Vanilla

7

Funny how best friends just know when something’s wrong. I hadn’t talked to Alicia in weeks beyond a few texts, but that didn’t matter. The second I saw her number on my screen I answered, and within minutes we were laughing as much as we always had.

“So, what’s new, what’s going on with you? Feels like I haven’t talked to you forever,” she said finally. “I got a Connex invite to Scott’s gallery show. I guess you’re going to be in it? Sexy pictures. Woo woo.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing,” I said archly, as though Alicia hadn’t been my best friend forever and hadn’t gone with me on a late-night run to the hardware store to pick up laundry rope and carabiner clips for a booty call. “Weird he invited you, though.”

“He probably invited everyone in the area, one of those blanket invitations. I can’t be there, unfortunately. I thought about it,” Alicia said. “My mom would love it if I came home. Can’t get the time off. Bummer.”

“Well, shit,” I said. “That sucks.”

“I know, I miss youuuuu,” she cooed. “When are you coming to Texas?”

“It’s hot in Texas,” I told her.

“The men are hot in Texas,” Alicia said. “You totally need to move out here with me. We can be roomies!”

I’d lived with her already for a few months just after college. That our friendship had survived it was more a testimony to how nice and patient and forgiving Alicia is than anything else. Some people are not meant to live full-time with other human beings, and I’m one of them.

“You know I can’t do that,” I said. “Where would I find a job as good as the one I have?”

She sighed. “True. Lucky bitch. But you could come visit me, Elise. It would be fun. And I miss the hell out of your face. You get vacation time, don’t you?”

“Sure. Oodles of it. Alex is a big fan of vacation.”

We chatted a bit longer about when would be the best time for me to come out—not in the summer, I told her. Not until after William’s Bar Mitzvah, anyway, and in the fall, the days in Texas wouldn’t be so brutal. “I’m a wilting flower, you know.”

“Oh, you,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not so bad. You stay inside, that’s all. Yay! I can’t wait! And neither can Jimmy.”

I paused. “Who’s Jimmy?”

“Guy I want you to meet.” I pictured her blinking innocently. “You’ll like him.”

Alicia knew what I liked, so it was a good bet she was right. Still, the thought of it, of meeting some random dude she was trying to set me up with...hot cowboy or not, I wasn’t into it. “Alicia...”

“It’s been ages,” she said immediately. That was the good and bad thing about besties. They always know what you’re trying to say even when you don’t say it. “Forget about him.”

“I can’t.” I owned it at once. No sense in pretending otherwise, not with her. This girl had held my hair after too many shots of tequila. She’d given me her last tampon. She’d been there all through that delirious agony that had been my last real relationship, and she’d been there after, too.

“Then get over him,” she said without hesitating. “He’s not worth it, Elise.”

“I know he’s not.”

“And you can’t help it anyway.” She sighed, sounding disgusted, but not with me. “Yeah, I know.”

“I know you know.”

Alicia’d had her own doomed love affair. She referred to him as Mr. Darcy the way I called mine George. Not their real names. Literary references, a code of sorts we’d invented in college to refer to boyfriends. Hers to Pride and Prejudice. Mine to Of Mice and Men.

“Have you heard from Darcy?” I asked.

Alicia snorted. “Yes. Of course. Every few months, like a herpes outbreak.”

“Oh, gross.”

She laughed. “We had a real go-around the last time, a couple weeks ago. He had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to Facetime with him—”

“No,” I interrupted. “Seriously? What the fuck?”

“Right? He said he was, and I quote, ‘curious,’ about my life.” Alicia was silent for a second then sounded both angry and sad. “I told him I had no desire to have any kind of conversation with him anymore. I said it hurt too much to talk to him like we were casual acquaintances who’d barely meant anything to each other. He told me he didn’t mean to hurt me, but it wasn’t fair of me to get angry with him for making, and I quote again, a ‘good faith effort at reaching out.’”

I groaned. “Clueless.”

“Moron,” she agreed, sounding more sad than angry this time. “I told him that I was sure he didn’t mean to hurt me, but neither does a door when it slams my fingers. And I don’t put my fingers in a door on purpose.”

“No kidding.”

“Then I deleted and blocked him,” Alicia said.

“You didn’t! Oh, girl.” I was impressed. Mr. Darcy had been in and out of Alicia’s life for a long damn time.

She sighed. “I had to. I was just...done, you know? Finally done. I wish you could get there with George, Elise.”

I did, too, but I suspected it wasn’t going to happen. I’d let him slam that door on my fingers over and over again, if only he’d talk to me one more time. If only.

We changed the subject after that. We talked about her job, not so new anymore, but still worth the move. We caught up on some gossip about people we’d gone to school with. I filled her in on the increasing family drama surrounding William’s Bar Mitzvah.

“Oh, your mom.” Alicia sighed. She’d known me since the third grade. That was all she had to say.

I laughed and groaned at the same time. “Yeah. I know. I’m just waiting for the shit to hit the fan. So far it’s been okay, other than the hissy fit she threw about the date.”

“Oh, God, what was that?”

I told Alicia how Evan and Susan had tried to set the date for William’s Bar Mitzvah a week later than it was now going to be for some reason I didn’t know and didn’t care about—a Bar Mitzvah could be held anytime after the kid’s thirteenth birthday, so if they wanted to give him an extra week to study or so it didn’t compete with something else, it was nothing to me. But apparently, my sister, Jill, had a schedule conflict, my mother threw a hissy and the date had been moved to accommodate it.

“You’d think that would be enough, right, one huge fucking showdown at the start.” I shook my head. “But there’s more coming, you’d better believe it.”

“Come to Texas,” Alicia teased. “Avoid it all.”

“I can’t do that to the kid. Or my brother. Someone here has to be sort of sane,” I told her. “But after it’s all over, I promise I’ll visit. Not setting me up on any dates, though, you have to promise me that.”

Alicia sighed. “You’re no fun.”

“How fun would it be for me to visit you and go out on some lame blind date?” I demanded.

She paused. “It could be a double date.”

“Oh.” That was a game changer. “You’re seeing someone?”

“Yeah.” She paused then said nothing though I waited.

“I would’ve thought you’d have told me that right away.” I wasn’t hurt, exactly, but I did wonder about the hesitation. It was true we didn’t talk as often as we had in the past, but every time we did it was like no time had passed. Now her finally kicking Darcy to the curb made total sense.

“If you ever bothered to log in to Connex,” she said lightly, “you’d have seen it.”

“Wow. Wow,” I repeated. “He’s Connex relationship worthy?”

Alicia laughed. “Yeah. He is. His name’s Jay.”

We talked for the next forty minutes about Jay, until she had to go. She made me promise again to visit, and I agreed. I meant it, too.

“You could’ve just told me, you know,” I said. “I’m happy for you.”

“It felt weird, that’s all. We were both kind of united in our despair for a while, you know? Shit. I’m sorry, that sounded terrible.”

I laughed. “No. I get it. Misery loves company.”

“I didn’t think I’d meet someone I could really...you know.” Alicia sounded shy. “Love. Again. I didn’t want to. And I know you don’t want to, either, Elise, but...”

“Hey, look. It’s good. I’m glad for you. I’m okay, really. I’m not a celibate old maid or anything, Alicia. I date. I’ve been dating someone, on and off.” The words tripped off my tongue before I could call them back. More of a lie than I’d meant to tell her, but hell. If I exaggerated the type of relationship we’d had, it was out of pride, not deceit. “It’s not serious, or it wasn’t, but his name is Esteban.”

“Ooh, Esteban?”

“He’s Spanish. I mean he comes from Spain.” Before she could get too excited, though, I added casually, “But we broke up recently. And it wasn’t bad or anything, just didn’t work out. So really, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m back on the horse.”

“It’ll happen for you, too. I know it,” Alicia said with the optimism only the newly in love can manage to muster.

I didn’t try to dissuade her. We said our goodbyes and hung up, promising to keep in better touch. She had a new boyfriend, so I figured it was a promise meant to be broken. And that would be okay.

Showered, tucked into bed, I tried not to look at the clock. The later it got, the harder it would be for me to fall asleep. Not for the first time, I thought about taking pills, but if there was something I hated worse than insomnia it was the idea of being dependent on something to guide me into dreamland. A couple shots of Fireball whiskey would’ve done the trick, but I wasn’t going to rely on booze, either.

I counted backward to no avail. I slipped a hand between my thighs, hoping an orgasm would ease me into sleep, but though I came within a few minutes, the climax left me melancholy and gasping against annoying tears rather than passion. I rolled onto my stomach and punched my pillow then buried my face in it to breathe in the scent of the lavender oil I’d sprinkled on it before I went to bed.

Who was I to fault Alicia for not telling me about Jay sooner? I should’ve told her months ago about Esteban. We could’ve giggled over him, swooned a little, even. She’d have been happy for me, even if my relationship with him had been solely based on sex and not emotion. Even if he hadn’t been a boyfriend, I could’ve shared him with her, so that maybe now that it was over, we could’ve at least talked about him. Now, all I had was my own discontent to keep me awake.

Anyone who’s had chronic trouble sleeping collects tricks to help them get to dreamland. I’d already tried my standbys, counting backward and orgasm. My mother would’ve advocated warm milk. Gross.

Led by my heart, my hands found my phone before my head could stop them. I opened the message app. My fingers typed. Erased. Typed again.

I told George about Esteban. Everything—how we’d met online. How we fucked, the things we’d done, the places he’d let me take him and where he’d taken me. How I’d found myself thinking of him in the odd moments of quiet when my mind turned to whatever it would, without my conscious effort. I told him how we broke up...and that I’d never loved Esteban. That I would never love anyone the way I loved him.

I hit Send.

He didn’t answer.

8

Three days had passed since my conversation with Esteban in the front seat of my car. I hadn’t blocked or deleted him from my contacts, but I was still surprised when my phone chirped at me as I was changing out of work clothes and into something more suitable for a pint of ice cream and some streaming episodes of Queer as Folk on Interflix. Five minutes later and I wouldn’t even have noticed, because I’d already put my phone on the charger and hadn’t planned on taking it downstairs with me.

I held it, looking at the notification but not reading the message just yet. I let my thumb hover over the screen. One swipe and I could delete the message, unread. But then I’d have no idea what he said, and while curiosity might’ve killed the cat, not giving in to it was more likely to haunt me forever.

I miss you.

Well. That was nice. No lie, it lifted my heart a little. Made it go thump-thump. It also set my jaw and narrowed my eyes.

I didn’t answer him. Not at first. I let half an hour go by, though I knew he would see that I got his message and read it. I got myself some ice cream and settled on the couch, my phone with its unanswered message weighting my pocket. I turned on the TV. Chose my show. And finally, because I hated when my messages went unanswered, I took out my phone and typed in an answer.

Don’t.

The fact the little D became an R immediately told me he’d been waiting for my answer, phone in hand. JohnSmith is Typing appeared at once, and that set my heart to thumping harder again. My throat closed a little, but I forced away any kind of emotion. No relief. Especially nothing so disgusting as gratitude.

I’m sorry. I want to see you. Tonight? At our place.

Our place. As if we’d ever had one, or anything, really, that could truly be called “ours.” I was cranky about it, all at once, when I knew I should not be. My relationship with Esteban had come with rules right from the start, most of which I had written and none I hadn’t negotiated or agreed upon. I was hurt and stung by his sudden ending of it, but that had been one of the rules—that either one of us, at any time, could decide to break it off. I’d simply assumed I would be the one to do it. I deserved the slap to my ego. A reminder that no matter how special you think someone thinks you are, it’s never really true.

I’m busy, I typed.

A minute passed. Then another. He’d read my message, I could see that, but he wasn’t typing a reply. I put my phone to the side, wishing I could feel justified in being a dick about all of this, but finding very little satisfaction. I tried to get lost in the TV show, one of my favorites and usually a guaranteed pleasure, but watching Brian refuse to admit he loved Justin, even though it was obvious throughout five seasons of hot sex and angst, only made me think about Esteban.

I was lifting the phone to answer him when his message came through. One phrase, written in Spanish. Again, one of the few I knew without having to use a translator.

Por favor.

9

I did not dress for him.

I brushed my hair and my teeth and changed out of my pajama pants and into a pair of formfitting skinny jeans, paired with a slim-fit T-shirt. No bra, because I didn’t really need one. No garters, no stockings, no lace or satin. Plain cotton panties, bikini and not granny-sized but certainly not sexy. I slipped on a pair of rubber flip-flops that had seen better days, forgoing even sexy shoes.

When Esteban opened the hotel room door, the sight of his face made me want to cry. His eyes were a little red, as if maybe he’d been fighting his own tears, and at the sight of me his entire expression showed his relief. I wanted to hug him close to me and stroke his hair and shh, shh him. To make him understand it was all going to be all right.

Instead, I waited until he’d moved aside so I could go through the doorway without touching him. My heart again did that stupid thump-thump when I caught a whiff of him—soap and water, like he’d just finished a shower. I had to swallow hard. My fingers curled, fingernails pressing my palms. Facing away from him as I headed for the armchair, I closed my eyes for a moment to compose myself. Smooth my expression. This was all a game, but a serious game nonetheless, and I had to keep it that way or I would end up losing.

I’d brought the book I’d been reading, a spooky gothic tale called Those Across the River. I was only a chapter or two into it, and truthfully I didn’t expect to get much farther into it tonight. I hadn’t brought any cuffs or rope or even a ribbon, no whip or flogger. But I had brought a prop.

I settled into the chair and kicked off my flip-flops to tuck one foot beneath me. I opened my book and bent to read it, or at least to pretend I was. I said nothing to Esteban. I didn’t look at him. I knew he was looking at me, though. The weight of his gaze sent a shiver down my spine that I kept hidden. Tightened my nipples, though, and I couldn’t hide that. I ought to have worn a bra.

He made a small noise as though he meant to speak, and without looking up at him, I flicked a hand. “At my feet.”

He didn’t move at first. He made another low noise, this time more like a groan. I kept my eyes on my book, though the words were swimming. My breath came a little faster as I waited for him to obey me. I didn’t really doubt that he would—but that was always the delicious bit, the anticipation. When he could refuse me, but would not.

After a few seconds, Esteban folded himself onto his knees in front of me. Many times I’d had him assume that position, usually with his arms crossed at the wrist behind him, but today I could see from the corner of my eye that he’d settled his hands on his thighs. He bent his head, shoulders rising and falling with a deep sigh.

We sat like that for a long time.

I turned the pages of my book, though later I would not remember a single word I’d looked at. I was too aware of the soft huff of his breathing and the heat of him against my bare foot, so close but not touching him. My hands began to tremble, and at last, I put the book aside and looked at him. I didn’t say anything. I simply gestured.

Esteban leaned, his arms going around my hips. He pressed his face to my belly. He started to say something.

“Hush,” I said, and he quieted. My hand stroked over his hair. Then again. I found the back of his neck, the strong muscles there, and let my hand rest against his bare skin. He heaved another sigh and settled against me.

We sat in more silence, more content this time. Every so often he would nudge against me as I petted his hair. The motion of it became hypnotic, and after a bit, we both fell asleep.

I woke with a start to find him gone from me. The foot tucked beneath me had fallen asleep, too, pins and needles making me wince. The toilet flushed, and a moment later Esteban came out of the bathroom. When he saw me rubbing at my foot, he came to me at once to again kneel and take it in his hands. His strong fingers worked my bare toes, helping the blood flow until I was wriggling not because of the sting, but from his tickling.

“Stop,” I said with a gasping laugh. “Enough!”

He pressed my bare sole to his lips and kissed it then set it down gently. He pushed up on his knees to take my hands, and I let him. He looked into my eyes. “Thank you for coming to see me. I was sure you would not.”

I could’ve kept playing at being stern and cruel, but it’s more exhausting to fake emotion sometimes than to simply feel it. I tugged his hands until he leaned close enough to me that I could hug him. I kissed his cheek and then pressed mine to his for a few seconds, feeling his breath on me.

“I thought I would never see you again,” he said into my ear. “And I could not do it.”

I didn’t ask him why he’d felt he had to. He would’ve answered me with honesty, and I simply did not want to hear it. Instead, I squeezed him and sat back.

“No more about it,” I told him.

Esteban’s expression turned a little sly. “You will punish me for disappointing you?”

I blinked for a second before sitting back harder, letting go of his hands. Disappointment was not what I’d felt. Rejection, yes. Surprise. And now, thinking that perhaps he’d done all of this for the sake of getting a spanking or something stupid like that, angry.

I pushed him away and stepped around him. I grabbed my book. By the time I turned around, Esteban was on his feet and blocking my way to the door.

He took me by the upper arms. “Wait. I’m sorry. I said something wrong.”

“Did you do this on purpose? Break it off so I would be angry with you? So I’d punish you?” I tried to yank myself out of his grasp, but I’d forgotten that although Esteban had willingly allowed me all this time to be in charge, he was still physically stronger than I was.

He held me tight enough to hurt, though I knew he didn’t mean to. I didn’t struggle. I gave him a hard look, but he surprised me again. His grip softened, but he didn’t let go.

“Querida,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry. I was doing what I felt I had to do, until I realized I couldn’t do it.”

I’d deliberately kept my gaze from him earlier as a way to punish him, but now I found I could not look at his face. This wasn’t love, but it was all we had. “We agreed. Either of us could end this at any time.”

“But I hurt you in the way I did it, and I’m sorry.” He pulled me closer, step by reluctant step, until we were embracing.

No man that I’d ever been with had apologized to me that way, and there’d been one who’d hurt me a lot worse than Esteban had. Repeatedly, and on purpose. I breathed in the soap-and-water scent of him as I tried to think of how to answer. Finally, there was really only one answer. I pulled away to look at him.

“Don’t do it again.”

10

I was never afraid to love you. No matter how deep I fell, how hard I loved, there was no question in my mind that when we were together, everything felt right. When I held out my hand, you took it.

I wish you hadn’t let it go.

* * *

Three in the morning, another message I sent knowing I’d get no reply. I chose instead to bang myself against that wall again. To slam my fingers in the door, as Alicia said. And why? I could’ve spent a lifetime and a million dollars in therapy trying to figure out why I held on so tight to what no longer gave me anything but constant heartache. It was stupid; it was pointless; it was worthless.

I did it anyway.

11

“I can’t believe you’re still doing this.” My mother’s lip curled. “Pictures like that? And I had to find out from Connex of all places. Some stranger inviting me to a show that’s got you hanging up there on the wall with your tuchus out for the entire world to see? What an embarrassment!”

“I didn’t know he tagged me in the pictures. But I’m not embarrassed.” I leaned to drag a pita chip through the bowl of hummus. I didn’t love that Scott’s invitation had sent my mother into a tizzy, but hell, I was an adult.

My mother’s twisted mouth thinned. Her chin went up. “I don’t understand you, Elise. I raised you so much better. I didn’t think you were still doing all that...stuff. With all those men.”

“Ma,” I said with a sigh, pretending she was talking about the pictures and not anything else, “it’s an art show. They’re pictures, that’s all. I could be doing a lot of worse things, couldn’t I?”

She crossed her arms. “Why can’t you just find a nice guy and settle down?”

“Don’t come if you don’t want to see them. Nobody’s going to force you to look.” I ignored her question, which had been asked many times and never had an answer.

“They’re all over your whatdoyoucallit. Your Connex page.”

My brows went up. Those pictures were ancient. “So unfriend me.”

“All my friends can see. Joan Simon told me she was invited, too. What’s he doing, soliciting everyone to come see your naked pictures?”

I gave her a sideways look. I could not, off the top of my head, name any of her friends who’d been granted access to my Connex page, but that didn’t mean anything. I’d accepted everyone who wanted to be my “friend” early on. Now I didn’t friend anyone.

“Not just me. There are lots of naked pictures of lots of people.”

My mother rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. Perfect.”

“It’s art.”

“It’s unnatural,” she said finally and waited for me to reply. Probably for me to reassure her that they were only photos. That I didn’t actually do “those things.”