Bang (A Club Deep Story)(12)

There's a strip of moonlight falling across Hudson's chest, and the way  it contrasts with his skin is stark. Even though I just told him that I  do landscapes, my fingers are itching for my camera. This is one  portrait that I would want to take. So I try to memorize it as best I  can: The dark stubble on his face and the way his hair is messy from  sleep and sex. The way the moon is shining across his skin, creating  shadows I'd love to trace with my fingers. The way he's still stretched  out, reaching for me even though I'm no longer there.

I tear my eyes away from him because I can't risk him waking up and  asking where I'm going. I can't. Because I don't know what I'd say. So  I'll say nothing. He knows my name, and that I work in a photography  studio. He might be able to find me if he really wanted to, but he  won't. Because this will hurt. I know it will because the pain is  already seeping into my chest. It gets bigger with every step I take. I  collect my things from the coat check and head out to my car.         

     



 

It feels like there's a weight on my chest as I drive home, and it's  practically crushing me by the time I climb into my own bed, not  bothering to change my clothes. This time was amazing. I got to be  somebody that doesn't exist. I'll always remember it that way. But it's  not real. None of it was real. Better something preserved than broken  forever.

I curl up around myself, pressing my hands to my chest to ease the growing pressure there. It's better this way.





9





I don't go back to the club the next night. Or the night after that. Or a third.

It's hard. I feel a pull deep in my gut to go, to lose myself in the  character I've made for myself there. To let Hudson take me to places of  pleasure I've never felt before. Instead I find myself reliving the  moments we already had. Over and over again as I work and try to focus  on my life. Tiny things will remind me and I'll be thrown back into a  memory from the last six weeks. The way light hits black fabric, a  candle, or even just touching the grain of wood.

On the third day I don't even notice when Sandra comes up behind me, and  I jump when she puts her hand on my shoulder. "What happened?"

"What?"

She pulls a chair up to the desk next to me. "You've gone from glowingly  happy to-for lack of a better word, depressed, in a matter of days.  Something's up. Give me a little credit."

I shake my head. "I left the guy I was seeing."

"Mr. Magic?"

"Yeah."

She frowns in that way older people do when they don't approve of  something that you're doing, but know that they can't tell you to stop.  "Why did you do that? You seemed like you were having a good time."

Even though she can't tell me directly what to do, I know Sandra well  enough to know that she's not going to stop with her questions until  I've answered. I sigh and push away from the desk, trying to figure out a  way to organize all the thoughts that are swirling in my head about  Hudson and me and our relationship. "Because," I say slowly, "the way he  knows me, how we spent our time, it was exciting. Adventurous. I wasn't  really me when I was with him-I was a girl who bought lingerie and went  to parties like that one and was some daring mysterious woman. That's  not really me. I'm … this. I work here and then I go home and watch TV.  I'm not who he thinks I am. I'm … boring."

Sandra gives me a look like she doesn't understand. "And?"

"I mean," I feel a little awkward talking about this with my boss, "I guess you know we were at a sex club."

"I wasn't born yesterday, dear."

I fight down the blush rising in my cheeks. "Anyway, he wanted to do  more outside the club. He wanted to see my photos. He wanted to … I don't  know … date me. And I'm not ready for it to end."

"Sounds to me like he wasn't ending it," Sandra chuckles.

"But don't you see? I'm not the person he thought I was. And when he  sees that I'm not that girl he knows from the club everything's going to  be ruined."

She blows out a breath and leans back. "Girl, you're being a little over dramatic."

I grit my teeth. "No, I'm not."

"What has you so convinced that he won't like you when you're not having sex?"

"I'm boring," I shrug. "I always have been. I'm not special. I'm  average. The most daring thing I've ever done was moving here. Which  isn't exactly a stretch considering it's only an hour and a half and  away from my hometown. I'm just … in the middle."

Sandra is quiet for a second, just looking at me. The way she's looking  at me-as if she's really looking through me-is unnerving. Finally, she  stands. "We've got a quiet few days ahead of us, and I know the weather  is going to be nice. Why don't you take a couple of creative days? I  don't think you've had much time lately to take any photos of your own."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you shorthanded."         

     



 

She smiles, and it's a little sad. "I have your phone number. I can call if I need you. I'll see you back here on Monday, okay?"

"Okay.

She heads back to the office, stopping before she reaches the door. "I  don't think those words about you being average actually come from you.  Do me a favor, and give some thought to why you're so convinced that  you're not worth this guy's time. Especially since you seem to make each  other happy." She doesn't give me a chance to respond, closing the  office door behind her.

I have that sinking sensation in my gut like I've disappointed her. Even  though I'm not sure why. I've known Sandra for a few years now, and I  know she cares about me, but why does this really matter? I've made the  decision. Might as well get a head start on picking my locations tonight  if I'm going to shoot tomorrow. Pushing Sandra's words out of my head, I  grab my things and head for home.



Even though I tried to push Sandra's words aside, over the next few days  they come back to haunt me. They echo around my head as I photograph  parking lots and alleys, and a sequence of fountains at an abandoned  complex that are still running for some reason. They boil down to a  mantra in my head. Not mine. Not mine. Not mine.

My whole life I've been average though. Average talent, average looks,  average grades. That's all anyone's ever expected me to be. Who they  still expect me to be. I can feel the realization on the edge of my  mind, but I don't let it in. I have a feeling, like dread, that fully  understanding Sandra's words is going to devastate me, and I'm honestly  not sure that I'm ready for it.

I'm going through my photos from my second day of shooting when my phone  rings. I cringe, hoping that it's not Hudson. He's called a couple of  times and left messages. I haven't answered. Don't know if I'm going to  answer. But it's not Hudson. It's my sister. I haven't actually talked  to her since we argued on the phone last time. She's probably pissed at  me. It's been three weeks and I haven't talked to anyone back home. I  wonder what it says about me that I didn't even notice.

I pick up the phone, and before I even have a chance to greet her, she's speaking. As usual. "What are you doing this weekend?"

"Hello to you to, Catherine."

"Hi." Her tone is clipped and short. "What are you doing this weekend?"

Nothing. Freaking, miserable nothing. "No solid plans. Maybe some work, nothing too special."

"Perfect. Mom and I will be there tomorrow morning."

My entire body freezes. "I'm sorry … what?"

"There's a piece of equipment that Dad needs for the store. They won't  deliver and Dad can't make the drive so Mom and I thought we'd come and  pick it up and stay with you for the weekend."

I'm trying to pick my jaw up off the floor. "What were you going to do if I said I had plans this weekend?"

"Tell you to cancel the plans, of course." There's absolute certainty in  her voice, as if this was expected. Perfect, boring, Christine. Of  course she'd be willing to go along with this. Why wouldn't she?

I clear my throat. "It's a little short notice, Catherine."

"Yeah, but you just said you weren't doing anything."

"I said I had no plans, not that I was doing nothing." I feel a familiar  frustrated pressure in my chest, the way I usually do when I talk to my  older sister. Sometimes it feels like she's not even hearing what I'm  saying. It's the same way when I talk to my mom.

Her voice is scathing, "You're going to make us stay in a hotel because  we have to pick up a giant fridge and we sprung it on you?"

"No," I say carefully. "But I would like it if you told me more than twelve hours in advance."

Catherine snorts, "The city is turning you into a princess. No wonder  you think you're special. We're family. You should be ready and happy  for us to show up whenever."

I have to physically bite my lip to keep from screaming at her, and I'm  quiet for so long that she asks if we're still connected. "I'm here," I  say. "I'll see you in the morning."