Never Enough(23)

Is memory even real? I guess reality is just this very instant and everything else is a construct, right?

"Did you..." I start, staring at Gavin's knuckles. They're bright red, already starting to bruise, and I force myself to collect the rest of that thought. "...just punch Eddie?"

"I did," Gavin says, sounding resigned. "And I definitely shouldn't have done."

"No," I say.

Then I remember he's in the limo with me.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Your flat."

"You don't have to," I say, leaning my head back against the head rest and closing my eyes. "I stopped dissolving. I think I'm a little less high. Go party. I'm sorry I was in the bathtub. It was just really nice in there."

Something soft touches the top of my head lightly. I think Gavin just kissed me. I think he also did it before, but again, I'm not quite sure if the concept of memory is real or an elaborate ruse at the moment, so I don't spend much time on it.

"Parties are less fun sober," he says. "And I just clocked Eddie in the face, so I may not exactly be welcome back."

I think about this for a long moment, which turns into thinking about fingers, faces, parties, champagne glasses, the way bubbles rise, and the way my brain feels like saltwater taffy, being stretched and pulled and squished and stretched again.

Then Gavin's hand is on my shoulder, and he's saying my name.

"I'm awake," I say, opening my eyes.




       
         
       
        
"Come on," he says, opening the door. "We're here."

He opens the door, gets out, and offers me his hand. We seem to be on my street, in front of my apartment building, and he shuts the back door of the car.

"I'm okay from here," I say. "Really."

"You've got your keys, then?"

I exhale, closing my eyes, because I have no memory whatsoever of what happened to the clutch I was carrying. Was I carrying it? Do I have hands? Have I always had hands?

"I can't hold them because I don't-"

Gavin holds up my clutch.

"Oh," I say.

"I think it's best if I see you in," he teases gently. I stop arguing.

As we head up the three flights of stairs, I quietly pray that my underwear drawer is shut and my vibrator isn't out somewhere, since I may as well have named the damn thing after him by now. My apartment is usually pretty neat, and I'm not in the habit of just leaving things like that around, but I also know that if it were going to happen it would happen now.

Maybe if he sees your underpants or vibrator he'll get some ideas, I think. You could put the moves on him, and if he turns you down, next time you see him act like you don't remember.

I unlock my apartment door, his hand protectively on my lower back, sparks shooting up my spine. It makes my heart beat faster whenever Gavin touches me, but right now everything is amplified ten times and it's driving me crazy.

I want his hands on my skin. I want his mouth on mine. I want to run my fingers over the chiseled abs I've still only seen in pictures. I want-

"Were you going to open the door, or just stand there with it unlocked?" he asks.

I pull the key out, turn the knob, push my door.

"Sorry, I forgot," I say.

My apartment's tiny, a studio with a two-burner stove, no oven, and a miniature sink. The bathroom's too small for a tub, so it's just got a shower. The main piece of furniture is my bed - which I'm pleased to discover I made this morning - along with a loveseat I got for free when a friend got rid of it.

The only table is my desk, next to an ugly-but-sturdy and completely full bookshelf that I got from the Salvation Army for ten dollars. There's one chair. My dresser is also my bedside table, which, thank God, doesn't have my vibrator sitting on it.

It's not fancy, but I can just barely afford it without roommates, and that's all I want.

"This is a nice place," Gavin says.

I toss my keys onto my desk, then flop onto my bed, shoes and dress still on, and close my eyes.

"No, it's not," I say. 

"I like it," he says. "It's cozy. Feels like home, you know? All the cheap flats I've ever lived in were infested rat holes. Possibly because dirty junkies don't always keep the cleanest quarters."

"I've seen roaches," I admit. "It's the neighbors. They come through the walls. I hate it. There's nothing I can do."

A quick, vivid memory: opening a drawer to bugs scuttling away from the light.

I think I'm less high. Am I? Yes? Yes.

"I did once have a long conversation with a rat while he was sitting in my sink," he says.

"Did the rat tell you to stop doing drugs?" I ask. "I wish I had a rat to tell me that right now."

Gavin just laughs.

"You'll be surprised to learn I don't recall what the rat said," he says. I can hear him opening and closing my cabinets, then the sound of glasses clinking softly. The water goes on, then off, and he walks over to the bed.

"Here," he says. "Sit up and drink some water at least."

I let him pull me up and take the water without opening my eyes. I don't like opening my eyes. I'm fairly certain I've stopped dissolving, but sight just reminds me how terrible everything feels.

"Thanks," I say when the water is gone.

"Where do you keep pajamas?" he asks.

I don't.

I sleep naked, but I definitely cannot tell him that right now.

Take your dress off and tell him that this is your pajamas, I think. You're already in your bed, and he probably kissed you in the limousine. It could work. The terrible kiss was just a fluke.

Just thinking of it ties my stomach in a knot, but I take a deep breath and look up at him. Seductively. I hope.

I feel like I'm looking at him through a kaleidoscope I can't see, tiny particles of everything, of me and him and the bed and the room and the universe all flying through the air and crashing together haphazardly.

I close my eyes again. I don't think my seduction is working.

"Pajamas," he repeats softly.





21





Gavin





I cannot give in right now. Marisol's still high as a kite, and even though I'm in her flat, right by her bed, and she's looking up at me with wide eyes and lips parted, I'm not giving in.

I'm not even going to kiss her. Much less push her backward, pull her dress down, and run my lips down her neck as she gasps. Absolutely not, no matter how badly I'm aching to touch her.

No matter that I'm fighting a losing battle with my own dick right now, and I'm at half-mast despite my most desperate attempts to visualize the Queen.

"I'm not leaving until you're in bed," I tell her, wishing I meant it anything but literally. "Otherwise I'm afraid you'll sit here and stare at your own hand all night."

She rubs her face, then reaches for a dresser drawer and pulls out shorts and a t-shirt, tossing them on the bed next to her, and stands, reaching behind herself.

It takes every bit of self-control I've got to turn around.

"Wait," she says. "Unzip me?"

I wish I was high, or drunk, or anything besides perfectly sober, because then every curve of her body and every inch of her skin wouldn't be taunting me in crystal-clear detail.

I wish Marisol were sober instead of completely off her head, because sober I could kiss her again and not feel like I was taking advantage.

Her back's to me. I move her hair from her neck, my fingertips brushing her warm skin. A thrill runs through me, and I grit my teeth together, grasp the zipper, and slide it down as a slim oval of Marisol's back is revealed.



       
         
       
        

I almost fucking lose it. I'm struck by the urge to kneel, press my lips to the base of her spine, and then climb her vertebra by vertebra until I'm at her neck. It's so strong that I almost can't help myself, and I rock back on my heels, strung tighter than piano wire.

"Thanks," she says.

"Right," I say, and turn my back while I still can.

There are rustling noises. Her dress falls to the ground, softly, while I breathe and wait, trying to think of anything besides Marisol naked, right behind me.

I distract myself by looking at the books on the top of her dresser, all of which have a library sticker on them. The bottom one is Clean: Overcoming Addiction, then Addiction Recovery for Dummies, then Twelve Roadblocks to Recovery, then The Neurochemistry of Opioid Addiction.

I blink. Something squeezes in my chest.

She didn't have to, I think.

Then I hear her voice again.

"Okay," she says.

I turn. She's wearing a University of Los Angeles Debate Team t-shirt and plaid shorts, taking off her shoes.

"I'll leave when your head's on the pillow," I say. I know I sound like a particularly strict nanny, but I can't help it. She's so small and vulnerable right now that I'm driven by the weird urge to take care of her, give her water and make sure she gets enough sleep.

And the urge to punch Eddie. Jesus I wish I was drunk, because at least being tits-over-arse is an excellent excuse for violence.

Marisol gets between the covers, then kicks them half off.

"I think the bathtub was better, just in case," she says. "I wish my apartment had one."

I laugh softly.

"All this and you wish I'd left you there," I say.