Page 68 of Misery
"Tell that to him. He acts like touching me might trigger some catastrophic meltdown."
"Maybe tell him that?"
"I've tried. He just... stops things. Says I'm not ready. Like he knows better than me what I need."
Helle finishes her drink, signals for another.
While I make it, she says, "You know what your problem is? You're waiting for permission. For him to decide you're ready. But that's not how it works."
"Then how does it work?"
"You take what you want. You're a grown woman who survived hell. You don't need anyone's permission to have sex, especially not from the man you want to have sex with."
"It's not that simple?—"
"Isn't it?" She accepts her fresh drink. "Look, I get it. After what happened, sex is scary. Intimacy is terrifying. But you can't let fear make decisions for you. And you can't let him make decisions for you either, even if he thinks he's protecting you."
"What if I'm not ready? What if he's right and I don't know it?"
"Then you'll find out. And you'll deal with it. But at least it'll be your choice, your mistake to make if it is one." She reaches over, squeezes my hand. "You've had so much taken from you. Don't let anyone, not even him, take anything else from you too."
She's right. I know she's right. But knowing and doing are different things.
"I should go," she says after finishing her third drink. "Tyler is cooking dinner. Something with quinoa." She makes a face. "But hey, at least he cooks. And does dishes. And doesn't carry three weapons to the grocery store."
"Helle?" I catch her arm as she stands. "Tell Mom and Dad... tell them I'm sorry. Not for what I said, but for how I said it."
"Tell them yourself. When you're ready." She squeezes my hand. "Love you, sis."
"Love you too."
She leaves, and the bar feels emptier.
I throw myself into work, trying not to think about my parents, about how cruel I was to my father.
The night winds down slowly.
Last call comes and goes.
The crowd thins until it's just club members and a few hardcore regulars who know better than to cause trouble.
I clean, count the register, do all the closing tasks while being aware of Oskar waiting for me to wrap up.
He helps flip chairs onto tables, checks locks, does a security sweep.
All without speaking to me beyond necessary communication.
The distance feels like an ocean between us.
Finally, it's just us.
"Ready?" he asks, standing by the door.
"We need to talk."
His expression shutters. "About?"
"Us. This thing between us. The way you treat me like I might break if you breathe wrong."
