That Night

By the time she finally gets in her car that night to drive to his place, it’s well past midnight. Late. Most likely too late. It’s become a theme.

She’d hesitated to call him earlier, ashamed that she’d let it come to this.  Afraid that Karen is with him; worse, might answer his phone. Once she’d finally summoned the nerve  - a shot of expensive vodka, purchased months ago on impulse, never opened - she’d only reached his voicemail.

‘Jim, it’s me…Pam. I just wanted to… to warn you, that I told Roy some... things, tonight and he was pretty mad. And I’m scared he might come after you and I’m so sorry and you should be careful and I’m sorry, I’m sorry Jim, I told him I kissed you and that it, well, it meant something…and he didn’t take it well and we’re done, we’re over, but he was really drunk and…just, please be careful. I’m sorry. For everything. Okay, bye…wait, please call me back and let me know if you got this. I’m sorry.’

She’d spent the next hour pacing her apartment. Waiting. Wishing that she’d told the him something – anything - long before he’d realized she was all wrong for him. Long before she’d ever been foolish enough to believe, for even an instant, that Roy could be the right one after all.

Irony was, Jim had taken hits for her, from her, before. He’d been her shock absorber, provided a soft landing for years. Years. Perhaps worrying about him being bruised and battered now was too little too late. Another recurrent theme. He’d suffered in silence so long.

And he’s silent now. He doesn’t return her call. With every elapsing minute, she feels more like she might quite literally burst. She imagines her skin, her guts, all of her, splitting apart and disintegrating, until it was like she’d never really existed.

Desperation finally trumps cowardice.

******************************************** 

So, here she is, looking up at him as he stands in his doorway. Staring at her through the eye that isn’t swollen shut. He’s disheveled, still in his dress pants, his shirt untucked and misbuttoned. She can see, laying half on a chair, half on the floor, his suit jacket and tie. And the shirt he’d worn that day, the blood splattered on it visible from across the room. It might as well be fluorescent.

A bruise is spreading across his cheekbone and he has a small cut on his lower lip, clearly the source of the blood on his shirt. It’s worse than she imagined, but better because he’s here in front of her breathing and still him. Or some version of him.

He doesn’t say anything, just turns away and walks back into his living room, leaving her poised awkwardly on the threshold. She can’t tell if that means he wants her to follow or go away or worst of all, he doesn’t care. She’s in automatic pilot now, so she moves inside, pushing the door shut behind her. It clicks shut loudly and she’s reminded – Karen could be here. The apartment has the still air of being empty, but she could be in the next room. She could be waiting for him in his bed. Listening.

‘Did you get my message?’ she asks anyway, trying to sound as calm as possible.

‘Uh, yeah,’ he answers, lowering himself to the sofa slowly, like he’s in pain. ‘Right about when Roy’s truck was pulling in the driveway.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ is all she’s able to eek out.

‘So I hear,’ he replies, his tone sardonic.

She’s never heard him sound like this before. An excruciating moment of silence is suspended between them.

‘You’re okay?’ he finally asks quietly, as if in spite of himself. His gaze remains trained steadily on the floor in front of him.

She’s too stunned to speak, suddenly on the verge of tears. But she knows she’s not the one entitled to cry now and she has no idea what she’s doing here, but that’s not it. She just nods. It seems to register, even though he still won’t look in her direction. Leaning his head wearily back against the cushions, he exhales audibly and reaches for a green plastic bag lying on the cushions. He shuts his eyes and raises it to his face, wincing as it touches him.

.

‘It’s a good thing you had the frozen peas,’ she offers after another interminable pause, realizing how lame it sounds even as the words leave her mouth.

‘I didn’t,’ his reply is punctuated by an acid-edged chuckle that sends another shudder through her. ‘Karen brought them over. I guess you could say it was her parting gift.’

‘Oh…I’m sor…,’ she begins, letting it dangle in the air when he shoots her a warning look that cuts her off before she can say it.

‘Just another thing I had coming tonight, I guess,’ he shakes his head, smiling a smile that’s not a smile at all. ‘According to her, she’s not actually leaving me because I was never really there in the first place.’

‘Oh god, I really fucked things up.’

She doesn’t know what else she can say. She has no vocabulary for this.

He’s silent for a long time, biting his injured lip and squinting slightly, as if considering this. When he speaks again, his voice is raw and wounded and so faint she has to strain to hear it.

‘You’re not the only one who fucked up,’ he glances over at her at last. Just barely. ‘But you know what it meant to me, Pam. I still haven’t got a clue what any of it meant to you.’

Before she can think or form a single word, he abruptly stands up, tossing the bag of peas onto the coffee table.

‘Look, I’m tired,’ he sounds gruff once again, whatever trace of tenderness vanished. Walking past her towards the other room, he definitively ends the conversation. ‘I’m going to sleep.’

And he’s gone.

 **************************************

She stands frozen for minutes that are hours. She’s so exhausted and so out of her element and so everything that she just can’t compute anymore. She has no choice but to go with her gut, even as she’s acutely aware that her instincts have failed her before.  She simply follows him.

His bedroom is dark, but the moon is full and her vision quickly adjusts. He’s lying in the center of the bed, partially covered by the blankets, wearing only his half unbuttoned shirt and his boxer shorts. It immediately strikes her that she’s never seen him this way, this privately, before. She shouldn’t be here. But her only impulse is to be near him.

She’s pretty sure he’s still awake, but his eyes are closed. Either way, he doesn’t seem to give a damn that she’s only a few feet away, watching him. He doesn’t, however, tell her to go either.

Truly beyond reason now, she walks over to the bed and steps out of her shoes, discards her cardigan. Pausing for a brief second, she lifts the covers and carefully slips into the narrow space beside him. He moves neither towards nor away from her. He doesn’t react at all. There are only a few inches between them, so she concentrates on being very still, on not disturbing him.

After a little while, she thinks she senses his body relaxing, uncoiling. His breathing becomes rhythmic and he seems to be sleeping. The urge to be closer becomes overwhelming. Very slowly and carefully, she slides incrementally towards him, until her side is lightly touching his. She’s not sure where he’s bruised and she doesn’t want to hurt him. She doesn’t want to be presumptuous. She is not unaware of the absurdity of that thought.

His body radiates warmth. It takes everything she’s got to resist putting her arms around him, laying her face against his chest, tangling her fingers in his hair. But she doesn’t want to ruin it. Not yet. In the morning, he’ll wake up and tell her to leave; but right now, for the first time in months, she’s glad the night is long. Just before she’s pulled into a deep sleep next to, if not with, him, she hears a sigh. The sound vaguely resembles her name.

She thinks it’s just her imagination.

 *************************************  

She wakes with a start. It’s half light and it takes her a full minute to figure out where she is. The first thing that she’s aware of is hot breath on the back of her neck. Then that she’s encircled from behind, an arm around her waist, large hand splayed across her stomach, holding her firmly against…him. She tries not to move, not to end this fragile dream. But she shifts ever so slightly and he awakens. It seems to take him a moment to regain consciousness as well, to comprehend where who why.

As soon as he does, he instantly withdraws his arm and rolls away onto his back, murmuring something that sounds like ‘sorry.’ His voice is so gravelly and low that she can’t quite make it out.

She’s still afraid to stir, to do anything that might cause him to get up or tell her to go. She finally forces herself to roll over. He’s staring at the ceiling. Propping herself up on an elbow so she can study his face, she’s unsure what’s compelling her at this point. But she’s barely slept and everything is fuzzy and she’s here and he’s here and she woke up in his arms, even if he’d only unconsciously put them around her in his sleep. Even if he’d thought she was someone else. 

She reaches her hand towards his bruised cheek, but before she can touch him, he grabs her wrist. He turns his head and looks directly at her for a few seconds, frowning slightly.  Then he simply releases it. Closes his eyes.  She continues. She carefully brushes the hair off his brow, to get a better look at his black eye. It’s less swollen and she’d noticed he could now open it. Very gently, hardly touching him, she traces her fingers over the discolored skin. He lets her. Exhales. She realizes she’s been holding her breath too.

This cannot be me, she thinks as she slowly moves her shaking hand down to his chest and begins unbuttoning his shirt. She hesitates between each one, waiting for him to stop her. He doesn’t.  When it’s completely opened, she pushes his shirt apart and gingerly trails the tips of her finger along the bruised smooth skin over his ribs.  He flinches, inhaling sharply, and she thinks maybe she’s hurting him. Her eyes quickly dart to his and she knows it s not that. It’s something else entirely.

‘Your ribs are broken,’ she says softly, her voice breaking in her effort to hold back the tears she feels burning behind her eyes again.

‘I don’t think so,’ he almost shocks her by answering at all. ‘I broke them playing football with my brothers when I was a kid…it hurt a lot more than this.’

It’s the first thing he’s said since she arrived that sounds like him. She immediately conjures an image of him as a little boy. The pang that accompanies it is so palpable that her heart literally skips a beat. Then another.

She risks a small smile. Though he doesn’t quite smile back, he steadily holds her gaze as she runs her index finger through the soft hair on his chest, up to his neck, to the already healing cut at the corner of his mouth. She lets it linger there, lightly outlining his lower lip, almost as if she were drawing it. His expression still betrays little, but his breathing becomes shallow and quick. Delicately resting her hand at his jaw line, she pretends to be brave as she tentatively lowers her lips to his, barely grazing them.

Emboldened when he doesn’t pull away, she kisses him again, this time a little more fully. He remains passive and she has a moment of panic. Perhaps she’s misinterpreted. But very gradually, almost imperceptibly at first, his lips start responding. Then his hand is in her hair, holding the back of her head. She feels his tongue sliding, sliding against hers.

She doesn’t know if this should be happening yet, but the sheer physicality of last night's events have somehow obliterated the lines. He carefully gathers her to him, as if she’s the injured one. When they’re flush against one another, she hears a moan and it takes her a second to realize it’s coming from her. Her insides twist, beginning at the spot where he’s pressed, unmistakably hard, against her belly. She pushes her hips into him; he groans and pushes back.

This is it then.

Rolling them so he’s on top, he raises himself up on his forearms. Poised over her, he looks down with a fullness in his eyes that she hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

‘Pam,’ he begins, still panting raggedly, ‘this has to mean something. I can’t…’

‘It does,’ she reaches up to hold his face, before he can find the words for what he can’t do.

‘I was an idiot before. I am so in love with you, Jim.’

He smiles. His real smile.

‘What? You were an idiot for being in love with me?’

It’s the old him and she’s never been so relieved. Or wanted anyone so much.

‘Oh, just c’mere…’ she nearly sobs, pulling him back to her.

She doesn’t need to shush him, because he’s clearly done talking. He’s busy wrestling with buttons and zippers and clasps. When he pulls away enough that he can finally see all of her, she surprises herself by not feeling bashful about being naked. And when he shakes his head slightly, whispering that she’s so beautiful, she actually believes him. She pushes his shirt off and then it’s his skin against hers and it’s at once shocking and oddly familiar. It’s the best thing she’s ever felt.

His hands, his mouth, his tongue, glide over her, everywhere, everywhere. Warm and gentle, but insistent. The sensation is almost too good, too much. She can’t stop touching him either and when she reaches down and nudges away his boxers, his breath catches tremulously in his throat. She closes her fingers around him and he stops moving his lips against her breasts, gasping. It has nothing to do with cuts or bruises. Having this effect startles her. He’s heavy and throbbing in her hand, so she tightens her grip slightly and strokes him, and when he moans Pam, it’s so intensely intimate that she almost thinks this is enough. She’s amazed that just touching him can bring her so close to the edge, but she’s right there. When his fingers find her, she cries out almost immediately. 

‘I want to be inside….’ his voice trails off, husky and urgent, as she regains focus.

Stretching an arm toward his nightstand, he roots around blindly until he locates what he’s looking for. He rips the package open with his teeth and she practically grabs the condom out of his hand. Drawing back to roll it onto him, she sees him fully now and oh god, this is Jim. Distracted, she fumbles and he takes over for her. They both nervously laugh a little, and for a moment, it’s just them again. But then he’s kissing her hard and that strange new momentum returns.

It’s obvious he’s straining not to go too fast as he slides into her. When she makes a soft strangulated sound in the back of her throat, he waits for a second.

‘Alright?’ he whispers.

She only needs him not to stop. She just nods, locking her gaze with his as he continues. When he’s all the way in, he groans and closes his eyes.

'I just need a minute,' he breathes.

And in that pause, as he holds her tightly against him, her only thought is this is Jim. He begins rocking in and out of her, slowly, then pushing deeper and faster and deeper and she almost cannot believe it’s him. He’s this sweet ache inside her, it’s his mouth on hers, his smooth back beneath her hands as she holds on. She wraps her legs around him; she can’t get close enough. She knows this won’t last long; it’s been building for years, years. She’s already almost there again when she feels his thumb searching between them, finding the spot. He smiles against her mouth when he hears her gasp.

‘Say my name,’ he sighs, still moving.

And she does, as she arches into him one final time and comes undone. While she’s still in the clutch of it, she feels him follow. He thrusts hard, pulsing and letting go with a great shudder of relief.

They just stay like that, collapsed together, still connected, for a very long time. Until the sheen of sweat dries and normal breathing resumes.

 And all the while, she still thinks, this is Jim.

****************************************

It’s past noon when they’re finally done sleeping then not sleeping then sleeping some more. She puts on his shirt from last night and wanders into his kitchen. There’s not much food, but she finds a box of waffles in the freezer.

‘Should we have these?’ she asks as he comes into the room.

He’s wearing clean boxer shorts and a tee shirt. His hair is a complete mess, bruises mottling his face. He looks almost unbearably handsome.

‘I don’t think there’s much else,’ he replies, ferreting around in the fridge for the carton of orange juice.

‘Well, there are peas…’

As soon as she says it, she realizes how not funny he might find that. He just stares at her for a moment, then smirks.

‘Never really liked them,’ he finally deadpans.

So they eat waffles. All of them, with prodigious amounts of real maple syrup. She remembers Roy always saying it was a waste of money, when Log Cabin would do. Roy. It occurs to her that she never asked how he made out last night.

‘Uh, Jim…is Roy…did you…?’

‘One good shot. Bloody nose,’ he answers, understanding what she’s asking.

She can see he’s trying not to, but can’t help smiling. She knows she shouldn’t, but she grins back at him.

When they’re finished, she takes their plates to the sink. As she turns back to him, he catches her by the wrist, and pulls her into his lap.

‘Does it still hurt?’ she asks, sliding her hand under his shirt and over his ribs.

‘Actually, not too much. I think you’ve made me impervious to pain.’

‘That could be dangerous,’ she answers, wrapping her arms all the way around him and burying her face in his warm neck.

‘Now what?’ she finally asks softly, her voice muted against his skin.

‘I don’t know…Nothing. Everything,’ he replies, resting his chin on top of her head.

She kisses his neck, his jaw line, next to his ear. Inhales.

‘Just you and me,’ he quietly concludes.

She closes her eyes.

Imagines it.