I’m heaving, and seeing stars or something. A moan escapes my lips, and I’m picturing it’s Jae’s hand instead of mine. I flash back to our kisses. Primordial need takes over me and with one more swipe, I’m coming.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, coming out of my sex-induced stupor.
“Baby, I’m coming for you,” Jae grunt, and my heart flutters. I can only imagine what he looks like right now. Bare backed on the mattress, cock in his fist, coming on his chest. We stay on the phone, panting in unison.
It’s a few moments of silence before Jae lets a laugh slip.
“What?” I whisper. “Is something wrong?”
“I haven’t come that hard in a while.” Jae laughs. “Riley, shit, I wish I could kiss you right now.”
That gets me to laugh. I use my left hand to rub my face. “I’m smiling.” I relay to him.
“You’re good?” He asks.
“I’m good,” I confirm.
“I’ve got to hang up, I need to clean up,” Jae says.
“I understand,” I say. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Riley.”
14
That night, I dream of Grant.
It starts the same as every dream I have of Grant. Pleasant. Nonsensical. He’s dead. He’s alive,he’s back. And he’s still sorry he left me. He wants to get back together.
But this dream is different.
Jae is there and he’s saying: “Choose. Me or him.”
And dream me can’t stand the thought of losing Jae now. I’ve already lost Grant. But Jae, too?Unbearable.
I choose Jae. I just got him; how could I lose him already? I won’t lose him. Dream Jae is thrilled. He wraps his arms around me, and Grant begins fading away like the memory he is.
I wake up in a cold sweat. It’s the first time that dream has ever turned into anything more than me being upset with Grant for leaving. Like the sun over the river, it truly dawns on me that we never find our way back to loving the same way twice.
This is it. So much of grief is arguing with yourself.
This is my choice and my chance. My love for Grant is remade, reborn and re-stained into something fiery and new for someone else. I have to choose Jae; I think to myself.
Lily and I bask in the sunshine streaming in between the curtains. I’ve spent the better part of three years being sad, andI’m scared that I’m permanently impaired at this point, but I pet Lily’s pouty face, and announce to her, “This is it. I can do it. I’m brave enough.”
That afternoon, I work on my painting of Jae. I paint the twinkles of stars in the sky you’d never see in New York City, the steam of a bubbling pot, the wrinkles in a white cotton shirt. I step back and look at the painting.
It is a love letter to everything I know about him. I might not be good with words from my brain to my tongue, but at least I can paint a pretty picture of everything that goes on inside my head. I add highlights in his hair, shadows on the brick wall and sign it with a looping, swooping R and C.
I carefully take the wet painting off the easel, and when it’s dry in two to three weeks, I’ll give it to him. His oil painting, made with my own oil paints and feelings buried deep inside the colors.
Getting ready to meet Jae is agonizing. I’m looking forward to seeing him—but I feel frumpy in the yellow sundress I planned on wearing, and I’m desperate to find something that makes my outsides feel as good as my inside. I’ve worn sweats and ratty T-shirts for so long, any clothes that require actual matching and putting together make me feel out-of-place and homely. I switch to a marled periwinkle pull over sweater with jeans and chunky sneakers and hope for the best.
Evening rolls around and there’s a sharp knock on my door, I am barely ready. Cheeks red from blush or embarrassment, who knows, I undo the chain lock and peek through the crack before opening it fully.
Jae and I stand in the doorway like two courting teenagers on their first date to the Cracker Barrel, our parents eyeing us from two tables away. We both open and close our mouths like we have something to say, but no words come out.
“You’re something else, Riley.” Jae looks like he wants to whistle and is struggling to keep it in. He looks me up and down, and I let him.
