Page 56 of Room for Us

I laugh to ward off how deeply his words affect me. “Damn, no wonder you’re a famous writer.”

Taking my cue, he winks. “I make the words go.”

I groan. “Can you make a hot shower go, too?”

He grins. “Are you joining me?”

“How badly do you want me to?” I tease, though I can see well enough what my question did to him.

He glances meaningfully at his cock. “The situation is dire,” he says gravely.

I giggle. “Okay. But we clean the floor first.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Deal.”

For all that we’re first-time lovers, there’s a familiarity to being together. Underlying the excitement and newness is a sense of ease I never experienced with Chris.

I wonder if it’s simple maturity on my part—the self-consciousness of my early twenties is gone, ironed out by life lessons and disappointments. Or I’m finally healing after my body’s betrayal, finally accepting that my infertility and Chris’ rejection don’t mean I’ve lost the right to pleasure.

But I think it’s more than that.

I think it’s coming to terms with oneself and the shame we let fester inside us from the past. Not necessarily opening your closet and pointing out the skeletons to another person, but having the freedom—and courage—to confront them yourself.

This rickety bone-bag is from fifth grade when Doug Richter said my dad left because I was ugly. I kicked him between the legs and was suspended for three days, but never told anyone what he said.

Oh, here’s a good one—junior year of high school, I lost my virginity to a near-stranger at one of the mountain parties during snow season. Why? Because I didn’t want to attach sex to emotion and thereby give that person power over me.

This skinny one—whew, I haven’t seen this one in a while. It’s from my first date with Chris. He expected me to put out because he was popular and rich, but I didn’t. I ignored his calls for two weeks before caving to the urging of my friends and giving him another chance.

And… ahh, yes, this skeleton here is the biggest and oldest of them all. Why does it look so fresh, you ask? Well, it’s polished daily by my fear of abandonment.

And there it is. The reason. The freedom.

Ethan is leaving in thirty-six days, and when he goes, I’m taking that oldest skeleton out, spraying it with gasoline, and lighting it up.

Here’s to the new me.

Aunt B whispers, “I’d tell you you’re making a mistake, but you’d do it anyway.”

I frown into the mirror, my toothbrush stalling hallway to my mouth. “I can’t keep your moods straight, B. I thought you were on board with this.”

“I am, but not for the reasons you think.”

I spit toothpaste and quickly rinse. With a furtive glance at the closed door, I hiss, “First you wanted me to kick him out with a lie about termites, then you wanted me to jump into bed with him, now it’s… what? Kick him out again?”

She sighs out, “The opposite, hon.”

My heart gallops with a sudden burst of adrenaline. My fists clench, knuckles turning white against the bathroom counter.

“No. That’s not what this is.”

“Maybe it’s not up to you what it is. Maybe you take the next step into fear, past the skeletons, into the dark.”

“Jesus. You were never so maudlin in life.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I am, sweetheart.” There’s the barest thread of her remembered laugh. “I’m dead. Not a ghost. Not a voice in your head.”

My arms weaken and I bend forward, panting, eyes screwed shut. “Don’t,” I beg.

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