Page 8 of Teach Me To Sin

“Uh-huh. My dinner’s coming out of the oven, so could you give me an estimate on how much longer you want to not talk about Alek Simmons?”

Fuck. I pull sharply into my driveway. My house looks tiny compared to the mansions on either side–just one bedroom, an office, a combination living room and kitchen, and a bathroom. I designed it to my exact specifications and outfitted it with the best of everything. “I hate that you found a sense of humor. You’re unbearable now.”

He bursts out laughing, and suddenly I miss him–not as a lover, but as an intellectual partner. We could carry on a conversation for days without running out of things to say.

“Just forget about him and move on. I’m sorry I wasted a day of your busy retirement.”

“Don’t you start.” Pulling into the garage, I watch raindrops trail down the windshield. “But maybe—you should ask Ethan to give Alek my number. In case he listens to sense.”

“So you can tell him how much you hate him. Or do you want to jerk off while he insists that he’ll never listen to a thing you have to say?”

I hang up on Gray mid-word, then rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes. It’s embarrassing how well he knows me even after ten years, like I’m just that stagnant. The garage door hums shut automatically as I fingerprint scan into the house. At the soft beep, I hear two thuds, followed by the clattering of claws on the wood floor. My borzoi come galloping down the hall in a cascade of silky fur, wagging their tails furiously. Triss, my cream and red girl, bounces in circles while Hamlet, the black boy with the white chest, snuffles my hand. They look like dogs you’d see in a medieval tapestry, but they’re the silliest fools imaginable underneath.

The rain has picked up, but I need to outrun the fact that my only source of meaningful interaction is an ex I cheated on who feels sorry for me. Stripping out of my suit, I pull on a black compression shirt and athletic shorts, topped with an oversized windbreaker. “Ready for a walk, lord and lady?”

They both go berserk at the word, making it impossible for me to attach their harnesses. By the time they drag me out the door, it’s truly storming in a way that almost never happens in Washington. Wind picks up in the trees, tossing rain diagonally, and the clouds look purplish and threatening on the horizon.

My hiking boots splash through puddles and slick mud as the dogs hurry down the familiar, rutted track in the woods behind my neighborhood. It takes me hours to groom them when they get filthy like this, but they won’t entertain any kind of jacket and their souls would be crushed if we stayed home. It’s not as if I have anything better to do than listen to classic car podcasts as I dry and brush them out. Gray would laugh, since my refusal to take care of anyone besides myself was what brought us crashing down. But these two are my exception, my way of staving off the loneliness, so I don’t fuck up and seek out human relationships.

When the ground begins to rise deep in the trees, I take off their leashes and let them bound away among the dripping ferns and mossy trunks. They circle me like I’m their sun as I climb the low hill where I can look across and see hints of Seattle’s downtown and, beyond that, the Sound. This whole hill will be torn out and developed as soon as someone besides me discovers these views.

Catching my breath, I admire the dim, misty skyline I’ve learned to love over the past few years. I’ll miss it when I leave, but it will be replaced with something better. In six weeks, I’m embarking on a ship that sails around the world for five months. I don’t know where yet, but somewhere along the way I’m going to find a destination that feels like home, where no one knows me or needs anything from me. I’ll disembark, buy a place, bring the dogs over, and never look back. This aching lethargy that’s infected my bones will finally disappear.

Hamlet careens up to me, wet tail flapping like a banner, and bounces around until I fish a ball from my pocket and throw it. I’ll miss them terribly while I’m gone, but a wonderful woman I used to work with is going to take care of them while I find us a new home with unfamiliar fields and forests that they’ll love exploring.

We play fetch until my arm aches, then slip and slide back down the hill. When the lights of my house come into sight, I wish I had taken that flirty boy up on his silent invitation. In between fucking his brains out, enjoying his probably endless stamina, we could have had coffee in front of the fire and talked about Alek Simmons. Because apparently, we both have him on our minds.

Benji

Forty-five minutesafter the smoking hot daddy in the suit drives away, the skies open and it starts to pour. Fat droplets slide down the back of my neck and drip off the end of my nose until I’m shivering, my clothes plastered to my skin.

Coming here was the most selfish thing I’ve ever done, and that’s saying a lot. All because I want him to lecture me one more time, to insist I’m worth something. To look at me with such naked longing. The thought of walking away makes me want to cry, while the thought of going inside makes me sick with self-loathing. If it weren’t for the weather, I’d probably stand in this parking lot forever.

Trying to fix my soaked hair, I duck through the front door of the Lang Aquatic Center before I can change my mind. The pissed-off man said Alek was in here somewhere, but it looks deserted. Most of the fluorescent ceiling lights are off, and the little reception desk area has been locked shut. Maybe everyone left out the back while I waited, and I’ll go home with nothing. Maybe we’re all saved from my selfishness.

But as I turn to leave, shrill giggling echoes down the hall. Unable to stop myself, I drift toward it. The walls are covered in awards–Community Diversity and Inclusion,Nonprofit of the Year,Western Washington Changemaker Award. Framed photos show off different classes and programs, from kids to seniors to folks with wheelchairs and other disabilities. I know a lot of celebrities who run charitable organizations. They hire other people to orchestrate everything, then swing by in their Ferrari for a photo op once a year, hugging a random baby or shaking some marginalized person’s hand without bothering to learn their name.

By contrast, Alek is in the middle of every photo. Half the time his ass is pointed at the camera because he’s too busy to notice what’s going on. My stomach’s a hard, queasy knot, but he still makes me smile. How could I not come find him again, even if it’s the worst idea in the world? I’m greedy like that.

Splashing and screams drift into the hall, through a door propped open by a chair. When I stick my head inside, I discover ten or so parents lined up on a bench against the wall. Most of them put down their phones when their noisy progeny scramble out of the pool and run over to them, screeching for towels. Alek stands off to the side with rumpled hair and a tired smile, giving out high fives as they scamper past.

As the first family packs their tote bag and heads for the exit, I awkwardly hold the door open for them. The squeak of the hinges makes Alek glance up from his conversation. His obsidian eyes widen when they find me, and he breaks off mid-sentence. Just when I wonder if he’s angry, a tiny smile pulls at his mouth and he goes back to chatting with a dad about how to work on his son’s fear of water. The way he gestures confidently as he explains the theory behind his lesson plan triggers my fetish for men who are skilled at what they do.

Since I’ve committed, I have to stand there and hold the door for all ten families, most of whom don’t bother to thank me. When the front doors creak shut one last time and a tranquil hush fills the space, I step uncertainly into the room. “You came,” Alek murmurs, studying my rain-drenched form like a mystery. “I was sure you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah.” Keeping my eyes on the ground, I walk along the edge of the pool with my dirty canvas slip-ons. When I’m just a foot away from him, I stop and look up. “Here I am.” I didn’t mean for it to sound so vulnerable, like I’m offering myself to him. Based on what he said at the resort, he wants my talent. Based on the haze in his eyes as I meet them, he wants the rest of me, too.

“What are you…” He clears his throat. “Did you change your mind about my offer?”

His eyes trace down my body as I loop my fingers in the waist of my shorts and slide them an inch lower to show the gray polyester of my swimsuit–a serious one this time, instead of bright green trunks. “Thought I should offer you a chance to take it back once you see my real swimming.”

The swimsuit was like a visual aid to demonstrate that I’m serious—I don’t expect us to start right this second. I’m sure he has somewhere better to be on a random weekday evening than training me. To my surprise, he holds up a finger and runs over to a camo backpack slung against the wall. “Let me find my stopwatch.”

As I wait in the kind of spooky silence, I extend one foot over the pool and rest the sole of my shoe on the surface, like I could just stroll out into the middle. I remember going to Sunday school, way back before my parents divorced, because my mom was Catholic. In the Bible story about walking on water, Jesus’ follower almost drowned because he didn’t want it hard enough or something. I want too many things, enough that I could start walking and never sink.

“Who was the stud in the Porsche who left like an hour ago?” I venture. The guy had perfect strong arms for throwing you on a bed, and a nice velvety texture to his voice for whispering filthy things. If I wasn’t busy drooling over a straight swim coach I can’t have, I’d probably be in that guy’s buttery-leather passenger seat, headed to his mansion. Maybe next time.

“I don’t know who you mean,” Alek answers too fast, digging through his bag.

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