Page 90 of Surviving the Merge
At the end, Julie asked me to stay behind. “How long have you been doing this?” she had asked once we were alone.
Slouching down into the cushions, I released a guilty breath. “This was my first time. It feels like a death, Julie. Losing Blake feels that big. When will I see him in Damon? For good, not just flashes here and there.” I got up and strode to the window, feeling confined all of a sudden.
“Justin,” she’d said, her tone patient, understanding. “Integration is not an event. I can’t give you the place, date, and time of it. It’s a process. A gradual one. All things considered, you both are making great strides rather quickly. It doesn’t seem like it now, but trust me when I say that you haven't lost Blake—because he was never his own person.”
The sun had gone down, but the office remained lit by only the small lamp over on Julie’s desk. A heavy drizzle began outside, adding a layer of comfort to the already intimate setting. “You know, in moments when Damon displays qualities of Blake’s, it’s so hard for me to wrap my head around it because I’m still calling him Damon. They’ve always been two different entities to me. It’s tough to now view them as one. I know it’s irrational to feel like I’ve lost something, but I can’t help it.” I thumped my hand against the glass.
“Justin, look at me, please.”
I turned her way and rested my back against the window. “I knew what to expect when dealing with them independently. Blake would be reasonable and Damon anything but. Now that they are mashed together, I don’t know if when I say, ‘I’m going for a run,’ if I’ll get ‘have fun honey,’ or locked in a room with no food or water. I’m having a hard time adjusting.”
“Have you communicated this to him?”
“No.”
“Communication needs to be the foundation,” she said, adamantly.
“What if I hurt him?”
“Then he needs to communicate that to you as well. If we need to work on ways for you both to effectively get your points across, then we will. You can’t do this again, though. We need to be building him up, not sabotaging him. His mental health is at stake here. It’s bigger than you, Justin.” She regarded my culpable expression, placed her notepad down, and walked over to me, cupping my cheeks in her small hands. “You messed up. That’s what we do. But tomorrow, you’ll do better, yeah?”
“Yeah. Tomorrow I’ll do better.”
The days of Damon slinking away when faced with a challenge were over. Now, he shut down completely or punished me for what he lacked. Last night, I’d broken my unspoken vow of celibacy since the divorce. Having gotten a better handle on not using sex for validation of being loved or being worthy of it, I’d asked him to make love to me. An epic fail.
Damon couldn’t get his hands positioned properly, his kisses missed the mark completely, and he almost couldn’t find my center. After a series of trial and error, he became frustrated.
“Fuck! I can’t do this. Turn around,” he’d growled.
I got onto all fours, and with his jaw locked around the meaty flesh at my shoulder, he fucked me in contentment. I missed connecting with him in that way. And although the reasons for needing it were different, how much I wanted it remained the same. I loved the intense physicality that came with sex. Being fucked by him still got me excited. And being owned before, during and after, still left me in the mood for more. So much more.
We talked more and more about Benji. Those discussions were fueled less by anger and more by nostalgia as the weeks passed. Any mention of Emilia would set him off, though.
“Don’t mention her name to me!” he’d yelled. “Her memory isn’t worth my time.” He left, slamming the door behind him.
The other day, he wore formal attire when the occasion called for casual. I checked in with him to be sure of who stood in front of me.
At this point, whenever he walked into a room, he’d say, “It’s me,” without needing to be prompted. It made me sad to hear it, sometimes. I yearned for the emotional stability Blake provided.
The trigger for Damon’s abrupt mood swings could be anything.
“Damon, I’m heading over to Max’s to watch the basketball game,” I said one night.
“Have fun,” he replied, slipping a stray lock of hair behind my ear and kissing my nose.
An hour later, he pounded on Max’s back door. “I decided I wanted to watch the game too,”he’d said, sliding around Max to enter the house. He sat me in his lap and kept a possessive arm around me the whole time. I sat there, fuming, but accepted that this was a part of the process.
With the fundraiser approaching, rehearsals were stepped up, so my visits to the city were infrequent. Damon did the commuting. He preferred that to spending nights alone at the condo.
We went to a Misfit gathering at Max’s place a week ago. To my surprise, Damon contributed.
“This week’s been tough. Today’s Benji’s birthday. He would’ve been eighteen.”
That was all he’d managed to get out. He kept looking over his shoulder at our house. I sensed he wanted to bolt, so I held tight to his bouncing knee, and he relaxed in increments. Instead of a big deal being made about what he’d shared, the next person took up the baton and kept things going. Everyone showed their support by also sharing what made their week hard. The few people who’d already had a turn went again. Pluto plopped down beside Damon, resting his head on his shoe. We were united, rallying behind him.
I was punished that night. “Bend over and hold your ankles. If you scream, I start over,” he’d promised. He allowed me to hold him after.
Deep, emotional intimacy still hadn’t been reached. We weren’t lacking for lust or even love—although he expressed his differently. But my heart sought complete and total vulnerability. It sought the annihilation of the walls protecting his mind, the fear that he wasn’t strong enough to handle what hid there, and the misconception that I’d leave once I truly saw him.
