Chapter 21 Perfect
Perfect
Gemiah
Inever made it to the second step in rehab.
The first one was easy—“powerless” is only a slippery slide from “useless,” after all, and my life had been unmanageable for as long as I could remember. But the second step—that a power greater than myself could restore my sanity—was a different story.
Harmony Home outside of Bolinas was as progressive as the rest of California in the twenty-first century.
No one pushed a traditional “god,” even though his name was all over the Big Book.
From what I could tell, that was pretty standard for the modern twelve-step program, old hippies and trust-fund burnouts notwithstanding.
But you had to pick something to believe in, which was where I balked. Not so much because I didn’t think the universe was bigger than the tragic human experience, but because if there was a higher power out there, I sure as hell didn’t trust it to give a shit about me.
Probably had something to do with my abandonment issues.
Plus, the only thing I was good at surrendering to was my own self-destruction.
After all, I’d spent the last year ignoring my family, Josha, and anyone else who might have tried to beat some sense into me.
When I couldn’t avoid them, I picked fights.
I spent more time fucked up than sober because it was easier to be high or drunk or, better yet, unconscious than it was to deal with the myriad faces of disappointment.
I didn’t understand my brain anymore, but I knew it hated me. It only made sense for god to hate me too.
So when I bring the truck to a skidding stop on the side of the two-lane blacktop to stare at Josha’s trembling frame, both of us unharmed and undaunted, there’s no reason for my first thought to be a fervent prayer of gratitude.
And there’s no reason for the first words out of my mouth to be a fucking confession.
The truth of my failure hangs between us, itchy and unguarded, while the moon slants through the windshield and the night comes alive.
Holding my breath, I wait for his judgment, and when he throws himself across the seat to press his lips to mine instead, my whole world somersaults.
There’s stubble, rough and virile, that wasn’t there when we were fifteen. There’s a tenuous confidence in the way his tongue brushes over the seam of my lips, begging entrance, that has me thinking finally with a jealous sort of pride.
And there’s a hum reverberating through his chest that drowns out the alarm bells ringing in my head until all I can do is suck the sound from him and delve into his eager mouth for more.
When his hand leaves my hair to seek bare skin at my waist, my better brain tries to kick in, and I say, “Wait.”
But he says “don’t think,” and he says “pretend,” and aren’t those my fucking specialty?
And then he says “please,” and we’re both fucked.
Because he’s Josha, who’s looked at me like I was everything since the day I met him, even when he’s peering down from the edge of my abyss.
And holy shit. I really, really want him to suck my dick right now. Possibly more than I’ve ever wanted a mouth on my dick before.
Does he know what he’s doing to me? With his pleading eyes and his little gasps and ohfuckohfuckohfuck—his fucking tongue?
My brain is reeling, washed away in an overload of lust and amphetamines, and my fingers trace over his skull, tangled in the waves of his hair, cradling him like something precious.
Was this inevitable?
As inevitable as him lying to cover for me.
As inevitable as getting him drunk when I know he’s terrified of turning into his dad.
As inevitable as him throwing away years of waiting for the right guy the minute I open my fucking pants.
It doesn’t matter that he’s the one who did the actual unbuttoning.
A line from one of his songs traces a frenetic path through my mind—something about heaven being wasted on the already dead—and guilt slams through me like a sneaker wave, prickling my skin with sudden sweat.
I’m going to ruin him if I let him do this.
I lurch back against the door of the truck, tugging frantically at his head. No, no, no.
“Stop.”
Hurt and surprise cut a miserable slash across his face as my hard-on wilts in shame and he peels himself off me.
Shit, my dick picked a hell of a time to develop a conscience.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” he breathes, before fumbling for the handle behind him and throwing himself free of the truck.
I shove my cock back in my pants and scramble out after him, my boots skidding on gravel as I round the bumper. He paces restlessly in the movie-projector glare of the headlights, tugging at his hair with both hands.
“Désolé. Je suis désolé.” The French spills from my mouth, dredged from childhood mishaps and two years of apologies in Montreal. “I’m so fucking sorry. You gotta know it’s not about you.” Instinctively, I reach for him but let my hand fall when he fixes me with a razored glare.
“Yeah, Gem. I’ve heard all your bullshit before. Usually, you wait until after the blow job to start angling to escape.”
“That’s not—don’t do that.” I wrap my arms around myself in a useless effort to still the earthquake in my chest. “You’re not some chick. You’re Rocket. You’re the only good thing in my life, and I won’t fucking wreck you.”
He drops his hands to stare at me across the aching divide. “You can’t say things like that to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t mean them the way I want you to,” he cries, fury and agony stripping the words raw.
“You can’t tell me what I mean.”
“Of course I can. Because underneath all this pseudo-noble bullshit, it’s just another way for you to play the victim—Poor fucking Gem. ‘How can I possibly compete with perfect Josha when my mommy loves him more?’—it’s the same old fucking excuse, and I’m sick of it.”
Frustration stirs, waking to the sting of truth in his words.
“Fuck you, Rocket. This isn’t about my mom. Your fucking mouth deserves better than to be used by me. I won’t let you waste it.”
“It’s my fucking choice! You don’t get to decide what I do with my body.”
“I know.” But god, do I want to.
And isn’t that the hellish fucking irony of the whole damn night. How can I keep taking advantage of his desire just to make myself feel less hollowed out, forever fearful of the day he figures out the truth? Better to cut him free now, while I can still live with myself.
Barely.
Slumping against the truck’s hood, the warm metal digging into my back, I offer up my final blow: “I’m not a choice, Rocket, I’m a mistake, and I can’t stand it anymore when you look at me like…”
“Like I love you?” Bitter resignation coats his voice.
“Like I’m someone I’m not. Someone who can give you what you want.”
“You’re right, Quill. You can’t give me what I want.
So maybe you should stop getting in the way of me finding someone who can.
” The fire of his anger is gone, leaving a ghost ship on an arctic sea, sailing away.
Without a backward glance, he heads off down the road, heedless of the looming woods and empty miles between here and the nearest form of civilization.
For a long minute, I wallow in my indecision, caught by the illusory injustice of the loss. I’ve been trying to push him away for years.
Yeah, and every time he strays too far, I reel him back with wordless promises I don’t know how to keep.
The leash is fucking tattooed to my wrist at this point.
It was only a matter of time before he realized the collar unclasps.
And isn’t that what I want for him? Isn’t it the reason for this whole miserable shit show?
Goddammit.
I sprint after him.
“C’mon, Rocket,” I call. “I can’t leave you here. You’ll get raped by a redneck or eaten by a mountain lion.”
“There’s no fucking way I’m getting back in that truck with you,” he spits back without stopping.
“It’s your truck.”
“It’s Big Top’s truck, Gem. Your family. You take it back. I’ll find another ride.”
“I can’t show up without you.” Jesus, I’m not even supposed to be here. My parents think I’m still in rehab. “They’ll fucking crucify me.”
“I don’t give a shit. Go home, then. Go back to rehab. Go to fucking hell, for all I care.”
I’m already in hell. I fucking live here.
But fine.
Let him fucking wander around in the dark. He’ll probably call my mom the minute I’m out of sight, and they can bitch together about what a fuckup I am.
I let him go.
I follow the glow of the headlights back to the truck and climb into the cab.
And I drive away.