The Space Between Us(42)

"Charlie, what's happening? Are you ok?"

I grabbed his hands and looked into his eyes, trying to remind my lungs  how to work properly. "Why did you call me that?" I managed to gasp at  him, holding tears back.

"Call you what? Charlie?" He said, looking fully and truly confused.

"No. Bit," I cried, shocked by the pain it caused to even say the word.  He continued to look confused, his brows crinkled together at the center  of his face. Then they relaxed and I saw realization come over him.

"I asked if you were going to be ready to go in a little bit." He said  softly. I finally realized what he had actually said and then I let the  hurt wash over me. I allowed myself, as I had time and time again, to  lean into David and use him as a receptacle for my sadness. He held me  close to him, my face buried in his stomach, my tears staining his dress  shirt which he would now have to change. But that wasn't unlike him, he  always changed for me  –  changed his plans, changed his mind, changed  his life.

When we met, he'd had so many plans for life. He was a successful  doctor, moving up in the medical society of New York City, making a name  for himself. He'd seen me and I knew he wanted me. I recognized when  men wanted me. He wanted a wife, a mother for his future children, and  he saw that it me, like many had. I was aware of how I looked on the  outside and what I really was on the inside. It was more difficult for  others to see what I wouldn't show them. David, however, was the only  one who got this close to me. Selfishly, I haven't been able to let him  loose.

I couldn't give him what he wanted, but didn't push him away either. He  thought that eventually I would "come around", that I would marry him,  give him children. I knew better and I told him so, but if I were a good  person, I'd leave him. He was so good, so hopeful, so wonderful. And I  couldn't let him go.

So like many times before, I let him comfort me and lied to him about the source of my sadness.                       
       
           



       

"What happened just then?" He asked softly, after I had calmed down. I  pulled back from him, wiping my face with my hands. I couldn't look in  his eyes as I lied to him. I never could.

"That was the nickname Asher use to call me," I said quietly, still trying to keep calm.

"Bit?" He asked, curiously. It pained me to hear it, physically hurt me.  All my muscles cramped up, my throat constricted. I nodded, trying to  catch my breath. "That's a weird nickname." I let his comment float  between us because I had no need or want to explain it to him. "How long  ago did he die again?" I closed my eyes and turned from him.

"Thirteen years ago."

I stood with my hands on the vanity, my head hanging between my  shoulders, exhausted from everything that happened in the last five  minutes. I felt David come up behind me and place his hands on my arms,  brushing his palms up and down, trying to comfort me. Then his hand came  down to the bare skin of my rib cage, just above my waist. He ran his  hand along the tattoo I had done years before I met him. He softly  caressed the letters that were forever scarred on me.

"Are you still thinking of having this removed?" That was another lie I  told him, that I was thinking of having it removed. I would never get  rid of it. I didn't want to. I wanted to see his name on me. I wanted to  be reminded of everything. I wanted some part of him on my naked skin  at all times, regardless of how sick and twisted it was. I needed it.  But that's not what David saw.

"Does it bother you?" It should. It should bother him to see another  man's name tattooed on his girlfriend. It wasn't small either. It ran  along my entire side. It was beautiful.

"I know he was your childhood friend and that you were traumatized by  his death, but if you feel like you need the tattoo removed, I would  understand and support you." This was his niceness coming through again.  He would never tell me how much it bothered him to see it on me. He  would always say the right thing.

"I'm still thinking about it." Lies.

Most of what I had with David was founded on lies, but they were  necessary to make it work. According to the lies I told David, Asher was  simply a childhood friend who died tragically in a car accident my  sophomore year of college. According to my lies, Asher was my best  friend and then was taken from me suddenly and unexpectedly. According  to my lies, I never really recovered. So, the lies weren't all lies. He  was taken from me suddenly and unexpectedly, and I hadn't ever recovered  from it, but he wasn't my friend. He was my everything, and I was fully  aware the way I held on to him, even all these years later, was  unhealthy and mostly sick. I didn't care enough about myself though to  fix anything.

David gently kissed my temple, trying to sooth me. I saw his eyes meet  mine in the mirror of the vanity and I watched as his mouth kissed down  the side of my face, over my cheek, behind my ear. I watched as his lips  moved to leave wet, open-mouthed kisses along my neck. I closed my eyes  and leaned back into him, and I knew what it looked like to him. I knew  he thought I was giving myself over to him, letting him make love to me  to make me feel better, to feel close to him. He thought I was closing  my eyes from pleasure. Lies. I closed my eyes so I didn't have to see  him anymore. I didn't want to see him, I didn't want him to see me and I  definitely didn't want to feel anything. No pleasure. No joy. No love.  Nothing.

His hands moved my bra straps off my shoulders and pushed them down to  my elbows. I felt him pull the fabric down, releasing my breasts. His  hands cupped me, squeezed me, and I pushed out the obligatory sigh that  was expected of me. Lies. His hands moved over me, feeling my arms, my  back, my ass, but as his hands floated over my belly I grabbed them and  pushed them back to my breasts. I never let him touch my stomach. I  never let anyone touch my stomach. I could never tell him why though; I  didn't have a good excuse. The truth was not something I wanted to share  with him or anyone.

He spun me around and his hands grazed down my back, his fingers sliding  between the material of my panties and my skin, pushing them over the  roundness of my ass.

"What about the fundraiser?" I asked between his kisses, not really in the mood to pretend to enjoy myself.

"We can be fashionably late," he mumbled between my breasts. I gave in,  because I always gave in. It was easier to give in than to answer  questions or make up excuses.

He pulled one of my nipples into his mouth and I knew I should feel  something, but I didn't. I heard my phone ringing across the room and  moved to answer it. His fingers tightened their grasp on my hips. "Let  it ring," he said around my nipple in his mouth. I conceded and ran my  fingers through his hair, going through the motions, hoping he'd buy it.  When my phone started ringing again, I heard him sigh against my skin.  He stepped away from me and I hurried to my phone, pretending to be  affronted.                       
       
           



       

I didn't recognize the number, but it's local to Willow Falls so my  heart rate peaked and I answered with a little break in my voice,  wondering who it could be. "Hello?"

"May I please speak with Ms. Charlie McBride?"

"This is she," I said as I pulled my bathrobe over my body.

"Hello Ms. McBride. I am calling on behalf of the estate of Mr. Charles  McBride. My name is Phillip Libman. Do you have a moment?"

I was confused by the things he said, words that made me nervous. Why  would he represent my father's "estate"? "Um, I'm free to talk now,  yes."

"Ms. McBride I am sorry to be the one to tell you that your father passed away this afternoon."

My first instinct was to laugh, so that's what I did. I chuckled a  little. Obviously, he called the wrong number. "No, there's been a  mistake. You must have the wrong person. My father is fine."

"Ms. McBride, I know this comes as a shock and I feel terrible to tell  you over the phone, but your father, Charles McBride, passed away this  afternoon from complications of bone cancer."

"My father didn't have cancer. You're mistaken." Now I was angry. How  dare this person call me and tell me my father died. David came to stand  beside me, his hand on my shoulder, his eyes worried.

"Charlie, did your father live at 5280 Pine Grove Drive in Willow Falls?"

My heart faltered a little, skipped a beat or two. "Yes."

"Are you Charlie McBride, born to Charles and Anna McBride?"

"Yes."

"I'm so sorry. There's no mistake."