July 02, 2014

So in love...

I promised a snip of the wip (work-in-progress) I'm—yeah—working on. This is a three-part story that I wasn't expecting at all. I thought it was a one-part story. (Otherwise known as "a story.") But then I realized—damn, there's more. This is rough—this is raw—but I am in love with my boy.

He said he had something to talk to me about, and he asked me to meet him at what I still thought of as “our place.” Even in the wee hours of the morning, I took the time to dress in a style I knew would make him tilt his head to the side in that way of his. As if he were calculating all the different things he wanted to do to me.
            At the corner table, he put his hand down on the lemon-yellow Formica—bright as sunlight. Bright as a dishsoap commercial. I was about to put my hand on top of his. I knew what his skin would feel like beneath my fingers. I was already wet. He lifted his hand before I could, and there was the key.
            No ring. No chain. A naked key.
            He said, “Katy,” and then he looked out the window. 2 a.m. at a 24-hour café in Hollywood. Edward Hopper couldn’t have painted a better scene. Cars drove by, their headlights breaking up the night. I hadn’t felt this sad since he’d moved out. I hadn’t felt this anything since we’d parted. He started to stand, and I said “No,” and made him sit and face me.
            “Why?” I asked, and my voice was shaky.           
            “I can’t do this anymore.”
            There it was. Silver, shiny, a diamond pattern. The key to my heart. The key to my soul. The key to my apartment.
            He tried to rise again. I put my hands up and said, “No,” louder, loud enough that the two other insomniac customers turned to look and Jake sat back down. We’d been good together. The kind of good that means something. But there’d been that… edge. That’s how I always felt it. Not something missing. Not something gone. An edge that I could never fully understand.
            “You can’t call me anymore,” he said. “I can’t do this anymore.”
            My heart was shattering. We’d split—but he was always there. We’d gone our separate ways, and yet, to me, those ways had been parallel. Down the same street. In the same direction.
            “I don’t want the key,” I said, and I saw the tears in his eyes, and I felt like I’d been punched. “Don’t make me take it.”
            Jake looked out the window again. This was the time of the night that I loved best. The reason I was in L.A. in the first place. People were up. People were out there. I was never alone. But now, even sitting across from Jake, I felt lonely. When he looked back at me, his face was calm. He said, “I can’t not be with you and hear about you with other men.”
            “Okay.” I was nodding.
            “But I can’t be with you the way we were.”
            I could agree to that, too.
            “But…” and here it was. Here was the edge, the blade. Here was what I’d been waiting for the whole time. “But I need that, too.”
            “You need what?” He had to spell it out for me. I didn’t understand.
            “Katy,” and he put his hand on mine, the way I’d imagined. He closed his eyes, and he leaned in close, and when we opened his eyes and looked at me again, I saw fear. I saw worry. I saw something in Jake he’d never shown me before. “I want to be with you, but I want you to be with other men, too.”
            This had never occurred to me. I’m slow I guess. I knew Jake got a thrill when I called him. Why else would I keep dialing his digits? Why else would he keep coming to my rescue? I knew after that first night, when I truly had locked myself out of my place, when Jake had come sniffing around me, pushing me against the wall of the living room and saying, “I can smell his cock on you,” that this worked for him. But I’d used the trick as a weapon. I’d tried to hurt him with my stories—I hadn’t realized. I hadn’t known.
            He slid the key toward me, metal scraping on the yellow surface. “Twisted, right? You couldn’t do that, right?” Jake, my handsome boy. My six-foot-two super hero, with the black hair falling into his eyes, with the battered leather jacket and the I-don’t-give-a-fuck pick-up truck. Jake was scared.
            And I held the key to make everything better.
            “I could,” I said.
            He looked at me in wonder, mouth open as if about to speak, but mind unable to formulate the words.
            “I could do that,” I told him.
            I put the key in his palm and I closed his fingers around it.

See? He told me his secrets. And I listened. And I'm going to give him exactly what he needs. I promise.


1 comment:

Miz Angell said...

Oh. My. Hot stuff.

And I think I'm a little in love with Jake too.