Chapter 61

Ardal

My heart begins to race.

Jack meets my eyes, swallowing nervously. “And I’ve been missing you,” he says.

His affection is a balm for my pain. The heat I’m feeling between us is an escape from my fears. The longing to feel something - anything - but the stark reality of my child sitting a few doors down hooked to a dialysis machine, makes me want to fling myself into his arms.

He is the superhero in a white coat saving us.

Heart pounding, I raise my head, tilting my lips up to his. He leans in to kiss me, but before I can lose myself in him, we’re interrupted by the sound of footsteps outside of the partially opened door.

He yanks apart from me just as a nurse walks by. “Maybe you should head off upstairs,” he says, voice heavy with a mixture of lust and frustration.

A sly smile tugs at my lips. I reach my arm out, clicking the door shut.

His eyes widen in surprise. Then, without wasting a moment, he pulls me towards him, crushing my lips against his. He runs his fingers over my back, tracing my curves, and pulling me even tighter against him.

I can feel his hardness pressing against me and my body reacts instinctively, grinding against him. He groans, and flips me around, pushing me against the desk. His fingers clutch my hips tight as he leans in close.

"Is this okay," he asks, his hands squeezing my ass, as he prepares to enter me from behind.

Is it?

I'm starting to feel a strong dissonance. There's what my body wants and what my heart wants. The two aren't gelling, and although I respond affirmatively, I'm immediately filled with a dull ache of regret.

He tugs down his pants and underwear, then he reaches around to unbutton and unzip my jeans, his fingers lingering when he finds my clitoris, eliciting a deep moan from my throat I can’t hold back.

He slips my jeans past my hips. Like a third party stationed in the room, I hear myself sigh contentedly when he guides himself inside me. Despite the aching satisfaction radiating through me, I’m immersed, like a lobster, into a bubbling stew of loathing.

He pushes in greedily, and I hate myself, him, and this airless office with its cold tile floor and the clunky heater in the corner. The windowless walls seem to be consuming us, trapping us together in a vacuum-sealed crypt. I even hate the overpriced, brand-name water flask on the desk, watching me while I lay sprawled across the desk, my face smashed against the cold unforgiving surface.

He starts to move in a steady rhythm, filling me with both a pleasure and a sickening sense of betrayal of myself. My fingers grip the desk and I try to focus purely on the erotic sensation. That by itself, feels right. But it’s wrong.

I want to scream, “Enjoy it, Ardal! Get your head in the game!” Jack's thrusts become more frantic and his breathing is becoming uneven. My head bounces frenetically across the surface of the desk in almost comedic fashion, and I can feel my own wave cresting, even while the dysphoria grows.

I shut my eyes to block out the sight of the stupid water flask and rapidly rub my fingers over myself in a wild throng of desperation. I ride the wave that finally hits me - a vacuous spasm and a chemical bath of oxytocin and dopamine - just as the true, bleak emotions catch up.

It’s an empty, carnal pleasure and I’m left feeling worse than before.

With one final rutting motion, Jack cries out in orgasmic bliss. He slumps against me and I summon everything inside me to be okay.

It’s fine. I’m fine.

Briefly, I allow myself to be held there, before he withdraws from me and spins me around.

I look into his eyes. His handsome face is flushed. His blond hair is in messy waves. He’s sexy, smart, and kind. Hooking up with him shouldn’t feel bad.

But his icy blue eyes aren't the deep brown that truly see me - like, x-ray vision kind of seeing me. His bergamot scent isn't the spice-tinged honey aroma I crave. The timber of his voice doesn't have the commanding register that makes me feel safe, or the playful affection I love.

His kisses don't make my toes curl. And the gentle touch of his hands lacks power. Sex with him doesn't transport me to a higher plane, or make me want to fall to my knees in ecstasy.

It's a lot more than the physical, though, I feel a deep homesickness that threatens to undo me completely.

I try to smooth my face into an expression of happiness, slapping a fake smile on like I were a Mr. Potato Head toy.

"That was... unexpected, but wonderful," Jack says, appreciatively panting.

"Really good," I agree.

I smile at him, re-dress, and then make a rapid exit.

I throw some water on my face in a nearby bathroom, gaslighting myself more and more with each successive thought: ‘You got off. The sex felt great. He’s great. Just give it some time.’

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The glare of the overhead bulbs highlight the circles under my eyes.

‘I just need to get Kadeem out of my mind so I can fully appreciate Jack, and be present when I’m with him,’ I think, smoothing back my hair.

Jack and I have only been on one date. We hardly know each other. There’s no reason he should feel like home. It’s not his fault we didn’t meet when I was ten, for God’s sake! I’ve got to quit clinging to what is familiar. Familiarity doesn’t mean something is healthy or right.

But will I ever care for him the way I want to?

‘You won’t if you don’t give him a chance,’ I think.

By the time I march upstairs for my labs, I’m fighting a headache and believing my own bullshit.

Peggy and Leah are with Erbao when I return to his room. “Just in time,” Peggy says, getting things ready to end the dialysis. “Almost done with Mr. Wilde, here.”

Erbao notices the wrap around the crook of my arm. His tired eyes search my face for reassurance.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “Just a little blood work.” My stomach twists again and I pray silently that I get good news back on my labs soon.

Satisfied, Erbao turns back to Leah who's invented a silly game to distract him while Peggy works diligently to gently disentangle Erbao from the machine.

An overwhelming swell of gratitude begins to overwhelm me as I witness the tender care they’re providing for my son. Wanting nothing in return, they’re going above and beyond to make sure he’s okay. A lump catches in my throat and I have to bite down hard on my lip to stop myself from crying.

The world is full of people with open arms and hearts. People who are vulnerable and fragile, but not afraid to make decisions and take actions. People who don’t hold back from showing love - who don’t just keep the door ajar in a frozen, half-open state of limbo.

What do I have to do to throw open the door of my soul? How do I put an end to standing in the doorway? When will I find the courage, despite my fears, to quit protecting myself and take risks?