night stand.  

It’s just a standard hotel room.  White comforter, printed chairs.  I drop my bag on the floor.  What do I do?  Am I supposed to position myself seductively on the bed?  I’m such an amateur.  What do sexy people do?  My palms are sweating.  Shit, I’m buzzed.  I feel a little dizzy.  Maybe I’ll pass out and save myself from the embarrassment.  

I hear the electronic key in the door.  Dammit, what do I do?  I have no time.  I stand still and turn towards the door.  He’s going to have to take the lead on this one.  He walks in.  He takes his jacket off and places it neatly on the luggage rack and stands in front of me.  I look up and stare meekly into his caramel eyes.  And then he does something that surprises me and throws me off of my already twisted center.  He kisses me.  He takes both of his hands, brings my face towards his and he kisses me.  Sweetly and nervously.  And gently.  His lips are soft.  I melt into the floor of the room.  

I haven’t been kissed in so long.  

This kissing builds momentum.  It takes on a hurried longing.  We stand there.  Two lost souls craving solace from one another.  Two strangers in a strange room clinging on to each other as if it’s our last hope for something that's been lost.  He throws me onto the bed and it begins.  An endless night of lovemaking.  6, 7, 8 times.  It doesn’t stop.  It's truly as if our bodies were made for one another.  He fits inside of me as if he was designed for me.  There is an energy, an electricity between us.  We fall together with such ease.  There is little time for banter or getting to know one another.  We communicate through our bodies and release all that is lost into each other.  Something inside of me has been sparked alive.

I wake up in a haze.  Where am I…..oh…I’m immediately nervous.  He’s lying beside me with his arm draped lightly over me.  Should I talk?  Do I act dismissive?  This is a one night stand after all – although I’ve never had one - don’t people act non-chalant and scurry out the door?  I want to kiss him.  He looks peaceful.  I kiss his shoulder.  He rolls over and looks at me - his eyes blinking slowly awake.  He doesn’t speak.  He kisses my lips.  I feel honored.  Isn’t that strange?  To feel honored to be kissed.  There is such immediate intimacy between us it's soul altering.  Without words he climbs inside of me again.  

“I have to go to work,” I whisper and we lay draped around one another.  “We have to go to work.” I murmur again.  I slowly get up reaching for my dress that was thrown frivolously across the room the night before.  I walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower.  I climb in letting the scent of him wash off of me.  It almost saddens me.  My mind tries to process.  What is this wordless connection to this human?  This energy?  I’ve never felt this before.  Don’t think Tarah.  It was a one night stand sister.  It’s just sex.  That’s the connection.  Sex.  Don’t think.  You’ll ruin everything.  Be sexy and dismissive Tarah.  And as I stand talking to myself he surprises me again.  He’s standing behind me in the shower.  Watching.  Observing.   

This is no fucking one night stand, my inner conscious whispers.  

And so it began. 

Chapter Five

I can barely hug Amelia and Tyler goodbye.  My stomach just sinks.   Why don’t I just walk away from everything and start over again here?  I know I can stay with them until I get on my feet.  I would be ok.  So what if my career is completely skyrocketing, I’m traveling all over the world and learning more than I ever thought possible.  I could rebuild that again back here.  Soon.  I’ll come back soon.

“You don’t have to go, T” she says.  We look at each other knowingly.  Yes, I do.  “Listen, I’m outta here before I have a complete meltdown.  I love you guys.  Thank you for everything.  It helped.  Truly.  I’ll call you later.  See you at the Cape in a couple of weeks.” I quickly hug them both and dash into my car swallowing back the nugget that has risen in my throat.  I give them an I’m-totally-ok smile and begin my journey back to silence.

I haven’t looked at my phone since the beach.  I shut it off actually.  That will send a signal.  Act Don’t React scrolls boldly across my head.  My entire system is out of control.  My head is spinning and heavy as I drive.  So many emotions flood through me.  Anger, sadness, relief, fear, love, insanity, wreckage, chaos, exhaustion, trepidation, weakness, strength.  I swim in all of them.  It gets the best of me.  I turn on my phone.  1 more voice mail.  3 more missed calls.  6 texts.  I listen to the first voice mail.

His voice is calm.  Almost shyly chipper and optimistic, as if we’d just spoken hours ago and ‘this’ wasn’t between us. He’s pretending nothing has happened.  I’ve heard this tone before. “Hi.  It’s me.  Where are you?  Your car’s been gone for a couple of days, you’re not at the apartment and now I’m worried and you’re not picking up so just please call back and let me know you’re ok.”

REALLY?  WHERE AM I? WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN FOR ALMOST TWO WEEKS?  I know where he’s been.  That’s the most difficult part.  He’s done it before.  REALLY? YOU’RE FUCKING WORRIED?  I know this trick buddy.  Play on my guilt strings and incessant need to make everyone feel ok so that I HAVE to call you back so that YOU DON’T WORRY.  I’ve lost about 12 pounds in 9 days, I haven’t slept, and I’m now in fucking therapy – that’s FUCKING WORRY.  I stare at my phone in disbelief.  I know this game well.  We’ve played it many times.

I listen to voice message number two.  There are no words.  He’s driving.  He’s holding the phone up to the speakers.  And then I hear these words being sung through the phone:

Tell her not to go
I ain't holding on no more
Tell her something in my mind freezes up from time to time

Tell her not to cry
I just got scared that's all
Tell her I'll be by her side, all she has to do is call

Tell her the chips are down
I drank too much and shouted it aloud
Tell her something in my heart
Needs her more than even clowns need the laughter of the crowd.

Tell her what was wrong
I sometimes think too much
But say nothing at all
And tell her from this high terrain, I am ready now to fall.

Tell her not to go
I ain't holding on no more
Tell her nothing if not this; all I want to do is kiss her.

Tell her something in my mind
Freezes up from time to time.

Tears well up in my eyes.  It’s my favorite song by Del Amitri.  Our song.  He’s good.  I’ll give him that.  And as angry, frustrated and confused as I am, I can’t help but love him for a minute.  This is us.  Unhealthy fucked up us.  And everything about it is wrong but I’ve missed him so much, been so sick without him that there’s a relief that washes over me.  Maybe we will always be like this and maybe I can’t be helped and maybe that’s ok.  No, Tarah, it’s not ok, I snap back to myself.  This is not fucking ok.  This Tarah, is emotional manipulation and you’re falling for it hook, line and sinker.  My mind, heart, soul and instinct stand in battle with one another.  Defending and condemning.  This is what I do.  This is what we do. 

I listen to the third message.  His voice is now strained.  Heightened a bit. Frustrated.  “Well, now you’ve shut your phone off so it’s obvious you don’t want to talk to me.  I’m sorry.  I don’t know why I do what I do.  I don’t have any answers.  All I know is that I love you.  Call me.”  

Click.

Act Don’t React I keep whispering to myself over and over.  The red words streaming.  I put my phone down and continue to drive, lost in thought, memory, and music.  

It’s dusk when I pull up to my apartment.  My stomach writhing in knots.  Sunday’s used to be my favorite day of the week, I now dread them.  The hours are counted and marked by how quickly I’ll have to be back there.  I pull out my keys and unlock the door.  Of course he has a key, I say to myself as I look at the hundreds of sunflowers covering every surface of my tiny studio apartment.  Sunflowers.  My favorite.  

And there he sits on the stool by the counter postured for the reckoning.  He stares at me with curious anticipation as our eyes lock - looking at me like he did the first night we were ever together.

Act Don’t React, Tarah.