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I pass the rest of my afternoon fertilizing my gardenias, making a trip to Wal-Mart for a laundry list of household items, and then dragging a ladder around my bedroom, stringing lights from the ceiling.
I tell myself if nothing more happens with Barrett, I’ll be glad to have the lights. It’s getting colder, closer to the holidays, and usually when it gets near Christmas, I have a harder time with my own nightmares.
On that note, I decide to pull out my journal and get a hold of my feelings.
I spent the night at Barrett’s last night. I went over there drunk, and he seemed really off from the first moment, now that I look back on it. I tried to leave after just a little bit, and he wanted me to stay. And then we were in his den and he started having a panic attack. I felt so bad for him.
Somehow he ended up telling me he’s a killer. And of course, I had no idea what to make of that. I finally figured out he was saying he was a sniper, and somewhere in the night he said he was in ACE. I saw some random internet news story about Delta Force where they talked about the name change, so that’s the only reason I even know what it is. (So, holy hell, Barrett came from Delta Force… I now understand the mad martial arts skillz).
Anyway—he talked so long about how he should keep his distance from me because of the things he’d been through, and at one point he even said something along the lines of ‘people shouldn’t come back from war,’ or maybe just he shouldn’t have. I know what PTSD is like but… I don’t know. His stuff is so different than mine. He just seemed so lost. I can see that he’s in so much pain, and I’m not even really sure what to do for him. It’s hard, and it already really hurts, and we don’t even know each other long term or anything. There have been so many moments that I’ve had my arms around him, just holding him. I can feel how much he needs it. I can tell he’s trying to be strong. I asked once in bed last night if he was awake and he said he didn’t know. And then he said he was sorry. For having this traumatic dream where he sobbed and sobbed. I can’t even imagine him there by himself when that happens. Even last night with me there… he really didn’t accept that much comfort from me.
Downstairs earlier in the night he laid on the floor with me after telling me about how he sees people he knows, dead. He let me hold him, and he held me back. But after his dream, the second he was collected enough to get up, he did. He had a really hard time accepting comfort from me at first. And I said we should sleep together more—like the close your eyes kind of sleep—and he didn’t get why I would offer. I don’t know. It makes me sad.
And then there’s this entire other element because we had sex last night. THREE times. He took me from behind the first time downstairs, and oh my God—the way his dick rubbed my G-spot. He’s…shall we say ‘well hung’ and he knew just when to reach around and rub. I still get all hot thinking of it. And then upstairs… We got this bath together after his nightmare, and I was in the bath with him and… Whoa. He’s just so beautiful. I can’t even. Even his feet are perfect.
I found out he’s 29, and he says in special forces, that’s old. He said he heard me talk at county commission, and you know what, I think I remember? I’m going to ask him next time I see him if he has a blue ball cap. Anyway—geez. He’s said so many kind things to me. So many sweet things. Still, I didn’t feel like I knew for sure what was going on until he jumped on me at the end of our bath last night. He said something like “I tried to stop myself.” All his sounds, all his movements, they were frenzied. As soon as we finished, we went and got in bed, still wet. I’ve felt on guard for so long, and lonely, and then I’m with Barrett and I just feel like I can rest. I’ve got it bad. I know. The funny thing is, I’m scared but in a larger way I’m not. I feel like someone standing on a precipice with my arms stretched wide. I’m not scared of falling. Especially if he falls with me, and I can hold onto him.
I laugh when I realize I didn’t write a thing about my own trauma or my own nightmares. But that’s not bad, I tell myself.
I notice when I put my journal back on my bedside table that it’s 4:30. I wonder what he’s doing. Then I tell myself I can’t wonder. I make a plan to take a bubble bath, in which I’ll shave and groom…certain areas. Then I’ll lotion myself up and re-paint my nails and maybe do a mask. After which I may have some Absinthe. I might cook the tenderloin I got the other day: an easy, crockpot thing. Then, if nothing else comes up, I’ll read. I’m still a little tired from last night, so if nothing else happens, I’ll hit the hay early and skip my workout today.
I do a good job sticking to my vows, and I do things in the order I planned. I’m lying on my bed, holding my phone up above my face so I can read Kyland by Mia Sheridan, one of my favorite authors, when I hear my doorbell ring.
I swear, my heart nearly explodes. I set my phone down, grab a deep breath, and look down at myself.
It’s probably the mailman, I tell myself. Mom was going to send a package with some jeans she bought me at some special best-ass-ever jeans store. I tap my face—my cracking, blue-green face—and tip-toe to the door. I peer through the peephole and my stomach ties itself into a knot.
Not the mail man.
Barrett.
EIGHTEEN
GWENNA
December 30, 2011
The Madisons always fly us out to Colorado first class—going back to when Jamie and I were geeky freshmen lugging dorm room pillows and dangling gemstone-colored earbuds from our iPods.
Jamie’s dad is Larry Madison, the infamous economist, Machiavelli enthusiast, Republican talking head, and real estate magnate. It’s true he loves a good debate, and I can’t vouch for him in business dealings, but when it comes to family, the man is a big fluff ball.
Even though I just starred in a movie, and in October signed a really decent record deal, the Madisons would never dream of letting me pay for my own plane ticket. I imagine even if—no, when—I hit it supernova big, Larry and Jamie’s mother, Fiona, will always book our New Year’s flights.
Unless Elvie and I are married. Maybe then they’d let me pay for my own.
Jamie covers her ears. “Stop!”
I blink, and realize I’m slurping up the last drops of my screwdriver. I grin and give my red straw one final slurp. A gray-haired man across the aisle, wearing a pair of square-ish reading glasses and hunching over The Wall Street Journal, looks up at me. I wink, and he smirks.
Charm has always been a big gun in my repertoire of talents, but since about this time last year, when all the End of Day billboards went up, I’ve noticed almost everyone returns my smiles. Even more so since the movie premiered July 2 to really strong reviews.
I lean my seat back, shut my eyes, and start to run the song I’m composing through my head. Naturally, this is the moment Jamie picks to tap my arm. I glare up at her. Jamie’s gaze darts to the stewardess standing in front of the first class section.
“Argh.” I sit my seat up just as the woman starts her yada yada yada, preparing to land speech.
I’m eager to land, mostly so I can turn my phone on. Elvie should be setting up at the Bluebird about now, and I want to be sure I’m the only woman on his mind. I’m sure that hussy Heather is working tonight. She always works the nights he plays. I know he’d never leave me for an apple-shaped, 4’10 brunette with yellow teeth and body odor, but even I’ll admit the girl has a nice voice, and she knows just how to stroke Elvie’s XL ego.
As the wheels come down and the plane begins to tilt, offering a stunning, white-capped mountain view, I try to tell myself that I’m good at that, too.
