Seeing the one photo a few months ago seemed so harmless compared to all the ones I just saw. Who are all those women, and why is every picture so sensual? What is he doing with me? I could never be what those photos are, and I know he can’t possibly see me in that way. I don’t think I want him to see me that way. No, I definitely don’t. It’s not me. I’m . . . no, I can’t even finish my thought.
Thoughts begin to flash quickly through my head, and I can’t tell if I am overreacting. If he looks at women like that, then what is he doing with me? I have never really felt unsure of Ryan, but maybe I should be.
My thoughts seize for a moment when I hear Ryan tap on the door, and I wonder how long I’ve been in here going crazy. Apprehensively, I open the door.
“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously as he takes a step in, and I take a step back. He can read my apprehension and gives me a confused look. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Dropping his head, he lets out a breath of irritation at my lie.
“Is it the photos?”
I don’t respond when he asks, but I know it’s all over my face.
“Candace, you asked to see them. You knew what they would be of.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would all be like that.”
He walks in front of me and leans against the sink and says, “They’re just pictures, that’s all.”
Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, I say, “But . . . they just seem so intimate.”
“Babe, don’t.”
I look up at him and ask, because I need to know, “Did you sleep with them?”
“Yes,” he responds honestly.
“How many have you . . .?”
“A lot.”
“And you photograph them?” I say with a tinge of disbelief.
“No. I’ve only photographed a couple women. Most of those photos are the same person.”
“Oh,” I say as I drop my head, now more worried than ever. I feel uneasy sitting here in front of him when he’s just told me all of this. I can’t help but think what those women must have meant to him. Did he talk to them the same way he does with me? Were they all in his bed, the bed I sometimes sleep in? And what am I to him?
He crouches down in front of me and says, “I know what you’re doing, and you can stop. None of them meant what you mean to me. I never had or wanted a relationship with them.”
“Then why?”
Holding my hands, he admits, “Because for most of my life I’ve been lost. I dealt with a lot of shit growing up, and I used women as a way to escape. But when I met you . . . you’re just different. I wanted to know you, really know you. You’re nothing like those women. Nothing. I’ve never looked at them or wanted them the way I do you.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I shamefully confess.
“I don’t either.”
“I mean . . . I haven’t . . .”
“Been with anyone?”
When I cover my face with my hands, he grips me behind my waist and brings me down to the floor with him, sitting sideways between his legs. Holding me, knowing I must be embarrassed, he says, “Talk to me.”
“Only once, but he was really drunk and it . . . well, it was pretty much over before it begun.”
“Sounds like an asshole.”
“He was, but it kept my parents off my back. They really liked him and his family, so we would go out every now and then, but that was about it. So, I can’t help but sometimes wonder what you’re doing with me.” Crap! Did I really just admit that?
“Look at me,” he says, and when I do, he continues, “I don’t give a shit how inexperienced you are. In fact, I prefer that because the thought of another guy touching you pisses me off. That guy was a dick for treating you like you were disposable. But don’t devalue yourself because of that. I won’t rush you into anything. You know that right?”
When I nod my head, he says, “You’re what I want. No one else, okay?”
“I just get scared, and I feel like you might start thinking you’re wasting your time with me. I know you’d prefer that I stay every night here with you, but that’s what scares me. I just need to move slow with this.”
“You’re not a waste of my time. You’re worth every second.”
Sighing with a mild feeling of relief, I smile as he leans down and gives me a slow, soft kiss.
When I let a giggle slip out, he breaks our kiss and asks, “What?”
“Can we get off your bathroom floor now?”
Laughing, he stands up and holds out his hand to help me up.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“Let’s go hang out at Zoca’s and get some coffee.”
“Perfect.”
?????
Regardless of the rain, we decide to sit outside, drink our coffee, and listen to an insanely grungy street performer. Standing in the rain, he strums the somber chords of ‘Something in the Way’ by Nirvana as he sings the doleful lyrics. Listening to this stranger sing one of my favorite songs, I get lost for a moment at the familiar words.
“You know this song?” Ryan asks, and I pull myself out of my daze.
I turn to look at him, and respond, “It’s one of my favorites.”
“I used to listen to this a lot when I was younger.”
“Hmm . . .”
“What?” he asks.
“I did too.” When the corner of Ryan’s mouth turns up in a small half smile, I say, “Go give him some money.”
Snickering, he says, “What? Why?”