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By: Jess He was frowning agitatedly into the phone, when he heard her, the sound of dropped keys on the front table reverberating in the empty hall. Without having to see her, he knew she was moving carelessly towards the sound of his voice, steadily amongst the clattering of the dishes he was placing in the dishwasher. He was dropping the dishes now, when earlier he was just finding their places. “It’s not like that,” he defended as she stepped closer to him, bits of conversation floating from the receiver. She stood there in the doorway watching amused, as he held the phone in the crevice between his shoulder and neck, trying not to get it wet as he talked and rinsed at the same time. It was an amusement however, that faded fast at the tone of aggravation she heard in his voice. Any hint of a smile she might have had left as quickly as it appeared. “It’s not,” he repeated, his voice a bit quieter, but the venom in the words still quite apparent. One hand pressed against the counter, another around a glass, his eyes caught hers. “Hey,” he mouthed, still very much in a heated discussion with whomever was on the other side of that line. “No, it isn’t,” he insisted. She knew him like he knew her. And she knew what he was talking about. But instead of saying it, or acting upon it, she just smiled, reached over him, and pried his fingers away from that last glass in the sink because she didn’t want it to break. And she just wanted to ignore. He dropped a quick kiss on her cheek, a silent thanks, still ranting on the phone, “How many times do I have to tell you…” and moved away from her. Walked and talked, as she just stood there with that dirty glass in her hand thinking that one of these days she was going to get sick of doing this thing with him, like he was sick of doing this thing with her. This back and forth, back and forth, it’s fine, it’s not, pretend, pretend, and more pretend, as if they weren’t mature enough to handle reality and truth. Personally, she was tired of it all already. Shutting that final glass in the dishwasher, she took a deep breath and headed down the kitchen island to sift through his liquor cabinet; her hope of reliving the frustration she felt in their relationship. It was empty. He’s already gotten their first Not that she was surprised. As she’d figured already, she wasn't the only one sick of what had been going on between them, knowing that though they were mature, they weren’t mature enough to handle repercussions well. But she also knew him well enough to head into the pantry, and instinctively reach for the “emergency” Scotch he had hidden there behind the cereal that he thought nobody knew about. “How’d you know that was there?” He’d snuck up behind her. She wasn't the slightest bit startled. “How do I know where anything is?” she challenged. He smiled wryly. “It’s kinda early to be drinking, don’t you think?” he hedged. “You’re out of the usual,” she simply incurred, promptly ignoring. “Didn’t know you were stopping by.” She flinched, just slightly. He could play the game too. “Why were you drinking?” “Why are you?” At this point, he was just frustrated. “Why not?” So was she. There was a momentary pause, and somehow they both knew that the time for avoidance had expired. “What are you--” was all she got out before he crushed his lips against hers. Their lips touched for all of a second before she shifted away, her hands cupping his jaw, to stop him from deepening the contact, but still holding on nonetheless. She blinked up at him, just breathing, waiting. But he didn’t say a thing to clarify his actions. He just stared into those questioning eyes of hers; telling her everything he couldn’t say out loud through gaze alone. Because he’d already made the mistake of telling her how he felt once, and he wasn’t going to do it again. He knew what she’d do. In that instance, at that hint of seriousness, the moment when something much deeper hit the two of them, at that pinnacle point, she’d withdraw. She’d already had. “Why?” she asked simply. “Because.” She sighed, her forehead resting against his chin, “That isn’t a reason.” “It’s enough of a reason.” Her head lifted up. “No, it’s an excuse,” she corrected. She stayed put, not moving from his embrace, her fingers trailing his cheek lightly. “You only want me because you can’t have me.” “I want you because you’re you.” His eyes bore into hers. “I want us. I want this.” He leaned into her, taking her whole essence in, breathing deeply. With her that was all there was to it, learning how to breathe. It was the way she’d make him do things he swore he’d never do. It was how she knew exactly how to make him give in to her, how to say the words to make him forget everything but the moment. And he did, standing in the middle of his kitchen, his arms still tangled up in her. He didn’t stop. He didn’t want to let her go. Even though he knew he’d have to. The thing was though he didn’t want to. “Because I need you.”
Part
Six: Dealing
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