I am who I want to be. And then it just gets better. I am tipsy and my eyes close, and the way home is paved with soft laughter and more kisses. And then there is darkness and his hands and soft, wet, back-arching kisses sinking into nothingness. There are miles of skin to run fingertips over. There are corners and curves and sharp turns to explore. There is the sense of always pushing forward, always reaching for the next moment, always waiting, the back of my mouth dry, for everything I am to explode.
I HAVE a meeting scheduled with Grayson at the office on Tuesday to talk about my column. On Monday morning I call him during the regularly scheduled senior writers meeting so I can leave a message on his voice mail. I can’t deal with talking to Grayson right now, and I certainly can’t deal with seeing him. I need to sort out Joel, and get myself a little more under control, before I face him.
Grayson was my longest relationship; we were together for nearly a year. I broke up with him and quit my job in one message on his answering machine. I know that’s pathetic, but I’m not good with confrontation. I am not brave. Grayson didn’t call me back, but later that week I received a new batch of Dear Abby letters in the mail with a Post-it that read, I’m not letting you quit—Grayson. And that was it. I went back to work without a fuss. I loved my job and had only quit to save Grayson the trouble of firing the girl who had just dumped him.
But Grayson and I had become friends during the year we spent together, as well as lovers. (Actually, I think we had become friends in part to compensate for the sex, which was uninspiring.) He never asked me why I broke up with him. We simply went back to being boss and employee. But there is no denying that there is always something a little too intense between us. The terrain can turn rocky if I’m not feeling entirely confident.
“Happy Monday, Grayson,” I say into his machine. “Sorry, but something’s come up and I have to cancel our meeting tomorrow. Don’t worry, though, my column is going really well this week and it will be on time.” I hesitate, feeling like there is something more I should say. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Then I hear myself launch into a nervous laugh, and I hang up the phone before I have a chance to completely fall apart on my ex-boyfriend/boss’s answering machine.
I BELIEVE that you can learn from history. Pay attention to the mistakes that were made before you, and don’t repeat them.
My uncle Pat, who alternately tried to run away from, please, and horrify my grandfather right up until his death, teaches me that I need to come to terms with my mother. I do not want her to own my life in any way. I am still working on that.
My uncle Johnny is a prime example of how you need to hold on to the essence of who you are. He was mischievous and wild as a boy. He spent a portion of nearly every afternoon seated at the dining-room table with his hands folded in front of him and his feet flat on the floor thinking about what he’d done this time under Gram’s watchful eye. But he didn’t like school and found it hard to concentrate, so when the Vietnam war started, without telling anyone, Johnny joined the army. In the pictures taken of him the day he left, he is a skinny eighteen-year-old boy with a wickedly charming grin. By the time he came back home, the fire was completely stamped out of him. He is among the most serious, unhappy adults I have ever met.
But Meggy has the lesson I need to learn from now. She married Uncle Travis when she was twenty because she got pregnant. I don’t think they were ever in love. They are united in resentment, and eternally disgusted with each other for not standing up and demanding better.
It is Meggy I am thinking about when I finally tell Joel. We are in bed with the lights out. We have just had sex because we always do when he sleeps over. Otherwise, what is the point of him staying the night?
I cup my hands over my abdomen. When I press down on the center I