Chapter 50.
50.
Double Jeopardy (Fifth Amendment clause)
prohibits anyone from being prosecuted twice for substantially the same crime
dues have already been paid
N early six weeks later, I sit in traffic southbound on the I-5 on my way home from Sagebrook Farms. There, I spent nearly two hours with Athena, an all-brown Tennessee walking horse who I took to immediately. I hadn’t ridden since my fall at Sagawa. After the trial, I felt the urge to do it again. And the fact that it smells like Damon there is a bonus.
Traffic comes to a full stop two miles from my exit. I sigh, accepting this route as the wrong choice, the evening rush hour creeping earlier into the afternoon each day. I can’t drive anywhere without thinking of Damon thanks to the digital road signs. Sometimes they’re straightforward. Sometimes they’re funny. Sometimes they are so obviously Damon that my heart aches as I drive by, wishing I hadn’t looked at all.
My phone beeps, and I glance at it in the cupholder. It’s a text from my mom. I glance up at the line of unmoving cars and, knowing I shouldn’t, pick up my phone. I can’t help my smile as I take in the picture she has sent. It’s Gen, who’s crawling now, perched on her knees opening a kitchen cabinet. Time for locks! my mom’s text reads. We text nearly daily now, mostly her sending pictures and videos of Gen and me reacting to them, but more and more I also share glimpses of my life with her. Speaking with a therapist these past few weeks has helped me come from a place of understanding rather than expectation with her.
... and baby gates and toilet clamps! I type back along with a laughing emoji.
The situation with my father has been harder. He’s seemingly less capable of looking backward to understand what got us here and, moreover, that “here” is not an idyllic state. I’ll be okay if it doesn’t work out.
My phone pings again, and this time it’s Mel: Margot’s at it again! she’s written, with an accompanying link from BuzzFeed titled “Margot and Harry Step Out!” with a picture of the two of them, hand in hand, dressed to the nines at a Sea Save benefit. All I can do is shake my head.
I replace my phone in the cupholder and refocus on the road, still jammed.
Margot and Harry have apparently been together since well before the trial, though they managed to keep it quiet until the day it ended, when they released a joint statement about their coupling. “We did not ask for this, but love found us anyway,”it read.
Internet sleuths did eventually make the same connection I did during the trial as they poured over court records and Margot’s testimony in particular. It became a highly debated point online, how Margot referenced a piece of storyline from one of Joe’s early movies in her testimony and what it might mean. Many, many TikToks were made of Fruit Roll-Ups and pinto beans being eaten together in the same bite.
They didn’t believe her before, and they certainly didn’t believe her after. But I’m inclined to believe they were never going to.
After inching forward a few hundred yards, I look up at the digital traffic sign ahead because I can’t not look, wondering what it will be today. Perhaps something basic like a seat belt reminder or notification of a traffic delay. Maybe a funny pun referencing the Adele concert tonight.
I take in the digital sign overhead, the same one I’ve driven past hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. The same one thousands of drivers have potentially seen today. I stare at the sign for a long while, as if trying to make sense of it, though I already have.
Will you take a chance on me, or should I just keep chasing penguins? D.
Damon.
Six weeks after our last interaction, he makes this public declaration. I look around at the other drivers, unaffected. Of course they’re unaffected. This sign is for me. Only me. He is thinking about us still.
I realize I’m not over my relationship issues. I may never be, fully. But I don’t know anyone who isn’t some semblance of broken. My eyes pool.
I pick up my phone to text Damon, as traffic is again at a full stop, realizing quickly we never did exchange numbers. I tap at the steering wheel, wondering how I might get to him, knowing I’m no longer willing to accept anything less than him.
I arrive home twenty minutes later, eager to find him. I spent the remainder of the drive thinking of ways I might track him down, cursing myself for not exchanging numbers when he asked. I could find a directory for transportation engineers who work for the city. Maybe I could contact Tamra (as the only juror I did exchange contact details with) to see if she did the same with him. I could google him, which I have once again successfully avoided doing, this time post-trial.
But before I can do any of these things, my brain and body halt when I see the brute of a man standing at the lobby entrance of my apartment building.
He’s already here.
I’m overcome with a rush of anxiety, fear, excitement... I’m not sure which is accurate.
I park and approach him as he leans against the lobby door.
“I thought I was the one who shows up at your door unannounced,” I say.
He huffs. “Thought I should shake things up.”
I take in every bit of him. He looks different after six weeks apart. His hair is cropped shorter, his skin a bit tanner than when I saw him last. But he’s still gloriously the same, dressed for the unseasonably warm December day in dark jeans and a light blue Henley, the contrast making his eyes look more green than blue. Before me, I see the man from the trial, the boy from my past. I see all of it, like the still frames of a life where ten years didn’t go missing.
He’s so fucking handsome.
“I saw the sign,” I say, stepping before him.
“I feel like I should have some Ace of Base song reference ready here.”
I ignore his shot at levity, too taken with having him here before me. “How long has it been up?”
He shrugs. “Just today. I took a shot.”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
He shakes his head. “It’s worth a write-up.”
I shake my head back. “Always the troublemaker, pushing boundaries, breaking rules.”
“That’s why I need you to keep me in line.”
“Is that what I am? Your safety net for when you make questionable decisions?”
“No. You’re the person who makes it more fun when I do make questionable decisions.”
We’ve both inched closer and now are practically touching. I take in his scent and tug at the hem of my cropped tee, attempting to loosen the wrinkles from the drive, realizing I likely smell like a horse. But then again, so does he.
I knew I missed him over these past few weeks. I’ve thought about him constantly. There’s been a void I can never seem to fill, like a steady, unquenchable thirst or an irretrievable word on the tip of my tongue. The constant feeling that I’ve forgotten to grab my keys or unplug an appliance. But being next to him now, I didn’t realize how much I really did miss him. How just having him standing here before me, I feel a wholeness I haven’t felt, perhaps ever.
“How’d you know where I live?”
He looks down and cups the back of his neck with his palm, and I practically liquefy. I can’t help but smile at how that small gesture is so distinctly him. How many times in those first few days of the trial I found myself jealous of the back of his neck, how much action it gets from his broad hand.
“Working for the government has its perks.”
“You dug into government files?”
He smiles. A real one. I stare at his perfect teeth.
“No. I googled you. You weren’t hard to find.”
We stare at each other, our faces mirrored as they grow serious.
“I’ve got a shit ton of emotional baggage,” I tell him, only now, for the first time, willing to admit it aloud.
“So do I,” he says so matter-of-factly that I wonder if he’s really heard me.
“I’m not sure I know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be with someone. Romantically.”
He is quiet, and I wonder if I’ve misread the situation. Perhaps he’s here with a different agenda altogether. But then he takes my hands in his. “You don’t have to know. We will figure it out.”
Is it really that simple? I’m sure the answer is no, but what if, through our actions, we can make it yes.
“Everything broken in me doesn’t just change with the flip of a switch,” he says, squeezing my hands gently in his palms. “But I want to try. With you. Having you to take care of, to worry about, to protect, it felt good.”
“I don’t need to be protected,” I say.
“I know. Which makes me want to protect you more.”
I swallow, give his words time to seep into every part of me. I want to feel them in the tips of my fingers and toes. “What changed?”
“I spoke with my mom. About Kara. You. About everything that happened between our families. We somehow stopped talking about her or anything real over the years. She told me her world stopped when Kara died, and the only thing that kept her going was the love she had for me, for my father.”
His eyes swell before he adds, “And she told me it wasn’t my fault.”
I squeeze his hands. “I’ve done a lot of talking, too,” I tell him. “I suppose I am lucky for the family I’ve got, even if it is a fucked-up version.”
He smiles, and it’s gone as quickly as it came. “I just want you,” he says. “No matter what complications it might bring. I just want you.” He repeats this last part with a grumbly whisper that awakens all the dormant winged things in my gut.
My free hand is now at his waist, fingers curled under the waistband of his jeans. I don’t want to talk anymore. I want to show him how much I’ve missed him. “Come inside.”
He grins.
I lead him into the lobby, and the heat quickly gaining intensity at my core makes walking difficult. As I usher him to the elevator, his hand behind me rubs gentle circles on the small of my back under my shirt. I swallow hard as his hand slides down, squeezes my ass over my jeans. The elevator doors open, and we are tangled together before they close. Thank God we are alone.
He presses me up against the side wall, his waist pinning mine. “I missed you,” he whispers into my neck before his lips make contact. “I’ve always missed you.”
He pulls back so our eyes can meet. I know, I think. I know.
Before there can be more, the elevator beeps and the doors open, Ms. Huger from two doors down standing before us, car keys in hand. She raises her eyebrows as she takes us in, mostly focused on me. Her chin tilts down slightly, and I can’t help but think she looks pleasantly surprised. I didn’t think you had it in you, the slight curve of her lips says as we pass each other.
I curl my fingers under the waist of his jeans and lead him to my door. He presses into my back, and I fumble with the keys as I feel his bulge against my backside. I unlock the door and turn the knob, then he kicks it shut after we step in. Finally truly alone, I fold my arms around his neck, and he lifts me to his waist until my legs are wrapped around him.
“Where’s the bedroom?” he murmurs between kisses, his arms wrapped tightly around me, one against my back, the other under my butt. Just like in his room at the Singer Suites.
“To the right,” I say into his mouth, and he follows the direction well, kicking the half-ajar door all the way open, collapsing me onto the bed as I say a silent thank you that Mel is at her studio for the next several hours.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come to my senses,” he whispers into my neck, then runs his teeth along its curve. “I won’t make that mistake again.”
Six weeks of fantasizing about his touch daily. My eyes roll shut as he licks up to my ear.
“Fuck,” I groan, and I feel his lips expand into a quick grin against my jaw. I reach down and unbutton his jeans then unzip, rubbing the side of my hand against him as I do. His lips find mine, and his tongue pushes into my mouth in a gloriously forceful motion. He tastes precisely as I remember, like the man I’ve wanted since we were sixteen. In many ways, the one I wanted well before that, before I knew to want someone. I pull at the hem of his Henley shirt, and he sits up and removes it obediently. I look up at him, admire him, want him inside me more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I press my palm into the tattoo over his heart, feel it pulse.
He bends down to me and cups my face with his palms, brushing my lips tenderly with his. He whispers into my mouth, “I don’t remember a me that didn’t love you.”
I look into his eyes. This close, they are opaque, and I can see all of him.
Him.
He is imprinted on me. He is the canon event, the core memory, the missing piece.
He is all of it.
I don’t know how I lived so long without him, without this touch. But I know I wasn’t doing much living in those years in between. He pins my hands over my head, reaches down and lifts my shirt, pulls it off, looks down at me with those peacock-feather-colored eyes full of loss, longing, want.
I slip out of my jeans and pull him down to me, the heat of his skin warming me from what feels like the inside out. He is down to his boxer briefs, and I tug at the waistband, letting them snap his skin upon release. Our eyes meet in mutual agreement, and we both scurry to remove our remaining layers. I reach for the bedside table, pull the drawer open, and grab a condom into my palm. We come together again, fully rid of everything but each other.
He presses his mouth to mine, and it’s hungry, yearning. Just as I’m ready to grab at his hips and wrap my legs around him, he shimmies downward, his lips carving a trail down my neck to my chest. His lips play there for a few moments, his tongue flicking at my nipples, calling them forward. Then he continues down and my hands find his hair, pulling it into my fists as his lips trail down my stomach, then meander sideways to the jut of my right hip, then down again to my inner thigh. I throw my head back in anticipation, and he delivers without making me wait any longer, his tongue finding me. He grants me one long lick of his full tongue. I moan, loudly. Here, I don’t have to hold back. He makes the motion again, and my body releases any remaining fragments of tension. My back falls more deeply into the bed, my legs fall open, and my head rolls to the side. I am his to do with as he pleases.
He does this a few more times, painstakingly slowly. Then, when I feel as though I may combust from the fiery sensation at my base, he takes my most sensitive part into his mouth and sucks. I arch again, all the tension in my body back, and I fight the urge to push him away from the intensity of the feeling. He presses a firm palm to my abdomen, holding me in place. My breath grows jagged as he sucks, his motion steady and consistent so my arousal grows at a breakneck pace.
When I cannot take it a moment longer, I tug firmly at his hair. He obliges, giving my clit one last long lick before rising to meet me again. “You,” I huff as our noses touch. But I can’t manage anything else. I can’t even manage to finish the thought. The only thing I can focus on is the pulsing, empty ache between my legs. I take the opportunity and raise my hips to meet him. His breath comes more harshly, but he is solidly in control. His face still millimeters from mine, he reaches down between us and grinds his fingers against me for a moment, building more ache than I thought myself capable of. He rolls to his side to slip the condom on with his other hand. Then, finally, he is on top of me again. He aligns with me and, with his hand, inches himself inside me. I raise my hips again to meet him, and when he is fully pressed inside me, he releases his weight and pushes my hips back to the bed.
He fits so perfectly, so fully, I cannot fathom how I missed ten years of this. Before I can beg, he is pressing and pulling in and out of me, his pace quickening with each slick motion. I squeeze the curve of his backside, part urging, part steadying. He huffs into my neck, and the warmth and wetness make my skin feel as though it’s melting into a puddle just below his mouth. His thrusts grow harder and more intense, which I didn’t think possible, and for the next completely unknown to me number of minutes, he gives me everything.
I come undone, crying out as a flood of pleasure pools inside me. My vocalization pushes him over the edge, his warm release just seconds behind.
Summer rain.
The smell of jasmine.
Him and me.
I used to believe these things were the past. A suspended, ungraspable moment in time. But now I know they are alive in every bit of me—us—more organism than memory. They always were. They always will be.
We lie together for what seems like several hours, long enough for the sky outside to begin to dull. He holds me tight, as if afraid I might leave. I don’t ever plan to.
I roll to face him, unable to help my pointer finger as it gently traces the tattoo over his heart. “Why Prince Hamsterdinck?” I ask, the tip of my nail outlining the thin whiskers jutting from the right side of its face.
“You know why.”
“I know it’s us , which I love, but of all the things we shared back then, why this in particular?” I press my palm over the tattoo, only its furry sides visible.
Damon is momentarily thoughtful, looking to the ceiling, then lifting my chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Hiding that silly thing was the happiest I ever was in my life. Choosing the perfect spot to hide it. The anticipation of you finding it. The look on your face whenever you did actually find it.” He huffs, the Damon version of a good-natured chuckle. “It was so... easy. Just fun. I wanted to bottle that.”
We kiss for what feels like hours more.
“I should kick you out before Mel gets home,” I say finally, eyeing my still-open bedroom door.
He groans.
“I know, I’m sorry. But if she walks in and sees this, well, trust me, it’s for your own good.”
He kisses my forehead, a long, deliberate press of his lips to my skin. “Okay,” he concedes.
I watch as he swings his legs over the edge of the bed, stands, and begins collecting his clothes from the ground. I watch his body as it twists, bends, flexes. He is exquisite.
“I can feel you ogling me,” he says after he’s pulled his boxer briefs into place.
“Good,” I respond.
He picks up his jeans and, as if remembering something, reaches into one of the pockets. “I have something for you,” he says. He pulls out a small piece of folded paper. He hands me the note, his face tender, jaw muscle flexing. I unfold it carefully, flicking my eyes up to smile at him as I do. A note from Damon Bradburn will always make me melt.
WILL YOU BE MY GIRLFRIEND?
?
?
YES
NO
?
STILL PASSED OUT IN A CLOSET
I look up at him again, and he is smiling, just barely, holding a pen out toward me.