But I can tell her where I am.
She pretends to be surprised, but she's very clearly not.
I can tell her about the fighting in the beginning.
She calls Eamon every single name I know of, every vile, filthy word she's picked up living in the city of sin.
I tell her about the training and why.
Tell her about my mother's email and the fact that the apartment we spent so much time in has been torn apart and is now haunted by the men my mother sent there.
"Why does your mom go along with it? Encourage it, even? Does she know what happens to all these girls?" Bel asks.
With a heavy sigh, I shake my head, wondering the same thing myself. Could she possibly support this if she knows the truth? Unfortunately, I fear the answer is yes. She might not have seen it with her own two eyes, but she's too smart not to see the writing on the wall. Those with the closest proximity to power will always work to uphold it. They think standing beside their oppressors makes them safer than standing in front of them. It doesn't. Upholding the power of horrible men at the expense of yourself will only ensure when they do turn on you, you're standing alone.
"My mom just wants to be safe from the ugliest parts of her husband, the ones she can pretend don't exist. She doesn't realize that all that ugly is now woven into the fabric of her own soul. And even still it won't protect her from him."
When my tears fall, thinking of not only myself but every person hurt by my family's desperate scramble for power, hers join them.
But even when I've told her everything I can bear to admit, she knows there's more. That there are things I'm unwilling to share with her.
I can't tell her about the attraction, though she already knows it's there. Can't confess to the things we've already done, the things I imagine to myself late at night when I can't sleep until my hand has brought me over the edge of pleasure.
The rapidly approaching date of Mike and Charlie's baby shower hangs over me, a taunt to show me the things I'll never have. Bel's never really wanted kids. She could take it or leave it, but she knows all I've ever wanted is to have a functional, loving family. To replace the one I was born with with one of my own making.
But even if I could go back to a normal life and have kids, should I?
Do they deserve the monster that flows through my DNA?
Not going there. Not today.
When that confession, that admission, sits on the tip of my tongue, I bite it back and find an excuse to get her off the phone, citing exhaustion and an early morning meeting.
Relief, warm and fleeting, fills me for a moment, knowing that if nothing else, Bel will leave this conversation feeling like the chasm between us is lessened. And it is, but the chasm is not her doing; it's not her fault. It's mine because I can't bear to face the truth myself, much less share it with her.
Instead, I share with her words I haven't told anyone else in years, no one else coming even close to the affection I have for my chosen family.
I love you.
I miss you.
We'll talk soon.
And then she's gone, and I'm alone again.
Fantasize
Eamon
Isla might actually be trying to kill me.
If death by erection were possible, it would have happened long ago.
No matter how loudly she plays her music or how much I try to drown her out with my headphones, I can't escape her.
She's getting herself off with a toy. For at least the 3rd time today.
Each and every time, it's been to sordid, ungodly fantasies of us together. And no matter how much I try, I can't stop her thoughts from calling my name like a blinding lighthouse guiding ships home.
