15. Silas
15
SILAS
I think I know how I got here. I even think I understand why. What I don’t understand is what made me think it was a good idea.
Ben is still asleep. I have a pounding headache—the result of far too many fruity shots. I don’t remember everything, but I know the lingering aftertaste of cum in my mouth means I went farther than I meant to or should have. Sleeping over? Well, that was a serious fuck up.
I need to get out of here.
If Ben wakes up, and I’m in his bed, he’ll start making eggs or some shit, and all of a sudden, I might have a boyfriend again. I’ll have gotten back together with the ex that took a sledgehammer to my heart, and I refuse to be that guy.
I accepted his apologies—those all came out last night before I got wasted, but well on my way to drunk. Then there was dancing. There was grinding. There was his warm mouth on my neck kissing and biting hard enough to leave marks. There was muscle memory of being held, and the way I always want to hold back. My toxic trait is I can’t wrap my arms around anyone without wanting more .
This much more wasn’t what I had in mind, though.
I slide out of bed, trying to transfer my weight as subtly as possible. Somehow, I still have underwear on. There’s a cum stain on them, but they’re on, and my ass feels unused. Ben doesn’t stir as I stand and gather my clothes, wallet, keys, and phone. I need to take a piss, but I’ll hold it. It’s more important to get the fuck away from him—from his smooth talking and his even smoother skin. I don’t look back, too afraid I’ll see him asleep and forget why I’m leaving.
Once I’m in the living room, I dress quickly, leaving my boots unlaced until I’m safely in the hallway outside his apartment.
Deciding to splurge on a Lyft, I notice it’s not quite seven a.m. Good. I have time to get a run in. Sweat last night off and clear my head. I need to sort out what the fuck I was thinking or—better question—why I decided I wanted to stop thinking so bad.
Although, I already know the answer to that, don’t I?
It’s Graham. He’s fucking me up as badly as Ben ever did, and I don’t get it. My attraction to him is messed up, and it’s only getting worse now that he told me he regrets nothing. I was out of line trying to stop him Tuesday night when he was trying so hard to get away from me, but my need for answers overrode my better judgment, and it paid off.
Despite his lack of regret, I have plenty. My tongue has been too sharp with him, my reactions unpredictable. I don’t know why I get the way I get around him.
Other than that one moment the other night, he’s been nothing but kind. Patient to the point of snapping. I’ve been…
I’ve been acting like I hate him, and that couldn’t be farther from the truth. I hate that I want him the way I do. I hate that I want to ruin him like crazy. Wreck the shit out of him. Use him until he’s damn near unusable anymore. Maybe hate isn’t the right word. I resent him for making me want him the way I do. I resent him for being irresistible .
But fucking around with a married U.S. senator? What would Chris say? Or Drew? They’d think I was a fool.
My interest in Graham is more than physical—I can admit that, but I’m not stupid enough to think we could have anything more than sex. If he were willing to give me another chance, I wouldn’t try to complicate things with teasing or stupid games. I’d be straightforward. There’s no chance of a future for him and me. My broken heart likes the idea of that in a perverse sort of way.
It’s not that I don’t have enough sex in my life—opportunities abound, and it doesn’t take a lot to get me off. But …my sex life is far from satisfying. It was good with him, and sue me, but I want to know if that was a fluke.
If it wasn’t—it could be good. Possibly really fucking good.
I can’t shake my thoughts of him. The more I try not to look for him, the more I do. Even now as I contemplate a run, I’m weighing whether or not a slower walk-jog with Graham would do the trick of getting me out of my head, which is the exact opposite of what it would do because he’s the thing in my head. Unfortunately, Ben is solidly back in there, too.
No. Not solidly. Temporarily. Tentatively. Fleetingly. I should block his number, but I know I won’t. As much as I want to say I hate what happened last night, I remember what it felt like to fall asleep in his arms. It was a deep breath after drowning. I needed it, and I’m pushing Graham away because I know he can’t give that to me.
In short—my options suck, but at least Graham won’t hurt so fucking much.
My ride shows up, and I hop in the back of the black Toyota. After we confirm my destination, I call my mom to check in.
My aunt answers. Her name is Beatrice, but she’s Trixie to me. “Hey, how’s she doing?”
“Sleeping. Are you just getting off work? It’s early,” she says. Her voice sounds exactly like my mom’s used to before her heart started to fail her lungs. They’re identical twins who’ve never lived more than a few blocks apart. When mom dies, Trixie will be the only family I’ve got left, and I’ll be damned if she lets herself go the way Mom did.
“No, I did something much dumber last night.”
“My coffee’s hot, and my ears are wide open.”
“I hooked up with Ben.”
“ Ben Ben? I thought he was gone for good in London.”
“He’s back with a lot of apologies I don’t want to hear.”
“Some part of you must…”
“It was just supposed to be drinks.”
“And how many of those did you have?” she mutters around a loud slurp of her coffee.
“Lost count.”
“Baby boy, you know I need more details.”
I tell her as much as I’m willing to about running into him at Chris’s party and end with waking up at his place this morning. “I didn’t have sex with him.”
That’s kind of a lie, but I’m not the type of person that defines sex as anything that makes me come. I define it the old fashioned way, because for me it’s the only version that requires any vulnerability on my part.
“What about kissing?” she asks because I’ve told her too much about myself since mom’s first big hospitalization—the time we thought she was really going to die. I didn’t go into detail about what I do for Katia, but I implied enough for Trixie to get the idea. She’s asked me since how I maintain my distance, and I told her I don’t kiss on the mouth.
She asked if I got the idea from Pretty Woman and if I’d seen how well that worked out for that hooker. Not her exact words, but damn close. The truth was yes—that’s exactly where I got the idea. I watched that movie plenty of times growing up with a single mom, however inappropriate it might have been for an impressionable young boy .
But it wasn’t until my first time entering a stranger’s hotel room that I realized the wisdom in “that hooker’s” policy.
“I don’t remember. Probably not,” I say, trying to convince myself I wasn’t that stupid. It helps that I don’t remember. That practically means it didn’t happen, right? “Anyway—you want to send me a grocery list? I can come out Sunday.”
“We’re still stocked up since last weekend.”
“What about milk, bread, eggs—Coke?”
“I can get those?—”
“I don’t mind. I was planning to come out anyway.”
“And I’m saying it’s okay to take a Sunday off if you want to get yourself squared away. We’re all right. Roz is having a great week.”
My mom—Rosalyn.
“You’re not telling me not to come, are you?” I ask, anxiety churning at the thought of having a day free of any obligation. If that’s the case, I might have to text Katia to make myself available. I can’t sit on my hands all day Sunday. Staying busy is key to my sanity. I can’t remember the last time I let myself have a day without a plan. That’s how terrified I am of it. I’m not sure what I think I’ll do, but I have a feeling whatever’s holding me together will unravel in the space of an unproductive afternoon.
“Oh, come if you want. But I’ll have a lot of questions about last night. I’m just getting started.”
“Send me a shopping list. I’ll see you Sunday.”
She sighs. “What are you running from, Silas?”
Myself, I want to tell her. My choices, my urges, my desires and poor impulses, like the one I have when I hang up with her—to text Graham.
And say what? I scoff at myself. Another string of nonsensical words that piss him off and give him the wrong idea about who I am and what I want from him?
I take a shaky breath as I stare down at my phone. The car’s stuck in traffic. I should have taken the train. Texting wouldn’t be an option from the subway.
What the fuck am I doing pulling up his contact? I can barely speak to him in person. Do I think I’ll be able to do better in a text?
I have my doubts, so I open up my notes app and let the words pour.
The car hasn’t moved a foot by the time I’m done.
Feeling reckless as hell because what the fuck do I have to lose, I copy paste it into a text.
Without thinking, I hit send. It’s 7:14 a.m. Something inside me tells me he’s up, and my theory is proven correct within a minute as the text shows as read.
I re-read it, my face heating with embarrassment as I put myself in his place, waking up to this rambling word vomit that says way too fucking much.
Ben really did break me.
I think I knew he would. And I’m pretty sure part of my thought process last night was welcoming it.
Me
Hey it’s Silas. I woke up in my ex’s bed this morning and I still can’t stop thinking about you. You’re right—I suck at talking to you. I could chalk it up to the fact that you went to Harvard and I barely graduated high school, but it’s more because if you knew the kind of shit I think about when you’re anywhere near me, you’d know how smart it is to stay away from me. I want you. Pretty bad. I guess I thought it was obvious, but maybe you’re not used to someone coming onto you, and I can’t claim to be an expert at it. Maybe I’m playing hard to get? Shit, if that’s what I’m doing, you should know all you have to do is say the word, and I’d be on my knees. I’m easy, Graham. I think I’m just pissed at myself for not being able to stay professional with you. No promises I’ll be able to say any of this in person, but I never meant to make you hate me or even piss you off. You’re in my head and I can’t get you out. I’ll be at the park in an hour. I can wait for you if you want.
As I read it, I see it’s not exactly an apology, but a confession. On his phone—in the goddamn cloud.
I tap out a second quick text and commence freaking out.
Me
You should probably delete this and clear your cache. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have put that in writing.
Thirty seconds later, my phone buzzes in my hand, and my stomach rolls over in a sickening flop.
Graham L.
Wait for me. I’ll be there.
Oh. Shit.
Traffic clears, and the car starts moving toward my apartment again. Too fast, and not fast enough.