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But it's not just because I'm strong and independent. It's because I don't know how to be with someone without drowning under the weight of their expectations. Of my expectations. Of the world's expectations.
Frederick never came out and said you need to feel sexy right now. You need to be present when we make love. You need to come. You need to enjoy it. You need to make sure I enjoy it.
No one said that, directly.
The entire world said it indirectly.
All the pop songs, all the movies, all the girls I knew in high school. Even Daphne. Even though she's the consummate good girl, she knew what she wanted and how she wanted it well before I did.
When I asked her about my relationship with Frederick, if it was normal that I didn't feel into it, she went straight from a reasonable medical explanation—my current prescription was well-known for its libido and orgasm killing side effects—to a You-Go-Girl one.
I needed to take charge of my own pleasure. I needed to assert my needs. I needed to insist I enjoyed myself.
All good, in theory.
But I didn't know what I wanted. And I couldn't enjoy myself. Physically, it was impossible. And focusing on the Sisyphean task only drained the mental and emotional joy from sex.
It was easier to tell myself I wanted something else.
It was easier to lie to myself.
That meant I lied to him too.
Frederick could have done more. He could have paid more attention to my hesitation. He could have slowed down. He could have talked to me.
But I wouldn't have been honest. I wasn't honest. Back then, I didn't know how to talk about this kind of stuff. I didn't know I could.
I never said listen, my medication is just not putting me in this frame of mind, but I still like feeling close to you. Just don't expect me to enjoy it in the same sort of way.
I made excuses. I claimed shyness. And when that wasn't enough, I faked enthusiasm, interest, orgasms.
It doesn't justify anything he did.
But what he did doesn't justify my actions either.
I need to do better. I am doing better with Damon, aren't I?
But then I just jumped into the ocean instead of facing the metaphorical music.
Fuck.
I dive under the water one more time. I soak in that strange feeling of safeness. Cold and dark and comforting all the same.
Then I emerge, and I walk back to Bryce's house, and I find Damon alone on the deck, waiting for me with a towel.
He helps me over the railing, wraps the towel around me, pulls me into his arms.
He doesn't say anything for a long time. He holds me close, soaking up all the hurt and the cold inside me.
Eventually, he pulls back enough to look me in the eyes. "Do you want to talk?"
"Not right now." I want to talk to him later, I do. And now, I know I need to talk to him too. For me. For him. For our creative, platonic, romantic, and sexual relationship.
I will. Later.
First, I need something easy.
I rise to my tiptoes and press my lips to his. A soft kiss. A caring one.
He kisses back with an intoxicating mix of love and need.
How much of it is real? How much of him loves me?
I don't know.
I release him; I excuse myself; I shower and clean up and change into dry clothes, and I sneak to the backyard. The one with a pool, lounge chairs, a fire pit, and a big wooden table.
The one where Damon is sitting, writing something in a small blue notebook.
"Lyrics?" I ask.
He nods. "They're not as good as yours, but…"
"That might suit this pair," I finish his sentence. "Can I see them?"
Damon's beautiful blue eyes fix on mine. They ask for something, but I don't know what it is. I don't know what anything is anymore.
He opens the notebook to a page with freshly scribbled ink and hands it to me.
I drink in the words.
They said I'd hit rock bottom
But another one keeps coming
If I break another bottle
Will I finally tap a vein?
A rush of whiskey and pain
Baby, don't tell the truth
'Cause I can drink it
But I can't take it
They're not for Bryce.
They're his and his alone, and he's sharing them with me.
The trust is intoxicating.
His fingers brush mine as he takes the notebook back. "What do you think?"
"The style suits you." I feel it everywhere.
"It's not supposed to be anything."
"Isn't that what we used to do?" I ask. "We'd sit outside and trade notebooks of lyrics."
"I was always worried you'd think mine weren't clever."
"This isn't supposed to be clever," I say. "That's why it works. Because the narrator lets his guard down. He stops hiding behind wordplay." I don't ask if that's how he feels. I know it is.
He knows too. "Do you like them?"
