After Dark
Page 50
“Because he was high?”
“He looked terrible,” she said. “Too skinny, miserable. He’s in no way equipped to help Chrissy right now. He needs help. And the way she bossed him around, it was—”
“You’re preaching to the choir. I want him gone. We’re all the help she needs.”
“I’m not talking about her.” Hannah clunked her mug onto the coffee table. “I’m talking about your brother. The help your brother needs.”
“He is not my fucking concern.”
“You wouldn’t be alive if Nate decided that you weren’t his ‘fucking concern.’”
“What is this, exactly?” I drew away from her. “Your sister is testing my patience to the limit. I don’t understand what you’re getting at right now. Are you suggesting that I should be doing something for Seth? Handouts for the two of them?”
“God.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“No, please, illuminate me. I must have a goodwill sign stamped across my face. Tell me just how I should help my brother, who assaulted my girlfriend and knocked up her sister.”
“He didn’t assault me. For the millionth time. You hurt him—terrified him—by faking your death. When are you going to own that? How would you feel if Nate did that to you? Seth lost his parents, too.” Hannah stood, visibly mustering her courage. “I saw Seth grieving at your memorial. That shit messed him up. I’m sure he shares all your hang-ups about loss and—”
“Hang-ups.” I rose, wanting more distance from her. I moved away and regarded Hannah coolly. “Hang-ups,” I repeated.
“Okay, wrong word. Chill. You know what I mean.”
“Chill?”
She threw up her hands. “Forget it. You’re impossible when you get like this.”
I leaned against the wall, wishing I had a cigarette. I’d trashed my pack earlier in the day. I needed to quit for Hannah, who summoned my dead parents against me … in defense of Seth.
“Go to bed,” I said.
“I am going, but not because you say so. I’m not a child.”
“No? You’re happy to act like one when you need taking care of.”
She turned scarlet and scowled at her feet.
“There’s no shame in that, little bird.” I strolled toward her and took her jaw in my hand. I forced her to look at me. Defiance shone in her eyes, and a little alarm. “Just remember who loves you. Remember who takes care of you.” I brushed my thumb over her lips. “Sleep.”
* * *
I ran that night the way I had run when Hannah broke up with me in April: past the boundary of my stamina, into pain and then numbness.
Anything can become self-harm. Not just sharp objects and drugs and alcohol, but exercise and creativity, ambition, desire. Love. What else is love, if not the power to destroy?
In a moment of carelessness, Hannah could ruin me.
But she is gentle, I wrote, having returned from my run and gone straight to my desk. Sweat dripped down my face. The desire to put Hannah into words, and to understand her, seared me. She spoke about my parents and Seth. I saw their faces in a constellation, meaning nothing. She is like the little bird I call her. Strong and delicate. I’m out of my depth.
Chapter 23
HANNAH
On Friday morning, Matt and I acted as if we’d never argued.
I could almost believe we hadn’t.
Last night, I’d set foot in that no-man’s-land topic—his parents—and he locked up like Fort Knox. End of discussion. End of the evening.
“Happy Friday,” he said as we toweled off after our shower.
“Same to you.” I hugged him tight. Matt communicated through physicality, something I’d learned, and a hug meant more than a dozen apologies.
His semihard cock pressed at my belly. Oh Lord.
If I dress in a hurry … maybe we could quickly …
I tugged off his towel and he laughed reluctantly.
“Hi,” I whispered, wrapping my fingers around his dick.
“Ah, fuck.” He locked his hands behind his skull. I tugged at him gently. Would I ever get tired of the way he responded to this? Like a gun to his head.
I shook off my towel and pressed my sex against the cold marble corner of the sink.
“Go on,” he said, fixated on the V of my thighs. “Get wet on that.”
He liked a little show, and despite my sometimes crippling shyness, I liked putting it on for him. I jerked him off and rolled my body against the blunt corner, soaking it. Soon he was bucking into my grip, pulling me away from the sink and taking over with his expert hands. Hands I loved, long and veined. Fingers that thrummed my clit at perfect pitch. Fingers that entered me boldly, possessively, and almost carelessly. As if this part of me were his.
I watched us handling one another in the mirror, and coming; Matt first, in a thick pale jet against my belly, and me a moment later, my pleasure dripping over his hands.
I carried that memory with me to work.
Matt forwarded an e-mail to me at noon.
Subject: Fwd: Listings
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Friday, July 4, 2014
Time: 12:08 PM
Who the hell works on the Fourth of July? Only my workaholic wife-to-be.
Thanks for the helping hand this morning.
Okay, that was pretty bad …
Marion sent the listings just now. I like the look of a few. She can start showing us around as early as Monday. Thoughts?
“He looked terrible,” she said. “Too skinny, miserable. He’s in no way equipped to help Chrissy right now. He needs help. And the way she bossed him around, it was—”
“You’re preaching to the choir. I want him gone. We’re all the help she needs.”
“I’m not talking about her.” Hannah clunked her mug onto the coffee table. “I’m talking about your brother. The help your brother needs.”
“He is not my fucking concern.”
“You wouldn’t be alive if Nate decided that you weren’t his ‘fucking concern.’”
“What is this, exactly?” I drew away from her. “Your sister is testing my patience to the limit. I don’t understand what you’re getting at right now. Are you suggesting that I should be doing something for Seth? Handouts for the two of them?”
“God.” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
“No, please, illuminate me. I must have a goodwill sign stamped across my face. Tell me just how I should help my brother, who assaulted my girlfriend and knocked up her sister.”
“He didn’t assault me. For the millionth time. You hurt him—terrified him—by faking your death. When are you going to own that? How would you feel if Nate did that to you? Seth lost his parents, too.” Hannah stood, visibly mustering her courage. “I saw Seth grieving at your memorial. That shit messed him up. I’m sure he shares all your hang-ups about loss and—”
“Hang-ups.” I rose, wanting more distance from her. I moved away and regarded Hannah coolly. “Hang-ups,” I repeated.
“Okay, wrong word. Chill. You know what I mean.”
“Chill?”
She threw up her hands. “Forget it. You’re impossible when you get like this.”
I leaned against the wall, wishing I had a cigarette. I’d trashed my pack earlier in the day. I needed to quit for Hannah, who summoned my dead parents against me … in defense of Seth.
“Go to bed,” I said.
“I am going, but not because you say so. I’m not a child.”
“No? You’re happy to act like one when you need taking care of.”
She turned scarlet and scowled at her feet.
“There’s no shame in that, little bird.” I strolled toward her and took her jaw in my hand. I forced her to look at me. Defiance shone in her eyes, and a little alarm. “Just remember who loves you. Remember who takes care of you.” I brushed my thumb over her lips. “Sleep.”
* * *
I ran that night the way I had run when Hannah broke up with me in April: past the boundary of my stamina, into pain and then numbness.
Anything can become self-harm. Not just sharp objects and drugs and alcohol, but exercise and creativity, ambition, desire. Love. What else is love, if not the power to destroy?
In a moment of carelessness, Hannah could ruin me.
But she is gentle, I wrote, having returned from my run and gone straight to my desk. Sweat dripped down my face. The desire to put Hannah into words, and to understand her, seared me. She spoke about my parents and Seth. I saw their faces in a constellation, meaning nothing. She is like the little bird I call her. Strong and delicate. I’m out of my depth.
Chapter 23
HANNAH
On Friday morning, Matt and I acted as if we’d never argued.
I could almost believe we hadn’t.
Last night, I’d set foot in that no-man’s-land topic—his parents—and he locked up like Fort Knox. End of discussion. End of the evening.
“Happy Friday,” he said as we toweled off after our shower.
“Same to you.” I hugged him tight. Matt communicated through physicality, something I’d learned, and a hug meant more than a dozen apologies.
His semihard cock pressed at my belly. Oh Lord.
If I dress in a hurry … maybe we could quickly …
I tugged off his towel and he laughed reluctantly.
“Hi,” I whispered, wrapping my fingers around his dick.
“Ah, fuck.” He locked his hands behind his skull. I tugged at him gently. Would I ever get tired of the way he responded to this? Like a gun to his head.
I shook off my towel and pressed my sex against the cold marble corner of the sink.
“Go on,” he said, fixated on the V of my thighs. “Get wet on that.”
He liked a little show, and despite my sometimes crippling shyness, I liked putting it on for him. I jerked him off and rolled my body against the blunt corner, soaking it. Soon he was bucking into my grip, pulling me away from the sink and taking over with his expert hands. Hands I loved, long and veined. Fingers that thrummed my clit at perfect pitch. Fingers that entered me boldly, possessively, and almost carelessly. As if this part of me were his.
I watched us handling one another in the mirror, and coming; Matt first, in a thick pale jet against my belly, and me a moment later, my pleasure dripping over his hands.
I carried that memory with me to work.
Matt forwarded an e-mail to me at noon.
Subject: Fwd: Listings
Sender: Matthew R. Sky Jr.
Date: Friday, July 4, 2014
Time: 12:08 PM
Who the hell works on the Fourth of July? Only my workaholic wife-to-be.
Thanks for the helping hand this morning.
Okay, that was pretty bad …
Marion sent the listings just now. I like the look of a few. She can start showing us around as early as Monday. Thoughts?
