Page 44
According to my therapist back in Michigan, I have a thing for the unrequited variety of relationships. The promise of never having to be fully committed to something, or someone.
Maybe she’s right.
My first happened to be my former English teacher, who used me as a rebound for his flighty girlfriend. Our little affair should’ve stopped after that first romp in the backseat of his Subaru, but it didn’t. It didn’t stop there, or when he dragged me into his office and bent me over Shelby Crane’s rather bland argument on the fragile nature of women portrayed in The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I read her wholly Stepford analysis, while Mr. Bradford disposed of the used condom in the teacher’s bathroom down the hall. I’m guessing it was guilt that eventually brought things to a screeching halt between us.
His, not mine.
Not that I wasn’t mildly disgusted by the whole affair, because contrary to the rumors that I was a whore, I’m not dumb, and I’m not the self-deprecating type, either. I don’t know why I prefer the unavailable. Maybe, deep down, a part of me feels more aligned with the fantasy of it all. Or maybe I just like the elusive nature of love. Always chasing, never grasping. The hunt for something entirely out of my reach.
My therapist also said I’m afraid of true intimacy, and she might’ve been right about that, too.
Aside from him, there was only one other. A camera salesman from the city, who popped into Roy’s while I was working about a year ago. His buddy owned a cabin, where he spent the weekend lying to his wife about nailing a new account. The only thing he nailed was me, seeing as Roy wasn’t interested in his goods. The shady cradle-robber even had me draft a text to her, while he rinsed my sweat off his body in the shower.
That should’ve stopped after the first time, too, but I ended up having to tell Russ that I got lost in the woods when I didn’t come home until Sunday night. The guy left abruptly, and I never saw, or heard, from him, either.
I was fine with that, though, because as morally screwed up as it is, I think liars and cheaters are reprehensible assholes. Which is probably why I’m doomed to the single life for eternity.
The fact is, I don’t know what I want. Like I’m rummaging through life’s big pantry, trying to decide what tastes good. My heart is starving for something I’ve never had before, but the ache in my chest feels masochistically good. It’s a reminder that I’m still alive. That I still crave something from this world. And the beauty in all that rejection lies in never having to mourn the end of something that was never there to begin with. Like cutting open a dry vein with no fear of bleeding out.
The fear of intimacy thing might actually be legit, because I have a feeling that, if I really cared for these men, if I allowed myself to fall in love instead of lust, it’d probably destroy me, anyway.
Which is why I need to be careful around Bergeron. The devious flicker in his eye is dangerous for a girl who reads that shit like SOS. A darkness lies beneath all that calm, like a wild animal scratching at his tightly woven facade. One that might be inclined to bite if I get too close.
14
Céleste
On the passenger seat beside me is the crossbow I hauled all the way from Marquette, and beside it, my beloved camera. I’ve eenie meanie’d the two for the last twenty minutes, trying to decide which is essential and which I should sell. There isn’t a whole lot of room for the clunky crossbow in the truck’s cabin, which is just one of the reasons prodding me to sell it. And storing it in the bed of the truck would make it too easy for someone to swipe up. The other reason is, I really need the cash, and this particular bow happens to be worth more than the camera.
I stocked up on canned tuna and an opener this morning, which means I won’t starve, but who the hell wants to eat tuna for every meal. My reserves are running low, in spite of my frugality, mostly thanks to the gas this old junker chugs. Just one more piece of my past I might have to give up for the sake of my survival.
“Sorry, old man. Looks like it’s going to be the bow,” I say, as if Russ is sitting beside me, chiding me for getting rid of such a valuable thing.
“You can use it to hunt meat! To survive off the land!” I can practically hear him bellowing back.
Except, I refuse to eat scavenged critters for every meal, either. Ones I’d have to skin and cook over a flame. Shooting game to survive is something I’ve had to do for a number of years, and quite honestly, it was never my thing, anyway. The first time I ever scored a young buck, Russ made me gut the thing myself, and I spent more time bent over in dry heaves than actually accomplishing the task. It’s not to say I couldn’t do it again, if I had to, but it’s certainly not my first choice.
Depending on what I get for the crossbow, I might be able to squeeze another week’s worth of food and gas. Maybe even enough to drive out west, once I’ve gotten this place out of my system.
With one endearing pet on the stock, I grab the thing off the seat and head inside the gun shop. The fact that I’m already here makes all the debating a waste of time, really. Seems I subconsciously had my mind made up all along.
Just feel a little shitty about it, is all.
Metal and tobacco hits me like a curtain of toxic masculinity when I walk through the door, and at the sight of the portly guy smoking a cigar, lips cocked into a smirk, I’m suddenly all-too aware of my femininity. Reminds me of being back in Marquette, where a few of the boys in my class seemed to think hunting was a man’s sport.
As if. Not one of those assholes could hit a flank straight on, even if the damned buck politely waited for them to take the shot.
“How can I help you, little lady?”
Little lady. Laying the clunky weapon down on the counter, I swallow back the snarky response itching to be said. “Need to sell my crossbow.”
“Your crossbow? You know how to shoot it?”
“Would you like me to demonstrate?”
“Let me have a look, smartass.” With an unamused twitch of his eye, he shoves the cigar between his chubby lips and lifts the crossbow up, twisting and peering through the scope of it. “I’ll give you fifty.”
It takes a second to process what he’s just said, the shock constricting my throat. “Fifty?” I manage to squeak the words out. “Are you kidding me? I paid five hundred bucks for that thing!” Well, Russ did, but that’s not important.
