Page 8 of Caleb
It’s the fucking guilt that’s clawed its way into my head and planted the thoughts that now slap me in the face. Hard. Am I a coward for not wanting to return to that life? For wanting to leave—for wanting to accept Aaron’s offer? I refuse to believe so. But I also believe that I’ve become so used to living amid constant stress and endless political and religious tension lurking in our region that I’ve forgotten there are other ways to live.
I’m good at what I do. My hand is steady with a gun, and I recognize the sharp combative and field instincts I possess, even if I like to whip myself into believing they failed me back in December. I have the data, but I keep dismissing it because that’s how we operate as humans. So I’m allowing myself to keep lashing out against my better judgment.
It never occurred to me that I could lead a different life. Not because I didn’t think I was capable of it, but because I never thought I’d ever feel like pursuing something else. And I know I’ve been delaying this thought process because the questions I need to ask myself are tough, and the answers are even harder to come up with.
Fuck. I don’t want to go back to the military.
For once, I’m being honest with myself, but more than that, I thought I didn’t have a choice … until today. I don’t want to run away from my duty either. Even if I don’t choose the military, staying here feels more acceptable than leaving. But why? Nothing’s going to change if I stay, and leaving opens a world of possibilities. Unknown possibilities, yes, but potentials, nonetheless.
Feeling lost, I smash the train of thought by slapping myself in the face. I brush my teeth and change into sweatpants and a simple white t-shirt. And just as I throw myself back on the bed, there’s a faint knock on my door. So I bounce back up to my feet and rush to open it. We wouldn’t want anyone to see Noa in the hallway, so it’s best to shut the door behind her after she steps in.
“Hey, you,” she says, throwing her arms around my neck. She stands on tiptoe and smells my neck. “God, you smell so good.”
Her hair is damp too and smells like coconut and flowers. I wrap my arms around her waist and bring her closer to me.
“You smell good too.”
“Are you okay?” She’s too clever. She knows me too well—an oversight on my part. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I lie. My mind is pulling me in a thousand directions. Leave. Stay. End this. Try it out. Man up. Duty. Paris.
She doesn’t believe me, I can tell. But I do nothing to convince her otherwise. It’ll only make things worse. It’ll give me away.
Cupping Noa’s chin with my fingers, I allow myself to look into her big hopeful eyes for a few seconds before my lips meet hers. I intend to start slow with a gentle kiss to soothe my conscience somehow about how rough I was with her last night and this morning—to distract her from the heaviness my eyes surely convey.
The electricity between us is undeniable. It doesn’t allow for unhurriedness. It’s urgent and explosive. And Noa’s kissing me back like it’s the first and last time she’ll ever get to do it, and my mind drifts away for a second at the thought of the latter. It could very much be the last time I kiss her. It’s up to me. But fuck, she’s beautiful, and I know I’m wrecking her.
I should know better. I shouldbebetter.
The only way to do it is by removing myself from the equation, but I won’t be able to do it as long as we’re living within walking distance. She’ll keep wanting more than just sex, and I’m emotionally spent. I’ve been since the beginning. But we’ve been playing “one-night stand” for over two months now, and it needs to stop.
Noa drags me out of my head by pulling down my sweatpants and kneeling on the floor in front of me, and as much as I would love to have her mouth wrapped around my cock, guilt consumes me. I wish I could feel somethingmore. Something other than unrestrained lust and craving. To give her what her eyes beg for every time they meet mine. And I do care about her, but I just can’t make this become real. I don’t know how to fucking do it.
I bring her to her feet before it’s too late for me to make her stop—before I give in to the bliss of her lips on me. Then, I lift her sweater over her head and kiss her shoulders and down her neck. She shuts her eyes, gasping. All I want is to make her feel good, but I want to be gentle this time. I want it to be all about her. About what I know she really wants.
She pulls down her jeans and sits on the edge of the bed, tilting her head. A slight curve of her lips invites me in. My hands push her back on the bed, and I kiss my way down her stomach as I remove the black lacy thong she knows I love.
After making her come with my mouth, I grab a condom and roll it down my shaft before slowly sinking into her as a worshiping lover would. It’s the closest way I can imagine what making love would be like because she deserves it. She deserves both. To have someone who can fuck her and make love to her on demand. Only this time, I don’t tell her it’s the last time because it is.
Noa spent the night in my room. Not only did I allow it this time, but I encouraged it. I selfishly wanted to have her close to me in the hope that she would magically change my mind about leaving. That I would somehow grow attached to her overnight in such a meaningful way that the answer to my dilemma would become crystal clear. It would’ve been easier to make a conscious decision about staying if that had happened.
It didn’t.
But no reason to stay is also a goddamned good reason to leave. There isn’t anythingrealholding me back. It’s all inside my head. Or was, for that matter, because I’ve made up my mind about leaving. I texted Aaron the moment Noa fell asleep last night to accept the job offer.
By the time Noa wakes up, my bags are packed, my face is shaved, and Aaron’s arranging my trip to Paris. I leave in two days, which means I need to drive back to Tel Aviv to pack up the rest of my stuff and say goodbye to my family.
Yael is going to be devastated. My sister might be four years older than me, but I’ve always been overprotective of her. We’re close, even though she lives in Amman with her husband Isaac and her two-year-old son Samuel, so we don’t see each other as much anymore. That doesn’t mean she’ll love for me to live even farther away from her and my parents. And leaving them in Tel Aviv isn’t something that thrills me, but it’s good to know I’ve got their approval. Besides, I’ve decided to go with an open mind and try things out. I won’t stay longer than I have to if the job is not a good fit for me.
“Your face. You—shaved,” Noa says, sitting up in the bed and hugging the comforter. She looks around with a frown and a puzzled look on her face, realizing my bags are packed and neatly placed beside the door. “Caleb? What’s going on?”
I walk up to her and sit on the bed, grabbing her hands between mine. “I’m leaving today.”
“What?” Her face contorts. It’s painful to watch. “Why?”
“Aaron called last night. Aaron Hirsch.” Noa knows Aaron, but her being two years younger than me makes the age gap between them even more significant. And then Aaron left, so there was never an opportunity for them to know each other aside from their names. But everyone knows everyone in our community.
“Is he okay?” she asks in barely a whisper. This will be a tough conversation, and I don’t know if I’m ready for it, but it needs to happen. My intention is to be as straightforward and honest as possible.
