He falls asleep, and I spend hours lying tangled within his long limbs, listening to the steady beat of his heart and the little snores that rumble from his chest. I can’t turn my thoughts away from the admission he’s entrusted me with. My heart physically aches with the gravity of his sadness. How can he think for one moment that his life would be better ended? Tears well up as I imagine him switching off, shutting his body down and standing unmoving, letting his dad beat him. I have a hard time contemplating what it must have been like for him growing up. Knowing that the person most little boys look up to as their hero was responsible for such terrible actions. The way he told me that he wished his father dead scares me. It sounded almost sociopathic. Emotionless. Cold. That’s not Ethan; he’s funny and witty and has such a beautiful heart. It tears me apart to think of him in any other way. Maybe he needs to talk to someone that can help him, a therapist, or counselor; hell, maybe even a psychiatrist. Someone that can help him make sense of his emotions regarding Frank. I don’t think I’m the right person for the job. I’m pretty sure I hate him just as much as Ethan does.
The bed creaks as I untangle myself from Ethan’s legs and slip under his arm. I pick up my cell and pull his soft cotton Nirvana t-shirt over my head, filling my lungs with his soapy musky scent. I pad out of the room toward the bathroom, careful not to trip on the clothes that have been cast all over the floor in our haste to undress. The nylon of the carpet tiles scuff on the tips of my toes as I sneak over to the door. I’m zapped with a bolt of static as I reach for the handle and cuss under my breath, sneaking a quick look over my shoulder to make sure I didn’t wake him. I slip around it vigilantly, trying my best not to open it too far, and expose the light from the street lamp that’s filtering through the tiny window in the corner of the room. I hold my breath and grit my teeth, as if that would make some monumental difference as I press the door closed, hoping I don’t disturb him. My stomach lurches as I press the button on my cell and the home screen illuminates, displaying three new messages from my mom, Brie and Moira. I scan over the message from my mom, asking for me to let her know how everything is going. I quickly type a reply that lets her know we are both fine and hit the send button before opening Brie’s message. I read through the essay-long correspondence that details in impressive depth exactly what she’s eaten today, what she will be wearing for her date with Jackson, and how she thinks he could be the one in spite of the fact that this will be their first official date. I smile and make a mental note to respond to her later. Moira’s name is highlighted in my list of texts, and I hesitate before opening it. I have to tell her that I can’t go along with keeping Ethan in the dark. After the revelations of this evening, and then his words to me after we had made love, I can't risk him finding out that I haven’t told him about his mom, especially with all the chances he’s given me to tell him. I stare down at the message with my thumb hovering over the screen.
From: Moira
Hi Blair,
How was he after I saw him outside of the restaurant? He seemed unsettled and stressed when I talked to him. He also lied to me about not having remembered anything else. I know you’d said that he only had vague recollections, but I’m worried. Please let me speak to him in my own time. I know what I’m asking of you is hard. Trust me, breaking your son’s heart for a second time in a month is harder.
Thank you for keeping me updated. Moira xx
I had envisaged coming in here and sending her a message, warning her I was going to tell him the truth. Now I’m sitting with my head in my hands on the toilet seat, wishing I’d never agreed to this in the first place. I’m a terrible liar; he’s going to notice soon enough and then where does that leave me? I need to fix this; I’m a good person…but apparently a horrible girlfriend.
I’M SCREWED. MY whole body is trembling, my heart feels like a jackhammer slamming excruciatingly into my ribs, and I have no idea what to do with the emotions rotating around in my head. My mind is a giant tumble dryer, and someone’s flicked the switch to the spin cycle. I’ve had my fair share of sex; hell, if I’m honest I’ve had way more than my fair share, but that wasn’t sex. It was two people connecting on a level I’ve never experienced until now. I mean, sure I’ve had some really great hook-ups where I’ve even stayed and had an actual conversation with a chick before leaving, and then at some point found myself going back for more. There was never a connection though. The only driving force behind going back was the assurance that it would be a good time. It’s a shallow but truthful fact; sex has always been an outlet, a stress reliever—never anything more, and I’ve always been happy with that. What Blair and I just did was different, and now I’m a mess. It was intense but soft; comfortable yet passionate; raw and completely fucking terrifying. I can't help wondering if the first time we did this it felt like that. There’s no way, because if it did, I can’t even for a second comprehend that I would have forgotten her.
I feel her trying to slide from under my arm; she thinks I’m sleeping—fat chance. I wish I could, but I don’t dare. I don’t want to wake up later and realize that tonight was just a dream. I wait for the bathroom door to click shut before sitting up and reaching for my cell. The display reads 11:32pm; I thought it would be later than that. My headache from earlier still lingers, it resembles that throbbing feeling you get when you’ve trapped your hand or foot in a door. After the initial hopping about, screaming shit and cussing like you’ve just been shot, the pain steadies to a dull, annoying discomfort that won’t go away.
“Jeeeesus, Ethan!”