But Too Well

XXIX : Tainted

WHEN CALEB COMES over Wednesday night, we don't do a lot of talking.

I spend the night making it all up to him, apologizing for something without him even knowing it. Letting our bare, tangled bodies heal the invisible wounds, trying, somehow, to let him know that I am his. All his.

Except, after countless times crashing over the edge, we go to sleep, and I can be honest and say that part of all that was trying to ease the ache between my legs, trying to get my mind off of a certain someone. Trying to forget that I could want to be with anyone besides Caleb.

And Caleb? He plays the part perfectly, giving me everything I want—every touch, every whisper, every sigh. His mouth and his lips and his fingers are knowing, skillful, and so are, well, other parts of him. He holds me and looks at me, and makes me feel like there is only one place I should ever be. And isn't that what a good relationship is supposed to feel like?

Except, everything is tainted. Every movement, every action, is filled with my guilt. Every time he touches me I feel ashamed, every time he stares and me, and his eyes meet mine, I want to crawl into a hole and cry my guts out and make him forget about me, because I can't do this to him. But there is no other way.

And when he's asleep beside me, gentle breaths escaping his tired lips, his chest rising and falling softly beneath my cheek, I wonder, guiltily, about what lies behind that wall that separates my apartment from the one next to it. Wonder what he's doing, what he's thinking. What he's feeling. Hoping to God that Caleb and I weren't loud because I'm not cruel, and I know the way he wants me. Can see it in his eyes, every time we meet.

Stop. Stop thinking about him. If only it were that easy.

How about you? Do you think I'm a terrible person? Because, I don't know who I am anymore. I used to, but now I just don't.

And, for the briefest, briefest of moments, I consider telling someone. Someone who can lift this burden from my shoulders, someone who can tell me that I'm not going to hell.

But the only person who I could maybe say anything to is Natalia. Oh, Natalia.

So, I've kind of been developing this unhealthy mutual sexual attraction with Nero.

I can't even imagine her reaction. And, she wouldn't look at me the same way. I can already see the look in her eye, the disgust, confusion. I don't even understand it—how could she?

And then, do I trust her? Nero is her family. Albeit estranged, highly disliked family, but family nonetheless. Her obligation to him is more than to me, isn't it? Whose side would she choose, if things got even worse?

I don't know. I really don't know.

But, then again, how much worse could things get, anyway?

•§•

"HM..." I THINK about it, picking through the bowl of popcorn. "Okay. How old were you your first time?"

He smirks, shaking his head. "How did I know you would ask me that?"

Pouting, I fling a kernel at him. "You said we should ask each other anything. That's one of my questions."

Of course, my first few were 'What's the best Beatles song' and 'Who's your favourite actress'. Lame things like that. So it was time to ask about the serious stuff.

Raising an eyebrow, he states "Eighteen." A pause. "How about you?"

"Nineteen."