Page 61 of A Secret and a Lie
Clamping my jaw shut, I brace for the blow. Sure enough, his fist connects with my stomach, forcing the breath from my lungs as my body folds in half, coughing as I attempt to find the air I lost. I’ve been doubling up on my ab workouts for this very reason. It’s Leo’s favorite spot to aim for, though he doesn’t mind a hit to a kidney everynow and then, too. He tends to leave my face untouched, though, claiming that “no one would want to fuck an ugly whore.”
My eyes meet Marcus’s across the room, and I can see him fighting with himself to intervene, but I shake my head almost imperceptibly. He’d get fired, or worse. I can’t lose anyone else I care about. A beating isn’t worth that. I have so few friends left.
An hour—and a couple of bruised ribs later—I’m tumbling into the shabby, moldy apartment I share with my best friend. The window in the living room rattles as I shut the door, startling her.
Corinne’s warm hazelnut-colored eyes widen, and she scrambles to her feet, rushing me. “Jesus, Gen, what the hell did he do to you this time?”
I shake my head, mostly because I’m not sure I can speak. I haven’t tried. I never beg Leo to stop hitting me, and maybe that’s why he takes things as far as he does. I’ll never ask that man for a goddamn thing.
“Do you want help in the shower?” she inquires. When I toss my head again, she nods, adding, “I’ll heat you some soup. This can’t keep happening, Genevieve. He’s going to kill you one day.”
That’s not happening.I may not be in control of much of my life right now, but I’ll be damned if I let anyone control the way I die.
Later that night, after dragging the comforter up to my chin, I reach for my clunky, nearly ancient laptop, a grin already on my lips. Checking my messages is the best part of my day and has been for months. No one makes me smile as much as my mystery man. Too often, I find myself scrolling back through the thousands of messages we’ve exchanged over the last several months, experiencing the giddy feelings that come with his words all over again.
Rolling onto my side, I read the message.
@livingh3ll: Our paths have already crossed. I’d say that’s a permanent thing.
I stifle the squeal that climbs up my throat. I shouldn’t like this man as much as I do, especially since I have no idea what he looks like. He could be married with six kids living in Toronto, or an elderlywoman living in Germany, for all I know. He could’ve lied about serving overseas. We’ve never even exchanged real names.
I’ve been honest in every other regard, though, and I like that he knows me intimately, even if he turns out to be married with a half-dozen kids.
I’d say that’s a permanent thing.
My heart races as I reread the message. Being with him is a fantasy I indulge in regularly; it keeps me afloat, despite my torturous reality. I sigh, staring out the window that’s caked with dirt on the outside.
I never should’ve privately messaged him, but something about the comments he’d leave on my posts in the forum spoke to me.
No one tells you how hard it is to pull up your text thread with someone knowing they’re alive to answer, but won’t.
His thoughts felt like mine, only spoken differently. His words were like a beacon amid the darkness, drawing me closer to him with every comment.
They didn’t choose you, even when they could, and sitting with that is heavier than if they were actually dead.
They made me feel less alone; reminding me that I wasn’t the only one grieving people very much still alive.
I wish someone had warned me how crushing it would be to wait all day on a birthday phone call, knowing that it won’t come, but wanting it anyway.
After months of commenting back and forth, messaging him privately was like finally answering the siren’s call, and I’ve been gasping for breath since.
My parents aren’t buried; they’re simply dead to me. In a lot of ways, grieving people still alive is harder than if they were dead. I know because I have experience with both.
Of the two of us, my sister was the better person, the perfect child that every parent wants. I was never going to fill Emma’s shoes. When she died, my parents began projecting all their hopesand dreams for their golden child onto me. Emma could handle that pressure. I couldn’t.
I began lashing out, stepping out of line in a juvenile attempt to find myself. It wasn’t until I found sex that it felt like I’d finally unlocked the door to my identity. Still, it took me years before I understood who I was.
Even all these years later, when I’m with a client, I don’t hate what I do; I’m not disgusted with myself for taking cash in exchange for sex. I feel confident, empowered, authentic when I’m having sex. Sex and I are intimate lovers, pillow partners that know each other better than we know ourselves. It’s what makes me good at my job.
Sex has become a cultural taboo, something we can’t speak of, even as nearly every adult engages in the activity. It’s absurd. It’s that limited scope of sex that had me clashing with my parents after Emma’s death.
I haven’t seen my parents in two years. I still love them, but I’ll never be Emma, and that’s what they wanted. I suspect that they thought that would scare me into compliance. Unfortunately, it only thrust me into a very different kind of submission.
The computer screen goes dark, and I wiggle the mouse to bring it back to life. Feeling particularly vulnerable and raw tonight, I contemplate how to reply, gnawing on my bottom lip, getting chapstick in my mouth. He gets me, understands me on a visceral level, and every message we exchange has me falling further under his spell. I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever lets go of me.
Eventually, my fingertips skim the worn keyboard, typing a message I’ve never considered sending before now.
@dc_d0ll: Would it be crazy to start a new path together?
