Ricochet (19 page)

“Wait.
Lilly…” he trailed off.

“What?”
I snapped.

“I’ve
made a terrible mistake.”

My
phone started buzzing on the coffee table. I picked it up to avoid having to
answer Cash. I have no idea what to say. You made a mistake? Okay. I’m sorry?
Sucks to suck. Nothing he can say at this point can change anything. I don’t
want to hear it.

“Don’t…
don’t look at that yet.
 
I need to
talk to you, this is important,” he said, grabbing my phone from my hand and
placing it back on the table.

“Okay.
Then talk,” I said bitterly.

“Listen,
I know this is going to be too little too late but I can’t keep doing this
anymore. I love you. I am so in love with you and I am so, so sorry,” he
recounted.

“Get
to the point or stop talking,” I interjected. My phone continued to buzz. I
reached for it again.

“Lilly,
please. This is hard, I’m trying, can I please just have your undivided
attention for a minute?” he begged.

“My
phone is getting blown up, it seems kind of important,” I dismissed. My
notification screen was littered with multimedia messages from a number I
didn’t recognize. I read the number aloud.

“It’s
Claire. Can you please just let me talk before you read them? Otherwise I
probably won’t ever get to explain anything,” he voiced.

“Was
she who I heard you talking to on the phone when I came in?” I ventured.

“Yeah,
I guess. Just, she was blackmailing me because I fucked up and that’s what this
has all…” he trailed off as he was interrupted by the first video beginning to
play on my phone. He stood and paced as Claire’s voice rang through the
speakers. Cash was standing at a sink in a towel as Claire spoke off camera. He
told her to get the fuck out of his room. In the next message, Cash’s head was
between her legs.

Are you filming me? Don’t fucking film
me.

The next message was a black screen and
muffled breathing.

Tell me you love me.

No.

Please, just tell me. One last time,
tell me you love me.

I love you.

There were at least ten more messages,
but I couldn’t stomach anymore.

“You
told her you fucking love her?” I gasped.

“That’s
the most concerning thing about what you just saw?” he asked, exasperated.

“Do
you love her?” I bellowed.

“No,
I do not love her,” he defended, “I love you.”

“Then
why did you tell her you love her?” I challenged.

“To
get her to shut up. Once upon a time I thought I loved her, and I told her
everyday. She was on this big kick about it being our swan song, you know, one
last hurrah, and I guess she got nostalgic,” he explained.

“So
indulging her nostalgia was more important than everything we had, everything
we’ve been building here?” I persisted.

“So
you can forgive me for sleeping with her but not for reluctantly telling her I
love her?” he scoffed.

“I
never said I forgive you for anything, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I
snapped.

“Fair
enough,” he conceded, “Do you even want to know how, or why, it happened?”

“Nostalgia,
right?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“No,
it’s a little more complicated than that,” he insisted.

“I
don’t think it could possibly be very complicated. You might be complicating it
with excuses and bullshit, but at it’s core it is not very fucking complicated.
You put your dick in someone who is not me, let that person manipulate you into
treating me like shit, all to… what? Preserve my feelings? You did a really
shitty job at that, bro. If you would have come to me, we could have talked
about this. We could have tried to work it out. If you had told me the fucking
truth instead of playing games with me, this would be an entirely different conversation.
Even when I had assumed that was what had happened, I was still willing to talk
about it at that point. I was still willing to figure it out with you because I
love you and I didn’t want to go, and people make mistakes. But now? Now I’m
fucking done. I’m done. Why? Why push me away, so far away that I can’t get
back and hurt me like this to the point that I can’t even look at you?” I
admonished.

“I
don’t know. I felt like I had to punish myself, I guess. So you’re not willing
to talk about it now?” he asked.

“No.
Fuck no. There is no talking. There is only me leaving,” I sighed.

“So,
you suddenly have somewhere to go?” he chided.

“I’m
going to go stay in a hotel, fuck a savings account, right?” I quipped back.
Cash produced a small velvet box from his pocket. He opened it and spent a few
moments admiring the contents before snapping it shut and dropping it in my
lap.

“Well,
see if you can sell that. Offset some of the costs,” he choked.

“Is
that what I think it is?” I asked in surprise.

“Probably,”
he sighed, defeated.

“Where
did breaking up with me fit into that whole plan?” I barked.

“It
wasn’t ever part of the plan to break up with you. I was going to ask you the
night I took you to watch the fireworks. But, it was way colder than I thought
it would be, and got kind of awkward, and it felt pretty lame and predictable
and I thought I could do better,” he recounted.

“So
you wanted to fucking marry me?” I prompted.

“Yeah.
I did. Well, I still do, but I know that isn’t going to happen. I fucked up and
then I fucked up again and it just snowballed into this giant pile of fucked
and I know that it’s never going to happen,” he reported.

“Why
tell me this? Do you think this is somehow redeeming for you? Do you think this
is going to change anything? Why are you telling other girls you love them if
you wanted to ask me to marry you? Why are you fucking other girls if you
wanted to ask me to marry you? Excuse me if that doesn’t fucking add up,” I
hissed.

“It’s
not like that, Lilly, I-”

“Excuse
me?” I interrupted, “How many times have I had to hear you say that over the
course of this relationship? ‘It’s not like that, Lilly. You don’t understand,
Lilly. It’s complicated, Lilly.’ Fuck that. Stop saying ‘it’s not like that,’
and start telling me exactly how it fucking is. When did you decide you wanted
to marry me? Was this before or after you decided to take Claire on a romantic
weekend getaway?” I accused.

“I
already told you, I’ve been planning on asking you for a while. I didn’t
fucking plan to take her. That’s what my brother and me were arguing about. He
insisted I bring her. That’s why I didn’t want to go,” he defended.

“Sounds
like more fucking excuses to me,” I spit.

“Well,
it’s not. Hank uses our trips as a cover to cheat on his fucking wife. I supply
the girls. How could I not hook him up when his wife spent 4 years riding my
dick? I never went there with the intention of fucking Claire. She was only
there for Hank. He begged me and begged me to bring her. So, after months of
arguing, I finally gave in. I was very clear with her that she was not there
for me, but she’s fucking persistent, Lil. There were a lot of drugs and
alcohol, and no, that is not an excuse, but, fuck. She was on my dick all
weekend,” he explained.

“So
someone being ‘on your dick’ is… You know what… Just stop. This isn’t making it
any better,” I said.

“I’m
not trying to make it better. I’m just trying to be honest,” he quavered.

“You
know, the sad thing is that part of me fucking believes you. But you know what
you haven’t done yet? Not even tried to do? Apologize,” I asserted.

“How
much is it honestly going to mean if I try to do it now though?” he questioned.

“Everything,”
I assured him.

“Well,
I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I took her, I’m sorry that I gave into her, I’m sorry
that I didn’t come clean to you. I’m sorry that I was cold to you and treated
you the way that I treated you. I’m fucking sorry. I don’t know what else I can
say, but I fucking love you and I would do anything, anything to make you stay.
But, I know I can’t make you do anything. All I can do is promise you that I
will never put myself in that situation again, and that this will never fucking
happen again. No more secrets, no more half-truths, so if it somehow did happen
I would never put you through this again. I don’t know how to express the
regret that I feel. I just know that I fucked up the best thing that is ever
going to happen to me. So, just take that for what it’s worth and do what you
have to do,” he conceded.

“So
what if I was to decide to stay? How could we even come back from this? As
angry as I want to be, as much as I should want to hate you, I’m not and I
don’t and I can’t. I don’t know if I can stay. What kind of fucked proposal
would this be anyway? Had you have asked me the night you planned to, I would
have said yes. I’m not sure if that would make this hurt worse or if we have
hit the bedrock of suck,” I chided.

“I’m
not expecting you to stay,” he said, “I want you to stay. I want to spend my
life with you. But, I know better. You don’t have to entertain these what-if’s.
This should change nothing. Just do what you have to do.”

“I
don’t know what I have to do,” I admitted, “I love you, and I’ve been lost
thinking you didn’t love me. I couldn’t even process it. I’ve become completely
consumed by you. Now that I take a step back, I realize that probably isn’t a
good thing. I don’t know if I can forgive this. I don’t know if I can stay.”

“Why
don’t you take some time to think about it,” he offered, “Take my credit card, and
go get a room somewhere. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

I
declined Cash’s offer to finance my hotel room. I walked out leaving a glimmer
of hope that I might return. I’m not thinking about staying. I just want him to
hurt like I fucking hurt. I don’t think I’m surprised. People lie, things
change. Boyfriends cheat and best friends leave and there are always people who
are waiting to see you fail. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. There is nothing
worth going back to. There is nothing there worth the gamble that he might
break me like this again. Love is always a gamble, but we keep fucking playing.
We keep falling in love. I’m done. I’m not going to be the girl you marry. I’m
going to be the girl that got away. The girl you think about in twenty years
while you’re fucking your boring wife, as she politely fakes an orgasm in hopes
that you’ll finish quicker. I’m not going to get a happy ending. Cash isn’t
going to get a happy ending. Cash isn’t going to get any ending at all. I’m not
going back. I’m not going back to him, I’m not going back to collect my things.
I can start over, fresh, new and clean. You don’t always get an amicable
ending. You don’t always get to say a final goodbye. You don’t always get all
the answers. Sometimes, everything just fades to black.
 

As
I neared my car, I heard footsteps rapidly approaching me. I stopped in place
and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to turn around. If Cash had come chasing
after me, he must have sensed that I wasn’t planning on coming back. I don’t
want to look him in the eyes or it might weaken my resolve. I can’t do one last
embrace. The sound of footsteps turned to labored breathing behind my back. A
pair of hands snaked around me, and one grasped my face to stifle my scream.
Hot breath hushed me in my ear. I felt a sharp sting in my neck.

Suddenly,
everything faded to black.

The
End

Coming Late 2016

Cash

I still remember the way my knees began
to shake when I first saw her. I tried so hard to play it cool, but Goddamnit
she was beautiful.
 
I don’t get
caught off guard by beauty often; I’m constantly surrounded by beautiful
women.
 
Back then, one phone call
and a beautiful woman would be waiting, sprawled naked and panting, begging me
to please them.
 
Never was I hungry
for a fuck, so I didn’t pay much mind to beautiful women. Lilly was immediately
different. She came crashing into me, forcefully acquiring my attention. I’m
not being fucking poetic, either; she literally crashed into me.
 
Then she smirked, and blushed, and
tucked her hair behind her ear, and was too busy mumbling through an apology
and avoiding eye contact with me to notice that she took my breath away.

That’s
where it started for me, I think. I saw her go through a whole spectrum of
color within five minutes of meeting her; blushed red with embarrassment,
ghastly white from fear, beaming, and glowing gold when she smiled as we parted
ways. Of course this peek into her emotional palette made me wonder what she’d
look like in black and blue, but mostly I just wanted to sit and listen to her
tell me about all her favorite things. I became enamored with this woman who
had only spoken maybe ten words to me, and I thought about her for days
following our brief interaction. I found myself pondering the texture of her
hair, imagining running it through my fingers. I stood at the window and
watched as she moved into the building. I could have offered to help her; I
probably should have offered to help, but I wasn’t ready to give her an
opportunity to amaze or disappoint. She’d polluted my mind, by no fault of her
own, and there was no way she could ever live up to the character that I’d
built from her in my head.

I
still don’t know where this initial infatuation came from. Why I went out of my
way to elaborately flirt with her every time I saw her. It seemed like a
Sisyphean task, as she treated me with increased indifference each time. Her
mere existence, and the fact that, despite my widest smiles and most valiant
efforts at lazily insinuating she could get it if she wanted it, she wasn’t
standing in line to hop on my dick, made me question my own confidence. So
maybe I never put any real effort into it. I never asked for her number, or
asked her out for coffee. But I’d never had to and I sure as fuck wasn’t going
to start now.
 
When she showed up at
my door, a nervous little ball of possibility, it felt like such a triumph. I
was too busy reveling in my conquest, winning the interest of the uninterested
girl, too enveloped in the fact that she was there, and real, and witty and
sharp, for it to register that she was shifty eyed and uncomfortable. Before I
knew it, she was in my lap, with her lips on my lips and her skin on my skin,
and it was all down hill from there.

I’d
imagined Lilly as the kind of girl who liked to get dicked down missionary with
the lights off, maybe a solitary candle bathing her in golden light. Doggy if
she was feeling a little dirty. Like she thought kinky sex was grunting loud to
Nine Inch Nails. I’d imagined she’d messed around, drunk, with another girl in
college, and still blushed red when she thought about it because it was so
naughty. I would have never imagined she might be into what I was into. I take
great care in describing my pre-conceived notions of her, as I’m pretty sure at
one point she had threatened to stab me if I ever again described her sexual
preferences using an ice cream flavor. Regardless, she did not strike me as
being particularly adventurous, and I didn’t care. I was absolutely ready to
fall into boring sex just to be close to her. Imagine my surprise when she
expressed interest in being fucked with no mercy.

I’ve
had amazing subs and I’ve had amazing girlfriends, and the two go hand in hand
absolutely never. Case in point; Claire. Claire was the first girl who ever
asked me to tie her up and wrap my hands around her throat. I met Claire
working in a bookstore in college. She’d come to the counter and ask my
recommendations, acting superior to her giggling friends. After several weeks
of receiving her attention, I gathered the nerve to ask her to dinner. We went
to a roadside diner at 3 am, threw pennies in a fountain, and fucked in the
backseat of my car.
 
I spent the
next year following her around like a puppy, worshiping the ground she walked
on. She taught me how to satiate her desires and awoke new desires in me. She
pushed me to push her. Unbeknownst to me, she was also fucking several of my
friends, two older men, and a drug dealer.
 
She never thought she had to tell me, because even though she’d told me
she loved me, she didn’t mean it and she “didn’t think we were that serious.”
It took several years to realize how selfish and vapid she was.
 
Once I had this realization, I started
fucking her again just to see my hands paint her flesh red.

Madison
was a different story all together. I had to take her on five dates before she
got naked, but I was completely okay with it. We would sit and talk for hours
and hours, she’d tell me about all of these grand things she wanted to do, who
she wanted to be.
 
She’d talk about
the books she’d read and the places she’d been and the art she’d seen. I was
enthralled by her, completely absorbed in the idea of giving up the lifestyle
I’ve been living and settle into cups on coffee on rainy Sunday mornings,
reading the paper together and discussing current events. We would make love
soft, and slow, and passionate; I would press myself as deeply as I could, and
the sounds of her quiet, breathy moans still haunt me. It’s like being inside
of her wasn’t enough, I needed to be somehow closer. I was so unbelievably in
love with her. We just meshed. We worked so well together.
Until
we didn’t.

I
don’t remember where the switch flipped. When the boring sex went from deeply
emotionally satisfying to just plain boring. But it got tedious, and I didn’t
want to do it anymore. It was around the same time that her once lyrical voice
became grating and nagging. I stopped hanging on her every word, and began
half-listening to her stories.
 
She’d expressed concern that she wasn’t being satisfied, and that she
could tell my heart wasn’t in it when I did give in and fuck her. I tried to
play it off as if she was making a big deal out of nothing, and that we didn’t
have a problem. It retrospect, I should have asked her to leave. There was no
reason to continue the relationship. I wasn’t being fulfilled sexually or
emotionally, and there was no reason to drag it out like I did. I guess I was
just comfortable, and didn’t like the idea of having to start over. I’d already
invested too much in this relationship to just throw in the towel. We got an
apartment together. We picked out furniture together. Fuck, man.

Fast
forward a couple months of lackluster if not essentially non-existent sex, long
nights which used to be filled with passionate conversation replaced by staring
silently at mediocre television shows and going to bed at separate times, and
pleasantries replaced with knock down drag out arguments, and Maddie started
having to work late more often than not. I took the hint, and whenever I
received one of her frequent “don’t wait up for me, I’ve got a long night at
the office,” text messages, I began having long nights in the guest bedroom
with Claire. It came as no surprise when Maddie sat me down to admit she’d been
sleeping with someone, because she couldn’t bear the guilt any longer. She
collected her things and left, with no argument from me.

When
Lilly came storming into my life, I was sure that I had my shit figured out
enough to not fuck it up. I fucked it up anyway. I fucked it up worse than I
have ever fucked up anything in my extensive history of fucking things up. I
didn’t fuck it up because I got too attached, I didn’t fuck it up because
things got mundane and we fell out of love. I fucked it up because I didn’t
have the willpower to keep saying no. I should have. I should have kept Lilly
in the back of my mind. I should have told Claire to suck a dick, but been more
clear that I didn’t mean mine.
 
I can’t
blame my brother, even though he relentlessly begged me to bring her and
wouldn’t take no for an answer. I could have kept saying no, and he could have
fucked off about it. I can’t blame Claire, although she kept coming onto me and
wouldn’t take no for an answer. I didn’t have to give in. I can’t blame the
drugs and alcohol; I didn’t have to take them. I knew they would weaken my
resolve, and I took them anyway. I can only blame myself, and I blame myself
for absolutely fucking everything.

If
I’d cancelled that trip, Lilly might be sitting here laughing at some dumb meme
she found on the
internet
. If I’d resisted my
brother’s incessant whining about wanting to fuck Claire, Lilly might be laying
across my bed, playing that stupid fucking cat game. If I’d stayed sober and
left Claire to my brother, Lilly would be safe. If I’d just done things
differently, Lilly would be here right now, with no reason to be outside at
this time of night. Instead, I’ve had police in and out of my apartment for the
past three hours because I saw her get dragged across the parking lot and
forced into the trunk of a car.