Bombora Page 18

  To my surprise, Phel doesn’t get upset, not like the time he and Nate first met, but he does level me with a look that’s both disbelieving and pissy. “Hugh, your brother and I have absolutely nothing in common. I appreciate you trying to look out for me, but I think that’s a horrible idea. We’d kill each other after ten minutes.”

  Gesturing wildly, I feel my voice go up a couple of decibels before I can stop myself. “But that’s what he said to me, and I don’t get it, man! I don’t think that’s the case at all. Sure, maybe it doesn’t look like you have a lot in common at first glance, but Nate has really diverse interests, and….” I waver, but only just. “You’re both kind of going through the same things right now. Being separated from your families and all that. And you both like the Rangers.”

  Phel sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Luckily he doesn’t bother to acknowledge the weakness of my last argument. “Except that we’re at totally opposite ends of the issue. It’s not the same at all. Nate hurt people. You have no idea what that’s like, Hugh, to look at him and know the full extent of the damage he’s caused. None. All I see there is someone who didn’t give a shit about anything except getting his dick wet, okay? At the expense of his family and someone he claimed to love.”

  Once again I open my mouth, prepared to argue, but Phel cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, Hugh. I’m going to be finished my program really soon, and after that I won’t even be around. This whole discussion is moot.”

  I try to keep myself from physically recoiling from the news, and fail. “What do you mean, you’re not going to be around? I-I thought—”

  “What? That I’d be in rehab forever?”

  “Of course not,” I snap. “But I figured you’d at least be sticking around Cardiff after.” Hesitating, because what I’m about to say next still isn’t a fully formed thought, even for me. I say, “I was going to suggest you move in with me, man. After you leave Palermo.” Afterwards I need something to distract me from the sudden train wreck of this conversation, and swivel back toward the steering wheel and start the ignition.

  As we begin the drive back to my house, Phel is silent. But then he offers, “I’m really touched you would think of me. I just… when I came here, I never gave too much thought to sticking around after. The idea was to try and get myself sorted out, and then get on with my life.”

  The statement, though not meant to offend, pisses me off. “And what, you don’t have a life here? Nothing worth sticking around for?” I shoot a glare at him. “What about this guy you’ve been seeing, huh? You were just planning on walking away from that too?”

  Phelan furrows his brow and gives a little snort. “I’d hardly allow for some guy I’m just fucking to alter my plans,” he retorts. Then, more gently, “The fact that you’d prefer for me to stay has much greater bearing, Hugh.”

  “Then stay!” Hell, my hands are so tight around the steering wheel, my knuckles are starting to cramp. “From the sounds of it, you hated the Midwest. California suits you.”

  Head tilted, Phel considers. “California isn’t without its own problems.”

  I grunt. “Such as?” At his silence, I growl lightly to myself. “Jesus, Phel. We should be past this crap about keeping secrets from each other, but obviously there’s still plenty of stuff you don’t trust me with.” This is wildly hypocritical of me to say, since I’ve never told Phel about my own time at Palermo, but all that bullshit is in the past anyway—I don’t keep stuff from him regarding what’s going on in the here and now, not unless it’s something sensitive about Nate I’m expected to keep to myself. I do the same for Phel, obviously, because his business is his own, but I’m—different. Or so I thought. Apparently that was a huge assumption on my part.

  “Trust has nothing to do with it,” he tells me bluntly. “Of course I trust you. But there’s a difference between trusting someone with information and being ready to share it. There are things I don’t even talk to my therapist about, and supposedly I can tell her anything.”

  “You can tell me anything too,” I remind him petulantly, feeling as left out as the last kid picked for the team. “I’m your best friend, for crying out loud. It’s not like I’m going to sit here and judge you.”

  I can feel Phelan’s eyes on me from the passenger side of the car. “How can I expect you not to judge me negatively when there are things I still judge myself for?”

  Since he doesn’t seem prepared to offer anything further, I catch myself sighing, again, and feeling like if I keep at it enough, I’ll start to sound like a dying moose. “Well, will you at least think about it? I mean, you haven’t made any definite plans yet, right?”

  Phel hesitates. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Okay, then. Just think about it. You can do that, can’t you?” I refuse to beg Phel to stay, but it’s surprisingly hard not to. Any more of this stonewalling act, and I just might. This development is one I never could have banked on, even more than finding out Nate wouldn’t be going back home. But the thought of the three of us sharing a living space, however unexpected, isn’t unattractive. Even the—minor—issue of Phel and Nate’s unspoken drama seems easily enough resolved if I wear them down, and so I find myself offering up my home a second time in as many days. “My house is yours, Phel. I’d want you to stick around where you know people, not move off someplace where you’re alone again. Besides, you need someone who’ll keep you from calling your ex in a moment of weakness, right?”

  I’d hoped this little quip would brighten the mood, but instead it makes his jaw tighten until I see a muscle ticking frantically in his cheek, and he glares out the window with his arms folded. Oh, well… okay. Not the right thing to say, then, and so much for the earlier good mood. Phel is silent again for a really long time, staring out at the passing scenery until we’re practically on my doorstep, the tension so thick I can picture myself choking on it. Not even the group of half-dressed young surfers we pass on the way is enough to get him to perk up, and Phel has always had time to admire a strong set of shoulders.

  I expect that to be the end of the conversation, but before we pull into my driveway, he bunches his fist in the fabric of his shorts. “I’ll think about it,” he tells me, still not looking in my direction. “But I make no promises.”

  The lingering note of hesitation at the end of Phelan’s sentence is, I know, as far as I’m likely to get with him today. He might have a bit of a soft spot for me, and from this conversation I know he still does, but at the end of the day he’s a stubborn bastard rivaled only by Nate. It might not look like it, but this could be a small victory if I keep working at it, not pushing, just coaxing him round. Phel would forever deny being anything like a scared animal, but that’s how he’s always seemed to me. Wounded and weary, but nothing’s irreparable.

  I park the car and turn off the ignition. We sit there in the quiet for a few minutes, listening to the engine tick. “Don’t promise anything,” I tell him gently, and he sighs, probably able to guess what I’m about to say. “Just stay.”

  7

  Phel

  HIS hands are bound to the iron rails of the headboard, sweaty skin tanned and sweet against the glistening satin of my neckties, one red and one blue. I no longer have an office job to go to, so they’ve no purpose now but this. Long fingers grasp and twist around the metal, clenching and releasing as he gasps and murmurs my name in prayer, lashes on those beautiful green eyes fluttering, lips sucked and bitten raw red. I want to answer those pleas with an Amen or a wry Hallelujah, but all I can manage is a long, low note of surrender at the sparks building at the base of my spine, fire coiling with each slick slide of his cock into my body. Gentle nudges of his pelvis lift into the aching rhythm of my hips as I raise and lower myself on his length, my hands braced against his ribs for balance, skimming the abundance of freckles scattered across his shoulders and chest and belly like I’m mapping constellations and he’s the whole fathomless sky.

  I thi
nk Nate begs me because he’s scared I won’t let him come, or that I won’t agree to see him again after he drives away and leaves me exhausted and wrung out in bed. Much as I love to hear those words coming out of his mouth, Please, Phel, baby—please, his fear makes me feel heartless, makes me give Nate what he wants—an orgasm, a kiss, another opportunity to plead for forgiveness—not because he’s earned it or deserves it, but because I don’t like to think of myself as someone who might refuse. I’m not heartless: quite the contrary. Too much heart is what got me here in the first place. If Nate’s responsible for making me feel too much, well, I’m hoping to build up immunity the second time around.

  “Phel, how was your evening?” Willa repeats her question, the one that got me thinking about Nate in the first place. The reminder in her voice snaps me out of my reverie long enough to flash her an apologetic smile and a slight shrug.

  “It was… relaxing,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. We’re seated on one of the many private patios scattered across the Palermo compound, shielded by a white wooden gazebo just like in all the full-color brochures. “I stayed in.”

  She nods and treats me to one of the thoughtful silences that normally precede her more loaded questions. “And did you see Nate?” There it is.

  “I did.”

  After the minor breakdown that led me to confess to Willa that Nate was in Cardiff, I’d briefly considered withholding the truth about the recent developments in our relationship out of a misdirected sense of… I don’t know, exactly. Shame, perhaps, because I (correctly) anticipated her disapproval, but also fear that outside interference would somehow ruin it. As it turns out, I’m not a wonderful liar; after the first time I took Nate back into my bed—or my couch, as the case happened to be at the time—she knew what had happened almost immediately. I’ve no doubt Willa would feel relieved if I put a stop to things here and now, but that isn’t going to happen, and we both know it. Instead she’s attempted to acknowledge my honesty by including me in the process of dissecting this latest psychological development, appealing to my sense of reason the way only a therapist can.

  I have a great deal more to share, however, than the details of last night’s meeting with Nate. In the interest of full disclosure, I’m compelled to be upfront about this information before we can go any further. I want Willa to know I’m not hiding anything.

  “I’ve stopped taking my meds,” I tell her evenly, meeting her eyes as if, through this act alone, I can convince her this is the best possible course of action I could have taken. I believe it is, of course, but in this day and age of pharmaceutical dependency, I’m prepared for an uphill battle in trying to talk my shrink into seeing eye to eye with me on the matter. “It’s been nearly two weeks now, but I didn’t want to say anything until the drugs had had a chance to leave my system, to see what it was like first.”

  “The Paxil or the Xanax?” she asks. Naturally there could be no great outpouring of emotion over this news, but I’m impressed, yet again, by how calmly Willa is able to accept information and deal with the facts one at a time.

  “Both. The Xanax I’ve not had a need for recently, not since that last big panic attack when I saw Nate.” I shrug and cross my leg over my knee so I can pick at the frayed hem of my jeans, now more the result of wear and tear than fashionable distressing. “Actually, I’m still prepared to make use of the Xanax if the situation calls for it—the Paxil is what I really wanted to cut myself off from.” Unable to decipher her silence, I ask, “Does that bother you? It was you, after all, who prescribed it in the first place. I don’t mean to second-guess your medical wisdom.” That comes out a bit more smugly than I intended, but I don’t bother to correct myself. I want to appear firm on the decision, even if it means sounding like a bit of an arrogant shit. Then again, if the shoe fits….

  Willa pauses to consider the question, pushing a lock of shoulder-length dark hair back behind her ear. Her hazel eyes show no hesitation in their dead-on stare. “No, it doesn’t… bother me,” she says eventually. “You’re not an inpatient, Phel, and it’s not like I prescribed you with medication meant to correct a significant or harmful mental imbalance. The decision to cooperate with the program we outlined together is, and has always been, yours. Our sessions aren’t about making me happy—they’re about making you feel like you’re in a better place in your life.”

  “Thank you,” I say with a nod.

  But she isn’t done. “That being said, I do wish you’d consulted with me before choosing to discontinue the medication, since there could have been unexpected side effects. Luckily, that wasn’t the case. But that concerns me less than how this decision is a continuation of a series of worrisome behavior.” Although she pauses, perhaps in anticipation of a protest of some sort, or for me to ask for clarification, I don’t interrupt. So she continues, “We can get to that. First I’d like for you to explain why you arrived at this decision, why you felt it was the best step forward.”

  I resist the urge to shrug—why does this seem to be the primary response in the patient’s vocabulary?—and stop fidgeting with the hem of my jeans when I realize this does not add an air of confidence to my demeanor. Instead, I sigh. “The Paxil felt both unnecessary and counterproductive to achieving a feeling of control over my emotions,” I explain. “In the last couple weeks I’ve been feeling remarkably more assertive over my feelings—not panicked or overwhelmed or afraid, but… empowered.”

  “You mean since you started re-engaging in sexual relations with Nate,” she supplies.

  Hardball. Fine, I get it. “Yes. Since then.” Feeling, for a moment, undeniably petty, I add, “Plus it wasn’t doing me any favors in the libido department. So it seemed prudent to stop on both counts.”

  “How have you been sleeping without it?” Willa asks, changing tack unexpectedly. “Any nightmares or insomnia?”

  “When I’ve been sleeping, you mean?” I allow myself a quick smirk and a lift of eyebrows before I shake my head. “No, none. I’ve been sleeping like a baby.”

  “And your mood? Any abrupt changes, any periods of extreme highs or lows?”

  “No.” I choose—for Willa’s own benefit, I tell myself—to refrain from adding that my emotional extremes tend to occur precisely when I’m having sex with Nate. Not that I’m bipolar or anything, not even with him, but I’m definitely in a pretty good mood most of the day after I’ve worked off some of my aggression with him between the sheets.

  Willa nods again and jots something down in her notebook. “I’d like to go back, if we can, to the association you seem to be making between a feeling of empowerment and your sexual relationship with Nate. We’ve touched on it before, briefly, but this is the first time you’ve come out and worded it in this way. What about your involvement compels you to describe it as a matter of control, rather than love or desire?”

  Unable to help myself, I snort. “I’m compelled to describe it that way because I don’t love Nate. I desire him, yeah, same as he still desires me… but after what he did? Love is a nonissue. It isn’t even on the table.”

  “No?”

  I glare at Willa. “No.” It’s hard to explain to another person what I’ve had a hard time explaining to myself, but I know she won’t let this go until I’ve at least tried to articulate why I feel things are different this time. “Look, what have I been saying the whole time I’ve been here? That if I could go back and do the whole relationship over again, I’d take charge of how things unrolled instead of just going along for the ride. I’d make myself feel like less of a victim. I’m sure if I’d been a little more assertive with Nate the first time around….” I trail off, recognizing the fault in my reasoning before it’s even out of my mouth.

  Willa, of course, catches it. “What, maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt?” She shakes her head. “That you got your heart broken has nothing to do, ultimately, with anything you did or didn’t do,” she reminds me. “Yes, we’ve discussed the idea that you let go of your reservations more q
uickly than was healthy, or that you were too accommodating—but you were an autonomous part of the partnership, same as Nate. You’ve said yourself that he wasn’t pushing you around.” She pauses to let this sink in, though she’s probably aware this is one of those topics I’m still resistant to. I start to shake my head in refusal of what she’s saying, but Willa presses on. “What makes you think control is an issue that has any bearing now?”

  “Because he’s fucking learning what it feels like to be totally powerless!” I don’t mean to shout. Not because it startles Willa—it doesn’t—but because these little displays of emotion never quite sit well with me. Especially when I know I’m on the defensive.

  “And what’s more important to you?” asks Willa. “That he feels powerless, or that you feel powerful?” Mulishly silent, I fold my arms. “Describe the power dynamic in your current relationship,” she suggests instead. “As far as you see it, who calls the shots?”

  “I’m the one who sets the terms, if that’s what you mean,” I answer reluctantly.

  “Which means what?”

  I shrug. “I decide when we meet and where, and I decide what we do. It’s not like Nate can’t refuse, he just… doesn’t.”

  Willa meets my eyes. “Why not? From what you’ve told me about him, Nate doesn’t seem like a particularly meek individual. Open to suggestion, perhaps, but you’ve never described him as someone incapable of asserting himself.”

  This is harder. “Because he knows I’d end it otherwise. He was the one who said he was willing to do this my way—I’m not the one who initiated it. He said he’d do whatever I wanted, to make it up to me. To get me to stop turning him away.”