I continue chanting my mantra of hate, turning to my bed and punching the high, completely upraised end of my mattress again and again and again. I grunt with every blow, an inhuman growl coming from deep in my chest.
"Who do you hate?" Dr. Fox's voice comes from directly behind me, still gentle and controlled.
"Stop asking me that! I told you! Aren’t you fucking listening to me? My father! My mother! Lauren! I hate them all! I fucking hate them! Fuck! Fuck them all! Fuck them! I hate them!" My voice cracks at the end and I’m breathing so hard that I feel like I might hyperventilate. A lifetime of built up rage over selfishness that steals dignity and cruelty that preys on the weak is coursing through my veins, a fire looking to consume me from the inside out.
"Who do you hate, son?"
My blows become softer, my defenseless mattress getting a momentary reprieve from my rage-filled beating. My breath hitches in my throat again, and now I can feel the tears burning behind my eyes, wanting to fall. This spurs my anger again and so my blows become harder and I am almost choking now. The rage begins to abate, and just beyond it is the grief and I feel it coming at me like a wave. I'm powerless to fight it. All I can do is wait as it washes over me, drenching the fiery ball of anger, putting out that flame, but dragging me under, tossing me, flailing and defenseless against its unrelenting power. It is bigger than the rage, bigger than the bitterness, bigger than the guilt, and I can do nothing but submit to it. I choke out, "Me! I hate me! I hate myself! I hate myself! I fucking hate myself!" And now the tears are coming, and I'm choking on my words and sputtering and punching and yelling. "I fucking hate myself! I hate myself! Fuck! Fuck! "I hear myself sobbing and muttering, and somewhere, from a distance, I think the words I hear are, "Why? Why? Why wasn't I enough? I'm worthless. Why did I do that? Why did I let her do that? Why did I do that? Why? Why? I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I'm worthless. I hate myself."
"Who do you hate, Jake?" Dr. Fox asks one final time.
"Me. I hate me," I say through panting, hitching breaths. "I hate me. Oh God. Oh God. I hate me."
Then I feel his hand grip my shoulder and he leaves it there as I bury my face in to the upraised pile of pillows that miraculously held their position through my pounding, and I finally wail for the first time since Evie held me in her arms on a rooftop under a summer, night sky and told me I had the heart of a lion. I wail for Seth, and I wail for all the hope I held onto day after day, year after year that my parents would find something in me worth loving, I give in completely and let the grief and longing for Evie consume me, wailing for my loss and my own feelings of self-hatred at my abandonment. I wail for what I did with Lauren, my disgust with myself, and all the hatred that has filled my heart for so many, many years. I wail until my voice is hoarse and I am drained of emotion. When my head clears and my own hiccupping and sputtering has trailed away, I come back into myself and note that Dr. Fox's hand is still gripping my shoulder tightly, anchoring me.
I remain still for several minutes until I feel calm enough to lift my head. I stand up straight and turn around slowly, looking at Dr. Fox. He has a somber look on his face, but there is absolutely no pity in his eyes, and I’m grateful for that. I let out a ragged breath and sit back down on my bed, quiet, letting my ragged breathing return to normal. After a few minutes I look around the room. It looks like a crazed animal tore it apart. I suppose that’s exactly what did happen. I let out a humorless laugh and run my hand through my short hair.
"That must have looked really pathetic. I just made a total fool out of myself didn’t I?" I grimace.
"Yes. Finally. Maybe we can get started now." His voice is gentle.
I look up at him and I can’t help it. I laugh. And then I laugh harder at what we must look like right now. Me, a gimpy, swollen, bandaged mess, sitting amongst the destruction of my hospital room, and Einstein there, white hair awry, sitting casually in his chair as if this happens every damn day. Both of us laughing now for some godforsaken reason I can’t for the life of me even figure out.
CHAPTER 15
After another couple hours of meetings at work, I head to the grocery store to pick up dinner ingredients. I cooked for myself quite a bit when I moved out of Phil and Lauren’s house and I enjoy it. I pause after gathering all the ingredients I need for dinner, and then walk over to the health and beauty section of the grocery store and throw a box of condoms in my cart. I don’t want to be presumptuous with Evie and I’d sure as hell never pressure her, but it’s good to be prepared. And I don’t have one single condom anywhere. I haven’t been with anyone in well over a year. I wish it had been in well over forever.
I’m almost afraid of how much I want her in my bed. I wonder if she’s been with anyone sexually and the jealousy that flares inside of me makes me clench my jaw and move the thought aside immediately. Through the years, I pictured her with someone else sometimes just to torture myself. I felt like I deserved the agony it brought. It accomplished what I intended it to – it made me hate myself even more, but that’s part of the person I’m trying to leave behind. Why shouldn’t she have been with someone else? Still, it fucks me up to think about it.
Whether she’s been with someone or not, she might not be ready to be with me, who as far as she knows, she practically just met. Still, the attraction between us is palpable and I know she feels it too. And that brings a comfort level that even I wasn’t prepared for. Either way, I just want her to stay with me tonight. I want her under my roof, where she belongs.
I drop the groceries off at my condo and quickly unpack them before having to rush out the door to pick up my girl. My girl. I smile to myself.
I drive over to Evie’s wondering if she’ll really even pack an overnight bag. It’s not like I waited for an answer and I wouldn’t be able to blame her if she wasn’t ready. Thinking of having her all to myself in my condo, kissing her, touching her has the blood flowing south, and I adjust myself in my seat.
I knock on her door and when she opens it, I note two things immediately. One, she looks gorgeous, and two, there’s a small overnight bag in her hand. My heart soars and I can’t help the smile that takes over my face. She’s going to stay the night with me. My heart starts hammering in my chest. Part of me feels like a nervous teenager, and part of me feels like throwing her down on the floor right here in the hallway and claiming her as mine. A small, overnight bag has me feeling simultaneously terrified and invincible.
She knocks on Maurice’s door calling "’Night, Maurice!" as we’re walking to the front and he calls back, "’Night, Evie," which reminds me that any Evie-claiming on hallway floors will most likely be frowned upon by Maurice.
We drive to my condo, and I tell her about my meetings that morning and a little bit about the deadlines the company is up against. She listens attentively, asking a few questions. It feels unbelievably good to talk to Evie about everyday stuff going on in our lives, and not everyday fucked up shit like what we were up against when we were kids. God, I’ve been craving this for what feels like my whole damn life. I used to dream about what it would feel like to come home to my girl at the end of a workday. Back then, I had no idea I’d be running a company, but I knew I would work hard every day of my life to give us more than what our parents had given us. I was going to make her safe, make her happy. I was going to make a home with her.
And now… I’m going to show her how deep my feelings are for her and make her trust down to her soul that I want to take care of her. Because I do. And then when I tell her who I am she’ll know who we can be together.
We pull into my garage and I take her bag from her and walk her up the back stairway to the elevator, not letting go of her hand.
We walk into my condo and I glance back at Evie as I throw my keys on the table next to my door. She’s taking it all in, a small frown on her face. I almost laugh. I don’t like it either. It’s sleek and modern and cold. "Corporate condo. You don't like it."
She looks horrified. "No,
no!" she says, "It's really stylish. I was just thinking that it needs a little warmth. Maybe some colorful throw pillows or something." She looks down and starts biting the inside of her cheek. I smile.
"I agree. I just don't know how long I'll be in this place. I'd like to buy something eventually." I try not to let my mind go to a place where we are picking out a home together. Slow down.
I lead her inside and take her jacket and hang it up on the coat hooks in my foyer area. When I turn around, she’s at the window, staring out at the city, the lights from the Horseshoe Casino shining in the distance.
A warmth spreads through my chest as I watch her standing in my condo. It’s where she belongs. It’s where she’s always belonged. With me. The grief of all the years we missed out on hovers in the background but I push it away. That’s not for tonight. Tonight is about us. Tonight is about only us.
I walk to her and wrap my arms around her, pulling her tight against me. I live in the moment, soaking it in, inhaling the smell of her hair, the feel of her delicate body wrapped in my arms, her warmth pressed against me. I remember this so well. It was always like this. She always had a way of soothing me, simply with her touch. How did I doubt it would always be this way? Then, now, a million lifetimes from this one. My Evie, my heart, my savior. My lion tamer.
I lower my head and brush her hair to the side and lower my lips to the back of her neck, nuzzling the satiny skin there. She shivers and I feel myself swell in my pants. "God, Evie, you feel so good. You smell so good. You undo me. And I haven’t even had you yet. What will that do to me?"
I feel her stiffen. "Jake–" she starts, turning in my arms and bringing hers up around my neck until I’m staring into her eyes. "About that–"
"You’re nervous." Damn. That’s okay though. She can set the pace. This is her show.
"Yes. No. I mean–" She shakes her head, laughing a small laugh.
It is soon, I guess. I mean, it’s not – it’s four years overdue. I wish that life had worked out differently so that I had swooped her up on her eighteenth birthday and married her that very day. But as for the reality of now, we’ve really just begun. Still, I think she feels what I feel. Either way, I want it to be completely her choice.
"How about I make you dinner, we talk, hang out, and then if you want to sleep in the guest room, I'm okay with that tonight, alright? I'd like you in my bed. But I want it to be your call and if you're not ready, then you sleep in the guest room. I just want you here tonight, okay?"
Her eyes search mine for several seconds. "Okay," she whispers.
"Good," I say, my eyes moving to her pretty mouth, so incredibly kissable. I press my lips against hers, smiling as I take her bottom lip between my teeth, teasing her gently. She melts into me as I continue licking and sucking at her lips, but not going further. I want her to take the lead, to know that I’m giving that to her right now. She has no idea what this means to me to be able to do that, to willingly give a woman control sexually. Up until now, the whole point, most of the time, was to be in control, to take that part of myself back. But with Evie, I not only feel safe, but I’ll do anything to make her feel safe too.
Finally, after about a thousand years, she makes a frustrated little sound in her throat and slides her tongue into my mouth. Oh, shit, that’s so fucking sexy. I moan deep and my cock jumps in my pants.
She slides one of her hands down my back and up under the hem of my un-tucked shirt and runs her fingernails lightly against my skin. I’m going up in flames. Nothing has ever felt as good as this.
Evie tilts her head and our kiss goes deeper, blood pounding harder and faster to my erection. The taste of her is like a drug and I’m completely lost in the feel of her against me, the taste of her, the very idea of her. I’m awestruck at these new feelings coursing through me. This is what physical closeness is supposed to be like. The very thought of everything I’ve experienced up to this moment is suddenly colored with even more sickness, and the beauty, the rightness, of this moment is highlighted against those cloudy flashes of ugly memory.
She runs her other hand up the back of my neck, into my hair, sifting and stroking, and I register that that feels great right before I register that her fingers are tracing my scar. Fuck! I tear my lips off hers, gathering myself.
"What happened to you, Jake?" she asks, frowning.
Tell the truth but keep it vague. Tonight is not for this. I pause before saying quietly, "Remember the stupid shit I told you I did to earn my father's contempt?"
She nods, still frowning.
"Some of that resulted in me tearing the back of my head open. Someday I'll tell you all about it, Evie, I promise. But how about right now I get dinner started?"
She frowns and reaches her hand up to my hair and traces my scar again. The tenderness of her touch is something only she has ever given me. I close my eyes and take her hand from my scar and bring it to my lips to kiss it. "So damn sweet," I say. Because that’s exactly what she is.
I lead her to the kitchen and pull out a barstool for her.
"Can I pour you a glass of wine and take a few minutes to change out of this suit?" I ask her. I had only taken the time to remove my tie and un-tuck my shirt after dropping off the groceries since I was running a few minutes behind, and I didn’t want her to wait for me. Also, after that kiss, I need to douse myself in a freezing shower if I’m going to be able to focus on cooking an edible dinner.
"How about you go change and I'll open the wine and do the pouring," she says, smiling.
"Perfect." I tell her where everything is and then walk back to my room.
I let the water run cold for a couple minutes before switching it to hot and soaping up. Ten minutes later I’m changed and walking back into the kitchen where Evie is now sitting at the counter with two glasses of red wine in front of her. She hands me one and says, "Red. Hope that's okay. Goes with red meat and all." She looks uncertain, sweet.
I smile and extend my glass to hers. "To beginnings," I say. To new beginnings.
As I start taking ingredients out of the fridge, I say, "Can I ask you a question? You told me the other night that you didn’t date in high school. Why not?" I’m hoping she’ll give me a better idea of what her life was like after I left. I know that I might be torturing myself with this information, but I need to know what she’s been through.
She’s quiet for a minute, seeming to consider whether she’s going to answer me or not, when she puts her wine down and starts, "When I was fifteen, my foster mom, Jodi, was diagnosed with cancer and she and her husband decided they couldn't foster anymore. I wasn't close to either of them, they were mostly disinterested in us girls who lived with them. They weren't unkind, just sort of indifferent and checked out. They watched a lot of t.v. and didn't take a big interest in getting to know who any of us were. We co-existed and they mostly gave us what we needed physically, but emotionally, they were not parents to us, at least not in the way I define parenthood. But I was comfortable where I was, I liked the house, I liked the girls I lived with, and I thought life was as okay for me as it was gonna be in that situation.
"Anyway, when I was moved, I moved in with another couple and they made no bones about the fact that me and the other girls living there were drains on them, even though, as far as I could tell, the main reason we were there was for the checks we brought in. Me and Genevieve and Abby, the other girls who lived there, were mostly their slaves. We cooked, we cleaned, and we took care of their six year old twin boys who, it must be said, were good birth control for us girls if that was what they were trying to teach us. Our foster parents sat on their butts and if they wanted something, they hollered at us to run and fetch it for them. My foster mom, Carol, constantly made remarks about me, my body, my hair, my lack of personality, just being nasty. She was specifically mean to me, but she had an equal opportunity policy when it came to our care. She didn't spend one more cent than she had to on our needs, which meant that our clothes were constantly old and too small.
At school, girls made fun of me because they thought I wore my clothes overly tight to get the boys to notice me. They called me a slut and worse and the boys treated me like one and so I steered clear of everyone as much as possible.
"I wasn't exactly brimming with self confidence as it was, but Carol made it her job to make me feel even worse about myself. This didn't exactly make me eager to put myself out there as far as making friends or dating. I ate my lunch in the library every day, and I went home after school and cleaned Carol and Billy's house. The day I turned eighteen, I got a job at the Hilton, and moved out with the intention of sleeping on Genevieve's couch for three months. She had moved out of our foster home and in with her boyfriend six months earlier and told me I could stay there until I had enough money saved up for a security deposit on an apartment. Two months into my stay, her boyfriend made a pass at me, Gen threw me out and I had nowhere to go, and so I worked during the day, went to the library after work and slept at a table in the corner for three hours until they closed and then wandered to several different coffee shops nursing coffees until it was time to go back to work, where thankfully, they have a shower in the employee restroom that they don't mind us using.
"I slept at a shelter downtown one night but an old man tried to crawl into my cot with me in the middle of the night, and someone stole the pair of shoes I had left at the end of my bed before I went to sleep. I couldn't risk someone stealing the money I had saved for an apartment, which I was carrying all in cash. I would have been right back where I started, and that was unthinkable."
I’m taking each and every one of her words into my soul, letting them dissolve into the very fiber of who I am, forcing myself to picture her alone and scared, sleeping at a table in the library, wandering around the city alone, nowhere to go. I want to start throwing things; I want to beat my fists into someone’s face. I’m not sure who I want my victim to be. Probably myself. I need to be here for her though. I need to keep my own feelings of self-punishment for what I didn’t do for her, at bay.