Author's Notes

I apologize for where you will all figure out this is going. I have my reasons, and I will go into those in the AN of the epilogue. But please bear with me. Little known fact: I am most productive in Autumn and Winter. And when I'm unhappy, so maybe you'll get more updates, and sooner. I promise nothing, though.

Warnings: Octahedron foreshadowing, possible invention of a word

Abnormally Attracted to Sin

Chapter 20: Maybe California

By Persephone's Nautical Nun

"What AJ thing?" Emily asks as soon as we're in the apartment. They're the first words she's spoken since she left me at the party, and I don't even have time to get the door shut. Her tone sounds calculated, and I get the sense that she made a conscious decision to not be angry until she knew what was going on.

"Ems," I say, closing the door, and my trepidation is evident. When I look up, I find her leaning against the pillar, feet planted and arms crossed, and I realize for the first time that the architectural anomaly represented a kind of crutch for her. Nearly every time we've had a confrontation, she's used it as a support structure.

"What AJ thing?" she repeats, slowly, steadily… heavily, and I know she's losing patience.

I'm at a loss. I feel helpless and pathetic and weak, and it is the exact thing I was always running from when it came to Emily. I never wanted AJ, it was never about him. I wanted to simultaneously run away from Emily, and enter into her world at the same time. By sleeping with AJ, I was grasping at a part of her world that she didn't want me in. But I know that she won't hear any of that. She'll hear that I had sex with AJ; that I betrayed her on multiple levels, and everything will come crashing down. But there's nothing else that I can say, because she's Emily, and she deserves my honesty. So I sigh and release everything in me that might have resembled hope, and tell her, "I slept with AJ."

I stand still, waiting for permission to move, and I watch as she goes through all five stages of grief. I take a tentative step forward and open my mouth to explain the impossible situation, and I should have known it was too much to soon because she holds a hand up to stop me, and I think she would have taken a step back if she could. I don't give in completely, though, because I stay right where I am, instead of taking a step back to resettle the original distance between us.

She composes herself, but only just, and she can't quite meet my eyes when she asks, "When?"

I shrug, because I can't remember exactly when, but she doesn't see it. "Some time before we got together," I say softly, my eyes falling to the floor.

There's silence, and I'm afraid to look up at the reaction. It could be anger, it could be sadness, or it could be broken acceptance. I don't know what to expect, but I know I won't be able to stand it. But as the silence wears on, I know she's waiting for me to look up, as though whatever she has to say is meaningless unless I look at her.

It feels like a test of some kind.

I raise my head, and while I try not to do it in defiance, I'm afraid it comes off that way, because it's become second nature by now. I watch as she licks her lips, her tongue sliding over the top, then the bottom before she curls her lip between her teeth, and it's almost like whatever she's going to say scares her as much as it scares me, and I feel my shoulders slump in resignation.

"Okay," she says, and her voice sounds forced, but strong, and I catch myself flinching in response. I'm not sure what it means, but I know it's not what I had expected.

I look at her for a minute. I can feel myself blink as the word, rather than the sound comes settling into my brain. "What?" I ask, because I need to hear more, but it comes out in a whisper, for fear that what follows is going to be, "We're over."

She shrugs, but it's not the nonchalant kind. It's the kind used when you're not sure of your footing, though you know you have to move. It doesn't suit her. "Okay," she repeats, and I think she's forgotten how to say anything else.

I'm tempted to ask her to repeat herself once again, but I'm afraid we'll spiral into some inappropriate caricature of the situation we're in. So, I wait.

Finally, her chest heaves, and she inhales so deeply that it looks like it hurts her, and she says, "It's okay. It was before we were together."

"What?" I ask again, knowing that I shouldn't, but not knowing what's supposed to take its place. It looks like she would really rather not say it again, but will if she has to. I don't want her to have to.

She does, anyway. "If it happened before we were together, then it doesn't matter. We didn't owe each other anything, and you had no one to explain yourself to."

Then why do I feel so guilty? And why do I want to explain?

Why do I feel like I have to?

"I was scared," I say, disregarding her reaction because we both deserve more. "Things with you were getting confusing, and I – "

"Stop," she says, cutting me off with a raise of her hand. "Don't' tell me,"" she continues, turning her head to the side and looking more scared than I feel. She pushes off from the pillar and moves toward the bedroom. "I don't want to know," she finishes, pausing as she passes me in emphasis, and I know the discussion's finished.

I don't get to make myself feel better.

She hesitates on the threshold of our bedroom, her eyes focused on a spot on the ground, and I know she's trying to make up her mind about something. "Are you coming to bed?" she asks, too quietly, without lifting her gaze.

I nod, and though it seems impossible, it's evident she sees me. I watch as she turns her back to me, and disappears into the room.

I follow slowly, as though marching towards my execution.

I am aware of my own exertion, feeling my muscles tense under the strain. I have moved beyond the stage of numbness into hypersensitivity.

It brings a strange kind of calmness, this awareness of my own body and its capabilities, even if the circumstances behind it are exactly what I need it for. It's good to know that I can still rely on myself.

When did I forget that?

Things aren't different; not in the least. We wake up together, kiss each other good morning; one of us will cook breakfast while the other one showers. Our days go about our routines, until we finally fall asleep, arms wrapped around each other.

Nothing has changed.

Except for the fact that it has.

There's a tenseness that I can't put my finger on, and it makes me feel like we're just going through the motions. I try to tell myself that it's all in my head, that things are really just as normal as they look, but the longer we go on, the more I feel as though it's not my imagination.

And that's when I started to go numb.

So, I moved, and I haven't really stopped. I'm running, mostly, but in this particular moment I'm lifting, and I'm glad for the change.

"Thanks for the help," I hear Shane say for the millionth time, slightly out of breath. I only half hear him though, as I revel under the strain of my working muscles while I heave a particularly heavy amp into his van.

I shake my head in dismissal, saying, "Not a problem," as though I'd rehearsed it. Truth is, I'm glad to do it, if only because it releases some tension. Still, I'm sad to see him go. He and his band of merry men are an entertaining bunch.

He sits down on the floor of the vehicle, his feet on the ground, and lights a spliff pulled from his pocket. I can't help but grin as he tries to straighten out the small kink in it before handing it to me, muttering to himself.

"Leaving in a few days, then?" I ask him, taking a long drag and passing the joint back to him.

He nods in that stereotypical stoner way, and it just makes him more endearing. He inhales deeply before he speaks, and when he does, puffs of smoke shoot from his mouth. "It's about time to move on," he says, and I can't quite read his face.

"Not really a settler, are you?" I ask, and I think I may have embarked on my first real conversation with Shane.

He shakes his head while hitting the spliff again. "None of us are," he says, gesturing with the reefer between his fingers. "Not really."

I am punched in the face with the implication of his statement.

I push it out of my mind; tell myself I'm just being paranoid, and reach over and take the spliff from him. "Where are you headed?"

"Maybe California," he says, and it seems strange for him to be going back to a country he claims to hate. "Bryan's got some friends there, so it'll be easy to get our feet on the ground."

"You didn't have a safety net when you came over here, did you?" I ask him and offer the spliff in his direction. I was under the impression that they had no home base, and no reason for the traveling, or particular destination.

"Coming to Bristol was a perfect storm," he explains. "Bryan had been living with AJ when I came passing through. I crashed their couch for a while before I became an actual roommate."

"How'd you get here, then?"

"Well, I had managed to fall in love, and then I managed to have my heart broken. At the same time, AJ lost his job, and Bryan couldn't afford rent on his own. We had enough money between us to start an adventure, and nothing tying us to Illinois. We'd heard Bristol was a pretty busy place, and decided it was as good a place to go as any. Now, here we are." He puts the spliff out on the heel of his boot, and tosses the remainder away.

"And now you're off again," I say, rather than ask, and my eyebrow quirks without my telling it to.

"Yeah, well, living in a church really sucks after a while, you know what I mean?" he says with a playful nudge, and I can only laugh in response.

"Glad to see you guys are still hard at work," I hear Emily's voice yelling at us from a distance, and her voice sounds strange in the fact that it doesn't. I look up to see her and Bryan approaching us, refreshments in hand. They had gone on a cig run, but apparently it was time for a break.

Not that Shane and I hadn't been taking one already.

When they reach us, Emily extends a bottle of water to me, and produces a pack of cigarettes from one of her bottomless pockets. I watch as she packs them, letting her wrist do all the work. She's got her hip cocked to the side, and her relaxation seems practiced.

"Hey, there's not much left," Shane defends, taking a swig of water from the bottle Bryan handed to him.

"Not like there was a lot to begin with," I quip, and I'm amazed at my ability to seem perfectly normal.

The whole situation is fucked up.

It doesn't take long before everything is packed, and we're saying our goodbyes. And while I know they're not leaving this second, it feels like they are, and the mood is somber.

Emily is standing off with Bryan, and Shane and I are talking by the van. "I'm going to miss you," I tell him, and I mean it.

He looks touched, and moves to embrace me. "Look at you, being strong," he says encouragingly as we separate, and though I know he sees my expression, he doesn't say anything more.

I don't want to ask him what it means.

But I have to.

"How am I being strong?"

He looks embarrassed, and I have to try to remain composed. "You're taking it like a champ," he says encouragingly. "You and Emily finally connecting, and everything," he continues with a regretful shrug.

Is he saying what I think he is?

I turn in Emily's direction without telling myself to, and I wonder if this act has become instinctual. She's releasing Bryan from a hug and starts to make her way over to us, and I know the conversation is over.

With a look from Emily, I numbly excuse myself, and allow her to have her goodbyes with him. For something to do, I approach Bryan and go through the motions of farewell with him, and I know it's wrong, because he deserves more than that.

And while at first I was sad that AJ wasn't going to be here; that he was off trying to gather as much money as possible, I now think it's a good thing that I don't have to pretend with him, too.

And before I realize what's happening, Emily and I are walking home together. I'm aware of her taking my hand, and not much else.

I don't know what to think.

I have brain damage.

I am exhausted. My body is spent, and my eyelids are heavy. The trouble is, I just can't close them. My eyes travel over to watch Emily's sleeping form underneath the blanket beside me.

We made love tonight like we haven't for a while. We haven't explored each other in a long time, having already done so thoroughly in the beginning of the relationship. So we explored each other, while at the same time, knowing exactly what to do.

I'm not sure what to make of it.

I carefully climb over her and out of bed, grabbing a cigarette from the pack on the windowsill and move into the living room, not bothering with clothes.

I light my cigarette and stand in the middle of the room, looking at my surroundings. I'm not sure what I thought I would find out here, but I feel better than when I was in bed.

Though, admittedly, that could just be the nicotine.

I'm halfway through my cigarette before I'm aware of her presence. She's standing behind me, and when I turn, I see her as I never have before. When she stands, she leans, or shifts her weight to one side. Her hands are always somewhere; in a pocket, or crossed over her chest.

I have never seen her as she is in this moment.

She stands naked a step or two outside the bedroom, feet planted, body straight. Her hands hang at her sides, and her eyes are fixed on me, head level.

I'm not sure if she looks like a God, or an offering to one that's already accepted her fate.

What does that make me in either case?

"We're in dangerous territory," she says simply, without inflection or heaviness, and it's jarring.

I take a drag of my cigarette, a long one, and try to understand the reality I find myself in. "What do you mean?" I ask, because I simply can't remember how my brain works.

She cracks. It's hard to catch, and she recovers quickly, but I can see, beneath the surface that her composure isn't easy to keep, and I'm awed by how strong she is yet again. "You don't feel real to me," she says, in the same lifeless tone she began the conversation with.

How do you respond to that? Is there even a way? I know I flinch, but it's so delayed that the gesture is comical. I raise my cigarette to my lips, trying to stall for time, wishing I could run far away from the situation.

But I can't.

I think she senses my mental incapabilities and saves me the trouble of reaching for something to say, or even feel by speaking for me. "I'm trying to get over it, but it's hard."

Somewhere, I knew this conversation was coming, but I didn't know it would take so long.

"The thought of you and him; of him touching you…" she trails off and looks down, and I know that the cracks run deeper than I originally thought. "I'm trying to get us back. I just don't know how."

And suddenly, I know what I feel.

I am angry.

I am angry because she waited until now to tell me. I am angry that she has forced us both to live in this charade for the past few weeks.

Though, I realize there was a time when I was okay with that.

And I'm angry because if it's taken her so long to tell me this, what about the thing she hasn't told me?

I finish my cigarette and walk over to the ashtray on the bar, stubbing it out violently before turning back to face Emily on the other side of the room. "Were you even going to tell me?" I ask, setting my face.

"What are you talking about?" she asks, blinking.

She may look genuinely confused, but it's hard to tell anymore. I've forgotten which way is up, and which way is down. "Or were you just going to disappear one day, off to the other side of the world?" I feel like a train, having already started down the tracks and not being able to stop.

And forget about straying from the course.

I watch her carefully for a long time. I watch the confusion give way to recognition. But what comes after recognition isn't so easily named. Her eyes grow dark and heavy, but the left corner of her mouth curls up in a sick smirk, and I know I have never felt fear before this moment.

She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, and shakes her head softly, and I think she's just reached a decision she doesn't like. She sighs, and with a heavy look, turns and walks into the bedroom.

At first I just think she's given up on the conversation and is going back to bed. Or maybe that's what I hope. But my stomach drops when I see her start to get dress. "What are you doing?" I call, rushing into the room as she's pulling a shirt over her head.

She sighs and moves to the closet, not bothering to look at me, hair flying. "I can't do this," she says as she pulls out her duffel bag and starts tossing random articles of clothing into it, and it sounds far too easy for her to say.

It's my turn to voice her earlier question, even though I know the answer. "What are you talking about?"

She grabs the picture of her and Katie, stuffs it in her bag, and shoves past me, heading into the bathroom for a few minutes. "You," she says upon returning, gathering a few items from around the living room. "You and your complete and utter lack of trust."

"I do trust you," I try to tell her, but my voice sounds far away, even to me, and I know there's no way it can reach her.

"No, you don't," she says, leaning down and grabbing her guitar, the duffel already flung over her shoulder. She moves to the door before looking at me. "And I've never given you any reason to not," she says, and before I know it, she's gone.

And now I am lost.