Chapter Forty

Maeve

They hold me for a long time. They hold me until my tears turn into little sobs. They hold me until my little sobs bring on my stupid fucking hiccups. And they hold me until I stop hiccupping and crying, and finally, silence fills my hotel room.

They hold me until I am ready to let go, which is just before there is a knock at the door.

"Shit." I sniff. "Our food."

Loncey looks down at their negligee. "I'll get it," they say and before I can stop them and offer to go myself, they walk away.

I hear them talking to whoever has brought the food and then a few seconds later they reappear pushing a trolley.

"I figured you might not want them coming in and seeing you right now," they explain.

"And yet you let them see you looking as fabulous as that." I nod at their appearance and feel a welcome smile pull on my lips.

"They survived." Loncey shrugs.

"And so did you."

Loncey returns my smile then points to the trolley. "You want to eat?"

"Fuck, yeah," I say.

They laugh and then point at me. "Your appetite. That's one of your stars."

The reference to what they said earlier has a fresh batch of tears threatening to surface, but I smile back as I follow them to the small round table near the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the far end of the room. It's not the most spacious hotel room I've ever stayed in and there's only one King bed in the room, but the view more than makes up for it as it includes Downtown LA all lit up in the background and closer, the rolling hills, palm trees and roof tops of West Hollywood.

As it happens, the view seems to preoccupy us both as we start to eat the food that Loncey lays out on the table. We talk very little and I really am very hungry so I waste no time eating my club sandwich and fries, before polishing it off with a slice of vegan baked cheesecake. I feel Loncey's eyes on me as I lick the last crumbs off my fork.

"Should we order some more food?" they ask with a crafty smile.

I relinquish the fork and lean back in my chair, my hand stroking my stomach that now pushes against the waistband of my pyjamas.

"Maybe in an hour or so," I tease and get the grin I was aiming for.

"Another star," they say, wiping their mouth with a white cloth napkin. "And it's a big one. A sun, no less."

I shift in my chair, feeling a heady mix of uncomfortable and yet completely where I'm supposed to be. "What is?"

"Your sense of humor."

"I got that from my Da," I tell them. "I think you'd like him."

I freeze when Loncey doesn't reply. I wonder if I've said the wrong thing. Loncey doesn't have a relationship with their father and never talks about him. Am I rubbing it in their face when I talk about how decent my own father is?

"I'd like that," Loncey says and I wait for more words, for them to elaborate on how that couldn't possibly happen when they live in Las Vegas and my dad lives in Ireland. But Loncey falls quiet and their gaze dips to their empty salad bowl.

"I'll take all the plates out of here," I say, getting up.

Loncey reaches for my wrist and stills my movement. "No, sit, Maeve. We should finish our conversation from earlier."

I fall back into the chair behind me and realise with the heaviness of that movement how tired I am. "Yeah, we probably should."

"I mean, hold back the enthusiasm, Maeve," Loncey says, their voice dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry." I bring my hand to my mouth to cover my yawn. "I'm just really fucking tired. I'm jetlagged to fuck and to top it all off, I'm on my period, so you know."

I don't know why I just revealed that to them but they barely blink at the information.

"Then let's get you to bed."

"You don't want to talk?"

"We can talk in the morning. I want you to get some rest."

"Promise me we will talk? That we'll come up with some kind of plan for us? Because I don't think I can do another hotel goodbye and weeks of silence like last time." My voice quivers and I know they hear it too but I don't care. I'm too exhausted to care even if I wanted to, but I don't. I want them to know that what I feel for them is real and so are my hopes for us.

"I promise, Maeve," they say and I believe them.

*****

The tiredness really sets in as I brush my teeth, do minimal skincare and tuck my hair inside my silk wrap. I'm vaguely aware of Loncey getting themself ready for bed too – washing their face, brushing their teeth and flossing – but I leave the bathroom before they're finished and crawl into bed with heavy-lidded eyes. By the time the bed moves as Loncey gets in beside me, I'm half asleep. But then I feel their body heat and I get this overwhelming sense of their presence next to me. It doesn't jolt me awake exactly, but it shakes me enough that it instantly makes it harder for me to drift off into the sleep that was just within arm's reach.

"I hope you sleep well, Maeve." Their voice fills the darkness after they switch off the light.

"You too, Loncey," I reply, already knowing it's going to take a while for sleep to come back and claim me.

After many long minutes I feel a restlessness in my legs, a sensation I often have when I'm on my period, and I know it's exacerbated by the long-haul flight I did the day before yesterday. Typically, the only thing that relieves it slightly is tossing and turning, that or a quick orgasm. Reluctant to do the latter for many different reasons, I wait until Loncey's breathing is steady and slow and then I roll over and stretch out my legs. It gives me approximately five seconds of relief and then I have to do it again. A beat later I'm swapping which leg is higher, rustling the covers as I do.

"Are you okay?" Loncey asks, sounding very awake.

"Yeah," I say immediately and then think about it. "Actually, no. I've got restless legs."

"Oh that's horrible. My mom gets that."

"She does? Does she have a magic way to get rid of them?"

"Baths with magnesium salt. And eating enough iron."

"Hmm, how much iron is in a club sandwich?"

Loncey scoffs out a quick laugh. "Probably not as much as a chicken kale salad."

I groan and roll over again in bed so I'm facing them. My eyes have adjusted to the dark in the room and I can make out their silhouette lying on the pillow looking straight up at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry if it's stopping you from falling asleep," I say.

"Don't worry about it. I was still awake."

"So should we talk now?" I say with a yawn I can't stifle.

"No, I want you to sleep." Loncey rolls onto their side to face me. "Would… would what you did last time help?"

"A cheeky orgasm?" I say, trying to keep my voice as playful as possible to try and mask over the conflicting feelings that surge inside me.

"Yeah."

"I don't know. Maybe," I admit.

"I could do that again," they say. "Talk you through it, I mean. If that's what you wanted."

"It has helped in the past," I say. "Orgasms always make me feel sleepy."

"They're supposed to. Once that oxytocin and prolactin are released and you suppress any naughty cortisol flying around, the body just wants to sleep. It's like a reward for doing some reproducing."

"Even if you're not actually, you know, reproducing."

"Our bodies are only so clever," Loncey says and I see their shoulders move in a soft shrug.

"Speaking of reproducing." I prop my head up on my hand, my arm bent at the elbow. "Do you… do you want kids, one day?"

I hear Loncey suck in a deep breath. "I don't think I do, Maeve. I don't see myself being a parent, at least not in the traditional way. I like children and I like having mentoring-type roles in my work, but I don't want it to be any bigger a part of my life than it already is."

"Wow, that's a much more polite response to my usual answer to that question."

"Which is?"

"Fuck, no. I hate kids."

Loncey's laugh is music to my ears, making me want to kick my feet and giggle to myself but I resist the urge, restless legs and all.

"You don't hate kids. You're already a goner for your niece."

"True," I say, feeling a rush of love for the little life growing inside Jenna. "But that's different. I want her in my life, but I don't want her to be my life."

"I get that."

I swallow before speaking. "Also, I don't think I'll ever be comfortable with, you know, being pregnant or doing what I'd have to do to get pregnant."

There's a too-long silence before Loncey speaks and I both desperately want to know what they're thinking and am terrified of their true thoughts on this revelation.

"Can I ask you some questions about that?" they ask gently. "You can say no. You don't need to explain yourself to me, but I would like to understand it better."

"You can ask," I say, "but honestly, there isn't much to say."

I say it, willing it to be true. I don't want it to be a big deal. I've never been sure if it should be a big deal or not, but I hate the idea that it would be deemed a big deal by others.

"Have you ever had penetrative sex before?"

"Yes." I don't say more because it suddenly feels like there's too much to say.

"And you didn't enjoy it?"

"No. I did not."

"Maeve, did someone hurt you? Was that what made it a bad experience?"

"Jesus, I wasn't raped if that's what you mean," I say almost dismissively and then feel like an idiot for adopting such a flippant tone about something so serious.

"Okay, so can you tell me what happened?"

I only intend to sigh but it comes out as a rough groan.

"I guess for it to make sense we have to go back a bit further," I say.

"Okay. I'm listening."

"I…" I pause, wondering if this is hard to talk about because I never have or because I still feel, even after all this time, like I'm making a big deal about nothing. "The first boy I kissed grabbed my boob without asking. It fecking hurt. I was fourteen years old. I pushed him off me and vowed I would never let another fella do that to me. And I waited a really long time to kiss somebody again – a decent guy, a boy I was friends with first. And that was grand, you know. I mean, it wasn't awful, but it wasn't amazing either. And this was a time when all my friends were starting to have sex and talk about how amazing it was. I just assumed I didn't want to have sex with this boy, Timmy O'Connor was his name, because we were too good friends. So I dumped him and waited for something better to come along. Somebody who I felt more for. But that didn't happen. It didn't happen for so long that I felt self-conscious that I was the girl not getting any, so when I was about eighteen, I met and hooked up with this older guy. Dermot Mullaney," she closes her eyes for a moment, sucks in a rough breath.

"He was already in college while I was still in secondary school, or what youse would call high school, I guess. Anyway, he took me on proper dates. To restaurants and bars and on long drives through the countryside. That made me feel really grown-up and I started to think that maybe I could have sex with him, because that was a grown-up thing to do too, right? But I also knew I wasn't really ready. But I never told him this. And I stupidly went away for a weekend with him, over in Galway in this poxy B&B that looked good on the website but in reality was all dust and chintzy décor. Anyway, when it came time to go to bed, I realised how badly I'd fucked up. But I still never said anything. I just hoped for the best. We were in bed and we started kissing but he didn't do anything else and I thought, okay this is grand. I'm okay. But then something just switched in him and the next thing I know his hand was in my knickers and his fingers… were inside me. And, fuck, it hurt. It felt so, so, so wrong. I nearly threw up in his mouth."

"Shit, Maeve," Loncey says, and their voice is as soft as a feather.

"And he didn't stop. Even when I moved my face away from kissing him. He kept poking and prodding and pushing." I curl my legs up, feeling the ghost of the pain all over again.

"That shouldn't have happened. What he did was so wrong."

"But was it? We were boyfriend and girlfriend. We'd been together for months and he'd been so patient, not even talking about sex with me—"

"Maeve, Jesus, no. There are no excuses. There's no world where what he did was okay. No way."

"Anyway, it was the most expensive break-up of my life. I eventually pushed him off me and demanded he take me home, but he refused. I had to get a taxi all the way back to Dublin. Luckily I was already doing a bit of brand work with my content creation so I had the money otherwise I would have had to call my parents or my brother, and that would have been mortifying."

"You mean they don't know?" Loncey's cadence is full of disbelief.

"Of course not! Jesus, I'd die a thousand deaths if they ever heard that story."

"Have you told anyone?"

I pause because I can already hear what Loncey thinks of this in their voice. "No."

"That's a lot of trauma to hold inside your body all on your own," they say.

"Trauma? It wasn't trauma," I say but my voice shrinks and so do the defences I built years ago when this happened.

"Maeve, he violated your trust. He hurt your body. He abused you."

I want to snort. I want to laugh. I want to bat their words away, but I can't. Instead I start to slowly, silently cry.

"You know, I have always wondered if this is why I don't like sex. Like, am I asexual for real? Or is it all just because I had bad experiences?"

The sheets rustle and I watch Loncey wriggle a little closer but still they give me space, don't reach for me or touch me.

"You mean, there were other things that happened?"

I sniff. "Not as bad. But the first few times I had sex, I didn't really want it. I was forcing myself to do it, to see if it changed anything in me. The first time was with this other influencer who made me laugh and I really did like hanging out with him, and he was sweet enough, waiting until I told him I was ready. But the sex was… honestly, unbearable. And he picked up on it. He broke up with me not long after. The second time was after I'd just hired Aisling, my agent in Dublin and he was a model also signed with her. No word of a lie, he's the prettiest-looking fella you'd ever be likely to meet so I figured it had to be better with him. I would have to feel something. But I didn't. We did the deed but the next day I texted him to say I was too busy for a relationship. There were a few others I tried to see if it was me or them, but I've pretty much kept to that party line ever since. And that's the extent of my sad and sorry sexual escapades."

"Maeve," Loncey says but then falls silent.

"Please don't feel sorry for me," I say, wondering if that's the awkwardness I can feel now in the room. I don't want their pity.

"I don't feel sorry for you. I feel angry for you."

"Well, I don't think I want that either. I'm not broken, alright. Even if the reason I don't want to have sex is because some feckless shithead stuck his fingers inside me without asking first, that doesn't mean I'm broken." I hear the desperation in my voice, desperation for what I'm saying to be the whole and irrefutable truth.

"I know you're not broken. You are one of the most whole and put-together people I know."

I pause, steadying my voice before speaking again. "Then what are you thinking?"

"I think you're very brave for navigating that all on your own, when you were so much younger too. I think you're beautiful to still want to get close to somebody after being hurt. I think you're incredibly strong, even though I wish you didn't have to be. And I also think I want to hold you, but only if it would make you feel good."

I wipe my face with my hand. "Yes. Please."

Loncey's arms waste no time reaching for me and I'm pulled into their embrace. I bury my face into their shoulder, and I tuck one of my legs between theirs. I wrap my arm around their body and stroke the smooth silk of their nightie as they start to leave a constant rhythm of kisses on my forehead.

"I'm sorry, Loncey," I say, and I hope they hear the depth and sincerity with which I say it.

"Why, Maeve, why are you sorry?"

"Because I may never want that. I may never want you inside me."

They push me away and grip hold of my upper arm. In the light, I'd be able to see their face but right now it's too dark. However, as soon as they start to talk, I can easily imagine what their expression is.

"Do not apologise for that. Never ever, Maeve. You can apologise for being grumpy, or more sarcastic than is necessary, and for making me eat crappy food when I'd rather have a perfectly decent chicken kale salad, but you must never, ever apologise for that."

"Okay," I say quietly, and I make an effort to lodge this little speech somewhere inside me where it will grow and claim all the self-doubt and fear and shame I still have even though I have tried so long to rid myself of it all.

"What do you need now?" they ask. "To feel better. Tell me what you need?"

"I know I need sleep," I answer honestly, feeling the weight of my exhaustion settle in my bones.

"Shall I keep holding you, or do you need space?"

"I need." I pause, unsure of what I need but it doesn't take much thought for me to realise. "I need to feel close to you."

"How would you like to feel close to me?"

"Can we… can I do what I did before? In Vegas? But with you holding me?"

"You want to touch yourself while I hold you?"

"Yes," I say and I want it so much I don't care if it's for all the wrong reasons. I don't care if I want this kind of intimacy with Loncey because I still feel like I need to offer them something sexual, even if it's not the full experience or what they're used to. I don't care if doing this will make me question my asexuality, because Lord knows it doesn't take much for me to feel like an imposter even in this space that feels like home most of the time.

I don't care about anything but having Loncey's body close to mine, their breath on my skin, their kisses on whatever part of me their mouth can reach. I've been craving this closeness for four long weeks, oscillating between allowing myself the fantasy and forbidding myself from indulging.

"Do you," they pause, "do you need to go clean up? If you're on your period, I mean."

"I'm wearing a cup. I just changed it," I say and I wonder if I should feel strange talking about this with Loncey, but I don't. Still I feel the need to add, "I don't love putting it in me, you know, but it's worth it for how easy it is.

"I get it, Maeve," their smile is reassuring. "Well, this should feel extra good."

"What should?"

"An orgasm, when you're on your period. I've heard they're more intense, more enjoyable because there's more blood flow. It can be the same thing for pregnant people too. Some also say it can help with cramps and pelvic floor pain."

"How do you even know all this?"

"I live with two menstruating women – one of whom is a midwife – and I've had relationships with menstruating people. Also, I'm interested in stuff like that. How bodies work."

"Fair enough," I say, and it sounds a bit grumpy which was not my intention.

"Roll over, Maeve," Loncey says, their voice slow and low, just like it was last time and I find it so instantly soothing, I'm silent as I obey. They pull me back against them, and they place a lingering kiss on my shoulder as they rest their hand on my hip. "I'm going to leave my hand right here. If you want me to put it somewhere else, I will. Just tell me."

"There is fine," I say. I wish I wanted them to touch me somewhere else, but I don't. I want them close, but I don't want their hands anywhere but exactly where they are.

"Let me get a pillow to go between us," they shift, lifting us both slightly.

"Why?" I ask, horrified at the thought of our closeness being interrupted.

Loncey sighs. "I'm going to get turned on, Maeve. I don't want that to make you uncomfortable."

"You're talking about your erection?"

"Yes."

"I don't mind it. I mean, I don't mind feeling it against my back. I just… I don't want to see it or have it anywhere else though."

"Are you sure? I don't mind getting a pillow."

"But I do mind," I say, firmly. "I want to feel close to you."

They kiss my shoulder again as they settle back in the pillows and bring me with them. When their hand is back on my hip, I exhale slowly.

"Touch yourself, Maeve," they say. "Make yourself feel good. A good girl likes you deserves to feel good."