Backslide

Chapter 8 Noah Today

It’s too early in the day to feel this mind-fucked.

I almost need to go on a second run, just to exorcise the frenetic energy agitating through me like a coffee grinder. Shaking my shit up.

That fucking woman.

Nell was always challenging. Even when she trusted me. She always acted like accepting help was like admitting weakness. Maybe because she had an older brother who demanded endless attention—mostly the negative kind.

She liked her independence. Maybe she didn’t want to stress her parents out. I don’t know.

But God forbid you try to order her around or give instructions; she was not a fan of authority. I used to joke that the best way to get her to do something was to tell her to do the opposite.

Only it’s not really a joke. And it’s all coming back to me now, along with a flood of other memories I’m not ready for. And shit. I don’t know how I’m going to make it through the next five days without drowning in it.

Because when I touched her shoulder—which I intended in a completely innocent way—I barely managed to pretend I was fine.

That it wasn’t like being blown sky-high by an electric shock, waves of history rocketing through me like in a sci-fi B-movie.

Details I’d thought I’d lost years ago. Details that both wrecked me and gave me life like some Frankenstein monster.

Flashes of skin. Visceral heat. Like what it felt like to be with her.

I thought I’d come on this trip. We’d be polite.

We’d exchange banal pleasantries about our lives now; I’d impress her with my shiny-ass career.

Maybe—after a few glasses of wine—we’d even laugh and reminisce about the way things were when we were kids.

Because we were kids then. Children. And how could any of that matter now? It wasn’t real, right?

But I completely underestimated the situation—myself, her, maybe even what we had.

Of course, throughout the years as I periodically broke up with girlfriends out of boredom or just incompatibility, struggled to find footing, I thought about Nell from time to time.

About how well we’d worked—until we imploded catastrophically.

But I figured I’d romanticized or at least exaggerated our relationship.

First love. First sex. The heightened fervor of teenage experience, raw and uncut.

But now, seeing Nell in the flesh, I’m not so sure.

Literally in the flesh. All beautiful and rosy from sleep. In that see-through T-shirt and no bra.

So, maybe anyone would respond to that, right? Maybe this is just me reacting like any red-blooded dude. And I’m overanalyzing, which is something I don’t usually do. And now she has me using phrases like red-blooded.

Who am I?

Even telling Nell about my job, the fact that I’m a surgeon, that I went to school for three billion millennia so that people could trust me with their lives and limbs, with their careers, wasn’t as satisfying as I’d imagined.

I don’t know how I pictured she’d react—but maybe I at least expected an eyebrow raise. Instead, she called me a chiropractor.

The truth is, I might as well let this go anyway. Whatever this is roiling through me. Because, as an added impediment, the woman fucking hates me.

And, though it barely matters, she drives me insane, too.

Now, as I tear off my running clothes and throw them in the seagrass hamper, I can’t help but ask myself, insane in what way?

That’s when the doubt creeps in. Was she the one?

Is there even such a thing? Can you meet the right person when you’re only seventeen?

Can you fuck it up forever when you’re just old enough to vote?

Can you really get that one chance at supreme happiness when your brain isn’t yet fully formed and you’re too dumb to know that there’s life beyond baseball and hanging out with your wasteoid friends?

Disgusted with myself or maybe with life in general, I jump into the shower, lather up roughly, let the stream wash away this stupidity.

Turn the water to cold plunge and refuse to give in when my mind drifts back to her pouty lips, her citrusy perfume, her smooth upper thighs peeking out the bottom of her oversized shirt.

When I climb out and the steam settles, I am resolute. I’ll go back to giving her space, which is what she wants anyway.

Once I’m dressed, I pop open the door to our common room, grabbing my key card and wallet and stuffing them in the back pocket of my jeans, so I can meet the others to head into town. I don’t check to see if Nell took the iced coffee I offered because I’m not a stalker—but she did.

And when I hear her faint voice from behind her closed door, I don’t move closer to that side of the room and strain to hear, in case she’s on the phone with him—her fiancé. I just happen to be checking out the record collection nearby, which actually does include some pretty dope albums.

She said they just moved apartments. Did they move in together?

There’s something itching at the edge of my consciousness, something bugging me about this absentee fiancé with his journalism pedigree and stupid British name.

I mean, it tracks. Don’t get me wrong. Of course she’d be with some super-cerebral political writer.

That’s not surprising at all. Too busy to fly across the country to hang with her silly high school friends.

That’s who—in my heart of hearts—I always figured she’d choose.

Not some jock like me. Not when she was coming from an intellectual family like hers. I was always going to be an anomaly.

But still, something feels off.

I hear her murmuring, but I can’t make out most of the words.

“You can do this,” I think I hear her say.

I picture this guy nervous about some big interview. Calling her for support. Kind, fortifying words. Inside jokes. And suddenly I hate him with every fiber of my being.

“You can do this!” I hear her say again, this time with more feeling.

And then I happen to catch my reflection in a wall-mounted mirror, ear practically pressed to her door, and it is a wake-up call.

What the hell am I doing? I’m suddenly aware of what a fucking clown I’m being, eavesdropping on my ex-girlfriend from high school in some hotel suite.

I shake my head and step toward the main door.

But then she yelps. And it’s loud.

“Fuck… me!” she shouts. But not with enthusiasm.

And I realize maybe she’s not on the phone at all. Maybe she’s talking… to herself?

I pad back over to her door. Exhale. Knock lightly with my knuckle. “Um, Eleanor?”

There’s a rustle inside and then, “Yup?”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine. Great! All good,” she says, but her voice is muffled.

“Really? ’Cause it kind of sounds like you’re talking to yourself.”

“If I am, then your participation is not required.”

“Right. But it’s a little concerning.”

“Feel free to ignore.”

“If you say so,” I say, shrugging at my reflection. “Then, I’m headed out to meet the group.”

“Great. Leave! Good riddance! Bye!”

This is not my problem. Nell made that clear. And I’m already running late, which means she is too, so I walk toward the exit of our suite and place my hand on the knob… but I can’t help but double back again.

“Nell. Eleanor. Is it possible that you maybe, just maybe, need help?”

“Not from you.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “You want me to go get Cara or Sabrina?”

There is a prolonged silence. Then a loud exhale. “Yes. But I think that’ll take too long. I don’t want to screw up Cara’s schedule. Everyone is probably already waiting on us.”

That is not untrue. “So, what then? I just leave you here to die alone?”

“That’s fine,” she mutters. “It’s better for everyone.”

I hear a bump and a groan, like she’s given up and slid to the floor against the wall.

“Right. But it kind of goes against the oath I took.”

“Thou shalt not be a dickhead? Too late.”

I lean my forearm against the door and my forehead against my arm. “Yeah. That. And also, ‘Do no harm.’ ”

She goes silent for a beat, and I do too.

Finally, I say, “So, what’s it gonna be? You going to let me help you or not? Because this holding pattern is getting us nowhere.”

“Fine,” she grunts. “You may enter. But don’t look.”

“I think that’s kind of going to make it hard to help.”

“Ugh. Fine! But don’t you dare laugh.”

The doorknob turns and the door wheezes open a crack. I push it wide to reveal a room that’s the mirror image of my own. Under dimmed lights, Nell is standing tangled up in the straps of a flowered dress.

For a second I do almost laugh. In my defense, the scene is pretty funny. The way she’s standing there, all flustered and mad, with her dress in a twist and metaphorical panties in a bunch. I at least deserve clearance for a smirk.

But then I take a step toward her and see that her hair is tangled up too. And I realize we’ll have to start from scratch, take the dress off completely, if I want to get her out of this. And I don’t know if I’m more upset for her or for me.

I am being tested. But I make a fist, close my eyes for a second to steel myself, and ignore what riots through me.

“Turn around,” I grunt because it’s the best I can do.

She pouts but does as she’s told.

I step close behind her and start to unwind a strand of her hair from the zipper at the back, easing the metal slowly down and revealing more skin as I go.

“What are you doing?” she snaps, all suspicious.

“Chill,” I say. “Your hair is caught. It’s a mess back here.”

Gently, I brush the bulk of her thick wavy hair off her neck and work the strands out of the teeth, edging the zipper lower and lower until it hits bottom. And so do I.

My breath is shallow. I have the strong sense that I’m tangled up too.

“Okay,” I say with genuine relief. “That part is done.”

“What now?” she asks miserably, hoarsely. Like she is out of juice.

“I think,” I say, careful to keep my voice even, “I need to pull the dress over your head and then put it back on the right way. The straps are crossed.”

“Pull it off?” she says, despondent, glancing back at me. “But…”

“It’s up to you,” I say. “But I don’t see another way. Not with your shoulder in this state.”

“But I’m only wearing a bra and underwear under here.”

I force my voice to stay level, though I am anything but calm. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before,” I offer.

“It’s actually very much something you haven’t seen in like twenty-plus years.”

“Good thing I’m a doctor,” I say. I have dissected cadavers. Examined bones poking through skin. Reset the elbows of NFL cheerleaders. I can totally keep this professional, right?

With a sharp exhale, Nell stands up straight. Keeps her eyes focused forward. Like she is prepared for battle. “Just do it,” she says.

So I do. Slowly, carefully, I slide the soft cotton dress up against her body, edging her out of it bit by bit, until I’m able to slip it off over her head. And when I do, maybe it’s an illusion, but I swear I see her shiver.

There is total silence in the room as she stands there practically naked.

And I try not to look. I really do. But she’s wearing a thong and there’s so much bare skin and I’m only human and, though I try my best not to gape, my peripheral vision is horribly A-plus.

I know immediately that the curve of her back, of her waist, of her upper thighs will haunt me for the rest of my days.

As quickly as I can, I untwist the straps of her dress in my hands.

“Ready?” I ask, holding it up.

She nods. Stepping just inches behind her, so I can feel the heat of her body warming mine, I begin to slide the dress back down over her head.

She slips the arm she can lift beneath one strap, then I help ease the hurt arm through the other side, my hand sliding down her smooth limb to bend her elbow.

Once her arms are clear, I take hold of the dress on either side of her rib cage and drag the fabric slowly down over her chest as it rises and falls—past her taut stomach, her hips.

I bend to straighten it at her thighs, trying to ignore my hand’s proximity to her ass.

And she’s right. It’s like I know her body and I don’t.

And it’s a fucking miracle that I don’t just lose it right there. In the middle of this charming suite. At this quaint hotel.

It’s a fucking miracle I can stand up straight, zip up the back zipper, and say, “Okay. I think you’re good.”

Neither of us move for a beat.

Then, very slowly, she turns around to face me. We are less than a foot apart. The air between us whirrs and twists like an engine revving. She meets my gaze, with her stormy-weather eyes, and in them I think I read the same pull I feel.

My heart is pounding like I’ve been sprinting, but I’m standing completely still. I’m afraid to breathe.

Then she leans in, so we are separated by inches. Parts her lips.

“This never fucking happened,” she says in my face.

And she turns on her heel and leaves.