7. Christian

7

CHRISTIAN

T he truth hurts. It always has. But whiskey dulls the sharper edges.

Roughly, I swipe the tears on my cheek with the heel of my hand. “I skipped about six months,” I tell Gibson. “Six months where she couldn’t keep her hands off me and fucking rolled around in hot coals to repent. I told her we didn’t have to do anything—it literally didn’t matter to me as long as she was okay, but she said she couldn’t be around me without wanting things she shouldn’t want. And we’d fight, and she got mad at me that I didn’t believe in Jesus the way she did, and she talked to her cousins who all thought she should break up with me, but I was also kind of all she had.”

She’d been tortured over a few kisses—a few intimate touches—we never even had sex. Sex wasn’t even on the table. But every day was a roller coaster of her guilt and my trying to fix it—her rage at my secular advice. “It got to the point where I couldn’t even say I loved her because she convinced herself that was impossible. She’d sinned and sinned again. There was nothing I could say. All I could do was hope she’d get a little older and see how brainwashed she was. ”

“Out of curiosity—how did she square what her dad did with the church doctrine.”

“He asked for forgiveness,” I say again.

“But God’s forgiveness didn’t apply to her?”

“Not in a way that made her feel better.” I glance at Gibson, whose brow is furrowed with a look of genuine concern. “Don’t try to make it make sense,” I tell him. “It won’t.”

He gives a slight nod. “But you tried to make sense of it, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did,” I say, my voice choked and breaking. In so many ways, I’m still trying. Journals stuffed with poetry can attest to this.

“If you don’t mind my asking—how’d you handle her death?”

“Not well,” I say, finishing the whiskey in one gulp. I should lay off for now. My head is already fuzzy.

“I don’t think I would have handled that well, either,” Gibson says. “So, no relationships since?”

He’s giving me a way out of talking about Trinity, but she’s already inside me again. Her springy curls and her flawless skin. The way she took no shit and the other, better FaceTime calls where she’d talk me through her skin care routine and suggest tweaks to my eyebrows. She was beautiful and messy, and impossible not to love, and still she was swept aside. Made to pray to a God that hurt her far worse than I ever did. Her need for unconditional love went beyond what I could offer her—or what she could accept.

“I’ve tried a few times—given a few people more than one chance, but it’s not just that it’s hard to make a connection, it’s also that even after all this time, I haven’t forgiven myself for what happened, and I don’t want to put that on someone else.”

“Have you tried therapy?”

“In this economy?”

Gibson laughs.

“I don’t like talking about it. I do deal with it, though. ”

“How’s that?” he asks.

“I write. Journal. Poems?—”

“Ah. Right.”

“It’s the way I’ve always processed things,” I say, looking at him again.

Gibson’s hair is all out of order, and it makes him look even younger. How he’s my father’s age, I have no idea. Dressed in a white henley with the sleeves shoved up, his forearms are what catch my attention this time. Tan, olive skin with the lightest dusting of dark hair. A delicate line of tiny moles that almost look like they were drawn on ascend from his outer wrist nearly to his elbow.

His hand loosely holding his glass is masculine with perfectly structured fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

I have to admit what he shared with me before I went down my own tragic memory lane made him about a thousand times more interesting than I ever gave him credit for, as vague as it was. It’s one thing to be obscenely wealthy and oversee a sex club on the Upper East Side, but to be devoted to someone who wants nothing to do with him makes me wonder what truly drives him. Does he think she’ll change her mind?

He wasn’t specific about their “arrangement,” but I assume the marriage is open to an extent. What that means to him, I’m curious about.

“What kind of poetry do you write?” he asks.

“Is that like asking what genre of novel?”

He chuckles. That smile again. “I guess. Is it a dumb question? English was never my strongest subject in school.”

“Blank verse and free verse mostly. I’ve written some songs, too, but I’m not particularly musical.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“I don’t know. Junior high? Whenever the existential angst set in.”

“Ah. Puberty then. ”

That makes me laugh. I hope this conversation is accomplishing its intended purpose—making him less uneasy or whatever he called it earlier. Nervous, was it? I can’t remember. “How are we doing?” I ask.

He gives me a lazy smile I sort of like. “Better. How do you think we’re doing?”

“Also better. Are you happy?”

“Yeah, this is great.”

“Actually, I meant—you know…”

“Oh—am I happy happy? Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I figured with enough money you could just buy a good day whenever it started to look like one’s not going your way.”

“Can’t buy everything,” he says.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it however you want.” Gibson sits forward and grabs more food off the tray, arranging cheese, meat and a pomegranate spread on a slice of bread before shoving the entire thing in his mouth. I eat more, too, following his lead and stuffing toppings into the end of a baguette.

We eat in silence for a few minutes, and then I go inside to get water.

He follows. “I have a side hustle downstairs I’m going to check in on,” he tells me as I open the refrigerator.

“I might go for a walk, then.”

“I thought you might join me. It’s part of my business.”

“Oh.” I didn’t realize it was an invitation. “You want to tell me more about it?”

“It’s another club. But it’s a bit different than the one at Gramercy.”

Ah. I’m not sure I’m in the mood for an Italian sex club. Then again, he is paying me.

“I assume you don’t get squeamish or uncomfortable over kink? ”

Why would he assume that? I must be frowning because he quickly backtracks.

“I apologize—of course this isn’t required. It’s something I find entertaining, but I shouldn’t presume?—”

“It’s fine. I’m not squeamish—I’m just not sure I get it.”

“Fair enough. But it’s an interesting way to pass an hour or two, right?”

“Do I need to change?”

He looks me over, taking in my tank top and joggers with the attention of a critical spouse. “Switch to jeans and add a black blazer.”

Yes, sir. I take a bottle of water back to my room to change.

Since I didn’t get instructions on shoes, I put on the ones his tailor brought me. They’re the nicest things I’ve ever had on my feet, both in appearance and feel. Once I’m dressed to Gibson’s specifications, I run some product through my hair so it’s no longer hanging in my face. And because I believe in dressing up when I go out, I run some black eyeliner along my inner eyelids.

I’ve never been led to believe I’m bad looking, but I’m not a huge fan of my face. I like my eyes, though, and I figure the more they stand out, the less likely anyone is to look too long at anything else like my dimpled nose or big chin.

Gibson is in a full-fledged suit when he returns to the living room. This one is dove gray and slim cut. The white shirt beneath sets off his tan, making him look utterly Mediterranean. He looks good, but he needs help with his right cufflink.

I try, but fumble. “These aren’t exactly self-explanatory.” I’m definitely buzzed.

He sighs, and I smell the whiskey on his warm breath as it hits my cheek, strong enough to give me a contact high and send a shiver down my spine.

I press my lips together and try to focus on the stubborn piece of jewelry, but with every second I struggle, the more aware of him I become. His size. His heat. His scent, which is soft but mildly drugging. The word that keeps skipping through my mind is arrangement .

Maybe I’ll get drunk enough to ask about that later.

Finally, I figure out the puzzle, and the cufflink comes together. He takes a moment to tug at each sleeve when I step away, but then I feel him looking me over again.

“Do I look okay?” I ask.

“Perfect,” he says.

I swallow once and nod.

“No matter what you see down there, remember everything is consensual. Even when it looks like it isn’t.”

“Got it.”

“You don’t happen to have a safe word, do you?”

I laugh. “Never needed one.”

“If you’ve had enough of being down there, just lean in and say something random. I’ll get the idea.”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

He straightens his blood-red tie. “I can never tell whether you’re judging me or not.”

“Usually not.”

His mouth quirks into half a grin, and I won’t lie, it’s highly attractive.

I decide to press my luck. “Will I need to take notes tonight? Since this is for business?”

“Smart ass.” He claps a hand on my shoulder, gives it a firm squeeze and a light shove toward the door. “Are you drunk?”

“Not quite.”

“Maybe we can work on changing that.”

I laugh. If he were anyone else, I’d swear we were flirting.