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“It shouldn’t be. And it’s nice to be around someone that doesn’t pretend for once you know? You just put it out there. It makes me feel like maybe I don’t have to pretend either,” he says, looking out at the water. The truth was my candidness was a wall of sorts. It was more of a warning than an invitation to look closer and get to know the real me. I operate contrary to the traditional dating method of hiding all my deal-breaking character flaws until we were both already in too deep. I wonder what he’s hiding.
“And what is it that you have to pretend? Because if you could knock yourself down a peg and level the playing field a little bit, I would honestly appreciate it,” I say. I hope that he catches my sincerity, and he can hear that I care about him, because so often the things I say just come out wrong, and I’m hoping this isn’t one of those times. It would be nice if he could be a little less perfect.
“Okay, well,” he sighs, looking out at the city as if hoping he can find the right words too. “I don’t want to sound…indignant. I know, logically, that the world hasn’t treated me unfairly. I was dealt an easy hand, and yeah, I get it, I should just be happy. But I can’t fucking be happy. I try. I look for happiness at the top of mountains, or on all these dates with all these women my parents would want me to be with. But it just feels empty. I don’t care about what I should care about. I don’t wake up and look forward to anything. I’m not a sociopath or anything like that—I don’t think so anyway.” He kind of laughs, but it’s not funny. “I’m just…”
“Depressed.” I finish for him. I know the feeling. It’s hit me like a ton of bricks over and over in my short lifetime. “And you can go through the motions all you want, but it’s still there. It’s chemical.” I mean sure, maybe you can pinpoint some of those moments in your life that have led to it—those memories that replay in your mind at night where you have felt like you had to sacrifice your dignity or bend until you broke away from the person you were at your very core. Maybe you could even absolve yourself of responsibility and break free of those defining moments of injustice and even offer forgiveness, but that chemical reaction, those things that changed you on a visceral level would still be there in the back of your mind, waiting for a chance to wreak havoc on your nervous system. I wouldn’t have guessed that he’d know it, too, but not everyone wears their scars on the outside like I do. I wonder where his came from, or if he even knows.
“Yeah, so, that’s how I found that bar—the one we went to that first night. I go to that depression support group. It’s okay. My parents don’t want me to go to therapy. They think it would be embarrassing for them or something and that I just need to grow up. Maybe I do, I don’t know. But anyway, instead, they send me out on all these dates with people that they think I should be with, and these dates go on like job interviews and there’s just nothing there. The other day I was at my parents’ house, watching how they interact with each other, and it was clear to me that they didn’t even like each other. They probably stopped a long time ago. I started to wonder if they ever really did because it was never something that I ever stopped to think about. Then, I think, ‘well shit, this is what I have to look forward to,’ and I don’t want it. It just feels like I’m surrounded by people that are putting on a show for someone else. There’s no depth to any of them. But you're different. You make me feel like I’m drowning.”
He’s still staring out at the city, but now he turns and looks at me, and I feel like my heart is in my fucking throat and if I opened my mouth, it would fall out right there onto the grass. Wouldn’t that be awkward? People don’t talk to me like this. I didn’t think people spoke like this at all.
“I can’t breathe, and I don’t want to,” he says.
Inside, I’m shouting at myself to say something back—something nice—but I can’t choke out a single word. I’m just staring at him, probably like an idiot. I hope not like an idiot.
“You know,” he says, “I was talking to my parents the other day, and they were going on about our Christmas trip to Aspen that we take every fucking year, and I hate it. It’s like this big production of family togetherness and status that isn’t real. But then I thought, ‘Maybe I could take Ruby. I bet she doesn’t know how to ski. I could tell her it was easy and watch her try. She would get so mad, and it would be fucking hilarious.' Then, there I was, looking forward to something and making plans, and that’s not something I normally do.”
He says it so casually, like it’s no big deal, but it sounds like he just said that I, with all my darkness and existential dread, was the light he was starting to see at the end of his own dark tunnel.
“Well,” I say, “I don’t know how to ski. I’ve never done anything even remotely athletic. But if seeing me make an ass out of myself will make you smile, I’m willing to do it. Plus, I would have no fucking clue how to act around your family. I mean, I don’t even have one. I’m sure that misery would give you life.”
“I’m sorry about your mom,” he says. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot. It makes me feel like such a dick for complaining about my parents.”
“No…don’t feel like that. She wasn’t around very much, so I guess it could have been worse,” I tell him. “Actually, a little while after my dad left, she was arrested. Drug stuff. I never really knew the details obviously, but I didn’t see her for about three years. My grandma, her mom, came and picked me up. I hadn’t met her before as they had been estranged. I don’t even know if she knew I existed before that day. But she drove me down to Eureka, in northern California, and I lived there with her for three years. It was nice. I mean, I could tell that she was tired. She was too old to be taking care of a 5-year-old, and maybe she didn’t even want to. But the house was warm, and she was there every day. There was always food to eat. She read me stories before bed, baked cupcakes for me to take to school on my birthdays, and we would walk to the beach. But then, of course, my mom eventually came and picked me up, and I never saw her again. I think she died not too long after.”
“I feel like that was supposed to be a happy story, but it was really fucking sad,” he says, and not in a mean way, I can tell, because maybe he does get me.
“Yeah, I guess it was kind of both. It was nice for me. When I need a clear head, you know, like if I’m trying to find peace, I think of Eureka—the coastline or downtown, my grandma’s old Victorian house, and overgrown backyard. It grounds me.”
“Have you ever been to Ruby Beach?” he asks.
“No, is that in California?”
“No, it’s here—on the peninsula. We should go some time You would love it. It’s…ruggedly beautiful.”
“Kind of like you,” I say.
He smiles, “No, it’s like you.” And then we are kissing in this perfect place, soaked in the colors of the sunset and basking in the city’s glow.
Eventually, it’s getting colder and we’re getting quieter. I know it’s time to leave, but despite the endless pile of work I have waiting for me, I can’t think of a good reason to go home. As we start to pack up and leave the park, he asks if I’d like to go grab a drink somewhere. I tell him yes, his apartment, and try not to sound awkward. He says okay and doesn’t laugh, but I’m still not sure if I achieved my goal.
“I apologize for making things more awkward than they need to be,” I tell him in the car. “It’s unintentional.”
“That’s okay,” he says, smiling genuinely. “Awkward is kind of part of your appeal. It’s like an…awkward, direct honesty. It’s totally sexy.”
“So…keep making things weird, then?”
“Definitely keep making things weird,” he says.
I turn to my window to try to hide my ridiculous smile. It doesn’t feel right on my face. I don't do it very often, and it kind of hurts. We’re pulling into his parking garage now, so admittedly, I probably am going to make things weird as we head up to his apartment—ground zero for my initial freak out.
We move through the lobby to the elevators. I never really took the time to look at it, but it’s grand and modern in décor, with lots of boxy furniture pieces accentuated with brightly colored glass sculptures and opulent light fixtures. No one is even remotely staring at me like I shouldn’t be there, contrary to how I’d felt that day. I’m shaking my head and laughing at myself because of course they weren’t, for so many reasons. They’re busy. Their lives don’t revolve around me. This is Seattle, and everyone is a little weird. No one cares.
Then, we’re in this grand elevator, headed for the 8thfloor, and Jake is kissing me; my back is against the wall and I’m standing on my tip toes to compensate for the height difference, just trying to get closer and get as much of him as I possibly can. The doors open, and he picks me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and I can feel how hard he is and how much I want him. We stumble across the hall into his apartment and then my feet are back on the ground, my back is once again against a wall, and Jake is unbuttoning my pants. I gasp loudly as he plunges his hand between my legs; I’m embarrassed by how wet I am. His fingers move in and out of me as I moan, then he’s rubbing my clit hard and fast. I cum quickly, holding tightly onto his shoulders and willing myself not to collapse to the ground.
But I do anyway. I drop to my knees and take him into my mouth, licking and sucking and enjoying every inch of him thoroughly, as he mutters a barrage of profanities and eventually pulls me up, declaring that he needs to be inside of me, and taking me into the bedroom. He pulls my shirt over my head, and then his own, and lays me down on the bed. He pulls me to the edge, throws my legs over his shoulders, and fucks me hard and without inhibitions. It feels too good, and I’m arching up, trying to get as much of him as I can, begging for more, as his hands come down to caress my nipples. I’m suddenly feeling too sober to be this naked and vocal, but the pulsing between my legs wins out and I cum again, embarrassingly loud, for what feels like minutes. He seems to like it; he’s fucking me faster and then soon after, he finishes and collapses on top of me.
We lie there for a while in silence, Jake probably just being normal, me getting sucked into my thoughts. I’m a little uncomfortable with how comfortable I am with him. It doesn’t feel quite right.
