Page 2 of Tear Me to Pieces
A breath of relief escapes me, because I’m not sure I could have faced yet another of the mountains I have to climb so early in the day.
I thought masturbation would be sort of a gateway drug. That I would quickly move from it to a physical exchange with another person.
I thought wrong.
Like so much else, my immediate and aggressive strides forward stalled out. But maybe that had more to do with the only man I’ve had any interest in making himself scarce than it did with my flakey nature. At any rate, maybe it’s a good thing I couldn’t get off this morning. It’s forcing me to move forward again. Shoving me outside the comfort of the new box I’ve been crammed into.
At least I’m the one who built it this time.
Lydia’s steps are quick as she skips down the stairs and across the entryway. My position inside the back door means I see her as soon as she rounds the corner, her big belly peeking at me before the rest of her. The sight of my little sister so blissfully happy and safe and cared for never fails to bring a smile to my face. It’s something I never thought I would see. For so long, I assumed her path would be the same as mine. She’d be marriedoff to the man who could provide the most for our father—be it money or power—and left to a life of misery.
But Lydia proved to be braver than I was. Stronger. More determined. She refused to be a pawn. And before any of that could happen, she walked away from her life—our life—with nothing.
And then she came back to save me.
“I thought you had to work today?” Lydia comes straight for me, giving me a quick hug before making a beeline to the coffee maker.
“I do, but not for a couple hours.” I trail behind her, taking a seat on one of the stools lined along the counter of the gigantic kitchen island. After pulling in a deep breath, I push out the reason for my visit. “Is Christian here? I was hoping to ask him a question.”
Lydia slides a coffee mug into place before popping in one of the metal cups of coffee grounds the machine requires. “He’s upstairs, but should be down in a second.” She sets the machine to brew and then turns to me, pale brows pinched together. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah. Everything’s good.” The answer should be truthful, but it doesn’t feel entirely accurate. “It’s nothing big. Just something silly I was wondering about.”
Again, my words don’t feel entirely truthful. What I’m going to ask is big. Bigger than maybe anything else I’ve done. It’s about claiming a part of myself. Owning something I was told was a gift I was meant to give everyone else.
Yet another bit of me they claimed for themselves.
My sister must not see the turmoil inside me, because Lydia’s smile is easy and genuine. “Okay. I just want to make sure you’re doing okay.”
Okayprobably is a good description of how I’m doing. Things are going acceptably. I have a good job. Money. A home. Everything is… Fine.
But that’s not how I imagined it would be.
I had years to dream about breaking free of all the bullshit, and when it finally happened, I came to Memphis with expectations. I expected to be like Lydia is—blissfully happy, loving every minute of every second of every day.
Instead I’m just... Acceptably fine.
Christian strides into the kitchen, his eyes locked on where my sister—his wife—stands. I know I should turn away as he pulls her close, one hand spreading across the curve of her stomach, but I can’t. My eyes refuse to look at anything but how carefully he holds her. The way she’s the only thing that seems to exist.
No one has ever looked at me like that, and I’m beginning to think no one ever will. Not because they won’t want to, but because I might not know how to let them.
“Myra came over to ask you something.” Lydia tips her head at me, directing Christian’s attention my way, and he seems to notice my existence for the first time.
I lift one hand, giving him a little wave from where I sit. “Morning.”
Christian turns to me, focusing on me the way he has countless times before. His respectful attention always drives home the difference between my before and my now. It’s a stark contrastto what I’m used to, what I was raised to expect. For as righteous and godly as the men from my old life claimed to be, there was nothing good or honorable about them. They treated women like objects. Belongings. Things to be coveted and desired and used.
And when they were called out, the blame was put on us. We were the ones responsible for their indiscretions.
“What can I help you with?” Christian keeps his eyes on me as he turns to the fridge, pulling out the creamer Lydia loves as he waits for my answer.
“I was just wondering—and you can absolutely say no—if maybe the next time you and Tate have a gig, I could possibly sing a song with you.” I say it casually, and avoid mentioning the name that might give away my unrequited—and safe—interest. But both my sister and Christian still stop in their tracks, eyes fusing to where I sit.
My sister’s the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. “You want to sing again?”
I shrug, hoping to make it seem like I don’t really care. Like it was just a random thought that hit me while I was walking over. “I just thought it might be fun. But I know you guys have played together forever, so if you don’t want to mess that up…”
I begin backtracking. This was probably a mistake. Maybe I should just stick with being stagnant. It’s so much easier than trying to unpack all the baggage I’ve collected.
