Page 125 of A Dirty Business
“You know ...” I stepped away from him, going to the canvas. Dipping my hand down, I started working, and I spoke at the same time. “I was overseeing this supervised visitation one time. A guy, one of my parolees, he was seeing his kids. I had to be there, but they had a therapist there too. I think about that therapist sometimes, what he said.”
“What’d he say?” He sounded farther away.
I kept painting. “He said that sometimes people get addicted to crisis. They grow up in it, and that’s what they know. And if somehow they find their life is going good, somehow they’ll do things to bring drama back into their lives. I wonder if that’s you and me.” I paused, glancing over my shoulder to him. He was staring back with hooded eyes.
My mouth went dry, but I focused on the painting once more. Or I tried. He got in there again. In my head. Under my skin. I could feel him, and my movements changed too. I wasn’t so choppy in what Iwas creating. My movements were slow, tender. Cautious, but sensual at the same time.
“You’re talking about self-sabotage.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Subconscious for sure. I think that’s you, but it’s more. It’s how I grew up with my family. I’ve started remembering moments growing up. Like, my dad was a cheater, and I didn’t remember that until the other day. My mom and dad were fighting one time when I was in my room. I went and overheard. They were talking about a woman in the neighborhood. And my mom used to drink when I was little. I thought she only started when my dad died, but that’s not true. She started drinking again. And my brother.” I hadn’t visited Isaac, either, for so long. I almost forgot about him. How horrible of a sister was I? He was in prison, and I forgot for a full week. Then it was two weeks. “He took drugs, even when he was a kid. It’s weird, remembering these things now. I knew it was happening back then, but somehow I’d forgotten. My brother was sober when he went to prison, so I’ve been operating on that narrative this whole time. He was sober, but that’s not the truth. He took a lot of drugs in high school. I was in college when it happened, when he—you know. My dad. When it all fell apart, or that’s how I think of it.” I stopped painting as more memories were rushing in, old pain right with them. “I used to blame myself. I think I blamed myself so much that it became a part of me, like in my foundation as a person. Funny how I started realizing that stuff, you know?”
“You blamed yourself for your dad dying?”
Oh yeah. My throat choked up. There was the old searing pain I used to always feel. It burrowed deep, settling up right next to where my heart was.
“I was in college, thinking about going for something else. Art therapy. I wanted to work with at-risk youth, but then my dad died. My brother went to prison because of it, and it all changed. I guess. Like, if I’d been there, none of that would’ve happened.” Another realization hit me hard. “My mom blames me, and I’ve always let her. I blamedmyself too. That’s why I’ve—” Why I let her say the things she said to me. Jesus. I believed her, so I accepted it. I expelled a deep breath. “Starting to know why some people can’t handle silence. Because they hear what’s in their head. That’s fucked up.”
“I think it makes perfect sense.”
I looked. His hands were in his pockets, and his head was leaning against the wall. His eyes flashed, meeting mine, and his head moved forward, but he didn’t step away from the wall. He stayed there, half lounging but now more focused on me.
“These three months, I learned more.”
“About?”
“About me. About you.”
His mouth parted, and his eyes went flat. “Yeah? What’d you learn?”
“That I could quit you, if I had to. It’d take a long time, way longer than three months. Maybe a year, maybe more, but I could do it. Everything else is fine in my life. My mom, she’s not my problem anymore. My brother is getting by. My job too. I got friends. I got a good career, one that some days I feel like I make a difference. It’s small, but that one time a parolee gets it is worth all the others that don’t. I got people who care about me, so I’d be okay without you.”
He pushed off from the wall, coming toward me. Slow. His eyes were dark, a glint of danger from them. “That’s funny.”
“How so?” I was holding myself steady, not backing up as he got into my space, crowding me.
His hands went to my waist, slipping under my shirt, and he began moving me back. To the wall. The canvas was right next to us.
I had paint on my hands. He didn’t care as he just stared down into me.
“How’s that funny?” I had a slight hitch in my breath. I didn’t like that. I felt like it was showing how I was totally lying to him and to myself.
Or maybe I wasn’t.
Maybe I actually could’ve quit him. Probably. Everyone had to move on, no matter how much time would pass, but there’d be damages. Haunts. Yeah. I could move on from him, but I’d be scarred. I didn’t want to share that part.
“I told you to wait. I told you I’d need time and everything I was doing was to make it safe for you.”
“You said it, but you were trying to push me away, and you know that too.”
He continued watching me. I continued feeling him inside of me. He knew I was right like I knew he meant what he said, but conversations weren’t always about what was said. They were about what was being said under the surface too.
“Maybe.”
I pulled my gaze away, focusing on his chest and how it was moving in a slow rhythm. “Yeah. You couldn’t stay away because I put in my two weeks today.”
He didn’t respond. That’s okay. I knew the truth.
He broke first because I was going to make the last move to actually break away. If any of that made sense. But that was all gone now because he was here and he was touching me, and my body was heating up because the second he spoke, I knew what was going to happen.
