Twenty-Seven #2
I shake my head. “You mean on top of everything you’ve already done?
No, but thank you. Thank you for not even hesitating to come get me.
And for driving me around town and making sure I got home.
I’m sorry I called you out of the blue like that.
I’m guessing you had your own things going on, and I—”
He interrupts me. “You don’t need to be sorry or even thank me. I did it because I wanted to.”
I give him a grimace that I hope can pass for a smile. Then I stand up, preparing to walk him to the door, and he follows me.
“Call me if you need anything, okay?” he advises me. I nod but I’m not very sure it was a convincing one. He tucks a strand of hair back behind my ear. “I mean it,” he insists, looking closely at me.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” I stand up on my tiptoes to hug him.
I keep on holding him, for perhaps a few seconds longer than necessary.
With my chin pressed into his neck, I can smell cedar.
My fingers interlace around the back of his neck, caressing his honey-colored hair.
And I’m aware of the mixed signals that I’m sending him, but I don’t stop.
The truth is, I want to prove something to myself.
That I can feel anything, even the slightest bit of emotion, through all the pain. I want to so badly. But I can’t.
I feel his hands slide down my back and grip my hips.
Then his lips are brushing my earlobe. “Do you want me to stay?” he whispers into my ear.
I understand immediately what his question means.
I don’t say yes. But I don’t say no either.
I slowly back away from him, lowering myself down on to my heels.
We just keep staring at each other for a few moments, until Logan cups my face in his hands and kisses me on the lips.
I remain perfectly still. And he must have noticed that his kiss isn’t being returned because he takes a half step back.
“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.” He rubs his eyes with his right index finger. “It’s just that—”
I don’t let him finish the sentence. Instead, I grab his face with my hands and pull him into me.
I kiss him in a way that hurts me, that makes me feel soiled.
Like my whole body has been covered in slime.
But I pretend that isn’t how it feels. I close my eyes, hoping to banish the feeling of repulsion that is taking over my body.
Repulsion at the knowledge that the lips I’m kissing don’t belong to the man I love.
The tongue that entwines with mine is not the tongue of the man I love.
And then these hands that push me back against the sofa are not the hands of the man I love.
The man I want. The man I feel like I belong to.
But the little voice inside my head reminds me that man doesn’t belong to me anymore. He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t love me. And the pain of it is too much for my heart to hold.
I don’t know how, much less when, but I find myself lying down on the sofa with Logan stretched out on top of me, his hands creeping up under my shirt, approaching my bra.
This disgusts me.
Horribly.
But I don’t stop him. I keep kissing him. I keep hurting myself. I throw myself into it, hoping that the disgust will overcome the hurt. Or maybe I’ll just get to the point where I can’t feel anything at all anymore, and then the pain will vanish too. That’s what I want—what I need.
A tear dribbles down my face, and my stomach twists as Logan undoes his belt, whispering against my lips, “You want to do this?” Even now, I don’t stop kissing him.
I don’t answer him. And he apparently reads my silence as an invitation to keep going, because he unzips his pants and pushes them down his thighs.
Then he begins to pull mine down as well.
His groin, covered only by the thin fabric of his boxers, presses against me, and I feel my gorge rising.
In an instant, that small flicker of lucidity that I have been trying to extinguish roars back to life and forces a reaction.
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want him. I want him to go away. Right now.
“Logan, wait, stop it,” I murmur, but he doesn’t seem to hear me. He continues to kiss and bite at my neck forcefully.
“L-Logan, stop, I don’t want to.”
He moves to kiss me again, but I turn my face away.
I try to push him away, pressing my palms against his chest, but it doesn’t work.
Panic seizes me as he tries to stick his hand inside my panties.
I summon all my strength and shove him as hard as I can, making him tumble off the sofa.
I stand up immediately, pulling up my pants, adjusting my shirt, and hugging myself protectively, as though the clothes I’m wearing aren’t enough to cover everything he was about to take. And which I was about to give him.
“What is wrong with you?” He gets to his feet, hair disheveled, cheekbones reddened, and lips swollen from kissing.
Another retch prevents me from answering and forces me to rush to the bathroom, where I vomit.
Logan comes after me, trying to pull back my hair, but I push him away roughly.
I want to yell at him that he shouldn’t have gotten so close to me, he shouldn’t have touched me like that on the sofa.
The sofa where, just a few days ago, I was lying with Thomas.
But I know that I let him. I let him because I wanted to feel empty inside.
So empty that I no longer felt anything else.
“Please go away,” I sob.
“Vanessa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I thought that… I mean…you…” He gestures vaguely, out of breath.
“I said get out!” I scream, and I don’t care right now if I hurt him or used him or made him mad. I don’t care about anyone anymore. Not even about myself. Especially about myself.
I sit on the bathroom floor with my back against the wall until I feel an urgent need to get under the boiling jet of the showerhead and scrub every trace of his touch from my body, as though the water could somehow wash away the memory of what just happened.
I lather up my bath puff and scrub every inch of skin in an almost obsessive fashion until it hurts.
Then I crouch down, hugging my knees to my chest, resting my cheek on top of them, and letting the water pound down on me.
Was I really about to make that kind of mistake?
Having sex with Logan in a futile attempt to stop thinking about Thomas, if only for a second?
To forget…? I shake my head, disappointed in myself, because apparently this is just what I do.
Throw myself into the arms of the first man who comes along every time I get my heart broken.
Though even as I think it, I know. I know that it was different with Thomas.
Because I wanted him; I wanted him more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
It’s always been like this with us, and that’s exactly why I can’t pick up the pieces of my shattered heart now.
***
When I wake up, I have no idea what time it is or what the weather is like outside.
My blinds are shut, and darkness swallows me.
I just lie there with my hands on my stomach, unmoving, staring up at the ceiling.
Although I have lost the will to do just about anything, I do feel that one more step has to be taken before I can put a definitive end to this whole story.
I get out of bed with a certain reluctance. I take out my phone, and the lock screen informs me that that it’s three o’clock on Sunday afternoon. I call Matt, and after a few rings, he answers with a concerned tone. “Tell me you’re okay!”
I walk to the kitchen, where I turn on the tap and fill a glass to the brim with water. “I’ve been better,” I answer in a monotone. “But that’s not why I called you. I want to know if Thomas is at the frat house or not.”
“Right now?”
“Yeah, now. Some of my things are still there. I need to come get them, but I don’t want to see him.”
I hear him let out a long sigh, and I imagine him scrubbing a hand over his face. “No, he’s not. But you two need to—” I hang up on him because I don’t want to hear anything else.
I drain the glass of water and get dressed, throwing on the first wrinkled sweat suit I can find in my closet.
Then I grab one of the boxes left over from my last move.
I put on my shoes, pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, and decide to also slip on a pair of sunglasses to hide my swollen red eyes from the world.
When I get to the frat house, Matt opens the door and lets me in. I don’t miss the worried look he gives me when I take off my sunglasses and lower my hood.
“You look terrible.”
I glare at him. “Don’t worry, you won’t have to look at me for long. I’ll be out of here in a hurry. This place makes me sick.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you, sorry. I just…I don’t like seeing you this way.”
“Yeah, well, me neither. Did you tell Thomas I was coming?”
“No.”
“Good. Just to be clear, if you do that, I swear to God I will slash all your tires.” I’m more serious than I’ve ever been, and without giving him a chance to respond, I brush past him and go upstairs.
The moment I step into Thomas’s room, I can feel a squeezing sensation in my chest. Memories of yesterday come crashing down on me with all the intensity of a gut punch, while the smell of Thomas lingers in the air.
I can feel it clinging to my clothes, which makes me want to tear them all off and burn them.
I take a few seconds to look around the room, which is just as I left it.
It looks like he didn’t step foot back in here again.
The empty whiskey bottle is still on the desk.
Remains of white powder still dust the bedside table.
And the bed is unmade. That bed…God, I can’t look at it.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and steel myself.
The sooner I get started, the sooner I can leave.