Erin
I’m trying real hard not to be a square right now.
I am quite aware of my square-ish tendencies.
Know thyself, they say, and I know myself well enough to know that I’m not the most spontaneous or fun girl in the world.
When I was in college, I put more emphasis on sisterhood and education than I did on partying or hooking up with guys.
Still, the last year has changed me, opened me up, loosened my strings a little, and I really do feel like — for the most part — I’m a more laid-back version of the girl I used to be.
And yet, I really, really hate that Gavin is high as a kite right now, and that his whole place smells like marijuana.
I don’t really have anything against the drug. Jess smokes all the time and I know Skyler dabbles in it, too. I’ve read articles on the medical benefits for many people, and I believe Gavin that it helps his anxiety and depression.
But I also feel like he’s leaned on it instead of therapy.
And I don’t like that.
I took Bear’s advice to heart, and the next day, I called Gavin and told him that I needed him. I told him I really needed him to make time for therapy this week, and to spend a real evening with me.
And just like Bear said, he was quick to give me exactly what I asked for.
I don’t know why it takes me so long to come out with what I want, what I need, but it’s like I feel like the biggest burden in the world to ask for anything from anyone.
But Gavin made it seem like the most natural thing in the world, and he went to therapy earlier this week and participated more than he ever has.
And now, after a fun night out at the boardwalk and a nice dinner, we’re back at his place, cuddled on the couch.
Maybe Bear was right.
Maybe everything with us is fine, and I just needed to speak up.
“You want a hit?” he asks me, offering the joint as smoke slips through his lips.
I smile but decline with a shake of my head. “Not really my thing, but thank you.”
Gavin grins. “I had a feeling.” Then, his eyes go wide. “Ah shit, I didn’t even ask if you’re okay with me doing it while you’re here. Let me put this out.”
“No, no,” I say, stopping him before he can extinguish the joint. “It’s okay. I… I’m trying not to mind it.”
Gavin chuckles. “Yeah? How’s that going?”
“I think I just don’t understand it.”
“Well, that’s because you’ve never tried it.”
“On contrary,” I say, holding up one finger. “Last spring, I accidentally ate a whole pot brownie.”
“Oh shit,” Gavin says after another pull of the joint. “And?”
“And I vomited my brains out.”
Gavin laughs, but my stomach bottoms out at the memory of that night, because I didn’t just throw up literally. I also word vomited to Bear that I’d been pregnant with his child.
And that I’d aborted that child without even talking to him first.
I shake off the guilt before it can seep in, reminding myself what my therapist continues to. Bear and I have moved past what happened. He’s forgiven me, and now I have to forgive myself.
Easier said than done.
“I can’t believe it made you sick, that’s never happened to me.”
“Well, I was already wasted when I had the brownie, so…”
“Ah,” he says. “You got the spins.”
“Very much so.”
“Well, if it bothers you at all, please tell me. I don’t have to do it.” He shrugs. “It’s just nice every now and then, and it takes the edge off.”
I frown. “I’m glad it helps. But…”
I stop, suddenly afraid I’ll upset him if I say what I want to.
“But… you hate that I’m not going to therapy anymore?”
I grimace, but nod.
Gavin puts out what’s left of the joint, and then he turns to face me, pulling me more into his lap.
“Listen. I love that you care about me enough to even notice that I haven’t gone as much, but I need you to trust me that I’m really okay.
I’ve been focused on school, and I’m happier than I have been in a long time.
I’m so close to graduation, to actually being able to do something with my degree…
” He shakes his head on a smile. “I’m okay. Really.”
“Even with the anniversary of Angelica’s passing coming up?”
Gavin goes rigid at my words, but it’s only for a split second before he nods. “Yeah. Even so. I know she’s proud of me.” He swallows, the motion emphasized by the bob of his Adam’s apple. And then, for a long while, he’s silent, just staring at where his hands are holding mine.
“We can—”
“I think it’s time for a subject change,” he says before I can even finish my sentence, and then in a swift motion, I’m yanked forward and over until I’m straddling him on the couch.
Gavin threads his hands into my hair and pulls my mouth to his in the next instant, kissing me long and deep, and I can taste the unfamiliar earthiness of the marijuana on his tongue.
I relax into the kiss, feeling my body humming to life under his touch, and when I roll my hips against him, I feel him already hard and ready.
“Gavin,” I gasp, reaching down to roll my hand over his hard-on through his sweatpants. “You’re so hard.”
“Fuck, Erin,” he pants against my lips, pressing his forehead to mine long enough to catch his breath. He shakes his head. “I want you so fucking bad.”
“So take me,” I plead.
He swallows, groans, bites his lip and shakes his head again. “I want to. God, do I want to, Erin. But I…” He pauses. “I promised I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“You won’t. I know you won’t,” I say, kissing him earnestly. “I trust you.”
He grimaces at that, and suddenly, he unloops my hands from around his neck and puts space between us, dropping his head back against the couch cushion on a sigh.
“What?” I ask. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. You’re perfect, Erin. It’s me who…”
But he doesn’t finish. He just sits there, breathing, eyes closed and hands holding my wrists so I don’t reach back to touch him. It’s not long before he’s softening between my legs, and I bite back the urge to cry even as the tears well in my eyes.
When Gavin looks up and sees me, his face crumples. “Jesus. Erin, please, I’m sor—”
“It’s fine,” I say, the statement clipped as I climb off him. I sniff, adjusting my leggings and t-shirt before I reach down for my purse on the coffee table. “I think I should go.”
Everything inside me wants Gavin to reach for me, pull me into him, finish his sentence. I want him to tell me he’s sorry, that he’s wrong, that he wants me and that’s it, period, end of story, no buts. I want him to tell me not to go. I want him to ask me to stay.
Instead, he sighs, his eyes sad as he nods and says, “I’ll walk you out.”
Rejection seeps into my bones as he walks me to my car, but I manage to fight back the tears even as he gives me a long, sweet kiss goodnight and promises he’ll call me tomorrow.
He says he wants to see me again this weekend.
He says to drive home safe. He says to text him when I get there, just so he doesn’t worry.
I barely hear a thing.
My ears are ringing so loudly that by the time I pull away from his apartment, it’s like I’m being chased by a train. I drive only a few blocks before I nearly pull out in front of someone, and after slamming on my brakes and flinching from the sound of their horn, all the noise clears.
I drive to the next block, pull over to the side of the road, and let myself cry.