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“Maybe we can come to an arrangement. If you get me off, I might let this incident slide. But first, I think you’ve earned a few lashes. Get on the bed, face in the pillows, ass up, hands behind your back.” Phoebe starts to walk toward the bedroom, but I stop her. “Don’t make any sudden escape plans. Or I’ll have to use full force to restrain you, ma’am.” I take her hand and rub it up the length of my cock.
I am so turned on by this role-playing.
“I wouldn’t dare, sir.” But Phoebe bites her lip and then gives me a wink before she runs back to the bedroom to wait for me.
I wake the following day feeling extremely relaxed, but also realizing I am about to be the biggest asshole to a girl who does not deserve it. That deflates the early boner I had going on.
Phoebe is still sleeping, so I crawl out of my side of the bed and head to take a shower. I try to give myself a pep talk; all the bullshit excuses of this are for the best; we can still be friends.
But the words feel like a cheese grater against my chest. I lean forward, letting my head fall into the stream of the shower. How can I do this to her? We’ve been together for three years, shoot, probably going on four. See, I can’t even remember our anniversary; at least I got her birthday on lockdown.
The flowers I bought yesterday and smashed in the back of the pack. My father talked me into his goals for me; at the end of the conversation, I didn’t know what I was signing up for. I just knew I didn’t want it. But Dad spoke of honor, of duty to our family. My brother always held his attention, but I think he wanted both his sons to serve, just like he had.
I smack a hand against the wall, again and again until it stings. I can’t even cry because Phoebe isn’t the one leaving me. I’ve already left her, but she doesn’t know it yet.
After the shower, I get dressed and find her at her computer working. She is the hardest working person I know. Once, when a sponsor fell through, leaving us stranded in a foreign country with no way home, she set up a contest with her followers, some of whom are big names. Phoebe offered up her services for weddings, which she never does. If they bought five-dollar raffles, she would pick two winners.
We had money to stay and explore for three months. Phoebe cracked her spine in half and said, jump on, I’ll carry you the rest of the way. She was fearless; she didn’t show me her scars to say I was sad.
The swelling in my eyes is coming quick, so I better spit it out before I am a mess. I unzip the bag and grab the wilted bouquet of flowers.
“I’m leaving.” It’s two words I have thought about saying for the past month. I haven’t dared to tell them. Now I say them out of urgency, a clock running out of time. There is no courage to be found, just a coward with no more excuses but the truth.
“Okay, I’ve got to send a few emails. Where do you want to meet up for dinner?” Phoebe doesn’t catch on to what I am trying to get across.
“No, Pheebs. I mean, I’m not going to Scotland with you. I joined the Navy.”
“Joined the Army? Like for real? There isn’t a war going on? What are you going to do play soldier for a few months and then tap out?” She still thinks I am joking.
There may not be a war, but there is one inside of me I have not been able to fight or figure out how to solve.
“It’s not technically the Army; it’s the Navy. I will train to be a Navy Seal, like my dad.” I stand up straight, letting her know I’m not scared of the decision.
“Like your dad? But you hated growing up in that life. You hate your dad.”
“I don’t hate him. He is different now since he retired. If I can try and be like who he is now, then it is something to aim for.”
“What are you saying, Zo? What is wrong with being yourself, like who you are?”
“I can’t just follow you around for the rest of our lives. What kind of man would I be? What kind of life is it to play tag-along?” I know my words hurt her. Her company has given me odd jobs and paid me for doing work. But it isn’t enough; I’ve hit a wall. One my father reminds me of constantly.
“You aren’t tagging along, Enzo; we both pay our own way.” Phoebe is trying to find a solution, but I don’t want her to be a fixer.
“Maybe it is time to start thinking about a more permeant career. How long do you think traveling is going to last? I go into the Navy, do a few years, and get out, and I could get a job anywhere.”
“Why is it so bad not to have a plan? Traveling was never an issue until the doubt, and negative thoughts got into your head.”
“We can’t all be freethinking hippies that get paid for the pretty picture, can we? You’ve got talent, sure, but it won’t last.” Why would I say something like that? This isn’t me. How could I be so cruel to her?
“Let me get this straight; you came in here, brought me flowers to insult me, and broke up?” She grabs the flowers, and I watch the petals spin out like the blades of helicopters as she beats the drooping stems against my chest. “I don’t love you; I don’t love you. I don’t love you.” She falls to the ground, the limbs of the bouquet broken and mangled, but she still holds them to her chest. “I don’t love you.” The more she says it, the more I know she does.
I swallow my doubts about my decision. I fall to my knees next to her. My hand reaches for the destroyed flowers; I thought it might be a nice sentiment, but apparently, break-up flowers aren’t a thing.
Phoebe bats my hand away.
“Don’t, Kenzo, please don’t touch me.” She goes from her knees to her butt, and slowly, with the flowers clenched to her chest, she falls to the floor. Her voice isn’t cruel, it isn’t mean. It is vacant, like all the energy was spent trying to force out the lies ofI Don’t Love You. When we both know how much she really does. But how do you fix that, a broken heart you need to keep loving because it heals your own?
“I’m sorry.” Is all I have to say.
