Page 68 of For a Goode Time Call…
“Cass.” That deep, quiet, smooth, powerful voice.
“Ink.” I swallowed hard. Tried to breathe. “I…I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left the way I did.”
“You’re here, now.”
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you come back?”
“Because you…you deserve better than for me to run away like a scared little girl.”
“And why’d you run?”
“It was…a lot. You and me, that night.”
He sighed. “Yeah, it was.”
“It’s still a lot,” I muttered.
He nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
“Not sure what else to say.”
“The whole honest truth, babe.” He was still lying as he’d been when asleep—on his side, head on his crooked arm. Hair loose and splayed everywhere behind and around him.
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“Why you ran. Start there. Start small.”
“I don’t fucking know.”
“You do.”
I hated the anger that rose up—why did he have to push? Why couldn’t he just let me have my stupid lie?
I blinked. Gave up trying not to cry, and put the effort toward not sobbing, instead. Just, sort of quietly letting tears trickle down. Keeping the anger buried. It was my anger, but not at him. It was irrational, and I knew it.
But it came out anyway.
“If you know so damned much about me, then you tell me why I ran.” Good god, I sounded petulant.
Didn’t take it back, though, because he was pushing deep into my psyche, and I didn’t want my demons exorcised. I didn’t want my layers of shit unearthed.
“Because you’re scared.”
I felt the tears flow harder. “I’m not scared of you, Ink.”
“Didn’t say that.” He sat up, but didn’t move any closer to me. Just stared at me in the darkness. “Of yourself. Of feelings. You’ve kept yourself closed off your whole life. Something to do with your dad. And I think sex is confusing for you because you want to use it as a substitute for emotions, but you’re too emotional for that, and not very good at keeping your equilibrium. So you shut down. Pretend to be all stoic. And something about us threatens all that. So you’re scared.”
“And I think you’re scared too. I think you know damn well that I can handle everything you’ve got, and more, but you’re still scared of rejection. It’s not about hurting me. It’s about me hurting you. I hurt you by leaving, and that’s what I’m sorry for. I was scared, you’re right. I’m still scared. But I’m here.”
“Yeah, you are. That’s something, and I see it.” He sighed. “I think you used me, in a way.”
I flinched. “What?” I swallowed hard. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“You have shit you haven’t dealt with. Your dad. Your future. I don’t know. Mainly who you are and what you want, now that you don’t have professional dance anymore. You’re too scarred and scared to face that, and you don’t know how or where to start. So you latched onto me, and this, and us, as a distraction. As a way of putting off having to face yourself. And when shit got super fuckin’ real between us that night, it scared the shit out of you because us bein’ real with each other made it harder for you to keep pretending you’re okay not dealing with the fact that you got no fuckin’ clue who you are now, and what the hell you’re gonna do with your life, because you put all your eggs in the one basket.”
I felt the anger as a protective shell, keeping his truth bombs out. It wasn’t working for shit, but damn if I wasn’t going to keep trying.
