Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Daphne
A fter I don a snug white crop top, a pair of pink cotton panties, and a short denim skirt, I meet Jackson in the backyard.
My husband is already two steps ahead of me. He's spread out on a lounge chair in a tiny swimsuit. The kind athletes wear to compete.
Of course, he has one of these. He grew up on the swim team, the way Cassie did. He gave up the sport in college, but he kept it as an activity. Or he kept this strictly to torture women.
That's a strong possibility.
Fuck, those really leave nothing to the imagination. Even in the dim light, I can see the outline of the parts I want to reveal.
I force myself to look to the sky. It's a beautiful night. Clear and warm. The stars are tiny flecks of light against the indigo sky.
There's no view of the ocean. No smell of salt or easy breeze. I don't consider myself a California girl or a beach lover, by any means, but I miss the familiar surroundings.
How am I going to survive in New York City?
Sure, it's an island, and there are private clubs with rooftop pools, but I'm not rich enough for that kind of thing.
The long train or subway ride to Brighton Beach or Long Island or New Jersey—
It's only an hour or two, but that's the furthest I've ever been from the ocean. That's too far.
There's something safe about the coast. The expanse of it. The possibility of diving into the Pacific and swimming forever.
I don't want to drown myself in the water. I want the endless horizon. The ocean that spans half the globe. The beauty and strength of the deep blue water.
It's only a few years.
I can come back if I don't love the city. If I can't handle the cold, or the rent, or the grind, or the distance from the ocean.
What's scary is I might not come back.
I might fall in love with the city that's captured so many ambitious women before me. I might make it my home. I might say goodbye to this one.
To everyone and everything I know.
"You okay, princess?" Jackson sits up straight. He starts to shift to a more serious tone. Away from our game. To something real.
I want to talk about it, I do, but how can I discuss it without telling him? "A lot is changing." That's the best I can do.
He nods. "This doesn't have to feel complicated." He looks up at me. "We can enjoy the time and part as friends."
"I know."
"Ah." He leans back in his chair. "It's not about me."
"Not exactly," I say.
"Not everything is about me." He lets out a self-deprecating laugh and shakes his head. "One of my ex's said I thought the world revolved around me."
Really? That doesn't sound like the Jackson I know. He doesn't insert himself into everything the way some people do.
Or, say, assume every movie in the world should cater to his taste the way one of my exes did. But he does take things personally, in a certain way. He would take it personally when anyone hurt Cassie.
"You do act like someone hurt you when they hurt your family." I sit on the lounge chair across from him.
His green eyes find mine. "I wasn't expecting you to agree."
"But you're glad I did?" I ask.
He nods. "If it's how you feel."
My shoulders soften. We can talk honestly, even if it's not what the other person wants to hear. That's a rare experience. It makes this easier. But it makes it harder too. Because I have to give it up. Because I won't find anyone else who's this easy to talk to.
"We all do it sometimes. We think things are about us when they're about someone else."
That's a good way to explain it. My choice to go to New York isn't about him. How could it be? I made it long before we kissed. But plans change. And my decision not to change them—"Is it that simple? If, say, I decide I don't want to stay here because I need more space. Isn't that about you, too."
He sits up straighter. "Is that what you want?"
"No. I want to be here for a while."
"For three weeks," he offers.
I don't know what to say, so I nod. "I need to focus on school."
He turns his body toward mine. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I do." The words fall off my lips. I'm desperate to release them. To get this off my chest. But that isn't safe or smart. I find the boundary I need. "But I can't tell you everything."
Curiosity fills his eyes. He opens his mouth, ready to ask, then he closes it. Stops himself.
I want to tell him more, but I can't, so I say what I can. "Only that things are changing and I'm scared."
"To start your residency?" he asks.
That is true. I nod. "It will be hard. And I'll be away from everyone I love."
"Is Irvine really that far?"
No, of course not. I won't be in Irvine. I won't be sixty miles away in a neighboring county, in a city where I've spent hundreds of hours (Grandma and Grandpa used to live in the neighboring city, Newport Beach. They were a ten-minute drive from UCI. They were practically in the university's back door).
I'll be three thousand miles away in an unfamiliar city. I've only been to New York a few times. And never even in the winter. How am I going to survive rain and snow and cold?
A six-hour plane ride between me and everyone I love.
Plus, all the traffic going to and from the airport.
I know my program adviser. I know a few people from med school or undergrad. But I don't know anyone outside of medicine.
I'll be all alone there.
What I've claimed I wanted for so long.
"What if I can't handle it?" I say. "What if I'm not good enough? What if I spent all these years studying but I fail when the rubber meets the road?"
"What if?" he asks.
My brow furrows. What does he mean what if? What kind of question is that?
He sees the frustration on my face, but he doesn't take it personally. He stays soft and open. "Think through it. What would happen if you're not good enough?"
"I could get kicked out of the program." My stomach drops. It's almost too scary to consider. But the truth is, I consider it all the time. In that vague, abstract sense of danger. And right now, I feel all of that. The tension in my chest. The dryness in my throat. The pure horror of losing everything I've worked for my entire life.
"You're scared." Jackson studies my expression the way a scientist would. As if he's fascinated by every curve or line.
Usually, that kind of stare makes me feel awkward and exposed. I still feel exposed—these are things I don't discuss—but I feel comfortable enough.
It's uncomfortable as hell. But I wouldn't want to be uncomfortable with anyone else.
"Terrified," I say.
He offers his hand.
I take it and squeeze hard.
He squeezes back. "Is it all or nothing? You're good enough or you get kicked out?"
"No. I might just be the worst person in the program."
"What happens then?" he asks.
"I guess I'd work harder. More hours. More studying. So much I lose myself."
"Is that how it feels?" he asks.
"Sometimes." It's hard to explain, but I want to tell him about it. I want him to understand. "School is consuming and residency is supposed to be worse. I love medicine, but it takes all my time. All my energy. There isn't much left for me."
"What if it does?"
"What do you mean?" Why is he asking such weird questions?
He notes my confusion and smiles. "What if it takes all your time and energy. What will you do then?"
"Fall into a perfectionist anxiety spiral."
"Okay. What then?"
"I don't know. I guess, if I notice in time, I'll find a therapist in… at school," I say.
"If you don't notice in time?"
"I could hurt myself," I say.
For the first time in our conversation, his expression darkens.
"Not like that. Not on purpose." Thankfully, I've never struggled with the self-destructive impulses that haunt the men in my family. "By working too hard. I gave myself an ulcer in high school." My cheeks flush. "I never told anyone that."
"And what if that happens? You work so hard you make yourself sick?"
"Then I'll be sick," I say.
"Then?" he asks.
"I will be surrounded by doctors," I say. "So I'll get help. But the answer might be the same. I might have to drop out of the program."
"Is that the end of the world?" he asks.
"Yes." But it's not. He's right. The world will keep turning. My heart will keep beating. The city will keep humming. "No. It will just feel like it."
I swallow hard. I look to the stars. The big silver moon. The light is just enough to cast an ethereal glow. Or maybe that's the pool. It feels wrong for this conversation. But it feels right too.
He sits there patiently, waiting for me to come back to him.
There's a safety to it. A safety I want to embrace. I want to throw myself into his arms and dissolve there.
But I can't.
Not if I have to let go.
I take a deep breath and center myself. "Are you always this zen?"
"I went through the same thing in law school." He brings his hand to my chin and cups my cheek with his palm. "I asked myself all the same questions. I was afraid I'd fail, but it wasn't about the idea of flunking out of law school. It was what that would mean. That I wasted my time. That I was a failure. That I was a disappointment to my family. That I was destined to a life of mediocrity."
That sounds about right. I nod.
"But would that be true?" His voice is even, as if he's willing to accept any answer I give him.
"Would my mom be disappointed if I couldn't hack residency? Of course. Her mom was a doctor. And her mom was a doctor. And the dads too. I think Damon is the first non-medical professional in several generations."
"What about me," he says. "If I couldn't make it in Big Law. Would I have disappointed my parents?"
"Probably, yeah." They don't have the same background in law my family does in medicine, but they always talked about how Jackson was a smart kid who was destined for success. They put the same sort of pressure on him.
He nods. "Yeah. But then what? My parents are disappointed. Then what?"
He's asked these questions enough I understand he's trying to get me to answer. But they're hard to answer. Usually, I'm too scared to consider the answers.
I take a deep breath and let out a steady exhale.
Okay. I can do this.
"I don't know," I say. "You never got there."
"But if I had?" he asks.
It's easier to speculate on his hypothetical past. I know it didn't happen. I know he's a successful attorney. There's no risk of my vision coming true. "If you passed the bar, you could practice another way. But what if you never passed the bar? Do you walk around with a useless degree?"
"You can work in a limited capacity," he says.
"But you passed the first time," I say.
He nods I did .
"So you don't really know about failure." I find a little strength. I sit up a little straighter. This game of hypothetical is different for us. It's fair to point that out. And he's a lawyer. So, he cares about fairness.
"And when have you ever failed at anything, Daph?"
Right. That's a fair counter-point. But still. "What if I'm saving all of it for this?"
"Tell me," he says. "Tell me what if."
My stomach drops. My chest tightens. I let myself feel the worry. I let the emotion pass through my body. Then I take a deep breath, and I switch to thinking. "My mom will be disappointed. And I'll have spent all that time in medical school. Maybe for nothing."
"So, maybe not for nothing," he says.
"I did learn a lot. And I could put that to use in another way," I say. "I could pursue sex research another way. As a therapist. Or a writer. Not that I can write. But there are other ways to focus on what I want to do."
"Which is?" he asks.
"Research human sexuality," I say.
"Why do you want to do that?" he asks.
I stare at him with wide eyes. "I don't understand the question."
He stares back with affection in his dark eyes and lets out a deep, low chuckle. One that means I love this about you. "What about it appeals to you?"
"Everything."
He holds my stare, and motions go on .
Right. I need to expand beyond everything. I need to focus on this and not on the love in his eyes.
School.
Not anything else.
Where do I start? "It's interesting. I guess that's vague, but it's the truth. I'm always engaged by research. By the questions I can ask and answer. There's always more knowledge to uncover, but we don't find it, because people don't talk about sex. I like being the person who looks at this taboo thing. Having the strength and curiosity to do it."
His eyes stay fixed on mine. They stay open and curious. "So it's all self-interest."
"Mostly, if I'm being honest."
He curls his hand around my neck. "What else?"
"I want to help people have more fulfilling sex lives. Because everything I hear from friends, and read on the Internet, it's not good. All these men who were trained by porn, who except women to act like over-the-top vixens and enjoy jackrabbiting. Who think women don't need lube or foreplay or clitoral stimulation. Movies and TV don't help either. Or friends and family. When's the last time a friend of yours said something smart about sex?"
"I don't talk to my friends about sex," he says.
"Really? You don't walk around talking about how much you want to fuck a celebrity?"
He chuckles. "When my coworkers dragged me to a strip-club, they threw around some of that. I could do this to her. Or make her come like this. I bet she's a tiger in the sack. All that bullshit. None of it was smart."
"And I probably wasn't better. When Cass asked me about her medication… I told her what I knew then. That SSRIs gave most people sexual side effects. That she'd probably need lube. That supplements might help her come."
His face goes white.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to bring up your sister's sex life. She's just…"
"Your best friend," he says.
"Yeah." I nod. "And I did fail her then. I tried my best, but I didn't know how to make space for her feelings about sex. I only know how to keep it technical." I should talk to her. Apologize for that. It might get lost in the by the way, I'm moving across the country news, but I need to apologize all the same.
"Is that how you were with ex-boyfriends too?"
"Yes." My cheeks flush. "But I think they appreciated it. Guys are so clueless. Most of them have no idea it's normal for them to lose an erection sometimes. And they have no idea how to handle it."
"How should they handle it?" he asks.
"Tell whoever they're with it's no big deal. They're just too hot or had too much to drink. Or it just happens sometimes. Then stop thinking about their dick and get the other person off."
"How can you make ED sound hot?" A flirting tone drops into his voice. Just barely. But enough. "Sorry." He smiles. "I'm not trying to derail you."
"I brought it back to sex," I say.
"You always do."
"I know." I nod.
He smiles and I like it then he shifts back to the serious conversation we're having. "Did you get the wrong messages at first?"
"Everyone does." I swallow hard.
"Did anything happen?" he asks.
"What do you mean?"
His voice softens. "Did some guy do shit without your permission."
"Oh." He's talking about assault. "No. Not the way you mean. Not in a way that crossed the line. It was more a sense I was supposed to be a certain way. Play a certain role."
"I can't imagine that."
"You can't?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "You take exactly what you want."
My cheeks flush.
"It's sexy as fuck. But you're right. It's not common. Most women I'm with are shy. At least at first. They try to defer to what I want."
"Is that what you want?" I ask.
"No." His eyes meet mine. "I want someone who's as into it as I am. Ideally, we like a lot of the same things. But it's fun to try something different from time to time if my partner is into it."
"What have you tried?" I ask.
"You sure you're ready to go to sex?" he asks.
No. There's a lot on my shoulders. But I feel better, getting this little bit out. And I'll feel a lot better once I've told everyone the truth. "If you promise me one thing."
"What?" he asks.
"Promise you won't fight me about leaving in three weeks. Even if you want to," I say. "Promise you won't take it personally. Because I… I think I might fall in love with you. And if you ask me to stay, I will. But I can't."
"You're not going that far."
"Just promise. Please."
He nods. "I promise."
Relief floods my body. I know he can't promise that he won't take it personally. No one can control how they feel. But I know he'll honor my request too.
I don't have to face his disappointment.
Even if I cause it.
I take a deep breath, and I shift back to sex. "So. What's the weirdest thing you've tried in the name of love?"