The Muse Page 16

  There’s checkers and charades and peppermint hot chocolate on Christmas Eve, and on Christmas morning we stuff ourselves with peppermint pancakes and chocolate bacon (I had no idea that was a thing). After breakfast, we settle in the family room to open presents, which Victoria distributes one at a time based on the alphabetical order of our first names.

  The traditions continue in the afternoon with a completely insane amount of home-cooked food. Catatonic and happy, we spend the evening watching Christmas movie classics and sipping peppermint eggnog.

  By the time my mom drives me to the airport the following day, I have plans for dinner with Allison when she gets back to Seattle, gifts crammed into every corner of my carry-on, and a vehement desire to never eat or drink anything flavored with peppermint again.

  After securing a promise to visit in a few months, my mom shoos me off with tears in her eyes.

  I smile the whole flight home.

  Not until I let myself into my dark house does loneliness return. And oh, it returns with a vengeance. In lieu of impulsively adopting a pet, I counter the emptiness around me with the only outlet I have

  I write. Page after page in journals and on my laptop. I have no idea what I’m writing about, or whether it will eventually take the shape of a novel. But I’m writing and that’s enough.

  It has to be enough.

  New Year’s Eve, Claire and Griffen pick me up at eight and we head downtown for dinner and drinks at our favorite Italian restaurant. Along with the multitude of happy couples around us and our empty fourth chair, we ignore the elephant in the room: they’re leaving at the end of the week for Houston.

  After delicious chicken cacciatore—and three stiff drinks—it’s easier to forget that my best friends are moving away. Griffen is especially helpful in that department, as he’s the most jolly drunk I’ve ever had the pleasure of drinking with. His accent also thickens, which amuses the sober Claire to no ends.

  It’s close to eleven by the time she manages to corral us into the car. Somehow, Griffen and I end up in the backseat together. As Claire drives us through the glittering night, he belts out his favorite country song, only he’s drunk enough that he forgets most of the words.

  Laughing so hard I’m crying, I don’t notice where we’re going until Claire parks in a tiny slot in a narrow alley.

  “That sign says Reserved, Claire-bear,” I say, leaning between the front seats.

  She grins at me. “Tonight it’s reserved for us.”

  Squinting, I can just make out the faded business name on the sign drilled into the brick wall. My eyes widen with recognition, then veer to her happy face.

  “Oh my gosh, this is so perfect,” I squeal. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”

  White Harp Pub.

  She laughs. “Our last hurrah in our school-days bar. I couldn’t resist.”

  “White Harp?” Griffen hoots, finally catching up. “Aww, hunnybear, this is the best surprise ever.”

  “Hunnybear?” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth.

  Claire just laughs and turns off the car. “We have VIP privileges tonight, kids. Clock’s ticking—let’s go!”

  We grab our coats and emerge into the cold, crisp air. As Griffen swings Claire around and covers her face in sloppy kisses, I bang on the steel door with faded scrollwork and lettering. Moments later, it opens on the smiling face of the bar’s longterm manager, Henry Leary.

  He beams at us, arms spread wide. “My favorite customers! Right on time. Forty-five minutes till the new year!”

  I give Henry’s rotund middle a squeeze, then hustle past him into the warmth of the pub’s back hallway. Music and voices flow over me along with a colorful cascade of memories.

  Once Griffen and Claire wrap up their love-fest, Henry leads us to a roped-off booth with a Reserved card on it. It’s the only vacant spot in the place. Removing the velvet rope with flourish, he gestures us forward. I can’t stop grinning as he takes our drink order and heads to the bar.

  Around the crowded space I spy many familiar faces, former students and faculty alike, and just as many unfamiliar ones. Pride and nostalgia mingle as the three of us end our long tenure and celebrate the newer generation of students staking their claim to the venerated pub.

  Visitors to our table come and go over the next half-hour. In the interims, we trade our best memories of White Harp—and a few we’d rather forget.

  “Remember that freshman you TA’d a class for?” Claire asks me, her eyes bright with mirth. I groan, knowing exactly who she’s referring to.

  “Mark? Mike?” I ask, wincing.

  “We’ll go with Mike.” Struggling to contain laughter, she turns to Griffen. “He’d been crushing hard on her all quarter, leaving anonymous notes and flowers on her desk—the whole nine yards. The weekend after finals, Iris and I were here having a few drinks, decompressing and whatnot, when Mike showed up with some friends. He stared at Iris for a freaking hour before approaching her. I remember the look on her face so well—resignation and sympathy. She was going to let him down easy, but the poor kid didn’t get one word out.”

  Griffen laughs. “What, he ran away?”

  “Oh, no,” says Claire, giggling wildly. “He opened his mouth and puked all over her.”

  Griffen chokes on his beer, spits a mouthful back into the glass, then laughs so hard his face turns red. Claire pats him on the back, laughing along with him.

  I roll my eyes. “He ruined my favorite shirt.”

  From the bar comes Henry’s megaphone-enhanced voice, “Five minutes, people!”

  Claire squeals and straps a sparkly party hat on Griffen’s head, then pulls on one of her own. When she reaches for me with another, I jump out of the booth.

  “I’m going for a refill.”

  Griffen points behind me. “It’s insanity right now! You’ll be crushed!”

  I glance at the sea of people between me and the bar, then shrug. “I’m wily. Plus, we’re VIP, right? See you guys in a few.”

  I wave and turn away before I can see the compassion and gratitude in Claire’s eyes. She knows the twofold reason I’m escaping. This was where their romance began, and I want to give them the magic of a private New Year’s kiss. And I also don’t want to be the awkward third party with no date.

  So depressing.

  I don’t bother trying to reach the bar. Griff was right—there’s no way I’m getting through without bruises. Skirting along the edge of the crowd, I head for the front. It takes some time and when I finally get there, the countdown is starting.

  “10… 9… 8…”

  I duck past a screaming celebrant and out the front door into relative peace and quiet. The sidewalks are virtually empty; a few stragglers hurry to stomp out cigarettes and join indoor celebrations. Further down the street, light and voices spill into the night from other bars.

  I lean against the damp wall between White Harp and the dark bakery next door. Eyes closed, I smile as I listen to the distorted din of hundreds of voices counting.

  “3… 2… 1!”

  In the following roar, I don’t notice the sound of a car door slamming and running footsteps. When hands grab my shoulders, I gasp, my eyes snapping open. But my momentary panic is decimated by a sucker punch of emotion to my heart.

  “I knew I’d find you, little muse.”

  And then his mouth is on mine, hard and hot and urgent. Familiar and not. I melt against him, opening for his tongue.

  He tastes the same.

  My James.

  With a guttural groan, he lifts me and backs me into the wall. My legs instinctively circle his hips. We feed on each other, artless and animalistic, insatiable after such a long drought.

  I wonder if I’m dreaming.

  He grinds into me, hard and thick against the seam of my jeans. “Does this feel like a dream?”

  “Yes,” I gasp.

  He nips my lower lip and draws back. Drugged by arousal, I slowly open my eyes. He’s still there.
Still holding me, his strong fingers under my thighs.

  “James?” I ask, my voice small and hopeful.

  He shakes his head. “No. Don’t, please. Just… can we forget it all tonight? I need to be inside you.” He rocks against me and I whimper. “That’s all I want. Please.”

  I nod.

  Knowing I’ll regret it tomorrow, I still nod.

  Because as much as he needs me, I need him more. And right now, I’ll gladly take scraps from his table.

  27. metaphor

  Once in James’ warm car, I text Claire that I found a ride home and wish her and Griffen a Happy New Year. Then I give James my address before he can ask for it, or worse, suggest a hotel.

  I know he doesn’t want me in his house. Doesn’t want me to see Rufus. Doesn’t want me in his bed, in his kitchen tomorrow morning. And though it hurts, I understand.

  When we arrive, I don’t give him a tour and he doesn’t ask for one. By the time the door closes, he already has my coat off and my shirt over my head. Yanking my bra upwards, he fills his hands with my breasts, relearning their curves, their weight.

  “Ah, fuck me, you’re still perfect,” he mutters, and bends to cover one aching peak with his mouth. I grab his hair and arch my back with a cry, giving myself to the sensation. Giving myself to him.

  We don’t make it to the bedroom. I’d like to think it’s out of desperate passion, but I know it’s more than that. He doesn’t want the intimacy of a bed. He wants me out of time and place, and that’s okay with me. I want to give him what he needs.

  His touch on my body is borderline savage, my own restraint just as absent. We aren’t making love, too much heartbreak and betrayal between us. It’s carnal war, selfish and needy.

  I crawl naked onto my living room couch and grip the frame. James is a maelstrom of heat behind me, yanking me back from the cushions and crushing me to his chest.

  “Tell me you want this,” he growls.

  “James—”

  “Say it, Iris!”

  “I want this. I want you. Please.”

  I don’t stop begging until he tilts my hips and thrusts inside me in one smooth movement. Even primed by his mouth and fingers, I still shudder at the burning stretch that borders pain.

  Some part of my James still lives, because he waits unmoving for me to adjust.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  With my consent given, he doesn’t hold back. There’s no finesse in his movements, no grace in my acceptance. Only the fierce sounds of flesh against flesh, of his grunts and my moans.

  The fingers anchoring my hip spasm. “God help me,” he gasps. “I can’t… you feel—fuck!”

  He empties inside me with hoarse cry, then immediately pulls out and stumbles back. The sudden withdrawal is shocking; I collapse against the couch, shaking and bereft. I don’t need to see his expression to feel his regret.

  His weight hits the coffee table with a thud. “We didn’t use a condom,” he says mutedly.

  I lift my head just enough say, “I’ll get the morning after pill.”

  “I’m, er, clean of disease, and I assume you—”

  “Yes,” I snap.

  His sigh floats over my bare back. “Will you at look at me? We need to talk about this.”

  Grabbing a nearby blanket, I cover myself as best I can and turn around. What I see is both so right and so wrong. James, naked and flushed and beautiful, half-hard and glistening with sweat and me. But his face, his eyes—they aren’t his.

  I just had sex with a stranger.

  “Just go,” I say tightly. “You don’t have to explain or placate me. I know what this was.”

  A brow quirks. “What’s that?”

  “Hate-sex.”

  Both eyebrows lift at that. “I don’t hate you.” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “Although the moniker is rather apt.”

  Pulling the blanket snug around me, I draw my knees to my chest and ignore the sensation of wetness leaking onto my couch cushions. I’ll burn them tomorrow.

  “What were you expecting, James? My tears? For me to beg you to stay?”

  The sad fact is that I would beg if I thought it would do me any good. And I will cry—when he’s gone.

  He frowns. “No, I simply don’t want you to misunderstand.”

  I laugh shortly. “Oh, I understand just fine.”

  His mask cracks for a moment. I see longing in his eyes, mixed with bright anger and old hurt.

  “I loved you,” he whispers. “Even if I never said it outright, you had to know.”

  Thinking it can’t get any more painful than this, I throw caution to the wind and tell him the truth. “I did know, and I loved you, too. I still love you.”

  His eyes shutter, expression closing off. “Sorry pet, the man you loved is dead, buried alongside the idealism of youth.”

  Oh, how wrong I was.

  This is worse. Much worse.

  A mirthless laugh scrapes from my throat. “Fucking poets. All of you are terminally narcissistic.”

  He stares at me in shock.

  My own buried anger erupts. I point at him, uncaring that the blanket slips from my shoulders.

  “Let’s cut the flowery bullshit, Beckett. You lied to me. Methodically, flawlessly, over weeks and weeks. If anyone has a right to resentment, it’s me. Face it—you’re not angry with me, you’re angry at yourself. You did this, not me. You didn’t have the balls to see a disaster of your own making through to the end. You were the one who triggered my memory of the rape. You didn’t fight for me, for us. You tucked tail and ran!”

  “You told me you were seeing someone else!” he yells, jerking to his feet to pace across the living room. “You rejected me over and over. You were a fucking ice queen, Iris!”

  My anger drains away, leaving me cold and hollow. I grab the loose blanket and cover myself as James yanks on his pants.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chants. He grabs his shirt from the floor, then faces me with the fabric bunched in his hands. “We were loosely together, what, a grand total of three weeks? I can count on one hand the number of times we slept in the same bed. This is fucking ridiculous. A sick obsession I can’t seem to rid myself of. You were right, what you told me back then. I loved a fantasy of you and for some reason, I can’t let go of that woman. Even though she doesn’t exist. Even when the truth invariably disappoints.”

  “Get the fuck out,” I seethe.

  “Gladly,” he snaps, pulling on his shirt and stomping across the room for his shoes and coat.

  A minute later, the front door slams. His car starts, tires squealing on the wet asphalt as he speeds away.

  Quiet darkness retakes my world. I fold into myself, curling on my side with the blanket over my head.

  When I don’t answer Claire’s repeated phone calls the following afternoon, she shows up and uses her house key to let herself in. She finds me still naked and nearly catatonic on the couch. At least I’m upright—the television is on and a half-eaten yogurt rests on the coffee table.

  I blink lethargically. “How did you know I’d be here?”

  She hands me a small brown pharmacy bag. “You don’t remember texting me at six this morning?”

  I peek inside the bag to see a little blue box. Memory—and sanity—returns in a rush. I tear open the package and pop the tablet from its sheath, gagging as I try to swallow it dry.

  Claire shakes her head sadly, reaching into her purse for a water bottle. I chug until I can’t taste the pill anymore, then hand the bottle back.

  “It was Beckett, wasn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “I take it things didn’t end well?”

  I snort. “You could say that.”

  “Do you want me to stay a while longer, Iris? I don’t have to leave when Griff does, and I can just as easily job-hunt from here. I’ll fly down for any interviews—”

  “No, Claire. It’s okay. I’ll be okay.”

  Tears glisten in her eyes. “I’m worried. What are
you going to do?”

  My answering grin probably makes me look like a maniac, but I don’t care. “Write the next Great American Novel, what else?”

  28. mimesis

  Three months later, on March 1st, my agent has a manuscript in her hands. It doesn’t have a title yet and frankly, I’m not sure she’ll even be able to pitch it. Dark and satirical, it’s unlike anything I’ve written before.

  On a whim, I email a copy to j.s.beck. I don’t care if he reads it or not. I don’t care if he loves it or hates it. And that’s the point—I don’t need him to build me up anymore, to bolster my writer’s identity with praise or critique.

  I don’t need him.

  A written purging of my demons, the finished novel is a reimagining of an obscure Scottish legend. Faintly dystopian and classically tragic, if it goes to print I’m guessing it will be thrown across rooms more than it’s treasured.

  It’s not a happy tale.

  “It’s phenomenal!” yells the voice of my agent. “Depressing and heartbreaking and magnificent! I cried at least three times and you know how much I hate to ruin my mascara!”

  My phone sits face-up on my kitchen table with the speaker on, bringing Rachel Tanaka’s normally earsplitting tone to new heights. Allison grins at me from the chair opposite mine and mimics plugging her ears.

  “Are you sure it’s not too bleak?” I ask Rachel.

  “No! Okay maybe, but I’m not sure I want you to change anything. I’ll run it past the usual suspects, see what they think. I’ll get back to you by the end of next week. Good?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Fabulous!”

  The line goes dead.

  Allison laughs. “She’s one of those, huh? Who don’t do goodbyes on the phone?”

  I chuckle and nod. “She’s a character.”

  Allison stands and stretches her arms over her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to come tonight?”

  “I’m sure. Thanks, though.”

  Every Friday, the café she manages, Tullamore, has an open mic night from seven until ten. I’ve gone a few times and enjoyed it, but watching a movie with my feet up and a glass of wine in my hand sounds infinitely better than sitting with strangers while Allison works. Even when some of those strangers are criminally sexy, flirtatious musicians.