Chapter 13 #2
There’s a middle-aged woman in a long layered skirt and tie-dyed silk tunic at the fire with us. She’s smoking a joint and watching the embers. After a while she introduces herself as Sharon.
“I’m just dropping acid and connecting to my indigenous roots,” she explains. “You’re here with Johnno?”
“He’s our guide,” Mischa says.
Sharon nods. “Johnno is what Australians call a ‘great cunt.’ Cunt is Australian for ‘person’. Johnno is a really good person.”
“A beautiful cunt,” Mischa says, and I laugh.
“So what about yous?” she asks, and passes me the joint.
Mischa pushes his big toe in the red sand. “Well I’m in love with Austen here, and he thinks he’s not in love with me, not even sure he’s gay, so I’m trying to fall out of love with him. I have been unsuccessful so far, so I’m just trying to accept it for what it is.”
“Well,” Sharon frowns, “that’s more honesty than I expected.”
“We’ve both been through hell in our lives, and don’t like bullshit,” Mischa shrugs. “Life’s too short.”
“Have you kissed?”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“See what I’m working with?” Mischa shakes his head.
“See what I’ve got to deal with!”
“Look, Austen, just tell me no. I won’t be angry. I won’t be hurt. You’re just being honest. I’ll say thanks. I promise. I won’t try to change your mind. I’ll just move on. Just tell me. Will you have a little holiday fling with me? It’s a yes or no question.”
I’m not sure what to tell him. “I don’t know...”
Mischa groans and falls face-first on the dirt in front of him for dramatic effect.
“That’s a hard case,” Sharon chuckles.
“Any pearls of wisdom from your trip?” he asks her, and dusts himself off.
“Three beers,” she says. “You both need three beers.”
“We only have seltzer,” Mischa says and hands her one.
“Four then,” she says, and cracks her can open. “Where are yous two from?”
“Massachusetts,” we both say in unison, and look at each other.
“Neither of yous sound American,” Sharon says, and points to Mischa. “Well you do, but you don’t seem like a Yank.”
“I’m a refugee,” Mischa says, as I hand him the joint. “From Yugoslavia.”
“I’m really from Appalachia,” I shrug. “I just sound British. That’s the place that feels most like me. My town’s a poor, rough, decrepit backwater, but I’d take it over any palace in the world.”
Mischa stares at me. “We have more in common than you realize.”
“I’m pleased. I do like you a lot, even though you tried to sabotage my holiday and I hate your guts.”
“Don’t hate me; we’re both alone in the world,” he tells me. “We should at least be friends.”
“No. Wait. Maybe. I mean...” I think about it. “Okay.”
“Can I also be your lover?”
“No.”
“Oh well,” he sighs. “That’s okay.”
“Really?” I ask.
“I told you it was fine, and it is. I’m sick of feeling like Pepé Le Pew. I always thought the opposite of love was hate, but it’s indifference. Maybe it’s the cure too. Maybe we could try being indifferent?”
“Okay.”
Mischa smiles. “It’s just nice, you know, having you here tonight. You’re really here. It’s the first time you’re here and not screaming at the top of your lungs since I met you.”
My eyes squint. “I don’t think I ever screamed at you, have I?”
“Your screams are silent, like drowning, but I hear it through my whole body, and there’s nothing I can do to help you.”
He hits me somewhere I thought was hidden. It’s just a moment, but in this moment, all possible moments exist, if only for that moment. I try to let it pass, tell myself no, get back control but I can’t. I just sit there, stunned.
Sharon hands me another joint so now we have two.
“Soulmates always see more of you than others,” she says. “But that’s my cue to turn in for the night. Thank you for the memory.”
We sit, watching her flashlight disappear, then see another bobbing along the track towards us. It’s Kane.
“There you are,” he says, when he finds me. “William wants to tell you he’s going to bed early and to leave him the fuck alone for the night. His words, not mine.”
I’m confused. “We’re sharing a tent.”
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” he says and turns to leave.
“Fuck that,” I yell after him. “He’s sleeping and I’m not?”
“You can share with me, if you want,” Kane calls back. “Unless you have a better offer.”
“Oh my God,” Mischa gasps, “did someone just win the lottery?”
“No, no, no,” I laugh. “You did not.”
“I didn’t mean me; I meant you.”
I scoff. “You think so highly of yourself.”
“Austen, you’re home free. You’ve got one night, and one night only, when he’s not breathing down your neck. You can do anything, in complete seclusion and safety. How do you want to spend your golden ticket?”
He looks at me with hungry eyes, and takes my hands.
“It’s not like I’m a prisoner,” I say.
“I didn’t say you were. I’m just inviting you to stay with me, without fear.”
“Yeah, right,” I say, and we sit in an uncomfortable silence.
“Can I just try something?” he says. “Can we just try the kiss? I mean, she made a good point.”
I glower at him. “Fine, whatever. Hope you’re ready to press the button on my bracelet. Kane’s gonna murder you, if Billy doesn't get here first.”
Touch has a way of saying things best left unsaid.
If I let him kiss me I can show him nothing will fix me, or shift me.
I am committed to this stalemate we have.
Him, adorable and love struck, and me cold and heartless.
He sees me in a way that no one else does and makes me feel things I wasn’t sure I could feel, but he doesn’t understand that I don’t have much to give.
He’s offering a fling on a golden platter, and I want to be the person that can take him up on such an offer, I’m just not.
He moves between me and the fire, crouching down, and takes my face in his hands and looks at me.
I brace myself. He stares at my lips, and moves in closer.
He tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes.
He gives me a few gentle kisses. His lips are soft against mine.
It feels good, and I’m not having a seizure.
I’m not having a seizure?
He pulls away, opens his eyes to look at my lips, then eyes.
“Don’t read into this,” I say.
Then I move in and return the kiss. Both our eyes close. His fingers race through my hair and caress my head. As his lips open against mine, my lips follow, and our tongues connect.
For reasons unrelated to Mischa, I want this kiss to be good.
I let it go on longer, and pull him closer in a way that tells him I like it.
That it feels right, and I want him. Maybe there’s some truth in it, but I’m just screwing with his head.
He makes a whimper of pleasure, and falls to his knees.
He pulls away and looks at me in shock. The emotional knot inside me tightens.
“That’s enough,” I say, coldly.
First proper kiss. Probably the only kiss I’ll ever have too. At least it was really good.
I take a swig of my drink, trying to appear blank and numb. He crawls back to his seat, breathless. He gets his spritzer. His hands are shaking as he drinks.
That moment was a bit too real, and I need to get back on an even keel, so I poke fun at him, as I tuck my own shaking hands under my thighs.
“You got it real bad, huh?”
“That wasn’t for show, my legs are totally wobbly. I thought I might faint,” he says. “It’s ridiculous, and very embarrassing, to be this in love.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Don’t apologize. Until now I really thought I was above it all.”
“Such hubris.”
“Turns out I’m just as fucking lame as everyone else,” Mischa sighs. “I’m going to be kind to all the people who fall in love with me from now on.”
“No you won’t.”
“You know what’s weird?” His brow furrows.
“It doesn’t even feel like we don’t know each other.
It feels like I’ve found you again, after a twenty-year search, and you’re pretending not to know me anymore, and it’s irritating.
We’ve done this before, haven’t we? Sailed the oceans of time to meet again? ”
I manage to light the new joint and hand it to him. “So now you know me from a past life then?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I think so. I was always the one screwing everything up and you were always getting it right.”
“Like buying tickets to the premier of West Side Story for your birthday and you forgetting mine?”
“Well, yeah,” he frowns. “Just like that. That’s oddly specific. Did that happen?”
I shake my head. “I was just speculating about what a relationship with you would be like. You’re a little self-absorbed.”
“Well, if I did forget your birthday fifty years ago, I’m sorry, and promise to never do it again.”
“Never say never.”
“No, really. I’ve already corrected my mistake.”
“Are you saying you already got me a birthday gift?”
“Yep.”
“Mischa... that's very sweet, but very sad...”
“By the way, I’m a little younger than you, so we can assume that I died a little later than you, and therefore you died before me and left me alone, you absolute bastard.”
I laugh. “And we can also assume your mother outlived both of us.”
Mischa guffaws. “And she’s probably still alive today.”
“Her natural sourness preserves her like a vinegar pickle.”
He shakes his head. “I’m terrified of how true that feels.”
“But we’re only joking, please tell me we’re only joking?”
“I’ve really missed you,” he says, with big shiny puppy-dog eyes.
“Oh... I should probably stop indulging this stoned fantasy.”
“Why? he asks. “It’s fun.”
“I’m worried you believe it.”
“I’m worried you don’t,” he gazes at me with a coy smile. “Did you miss me too? Were you always lonely before we met? Are you happy I’m around, and just don’t know how to admit it?”
“Mischa,” I cackle, “I don’t think we should let the weed talk like this.”
“Do you feel like you’ve been waiting?”
My smile fades. “How would I know?”