Page 31 of Expressionate
She's quiet for a moment before she finally talks. "People in relationships fight, Love. It's what happens when you love someone. So, yeah, we fight – but I’mfine.”
I turn to her. I don't know if she's right or not. I can't tell. I've never been in love or in a real relationship. I've had sex. I've had lots of sex. Dirty sex. Vanilla sex. Sex with multiple people – in the same night or at the same time – men, women, it never really mattered. Even now, I can look back and still not be entirely sure who I fucked or why. Maybe I’m just blowing things out of proportion – seeing monsters where there arenone.
Trisha's hand touches my arm. It's the wrapped one. I stare at it – it's her painting arm. I put my hand over the bandages. I don't know what they are there for. They look like hospital bandages, but the way they're wrapped looks wrong. "Did you wrap this?" Iask.
Trish looks down at her arm. "Um...yeah, I asked the nurses if I could. It looks kind of ugly to me. I didn't want to seeit."
I frown, but she stops me before I can even start again. "Please trust me, Love. If I need you to save me, I'll callyou."
"Will you?" I ask, my voice hard. I look into her eyes, remembering her as a little, blue-eyed toddler. Now, her eyes are more brown than blue. The color of our dad's instead of the icy tone ofAnne's.
"Will I what? Call you? Of course, I will." Trisha moves to pull her armback.
I grab it, gently circling her small wrist with my fingers. I don't apply any pressure. I don't want to hurt her, but I don't want her to pull back just yet. "Promise me," Isay.
"Promise you what?" She frowns inconfusion.
"I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that everything is okay and mean it. Don't lie to me. If I find out he's hurting you, Trish, I'll kill him. Promise me that you're okay and that if you're not okay, you'llcall."
The pause of silence between us is so loud, Trisha flinches. She pulls her arm away again and this time, I let her go. Something is going on, even if she won't tell me. Whatever it is, I'll find out. She's my sister. I mean it. If Lawrence is hurting her, Iwillkill him. I don't care if I go to jaileither.
"I'm fine," she says. "Ipromise."
Trish moves away, unbuckles her seat belt, and gets out of the car. I watch her go, not wanting to, but knowing her life is going to be filled with her own decisions. When she's in the house and it's clear she's not coming back out, I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb. I pull out my phone when I stop at a red light and quickly dial Lawrence's cell phone. I rarely use it – it's only for emergencies. He probably doesn't even know I have it. Trish gave it to me when they were first dating in case I ever needed to reach her and for some reason couldn't. He doesn'tanswer.
All these emotions inside me. All this anger. I need to shut it down. I reach inside myself and find that switch. Most people can’t find it, much less bring themselves to turn it off, but I have no such qualms. I put my mental finger against the switch and suddenly, I feel very cold. It’s a safe place to be in my little icepalace.
* * *
Lawrence never answers.Not any of the seven times I call him, and when I get home, Beverly is still gone. My eyes fall on the typewriter Tax brought over. It is a foreign idea for me, receiving presents without strings attached. Anne never gave me anything. My dad hadn't noticed. Danny had only given me things that would either suit him – like new lingerie – or to control me and feel good about himself. Whenever I look at that dusty typewriter, I know that I’ll think of Tax. He hadn't asked for anything inreturn.
I wonder if I should have told him why I went to his apartment. I sit at my desk and my head sinks into my hands, letting my eyes close. I bite my lip. Hard. Until I feel the skin break, and I taste coppery blood in my mouth. When I open my eyes again, I can’t see a damn thing in front of me. There’s one drop of blood from my mouth on my desk and the only reason I can tell is because it’s the only color in my line of sight. Just one blurry little dot of darkred.
When the evidence of my shame slides over my cheeks, burning paths across my skin, I gasp in a breath. Air sinks into my lungs. Then out again, and in. Breathing is like swallowing knives into my gut. They come inside, slicing me to ribbons, making me feel better; I need to feel this pain because if I was someone else, if I were different, maybe bad things wouldn’thappen.
Maybe Todd wouldn’t know about my secrets. Maybe Trish would feel like she could trust me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so fucking suffocated. So trapped in my own body. I need an out. I need salvation. I need a door, or even a fucking window. Something to relieve some of the pressure that is crushingme.
I don’t know how long I sit there, crying into my palms – feeling like I’m slowly being murdered by the weight of my chains. I drop my hands away, and my blood smears across the desk until the edge of my fingers hit the typewriter and I’m jerked back toreality.
Thelyrics.
Tax.
I sit there, staring at the hunk of metal and plastic – and emotions. Tax is like a flaming candle, his emotions burning bright. His rage, his anger, his desire – a beacon for me to follow. I skim my fingertips over the keys. He’s the one overflowing with emotion, tightly wrapped inside all that masculinity. The brutal cage fighter. The red hot, burning fire in those oceanic eyes of his as blood smudges his knuckles. The electric kiss that seemed to both breathe life into me and break me of my expressionlesssilence.
Maybe I’m a fool for being drawn to the flames. Maybe I’ll get burned, but maybe that’s what I crave. I need something to separate myself from Trisha and Lawrence and Todd and fucking Danny right now. I needTax.
My chest coils tight and my head hurts. By the time Beverly comes crashing into the apartment. It's barely 9pm, but I can tell from her raucous giggles and obnoxious banging around that she's already drunk. I think about locking my bedroom door, putting in earbuds, and just ignoring her for the rest of the night, but I feel restless. I flipped the switch on the wall outside my bedroom to turn the air conditioner off and despite the lack of chilled air coming from the vents above my bed, I feel impossiblycolder.
I stare up at the vent, before I pick up my purse and stride into the hallway. I ignore Beverly's open bedroom door and the sounds of moaning – both male and female – as I pass by and leave the apartment. Though I didn’t plan it, it almost seems prophetic that when I shut the door, Tax's opens and he and his roommates stride out, dressed for a night on the town it seems, though a little differently than before. My eyes skim over Cross’ dark wash jeans and simple band t-shirt, and Blake’s similar ensemble until I reach Tax. Tax is the only one not wearing jeans. His leathers fit his ass like a glove and his sleeveless shirt is white with splashes of a trash polka design across thefront.
"Going out?" Tax asks as Blake heads for thestairs.
Cross – looking more relaxed than when I last saw him – winks my way before following his friend. He's a little confusing that one, sometimes flirty and playful – like he had been with Beverly – and sometimes overly serious and kind of an asshole. I guess tonight he's the playfulflirt.
"Yeah," I answer Tax'squestion.
He raises an eyebrow. "Whereto?"
