I stared at him for a moment. “It hurts seeing that.” It was also embarrassing admitting that weakness.
He smiled gently, and he reached for my chin, lifting it to look at my eyes. “That’s because once upon a time it was all about us. Sometimes it’s hard to let go of those … notions…” he said as he glanced away. But then he looked back. “Especially when they’re good notions.”
I nodded.
“It would be no less painful for me to see. I need you to know that.” He focused on my eyes for a moment, but then he took a deep breath. “While I think we drew a line in the sand earlier this evening and then stepped past it, God willing leaving what came before behind, I also need you to know I didn’t have sex with Tia. And I haven’t slept with Lisa recently either.” He rolled his eyes. “The student and the married woman.”
My insides ached, and I looked away from him. “You would have,” I said. It wasn’t a question.
He took a deep breath, but he nodded. “Thank God for Hazleton PD and happy coincidences in restaurants.”
I wasn’t amused, and I couldn’t seem to hide that as I stared at him, failing to react to his sarcasm.
His lips pursed. “You need to understand sex isn’t love to me, nor is it commitment or intimacy.” His expression was nervous, and he gnawed on his lower lip.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come here. I’d wanted to see him. I’d wanted more of the talking, the openness, just more of the decision to move forward. And when I’d jumped in my car after making it home and staring around my living room in a daze, I’d been excited to see him. I was starting to regret it already.
“Do you want to have sex with me?” I asked. It was a loaded question, and given the nervous look on his face, he knew that. If he said he didn’t, he ran the risk of hurting my feelings. If he said he did, he ran the risk of objectifying me as nothing more than a piece of ass—much like the many pieces that had come before me.
He pulled his lower lip into his mouth, and I watched him. When he nodded it was tight, and he was staring at my chin instead of my eyes.
I nodded. “I see,” I said as I looked around for a way to end this and make my escape.
“No you don’t,” he said. “You’re… You’re—”
“Let me guess. Special,” I said with a cruel sarcasm I just couldn’t help.
“Fuck yes you are,” he spat back at me, his face pinched in anger. “Listen,” he continued as he shook his head. “I didn’t ask for a truce so I could fuck you. You asked the question. I answered it honestly. I’m just…” He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “…attracted to you. I always have been. It doesn’t mean I expect you to have sex with me. But don’t ask me a question unless you want the honest answer, because you’re going to get the truth, however ugly it is, upsetting it is, or shocking it is.”
I stared at his chest, but he lifted my chin again.
“Please look at me.” His fingers squeezed gently against my skin. “I know this has been hard on you. The past few weeks, you’ve been forced to deal with the mess I’ve made of myself. You saw my ugly, and I was defensive, because you’re life looks beautiful to me. And it made me feel pathetic.”
“My life doesn’t feel beautiful,” I said quietly.
He nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. But please take that step over the line. I need you too.”
I nodded, and he sighed as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his body. I slid my right hand up under his T-shirt, knowing exactly where I’d find the scar, and I covered it with my palm. His muscles tensed under my touch, but then he relaxed into it, and he inhaled deeply against my hair.
We stood there for too long, and I listened to his heart beat, and I soaked in the warmth of him. This felt good again—being close to him. I needed it to stay that way.
When he walked toward the kitchen, I followed. There was a large garbage can in the center of the kitchen floor. It was the same one that had been in the middle of the living room floor a few weeks prior, but instead of being filled with just wood scraps and pieces of drywall, it was now littered with broken liquor bottles, and it reeked of alcohol.
I stared into the garbage can as Kane pulled a carton of whipped cream out of the fridge and started eating it with a spoon.
“You could have emptied the bottles first you know, rather than smashing them full in the garbage can.” I smirked.
“I know,” he said around the spoon in his mouth. “But they always smash them full in the movies. Sometimes in the sink, which… Why? Right?” he asked jokingly.
He scooped up another spoonful of whipped cream, and he handed it to me. I stared at it for a moment, but I took the spoon, popping it into my mouth.
“Who the hell wants to pick glass out of a sink?” he continued. “This is my ode to Hollywood cinematic ridiculousness. I suppose it’s visually powerful though.”