“You don’t get to tell me to stop. I am the only one with that power. The only thing I will grant you is the ability to ask for more. To beg.”
“I will never beg for you. Not in the way you are asking.”
“Oh ... Kitten. You have no idea.”
“Don’t call me that.”
In the cell, there were no books, no television. I had a stack of blank journals, nothing else. During my first few weeks I wrote in them. Once I realized that he read them, flipped through my pages, copied excerpts into his book, I stopped. I could hold onto my memories and thoughts without giving him a front-row seat to my truths. Instead, I used the pages to draw, to illustrate pieces of my past life that would make sense to only me. My sketches started out rudimentary, crude doodles of my friends, parents, a flower I grew once in a kitchen pot. But, with unlimited time devoted to my new hobby, I improved. Grew more detailed. More lifelike. Once, I earned a pack of colored pencils, so the sketches began to contain bits of greens and yellows, blues and pinks. I tried to ration them, too proud to ask for more.
Occasionally, if a sketch was particularly good, I destroyed it. Ripped off a piece at a time, letting the bits collect in a pile before I scooped them into my hand and let them flutter into the toilet. Flushed and watched the colorful fragments of evidence swirl away. It was a self-protective measure, verification that I was not placing too much happiness, too much identity in those pages. The more I cared, the sharper the edge of the item, the bigger the weapon I handed over for him to hurt me. In that room, in that environment, he was eager for shards, pieces of my heart to poke at and record the reaction.
It was why I flushed the paper.
It was why I never mentioned Brett to him.
I was at my desk, a collection of client files stretched out before me, when my cell buzzed.
Hey beautiful.
I picked it up. Stared at the words, then moved hesitant thumbs.
hey
I had a great time this weekend.
Agreed. Thanks for...
I bit my lip, my fingers hovering over the keypad. Thanks for what? The smoking hot sex? The resetting of my prude-o-meter? The reminder of everything my current life is missing? I deleted the words.
Agreed.
I pressed send and watched the curtest response ever sail off into cyberspace.
When can I see you again?
just stop
what?
It was fun, but we live a thousand miles apart. It won’t work.
my map search says it’s 410 miles My lip bite became less about indecision and more about holding back my smile. I locked my phone and tossed it onto the desk before I made a stupid decision and sent a text that would get me further into trouble. That was him. Trouble. I rolled forward and picked up my office phone. Dialed a number and waited for Mitzi to answer. Ignored the text alert buzz of my cell and swore to myself that I wouldn’t touch it. Not for — I glanced at the clock — at least fifteen minutes.
“Hey,” Mitzi’s snap into the phone interrupted my reach for my cell.
“Hey. Talk me off this ledge.”
“I assume this ledge you speak of is Island Boy?” In the background there was the clatter of pots and the shrill scream of a child. “Shit. Just a second.” I heard her scream, threats were made, and then she was back, not even a little breathless.
“Yeah, that ledge.” I spun a pen on my desk.
“Jump, woman. Jump with both feet and arms outstretched and pretty-fucking-please take me with you when you fall.” The smile in her words didn’t belie the truth I heard in the request.
“It’s stupid.” I started the debate we’d already had three times since Monday night.
“Who cares?” That was the issue. My arguments had merit, and hers were that of a fourth-grade shouting match.
“We live too far away.”
“So?”
“I don’t even know him.”
“Yet. But you can.”
“You suck at this.”
“I’m not gonna stand in the way of what could be true love.”
My next spin was a little too aggressive, and the Bic shot toward the edge of the desk. There was a rap on the glass of my wall and I looked up, raising my eyebrows when I saw what was there. “Mitzi, I’m getting flowers.”
“Bitch, God is smacking you on the damn forehead. Jump.”
I heard the click on her end and slowly hung up the receiver, gesturing in a kid, one who looked barely out of high school. I stood, watching warily as he carefully set the vase down, the entire arrangement tipping slightly before it found solid footing. “Thanks.”
“No problem, ma’am. They sure are big.”
I nodded, reaching out and snagging the card, the boy’s eyes following. I set it on my desk, my hand covering it. “Thanks.” I repeated the sentiment, and he finally turned, nodding to me with a smile and moving to the door. I tapped the card against the desk before letting out a sigh and flipping it over.
I can’t get you
out of my head.
I stared at the words until they blurred, and I tossed the card down, my butt settling deeper into my chair as I leaned back and looked at the flowers, a huge display of orchids and lilies, a colorful blend that brought me back to the island without even trying. He couldn’t get me out of his head? The feeling was mutual. Then, after a good ten minutes spent analyzing the decision, I picked my phone back up. Skimmed over his last text.
take a chance.
I took a deep breath, then responded.
I’m free this weekend.