Summer 2009 Grace
Grace
“Grace! Grace!”
“Ahm… what?”
“Were you listening?”
“Yup.” No.
“What did I just say?” Cyrus looks deep into my eyes.
He takes a sip of his coffee, silently waiting for my answer. The air thickens around me, and hot shame floods my body.
“I’m sorry, I…” I mumble, biting my lip and hitting myself in the head.
“I’m trying, Cyrus. I really am. And I know that I’m mostly a burden to you…”
“You aren’t,” he says in a tone that brooks no argument. I stop.
“I was telling you that Wendy’s going to be late today, but don’t even think about replacing her. I know you sometimes try on the girls’ outfits.”
I stare with wide eyes, the sticky swamp of shame swallowing me.
This is… awkward.
Cyrus steps out from behind the worn black desk that barely reaches his thighs and comes to stand in front of me. He puts his index finger under my chin, lifts my head, and pulls my fingers away from my mouth.
I hadn’t even noticed how much I had managed to “achieve” in such a short time. Whenever I’m anxious, I chew my nails—or my nail beds, once there’s no nail left. My blood must have gotten all over my face, because Cyrus gently cleans something away with his thumb.
“All I want is not to have to worry about you. You are safe behind the counter. These people are low-life scum.”
“I know,” I reply, putting my hand in the back pocket of my jeans.
“I know why you’re doing this.” He takes a step back and sits on the desk, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, his head tilting slightly to the side.
“Really?” I ask, a hint of cynicism in my voice.
“Yes. You want to get back the years you lost. You’re rebelling against the past you can’t change. You still think you caused the death of your parents.”
I sometimes feel that Cyrus doesn’t really understand me either—he only draws conclusions from my past.
I… I was in love with Chase. I’m ashamed of it, therefore, it’s easier to hate him than to accept my own weakness—the fact that I loved him despite his faults and abuse.
I always explain this feeling by telling myself that he was the only living being I had a connection with.
Who, even though he caused me pain, also comforted me.
Who cared for me when I was sick. Who didn’t starve me—on the contrary, he let me eat whatever I wanted.
He took care of me and protected me. He would never have let Bo’s gang hurt me.
He would never have let Nikky beat me and humiliate me that night. He always hated her.
I bite my lip and look down, tense.
“Would you rather go home?”
“No,” I protest.
“I’d go mad at home. You know I hate being alone for a long time.”
He nods, steps out from behind his desk, and picks up a pile of papers.
“Cyrus.”
“Hmm?” He grumbles while scanning the unpaid bills.
“Are you sure I’m not a burden? Are you sure you…”
“I love you, Grace.” He looks deep into my eyes.
“I just don’t know how to get close to you.
Sometimes I cannot reach you. Like a long dream I can’t hold on to, even though I try.
And sometimes you’re so free, so alive, that I’m afraid if I get closer, you’ll become that dream again.
That girl whose body walks this earth without the soul, because that soul has been dead for a long time. ”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s completely normal. If you behaved differently, I’d probably avoid you.”
“So you like this broken girl?” My lips twist into a half-smile. Cyrus shakes his head grimly and sits down in his chair.
“Only you think you’re broken. I see something completely different.”
“What?” I ask, excited.
“A strong girl who fights her demons every single day. That takes strength, Grace. And you’re strong.”
I cross the distance between us in two quick steps and sit on his lap. I lean my head against his chest and inhale his scent deeply. Cyrus hugs me, and I melt into his huge body. He’s so much bigger than me—my head is level with his chest when I’m standing.
He rests his hard chin against my face, and curled up together, we listen to the muffled strains of classic rock drifting in from the bar. It only shifts to something erotic when the girls begin writhing around the silver poles.
The long embrace relaxes me, settles me. I melt into his arms. When I feel his erection against my belly, I tilt my head up to him. His irises glint with restrained desire, and I lose myself in the depth of his dark eyes.
It’ s not fair to toy with his emotions—and I don’t want to. I want to open up to him, to give him my body and my heart. I want to grow old with him.
Cyrus cups my face in his palm. I snuggle against his large hand and look at his full lips expectantly. I can smell the black coffee he’s just had on his breath.
I close my eyes and wait for him to kiss me.
My mind shuts down my weakness, and all I focus on now is the music and his gentle touch.
His breath feels closer and closer on my face, its warmth sinking down to my belly, but before our lips could touch, his phone rings.
My eyes pop open, and the moment is swallowed by the black swamp of reality.
Because in reality, the brown eyes watching me with curiosity are not the same as the eyes I just imagined, the body against mine is not the same as the one I imagined, these arms aren’t those arms…
I jump out of his lap to put some distance between us. I look down in shame and slip my hands into the back pockets of my baggy jeans that reach up to my belly button and aren't tight on my ass.
Cyrus sighs loudly. He looks at the blinking screen of his phone and declines the call. Then he looks at me, his face shifting between irritation and disappointment.
“I have to go.” He runs his fingers through his scruffy hair, steps in front of me, and kisses me on the forehead.
“See you at home. Take care!”
“See you at home,” I reply, nodding.
“You take care, too,” I whisper.
When the door behind me opens, the noise from outside grows louder. The smell of stale beer and bitter cigarette smoke fills my nose and drowns out the pleasant scent of coffee.
“Donuts for dinner?”
I turn to him. Despite his robust, grim appearance, I know Cyrus has a huge heart.
“Donuts?” I ask, putting a fake smile on my face. “Aren’t donuts supposed to be breakfast?”
“Here’s a life lesson, baby. Donuts don’t wear watches—donut o’clock is whenever you feel like it,” he says, blinking and flashing me an overwhelming smile.
“Donuts will be perfect.”
Donuts with black coffee are his favorite.
I never understood how you can wash down that intense sweetness with something so bitter.
I like my coffee with milk and sugar. I’ve already had more than enough bitterness, so I like life sweet.
Too much bitterness—in my stomach, in my heart…
So whenever I can, I choose sweet flavors.
My favorite food is a donut filled with vanilla cream, with caramel milk on the side.
When the door closes, my gaze fixes on the crack running across the wall. Cracked, damaged, worn, imperfect… Just like me.
My eyes flood with tears.
Chase… what have you done to me?