Persistence
It's a damn big mistake. You know it is, in that very second. It's as if you are watching yourself in a movie, and you are screaming at the screen but the remote is broken and there is no way to go back now. And either way, it doesn't matter. You don't want to think about that now, too many memories associated with these distancing techniques. Zoom in, zoom out, change the colours. You are not in therapy. Your little boy will not be back with Lucy for another hour, and you called, you checked and checked again and he is fine, perfectly fine... You can't think about him now. No one knows. It's as if this isn't happening at all.
You are straddling him, your shirt riding up as his fingers trace along the rim of it. There is something odd about doing this in daylight, so out in the open and aware, baring your scars to him. You let him touch you. You let him put his hands on your waist, your breasts, everywhere but the spots he still avoids. You let him kiss away the sweat trickling down your neck, feel his warm breath on your cheek, his fingers inside you. You let him do these things because he is Brian, because it's familiar, and because you haven't had sex in a while, and because you really want to. No, you don't subscribe to some kind of passive feminine idea of sexuality. You don't actually let him do anything. You initiate. You pull him closer. You touch your lips to the bit of soft skin near his clavicle. You unbutton his pants. You hush him when he asks if you are sure, if this is a goo- You guide him. He is oddly fidgety, restless, his muscles taut. Unwilling to surrender control.
It doesn't exactly rock your world, which is hardly a surprise. This isn't the kind of built up tension hook-up you had years ago at the very beginning, carefree, secret and exciting. This is something guilty, something you clearly both want but also not. It was a spur of the moment decision, one that takes place at a time when you don't exactly do one-night stands, ever. But it's not night. It is a strange feeling, falling into the memory of things so quickly, knowing each other's bodies so well, yet being so awkward with them. But your bodies have changed. There are new words written all over them, words such as loss, responsibility, healing, age, pain, joy. You are very aware of your own breathing, unsure where your limbs go and you can tell he is trying to be very measured, holding back something as you dictate the pace. You avoid his eyes, try to look everywhere but, because that would be like an admission of what you are doing.
"Olivia…" Full name.
A vein standing out on his neck, flushed skin and some stubble. Wrinkles that run nearly all the way down his check. A pale eye, constantly fixing you and- the tattoo.
Mostly, it's strangely quiet and over rather quickly.
You trail your fingers along the soft skin on the inside of her arm until she pulls away, getting up to look for her clothes. The expression on her face reads 'I'm going to get some Vanish Oxy Action now to remove every trace of this.' "You know-"
"It's fine."
Her classic response to everything, the window closing as quickly as it opened. You are used to it, of course, but every time she does this, it is a reminder that you will never know her as much as you would like to. As much as you might have done, once. It didn't always matter so much, when there was the mystery and intrigue, when you had your own secrets to keep, but somehow, mystery doesn't quite cut it in the "new life" with a kid around. Things change, but things don't change that much. The point for explanation has long passed, but you need her to know things. Now you do, but the time has long passed. There is nothing to be said and anyway, you can never explain why.
"Okay." You get up slowly, making your way towards the bathroom. You desperately need a shower, but you can tell that would obviously not be welcome now. You are the intruder bringing a mess into this orderly life, this nice life with an adorable kid, a stunning career, helping the needy and all that, fighting for the wronged…this heroic story of survival and persistence in the face of everything. You are nothing in this life but a dirty stain of the past. The dirt seems to creep into your skin, settling in the crevices of your body, leaving muddy boot prints all over. Mostly, it's this dirt you can't wash off, so you embrace it, throwing yourself into the underworld. You are good at it.
When you come back out of the bathroom, she is already dressed, and although she hasn't showered, although her hair is tangled, her shirt wrinkled and her make-up flawed, it only gives her a trace of softness as she washes her hands in the kitchen sink. She is thorough. "You gotta go, Noah will be here and I need a shower-"
"You want any help cleaning up? I mean, uh, this mess…" How do you clean up the smell of sex?
"No, thanks, I can manage."
"Hey, I didn't push you into anything! You were the one who-"
"I know! Just go, please."
The dirt seems to smear on your skin, and it makes you cheap, makes you worthless. She saved your ass, again. You are not a man, again. You are that dumbass ex she sort of feels bad for, as she would for one for her victims. Whatever you touch becomes stained and, as ever, you are nothing beside her, just that guy who makes a mess, asking for it. "I'll see you around." You won't.
You hear silverware clanging in the sink behind you as you locate your shoes. Is she actually doing dishes now?
"I did love you, you know."
She is giving you this intense look as she says it, as if she is trying to prove something, and you know it must be costing her a lot to maintain eye contact at this point because this is not the kind of conversation either of you feel comfortable with.
You can feel it in the tingling in your neck, the urge to shuffle your feet as her dark eyes bore into you. "Sure" you reply casually. You are actually certain that she does. It could be romantic love or it could be comfort in the fact that she somehow seems to think of you as this pretty nice guy who won't put up much of a fight or tell her she is working too much. Or it could be that she is once again mixing up love with compassion and you had told herself you would never, ever make her "save" you again. Not like that. You think of that curious little boy and how she is trying to keep him safe from a world out to hurt him. Keep him safe from people like you, bringing trouble.
"I'm serious." A displeased line forms between her eyes.
"I know you did. Just not enough." Jesus. Insecurity in a man. Really attractive, Cassidy.
You expect her to deny it, to get angry with you, to put up a fight about this. There is always one partner who loves more, and you have been weirdly okay with that, but the unspoken agreement is that you never freely admitted to it.
Instead, her voice softens as she turns off the water. "Brian, no. It just wasn't the time. And we've both changed. There's Noah, and you…" She halts, releasing her breath. "You need to sort out your life."
"I get that." There is something in his relaxed expression that reassures you that yes, maybe he really does. He isn't trying to please you; the uncharacteristic hardness in his face has disappeared. That boundless rage is gone now, and his eyes are on you like they were so often when he was watching you closely and trying to figure out if this is the right moment to be honest. "I know that it's never going to happen, that shit gets in the way every single time so it's not bad luck, it's clearly about me. That wasn't what I meant to do here. I just had to tell you that…I mean I was thinking…you know…"
You don't know. You really need him to finish his sentence, but now he is covering his mouth with one hand as the other swings loosely by his side as if uncertain where to go. That weird emotional honesty of the past days you didn't quite know how to handle is gone.
So you do the only thing you know and walk up to him, brush your fingers against his, loosely squeezing his hand before letting go. There is nothing to say. So you say the lamest thing possible. "You're gonna be okay."
He lets out a dry laugh at that. "Of course. Wouldn't dare to contradict you."
"You'd better not."
He doesn't smile back. "Hey. By the way. Are you managing okay? I haven't really asked, with everything that's been happening."
"I'm managing, more or less. You know, considering everything that's been going on these past few months alone, I'm actually surprised at how okay I am." It's true. No more details needed for him.
He tilts his head, measuring you. "You're strong, always have been."
"So people keep telling me."
"And you still hate it."
"Yep."
"And it's still true."
"So it also applies to you then."
"Not like that" he mutters. "You know, I just wonder sometimes if people really become okay, or if they just get better at accepting they're not okay. Going to therapy for that, talking about it. Listening to themselves talking. I couldn't do that."
And just like that, the glass around you begins to crack and you can almost see the lines running through it, threatening to make it collapse. It's as if he has held something unbearably cold up to it, like water turning to ice and expanding, breaking whatever tries to contain it.
"Liv?"
Screw him and his excuses, this damned helplessness. And just like that, you walk away from him, away from this life and the exhaustion of running around in circles.
"What did I say?"
Away from this mess you have allowed into it again.
"What?"
"I was strong because I had to be strong, Brian, don't you get that? You of all people? People survive; they cope with shit every single day and survive, so yes, their definition of 'okay' changes. But that doesn't mean they're some kind of ruin you have to tiptoe around, and it's not an excuse they get to pull out whenever they want. That's what my mother did, and it destroyed her. It doesn't work like that. You don't get to do that. People pull themselves together all the time, because they work on it!"
"All right, so you move on! You are the master of moving on! Doesn't mean everyone is like that!"
"Oh, don't give me that. You've been hiding for years, running from one disaster to the next. You beg Stone not to fire you one minute, and the next you turn up here and tell me you quit your job. You can't make up your mind what it is you want!"
"Just because I didn't say, years ago and after months from hell, 'great idea, let's make a baby now' right after you told me you thought there was someone better out there for you…"
You hold up your hands, amazed at the way his mind jumps from A to Z, distorting conversations that never happened that way, that barely happened at all before he shut them down. "Where is that coming from?"
"We could never talk about anything, so I guess this is as good a time as any."
"I am not discussing this with you right here, right now!"
"Fine! See you around the next time I screw up!"
You are freezing, unbearably so, and you still need that shower. Your sweater clings to your skin uncomfortably. You don't know why you had to prod at that scar. It was completely unnecessary, and just makes the emptiness greater. Why does it matter so much, after all this time?
You read their Yelp reviews and decide based on pictures that they all look like pretentious asshats. 'I've been to other therapists, but never found one who really got me.' Disgusting. You are not so sure you would want that guy to "get" you. Is there a kind where you don't have to talk smartly or cry? Fucking art therapy? Hell no.
You will pick one. Tomorrow. And then you will call your landlord. And your insurances. And maybe a travel agent. You will get your life together. Starting tomorrow.
"What if" is a dangerous path you don't go down, that you haven't been down in several years. "What if" is not an option. You hug Noah to you and listen to him chatting away about the funny cat downstairs, and once again, the guilt fills you. Lucy was there, not you. This should be enough. He is enough. When you think of everything you have put at risk, it sickens you.
And still…
You will hold on to what you have. You persisted. You all did.