Page 73 of Total Exposure

“I’m stuck,” I whisper, pressing my face into his shoulder and closing my eyes. “I’m stuck somewhere in the past and I can’t find my way out of it.”

He lets out that breath he was holding and slips his arm underneath me.

Does he feel sorry for me? Is this just a job to him? Am I something he has to put up with to get something he needs? Money, maybe?

God. That’s the story of my life.

I’m just everybody’s little golden opportunity.

Chapter Twenty-Four - Ixion

I stop the second she opens her mouth and says the words, “I’m stuck.”

I just stare at the ceiling, wondering how she knows me so well. Because I’m stuck too.

That’s not why you’re here, Ix.

No. I don’t even know why I’m here. Jordan, I guess. The past I’m stuck in. Just like this woman curling her body into mine in the dark.

When I slip my arm underneath her, she molds herself into the shape of me. On her side, head on my shoulder, fingers now clutching my bicep, like she can’t even think of letting go.

I have so many words that want to come out. Confessions of past transgressions. Grudges held close like something precious to be protected. Regrets that beg to be forgiven, but since I’m the one who needs to forgive, they stay with me. Like baggage, I guess. Whole suitcases overfilled with remorse and wishes for do-overs.

I weigh the value of letting go of the fantasy I’m cultivating and just… allowing myself to be me for once. Saying things I shouldn’t say. Letting them spill out like water over a bridge. Not flowing under and escaping, but flooding it until it’s impassable. Because so much water has already passed under that bridge and it never helped. Ever. So fuck it, right? Why not just flood the whole damn river? Bring it down. Fucking smash that goddamned bridge to pieces with a wall of water so high, my anger and resentment just go downstream like all the other garbage they’re traveling with.

“They never loved me,” she says, snapping me out of my insane analogy. Because if I blow up the bridge, I take her with me. “They only ever used me.”

I squint my eyes, still staring up at the ceiling, trying to pick up the pieces she’s scattering like breadcrumbs. Which is a horrible comparison, because the kids in that story are left in the woods to die by their wicked stepmother.

“My first memory is playing the violin.”

Ah. OK, I get it. She’s gonna puke out her feelings. Probably triggered by that hurricane of a meltdown she had earlier. I mean, what the fuck was that about? She lost her goddamned mind.

And you’re in bed with her right now.

So fucking what? She wants me here. Why not take what she’s offering?

“I don’t know how old I was.”

Jesus. I should just kiss her so she’ll stop talking. I should not let her tell me these things. I don’t care about any of it. I’d like to fuck her. And I’d like to get even with Jordan, but that’s it.

Except, rational me points out, you did ask her for her story yesterday. Practically ripped it out of her. And she sent that poem, which you read and discarded with no more thought given to what lies underneath than how it helps you play the game with Jordan.

In my defense, I did just read it again. Paying more attention this time.

“Maybe two,” she continues. “The violin didn’t magically appear in my life. My parents bought it. This tiny little thing that could only fit the fingers and hands of a toddler.”

I’m not a fucking therapist. I mean, this should be very obvious to any sane person. But apparently Evangeline Rolaine isn’t sane.

“And I didn’t know it then, but it was gonna save my life one day.”

I think about that for a second. Wondering if it’s figurative or literal.

“By the time I was eight I was a star. I had met kings, and princesses, and rock stars, and talk show hosts, and more members of Congress and local reporters than I could count.” She sighs. “And by the time I was ten…”

The silence that follows lingers for a long time.

If I was talking to her I might feel pressure to prod her along. And I am, in fact, pretty fucking curious about what happened by the time she was ten. So if I was talking to her, that prodding might even be genuine.