Page 12 of Watch Me

“Fuck!”

There’s a squeal of rubber on concrete as Tate slams the brakes, and my head whips forward.

“Fucking asshole!”

He’s unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door before I have time to process what’s happening. He bangs his hand on the hood of a white car that squeals as it accelerates away from him and then yells after it.

“Motherfucker!”

My mind can’t keep up with the sudden change in atmosphere. I stare at him through the window uncomprehendingly.

“Asshole cut me off,” he fumes when he gets back into the car, angry energy sweeping in with the rush of air as he slams the door shut. He doesn’t even look at me. His entire focus is on the white car as it speeds away.

“Fuck that guy!”

I’m stunned into silence, wide-eyed and mute with surprise. His anger is so disproportionate and shocking that I give myself a pass on trying to have any conversation at all, and we drive home in relative silence. I say nothing, while Tate rages as if I’m not even there.

* * *

Hours later, I’m staring at the ceiling instead of sleeping, wondering if I took the easy way out of telling Tate something uncomfortable, wondering if I should have just said it anyway.

No matter what mood he’s in, he’s never going to take it well. There’s no dimension in the entire multiverse where Tate goes, “Lap dances? Oh yeah, I get it. That’s where the money is. And besides, it’s your body.”

Having secrets is probably why I feel disconnected from him, though, I know that. We’ve been living together for a month, yet we don’t seem to be getting any closer. If anything, we seem to be growing further apart. Tate’s on his computer all night—making it hard for me to sleep since he talks out loud the entire time—and I’m out of the house all day. Our sex life is nonexistent. If we kiss, he pulls away. He’s tired, he’s busy, it’s not the right time. I’m not getting enough sleep, I’m increasingly lonely, and more and more I worry that I made a big mistake moving in here in the first place.

But I don’t have the time to even think about moving again right now. My dance training is getting more intense as my audition approaches and I’m working every night to make money to pay for my classes, my pointe shoes, my food, my gym membership.

So I try to remember what it is that made me decide to move in here in the first place. I hold onto memories of the times I’ve looked at Tate and felt a swell of pride at how handsome he is, the times I’ve felt tender towards him… But the more I search for these heartfelt memories, the more they seem to be few and far between. The longer we live together, the more painfully obvious that becomes to me.

I pull the covers down around my chin and peep over to Tate’s work station, where he’s staring at his monitor in deep concentration. The screen curves, so I can’t see what he’s looking at, but the light vividly outlines his profile against the darkness of the window behind him so I can admire the straight line of his nose and the sensual fullness of his lips. Suddenly, an explicit memory of Nick pops into my mind—a scathing hot intrusive thought—and I almost gasp out loud. I clamp my hands tightly around the covers and hold my breath as heat passes through me, like I’m having some kind of episode.

Which, in a way, I am. Thoughts like this have been hijacking my brain for the past month, coming out of nowhere and filling me with guilt and shame. I haven’t seen Nick again at the club, and nothing like that has happened again. He’s just this one man that got under my skin, and thinking about him now as I try to gaze adoringly at my boyfriend makes me feel wretched.

I’m a horrible person.

Tate remains blissfully unaware that I am watching him, completely absorbed by whatever he’s looking at, and it feels like a metaphor for exactly what’s wrong with our relationship. His attention is always elsewhere.

Maybe that’s why these memories of Nick keep coming up for me. He was smoking hot, but he was also so dialed into me. We were so present with each other—right there, connecting.

There’s a beauty in being seen, in existing in someone else’s eyes. Human beings need it. I need it. It’s part of what I love about dancing—and, yes, stripping. Performing can be intimidating because it makes you vulnerable, but it’s also powerfully affirming. The audience’s gaze holds you while you unmask yourself. It’s supportive. With Tate, there’s never a safe space for vulnerability.

In fact, he’s never even seen me orgasm. The few times we’ve had sex, I’ve never come. That means that Nick, a stranger, knows me more intimately than Tate does.

The realization feels bleak. Is there any hope for us if things are already so fucked up?

I keep watching Tate, these gloomy thoughts eating away at me. It’s hard to deny it’s not working out between us, but watching him now I do feel tenderness towards him and his unkempt, effortless beauty. His thick hair is a tousled mess, flattened only somewhat by his headset, and I don’t know how a guy who never works out can pull off that tank top, but he does. I admire the line of his arm curving down to where his elbow is resting on the desk, the other arm at ease in his lap.

Finally, it occurs to me, the information filtering in slowly, that he’s being very quiet. Uncharacteristically quiet. Whether he’s playing with friends or filming one of his videos, Tate is always making a lot of noise—shouting, exclaiming, or dictating what’s happening. But this whole time I’ve been staring at him, he’s barely made a sound.

Yet he is speaking, I realize. He has his headset on, mic in place, and his lips are moving as he says something very quietly. My senses tune in, my breathing slowing as I focus on listening and become hyper-aware of every decibel.

“Yeah,” I hear him murmur, in a low, silky voice I don’t know. “That’s good.”

His resting arm moves, a sliding motion under the desk, and I realize that he’s reaching into his pants and pulling his dick out. He’s masturbating, and the realization rocks through me like I’ve been struck by lightning.

We’ve been together for five months, Tate and I. I’ve never had so little sex in any relationship, but I’ve come to a kind of acceptance that Tate just isn’t really a sexual person.

Except that he is—right now, with someone else.

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