I follow him into the living room and we sink into his couch. His eyes travel over the pieces of me in front of him, but he’s not bringing them back together the way I need.
“Roses,” I say.
“Roses?”
“They brought roses for the memorial. I had to leave…”
“It’s okay,” he says. He grabs my hand. “It’s going to be okay.”
No, no, it’s not. Something is happening inside me and I need it to stop, I need to stop this feeling, the past trying to put itself on me because it’s too heavy to wear.
“Leon, kiss me.”
“What?”
I need to see myself.
“Please.”
He hesitates and then he moves to me so slowly, maddeningly slowly. The first parts of us that touch are his legs against mine. He brings his hand to my face, palm open against my cheek. He runs his thumb over my lip, the red.
“Romy,” he says. “I…”
“You’re the good part,” I tell him, so he won’t say anything else.
He brings his other hand to the other side of my face and leans forward. He kisses me, presses his mouth softly against mine and then starts to pull away, like that could be enough but it’s not enough. I wrap my fingers around his wrists, and keep his hands where they are. He exhales and then he brings himself to me again, kisses me again. His mouth opens against mine but I still feel his hesitance so I kiss him back, hard, because I want him against every part of me so I can feel every part of me. I want her back, that girl he stopped for.
Leon’s hands move down and I inch back into the arm of the couch, my knees between us and he leans against them like they’re in the way, finally kissing me the way I want him to. He kisses me until my mouth feels bruised, but it isn’t enough. But now he’s hungry.
I get myself under him and then he’s on top of me, breathing heavily, and he is so against me I know where the blood goes. My hands on his back. His hand moving up and down my thigh, then his fingers drifting past my jeans and under my shirt, under my shirt. My red on his face, his lips. I hear another heart beat under my heartbeat and it’s louder than all of this. His mouth against mine and all I can hear is the heartbeat of some other girl, no—I close my eyes.
“Hey,” Leon says. “Hey, look at me.”
he covers her mouth.
That’s how you get a girl to stop crying; you cover her mouth until the sound dies against your palm.
He says, okay? Okay.
When he’s sure she’s going to be quiet, he lets her breathe again.
He tells her, it’s okay.
He brings two of his fingers to his mouth and slides them inside it and it makes her want to be sick and maybe if she pukes, he’ll stop. She wills it to happen, it doesn’t happen. He takes his fingers out of his mouth and puts that hand between her legs, moving her underwear aside and then—a sharp, unwelcome pressure.
I want to make you wet, he whispers.
She makes the kind of noise she never thought she’d hear herself make, small and pleading whimpers. She closes her eyes, while his fingers stay inside her.
If she can’t be sick, she’ll just go away.
Look at me, look at me, hey, look at me.
At some point, he moved his hands from there and she comes to herself, her legs spread open. His pants are down. His weight is on her, heavy. She closes her eyes again. He makes her open them. Wake up, wake up. Wake up because you want this, you’ve always wanted this. But she didn’t want this. She doesn’t want this. He forces himself inside her. She’s tight and she’s dry.
It hurts.
Open your eyes.
But it hurts.
Open your eyes.
She’s sick then, five-six-seven-eight-nine shots coming out of her. Her body doesn’t make sense to her, can’t move when she wants it to move, but this? She turns her head to the side and vomit spills out her mouth, pooling in the ridges of the truck bed and he swears, but he doesn’t stop. It’ll hurt him too much if he stops. They can clean up together, after. Like that’s a promise, like she’d want it. Not that it matters, because he’ll leave her there anyway, half-awake and raw, her mouth bitter. Her head is so heavy. Why isn’t this over yet? She closes her eyes and he makes her open them again.
Look at me, look at me, hey— “Romy—”
Wake up, wake up. Wake up from this, wake up from this. But it’s never over and she can’t stop making those sounds and he says—“Romy—” and I push at his shoulders and his eyes are on me, lingering on my mouth and my nails but he sees past them, he sees the dead girl and says “Romy” and brings her back.
“Don’t look at me,” I whisper.
leon sits beside me on the couch.
It has been—minutes. And I want to fade out. I want to fade out and be on my feet, past this, but every ugly moment is one I have to live and so I’m sitting beside Leon, on his couch, waiting for my heartbeat to decelerate and the ache between my legs to disappear. He’s waiting for me to speak and if I can talk—if I can figure out how to do that—then I can figure out how to walk, I can leave.
“I have to go.” My first words in this after.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, Leon.”
I stand. My legs are stiff, trying to work around the ache, my body’s betrayal. I pass the couch and step into the kitchen. I see the door I came through.
“Wait, wait, wait,” Leon says. “Talk to me, come on—”
“I have to go.” My tongue feels as thick as my head, nine shots thick, and these are the only words I can get out. I reach the door and I say, “This was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”
He puts his hand on my arm. “No. I don’t know what just happened—”
I pull away slowly. I don’t want to be touched because I feel too touched. I have to go home. There are miles ahead of me. I press my head against the door and Leon stands there, so helplessly, all this beyond anything I could or want to explain to him.
“I don’t want to talk. I have to go home.”