"That's...deep."
"Sit with a gun staring at nothing for days on end, you tend to have a lot of time to think."
"You know, all I really know about that is you were in the Army. I don't know for how long, or what you did, or if...if you saw combat."
"Yeah, don't talk about that much." He seemed to stiffen, his muscles tensing.
I waited, curled into him on the couch, my hand resting low on his belly.
"Not a whole lot to say, really. Saw combat. It was fucked up. Things you shouldn't see, shouldn't do." His words were clipped short, his voice barely audible.
I looked up at him, saw his closed eyes flickering, as if seeing the past.
"If it's too hard to talk about--"
"It's more that there's no point. It's not like I'm super hung up on it. I had PTSD counseling, I'm over it. Few bad dreams here and there." He looked down at me and drew a breath, let it out. "Here's the basics. I was a grunt. Infantryman. Did a tour in Iraq. God, it was fucking boring as hell for the most part. A whole lot of sitting on a roof watching dust blow around. Drive here and there in a Hummer, house-to-house patrols. My unit got ambushed, toward the middle of my tour. It was a pretty standard insurgent ambush. Lead vehicle hit a land mine, and when the others stopped, they opened fire. Lost some good buddies in that one. My nightmares are usually about that. Haven't had one in a while. So, if you wake up and I'm not in bed, that's why. I'll probably be outside in the backyard. Fresh air helps."
I heard an odd note in his voice. "What aren't you saying?"
"Perceptive one, aren't you?" He scrubbed his face with his hand. "My vehicle got hit by an RPG. They kinda missed, you know? Hit near it, not dead on, but enough to...well, no one made it out alive, 'cept me. Not sure why I made it, or how. I was trapped in the back seat, the whole thing burning, buddies dead, buddies dying outside. Taking heavy fire from all directions. That's the dream. It's more a memory, being trapped in a burning vehicle."
"Was this before or after the car wreck in the UP?" I asked.
He grunted. "Before. That's the reason I went nuts trying to save Brett. He was trapped. Like I'd been. Had to do something, had to. But I couldn't save him." A long silence, then, "So now you know. Never really talked about that before."
"How'd you get out? Of the vehicle, I mean?"
"Couple guys heard me yelling. Screaming, more like. Pulled me out, and we used the wreck as cover. Wicked enfilade fire. Couldn't see where they were shooting from. Hidden in a bombed-out building, a good fifty of 'em. We were almost double their numbers, but they had surprise. Took us a while to get organized. When we did, though...wiped 'em out. Every last fucking one."
He slid out from behind me, strode naked to the sliding glass door. I gave him a few minutes, just lay on the couch watching him. Eventually, I got up, wrapped the afghan around me, and stood behind him, palms on his chest. His heart was hammering in his chest.
"I'm sorry I brought up bad memories, Jeff."
He took a few long, deep breaths. "It's fine. I'll be fine. Just takes a bit for the memories to fade, you know? But they will."
"Want a drink?"
He shook his head. "No, not yet. One thing the counselor emphasized a lot was, when the memories are riding you, don't turn to alcohol. That's how it becomes a crutch. It seems natural enough. Bad dream? Have a drink. But the memories hold on, you know? They stick. And one drink turns to four. Turns to eight. Turns to passed out on the bathroom floor. Saw it happen to too many buddies to let it happen to me."
"I'm proud of you," I said.
"Proud? For what?" He turned his head so he could just barely see me in his peripheral vision.
"For dealing with it so well. I would never have known you'd been through anything so awful. I think a lot of men would have been bitter, or alcoholics. Or, I don't know. Just, I'm proud of you. You're so strong."
He shook his head. "Lots of guys have been through shit like that. Not all of them turn to drugs or alcohol. A lot of us are normal, well-adjusted men with normal, well-adjusted lives. We just...have some bad memories that haunt us sometimes. Women like you, who understand and help us deal, you're how we get through the flashbacks and stay sane."
"I haven't done anything, though. Not yet, at least."
"You listened. You're here, holding me. Talking to me."
"Well, what else would I do?"
"You haven't asked the one question almost everyone wants to know, whether they ask it out loud or not: 'Did you kill anyone?'"
I let the pause hang. "I...guess I'm not sure why I'd ask. It's obviously hard for you to think about. I don't want you reliving it. I mean, I'm assuming since you said you saw combat, that you probably did."
"Exactly." He turned and put his back to the glass. "Enough about the bad old days. Come here and kiss me."
And so I did. I welcomed the distraction from my own memories, and the opportunity to help erase the pain in his eyes, to fill the haunted hollowness. I kissed him with all I had. I let the blanket fall to the floor and ran my hands on the ridges of his muscle, the ropy cords of strength in his arms and abs. I ran my fingers along the rough, burned skin along his back, so familiar to my touch now that I forgot it was there, what it was, what it represented. It was simply a part of Jeff, an element of his attractiveness to me.
I felt his body respond, stiffening and standing up between us; I took his manhood in my hands and caressed his length, softly, gently, with as much tenderness as I could summon. When he was throbbing between my palms, I released him and led him, walking backward, to the bedroom. I pushed him onto the bed and climbed astride him. My hair fell in blonde waves around our faces as I leaned down to kiss him, taking his turgid cock in my hand and guiding his hard length into my soft, wet cleft. My mouth quivered wide in an open-mouthed kiss as he penetrated me.
Our bodies glided in synchronized splendor, skin sliding slick and soft, our breath a slow susurrus in the dusk light. I moved on top of him, ran my palms on his chest up to cup his face, kissing him on the offbeat, lips touching in a syncopated rhythm. He'd given it to me hard and fast and sudden against the front door; now I was giving it to him slow and locked in melodic counterpoint of soul expression, eyes meeting, closing, meeting, hips bumping and pulling away, gasps turning to sighs.
This was not about climax. I felt his tension fade with every thrust, felt his memories sink into nothingness with every soft kiss. I couldn't heal him, but I could douse the heat of the nightmare, subsume the horror beneath the power of my love.
When it came, it was a tidal wave, sweeping us away. He clung to me as if I were a spar and he a shipwrecked sailor. He moved into me with a desperation unlike anything I'd ever seen in him before, as if he could bury the nightmare memories within me, be free of them forevermore simply through the act of driving deeper into me.
If that was true, I would accept it all.
His breath caught when he came, and a single sob escaped his lips. I kissed each of his cheeks, the single trickle of salt at each corner. I asked no questions, spoke no words, only held him closer and pushed him deeper within my folds, clutching his face against mine, forehead to forehead, breathing matched and his legs tangled with mine.
In time, we found a perfect stillness, contentedness in breathing, holding, being. Loving. I leaned over to kiss him and tasted salt on his lips, moisture on his face. I wiped his cheek with my palm, then the other.
"Sorry," he muttered, gruff, moving to sit up. "I don't know why I'm--"
"Shh. Don't." I pushed him down and kissed him again. "You're allowed."
He went still, and after a while he cleared his throat and brushed his palms across his face. "Thanks," he said. "I guess I just--"
"I know. I love you. Like I said, you're allowed. Doesn't make you less a man...less my man."
"And that's why I love you. Well, one of the infinite number of reasons, at least. Now, how 'bout that drink?"
CHAPTER 5
A few days later, I had just
gotten out of an afternoon shower and was looking for a particular bottle of body lotion. I tore the bathroom and bedroom apart, but couldn't find it, which was when I realized I'd never brought that particular bottle of lotion over to Jeff's house. It was still at my apartment, which I hadn't stepped foot in for at least a month. Half of my clothes, most of my makeup, hair products, lotions, all that "girly shit," as Jeff called it, was at his house. But every once in a while I came across something I wanted that turned out to be at my apartment.
This is ridiculous, I thought.
I found Jeff out on his back porch, reading a book on his Paperwhite. He looked up when I came out.
He took one look at my face as I approached and set his Kindle down. "What's up, buttercup? You look like you're thinking deep thoughts."
I handed him one of the bottles. "Well, just sort of wondering something."
"Wait, can I guess what you're about to say?"
"Um, sure?"
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single key. "This is more symbolic than anything, since you're basically living here already, but..." He handed me the key. "Wanna make it official? Move in for real, permanently?"
I took the key and blew out a sigh of relief. "The idea of asking had me in knots." I frowned. "I've been paying my half of the rent with Jamie still, because I know she can't afford it on her own. The lease ran out, and we've going on a month-to-month basis. That's the part I'm really not sure of. What is she going to do?"
"Have you talked to her about it?" Jeff asked, picking at the peeling label of his bottle.
"Sort of. Not really. It came up while I was trying on dresses, but not since. She's been my best friend and roommate forever. I'll miss her, but I also worry about her by herself." I took a long pull on my beer.
"She's a grown woman, Anna. She can take care of herself. She's not your responsibility. I know her well enough to know she'd kick your ass for thinking that way."
"I know. You're right. But I can't help it. It's not that I don't think she can take care of herself. She's even more hard-headedly independent than I am. She's a tough-ass. She'd never ask for help, or take it if it was offered. It's more emotionally. She's got damage, like me. Bad history. I just worry that she's unhappy and can't get out of the rut she's in."
"Well, look at it like this: What can you do about it, practically speaking, even if you were to keep living with her?"
"Not much, I guess. If she wasn't ready to talk about it, she wouldn't talk about it. She can be prickly like that."
Jeff nodded, pulling the label free and shredding it. "I've gotten glimpses of that. Just talk to her. Tell her you're moving in with me, and what your worries are. Be honest."
"Yeah, you're right. Thanks."
He smiled. "Of course, my love. "
I called Jamie the next day, and we met for coffee.
When we had plunked ourselves down in the big red chairs, I plunged right in. "I'm officially moving in with Jeff. We talked about it last night."
Jamie gave an extravagant sigh and eye-roll. "Finally. You've been pussyfooting it around that for weeks. About damn time."
"I thought you'd be, I don't know..."
"Hey, you're my best friend. Living with you has been awesome. But we both knew it was coming. You're barely there as it is, and I'm not there much more myself. I've picked up hours at work, and I've been seeing this new guy, so that's kept me busy--"
I snickered. "I'll bet it has."
"Like you have room to talk, hooker."
"Hey, mine put a ring on it," I said.
She lifted a skeptical eyebrow. "Haven't we already talked about this? I don't want a ring. I'm happy being the booty call. No-strings sex all the way, baby."
I left the pause hanging. "Are you really?"
Jamie slid the cardboard sleeve of her white paper cup off and on, not meeting my eye. "How about them Tigers, huh?"
"Jay. Seriously."
"Damn it, Anna. I so do not want to talk about this. I've already told you how I feel. I'm not marriage material. I'm good in bed, I'm fun to drink with, and I can give a killer blow job. But I can't cook for shit, I don't do laundry, and I hate compromise."
"Jay, listen. I'm not married yet, so I can't say for sure, but unless something magical happens when you say 'I do,' getting married is just a way of publicly binding yourself to one guy. It's not an indentured servitude contract. No guy should expect you to cook and clean and all that shit, unless that's the way you want your relationship. Some people are happy with the more traditional roles. I'm a foodie, so I like cooking. But I hate cleaning, and Jeff's a neat freak. He does most of the cleaning around his house--our house. I just do enough to keep him from getting irritated with me. It's all about finding someone who gets you. Everything else is up to you and him, and what you want your relationship to be."
"So how is with Jeff and you?"
"I don't know. It just is. We never really sat down and laid out the parameters of our relationship. We just...found a rhythm. He gets up at, like, five every morning out of habit from being in the Army. He goes to the gym and showers and all that before I've even gotten out of bed. I'm a monster in the mornings, and he's discovered that, so he gives me space. I didn't tell him, he just figured it out for himself. I realized it absolutely drives him batshit when I leave clothes on the bathroom floor, so I had to make myself stop doing it. He wouldn't say anything to me--he'd just clean up after me and had this way of making me feel guilty without ever really trying. I don't know how he does it."
"You make it work." She still wasn't looking at me. "That sounds great. I just can't see myself wanting to spend that much time around one person, all the time. Every day, every night. I don't know. The idea sounds nice, someone to count on, who knows me and stuff. But I've got skeletons in my closet, you know? Trusting someone with all that, it's scary."
"Hell, yeah it is," I said. "But it's worth it, if you decide to really trust him."
"How do you know you trust Jeff? I mean, if things don't work out, you'd be up shit creek, you know?"
"He knew about Chase. He let me go, and took me back. He made me work for his trust again after that, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if I ever messed up with another guy, Jeff would walk. It'd be done. And I know he's the one--as corny as that phrase is--because the idea of losing him makes my blood freeze. I get literally sick to my stomach at the thought of losing Jeff."
"Really?" Jamie was finally looking at me, and I could tell she was really listening, and thinking.
"Yeah, really. He's...part of me. I mean, he's been in my life as a friend and business partner for so long that it just seems like an extension of everything to be together." I gave Jamie a long, serious look. "And honestly, sex is only a part of it. Don't get me wrong, sex is, like, vital. But it's not everything. If he doesn't love you, it ends up being flat and empty."
"Meaningful sex? Gag." Jamie forced a laugh. "Kidding. I--fuck. I do want that, Anna. I do. I really, really do. I just don't know how to find it."
I considered my next words carefully. "I think...I think the trick is, love finds you. The harder you look, the more elusive it is. But when you finally give up and learn to be content just being you, bam, you're in love with last person you'd thought possible. And you can't fight it. Love is like quicksand--the harder you struggle against it, the deeper you fall in."
"Listen to you, all deep and wise like Confucius or some shit."
"I'm pretty sure Confucius never talked about falling in love."
"Okay, fine. Nicholas Sparks, then."
"Gag."
Jamie made an odd face. "Hey, he's actually a good writer. Don't knock him. The Notebook is ridiculously fucking adorable. Makes me all teary and pathetic."
I stared at her like she'd sprouted a second head. "You've read a Nicholas Sparks book?"
"What? I can read."
I laughed. "Well I know that, stupid. I just can't picture you curled up on the couch reading a book like that.
Did you drink chamomile tea and dab your eyes meaningfully with a folded Kleenex, too?"
"You're being mean."
"I'm sorry, it's just a funny picture. You're not the Nicholas Sparks type, Jay. You're just not. You watch things with subtitles, and explosions and sex."
"What? I can't have a softer side?"
Her averted gaze told me she wasn't playing around anymore. "Of course you can, Jay. Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest you couldn't be that kind of girl. I just haven't seen that side of you before. Honestly, I'm glad to hear you say that. I worry about you, sometimes."
"You worry about me? Why?"
"Just...you're so self-deprecating all the time. You've always got these boy-toys that never really go anywhere or mean anything, and I worry you think you're not...I don't know, worthy, or capable of anything more."
"What are you, a mind reader?" Her voice was too small, too quiet.
"Seriously?"
"Not all the time. There are days where I like who I am and think there's a lot I could offer a guy. But then there's other times where I doubt myself. That's usually when I'm doing the walk of shame at six a.m." She fidgeted with a button on her sweater.
"Jamie, you can't think that way. You're amazing, and beautiful--"
"What are you, my girlfriend? Save the pep talk, hooker. I know what I am. I'll find Mr. Right eventually. That's not your problem. It's mine." She pointed at me, jabbing her forefinger at me. "Your only worry should be getting married to your Mr. Right."
"Okay, just promise me one thing?"
"No guarantees, but I'll try."
"Dump your current booty call. Go without sex for a while. No boys. No kissing, no BJs, no hand jobs, nothing."
"God, you make it sound like I'm--"
"I'm just covering all the bases," I said. "I'm for real. No boys. Take some time to learn how to be single, how to just be you. Stop trying to fill the hole and just be you."
"I'm not sure I can do that," she said.
"Yes, you can."
"I haven't been truly single in...longer than I'm willing to admit out loud."
"Exactly. Okay, are you ready for another Confucius saying?"
"Hit me up."
"Empty sex is like Pringles: You can eat million of them, but they never really fill you up. If you want to be truly satisfied, you have to eat real food."