That thought alarms me.
“Are you OK, Grant? Is something wrong?”
“Not really,” he says, and the genuine smile in his eyes makes me think I must’ve imagined it. “Everything’s as it should be. You’re right, you know. I’ve kind of forgotten about my scars. In the scheme of things, they’re honestly no big deal.”
Chapter 8.
“Sight, sound, smell, taste, touch—all trigger associations. To change your feelings regarding any subject, you must change the associations connected with it.”
— André Chevalier
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
While Renata cooks, I try to call Alex, but he’s in rehab and isn’t allowed contact. I leave a message for him, asking the staff to tell Alex that Briley is here and he’s well.
I then phone my mother, who goes on and on in a way only she is capable. Mother firmly blames Sky for corrupting Alex and “forcing him” to try drugs. Alex is a blameless victim in this scenario.
“No Wilkinson has ever had an addiction!” my mother complains bitterly. “Drugs, stealing—all types of crime—this Godless kind of behavior always comes from the lower classes. That Sky is a bad influence.”
“Yeah, yeah, gotta go. Talk later,” I say and hang up.
Never underestimate the power of denial.
Who would’ve thought a quote from a popular movie would be so right? My mom doesn’t know anything and she’s in denial about everything else. I didn’t even tell her I have her grandson, Briley, with me. The longer I put that off, the better it will be for all involved.
The woman keeps her head buried in the sand. Despite our family’s history with alcohol and drug addiction, my mother's the only one who isn’t involved in substance abuse. Her addiction seems to be to denial in epic proportions.
If the woman ever takes her blinders off, she might implode with the weight and force of what's been going on around her for so many years.
At this point, the most crucial thing is that the police haven’t arrested Alex for our father's murder. I still have time. And anyway, it might not happen. What’s that saying? Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst.
“Supper’s ready,” Renata calls out. “Do you want a soda, water or juice?”
“Apple juice would be great,” I call back.
I follow the aroma emanating from the kitchen as my mouth waters in anticipation. I walk into an extraordinarily domestic scene. The baby's sitting in his high chair. Renata’s dressed in a t-shirt and cut-offs and supper's set out on the table.
“I could get used to this,” I say.
Renata grins. “Me too.” She chuckles as she places a spoonful of something that looks like paste into Briley’s mouth. “It feels like we’re married.”
Our eyes lock for an instant that seems inexplicably timeless. I’m staggered by intense shock or something—damned if I know what it is. Desire’s a part of it, for sure, but this is something more. Longing, maybe.
Whatever it is, it slams into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, almost knocking the breath out of me.
What would it be like to have Renata in my life forever? To see her every day? Renata and her infinite capacity to see only the best in me? She has an aura of affection and humor I've been missing for as far back as I can remember.
I wish I was married to her. I wish I was normal. But mostly, right now, I wish I didn’t have this shit with my father hanging over my head.
I still can’t even conceive of sleeping with her. Fucking her fast and furiously? Hell yes. Actually sleeping? No way. In my imagination, I picture her staying here, but always in her own room.
I sit down and take my first bite of her culinary creation. The mouthwatering taste makes me moan. “This is delicious. You’re like MacGyver in the kitchen! I can’t believe you whipped this up so quickly.”
She giggles. “Told you I’m a good cook.”
She’s so damned cute when she giggles shamelessly. Her blue eyes shine and her whole face lights up. It’s as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. It makes my heart ache in a good way to see her like this—so happy and lighthearted.
“You’re good at everything,” I say.
The pale skin on her face and neck flushes and my brows rise in surprise. How could she be embarrassed? She’s bold and fearless in many ways. She's a confident sexual therapist, for fuck's sake. Doesn’t she realize how amazing she is?
Renata quickly changes the subject. “Do you mind if we talk about our plans for tonight while we eat dinner?”
“We have plans for tonight?” I ask.
There’s a hint of mischief in her expression. “Grant, I’d like us to work on your sexual issues and have fun while doing it, remember?”
“Oh. Yeah,” I say. My body instantly heats with equal parts of heart-stopping anxiety and cock-hardening desire.
“Look at this,” she says, sliding a piece of paper with a simple line drawing toward me.
I dip my bread in the stew and take a bite while studying her picture. Renata has drawn a triangle. She’s labeled one corner of it “Body.” Another corner is labeled “Mind” and the last corner is “Spirit.”
I frown in trepidation. “This isn’t some new age thing, is it?”
“No, it isn’t. I promise,” she assures me with a laugh. Putting another spoonful of baby food into Briley’s mouth, she praises him and wipes his chin.
“OK,” she says. “The way I see it, a person can improve themselves via the mind, the body or the spirit. If someone starts jogging or working out they boost their physical health—their body—and they feel better about themselves, right?”
“Sure.”
“OK. Well, when someone works on their body, their thoughts and mental state—their mind—is also enhanced and their spirit tends to be lifted as well.”
Her blonde head bends down as she draws on the paper, showing how the triangle increases in size. “If one side of the triangle progresses, the others benefit along with it. They're also enhanced. What I’m trying to illustrate is the interconnection. By working on any one of these areas, you obtain results that change these other areas of your life for the better.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“I’ve known heroin addicts who recovered completely after finding God,” she says. “No joke. These weren't temporary fixes, either. These were bona fide “come to Jesus,” moments. That’s an example of how improving the spirit also improves the health of the body and the mind.”
I nod.
“So, in your case, you’ve been doing a massive crap load of ‘mind’ stuff with André, right? With him, you've thought about, talked though and discussed details of difficult memories.”
“Yes,” I say ruefully. As much as André has helped me, it’s been a tough road.
“There you are.” Renata points Briley’s spoon at me. “André couldn’t even attempt to help you through the body, could he? I mean you were abused by a man, so therefore he couldn’t cure you with sex.”
Wincing, I swallow my last bite. “Certainly not.” I look down at the triangle and grin. “And I’m not religious. I think I see where you’re going with this.”
“I’m just trying to explain. See, you can tell me the same stuff from your past that you told André and that’s fine. You’ll do that anyway when the time is right. But what I want to do is work through the body part of this triangle. We’re going to focus on healing via the body, not the mind.”
“How do you do that?” I ask warily.
“Your body has strong negative memories associated with sex. We don’t need to talk about them or even think about them at this point. Tonight, we’re going to make new, fun memories for you and your body on the subject of sex.”
I stare at her for a few beats, saying nothing.
What can I say? I’ve told her my problems. She knows I can’t touch her without feeling dirty, empty and ashamed afterwards. What would it be like to be free to touch and be touched? T
o hold and be held?
Despair abruptly grips me in a killer choke hold. I feel so damaged. How could someone like me ever achieve any semblance of ‘normal?’
“Don’t worry about it, Grant,” she says after reading the misery that must show in my face. “You’ll get there. Trust me. I’m a professional!”
Renata laughs, as if she finds her title of ‘professional’ vastly amusing. “C’mon! You’re getting stuck in those dark thoughts again, aren’t you?”
Defeated by the truth, I sigh heavily.
Renata slaps the table with her hand. “Well, stop it,” she says.
Surprised by the noise, Briley jumps and looks alarmed. Renata spends a few moments reassuring him, praising him and generally giving him tons of attention.
She’ll be an incredible mother someday.
Turning toward me she says, “Have a little faith, Grant. We want to feel, not think. Body—not mind. Sure, we’ll talk, too. But mainly, I figure—to hell with it! Let’s you and I have some fun.”
Renata’s eyes are bright. Her cheerful, stress-free enthusiasm is contagious. I chuckle because she’s happy and her idea is so far out in left field. This unconventional plan isn’t quite what I expected.
“OK,” I smile at her. “You’re the therapist. Whatever you say, that’s what we’ll do.”
“After tonight, when you think of sex, you’re going to think, ‘Oh yeah, baby! I love sex!’ OK? That’s the plan.”
I nod but say nothing. I'm not sold on her idea yet, it sounds impossible to me. When I think of sex, I figure it’s something I’m better off living without.
“There’s only one thing we will not be doing tonight,” she adds.
“What’s that?”
“We’re not going to get serious about anything.”
Chapter 9.
“Your mind is your garden, your thoughts are your seeds. You can grow flowers, or you can grow weeds.”
— Unknown
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
I open the downstairs door and let Mitten out, shaking my head with misgivings the whole time. He’s gone outside to explore. I hope I still have my Koi fish in the morning.
I walk up the stairs in time to see Renata back carefully and quietly out of the nursery. Eyes bright, she sees me and raises a finger to her lips in a silent ‘shush.’ She leaves the door ajar.
Briley’s apparently fallen asleep in his crib.
“C’mon,” she says and tiptoes off, baby monitor in hand.
I follow Renata into my bedroom. She studies the layout for a moment, then moves my leather wingback chair so it’s now beside the bedside table, facing my bed.
“That’s your chair,” she tells me with a smile. “I’ll sit here,” she adds sitting down on my bed.
Edgy and nervous, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. I sit directly across from her, our knees are only inches apart. A muscle twitches near my eye as the pressure of facing my fear grows.
I avoid intimacy.
I always have.
Just the thought of that kind of closeness unnerves me, hitting every trigger I have. It dredges up a cocktail of troubling memories from my past: desire, lust, shame, panic, revulsion, guilt, and helplessness. The list is endless and all of it, even the memory of pleasure—especially the memories of pleasure—are negative.
I battle my sexual urges and shun relationships.
What do I end up with? A despairing, hollow sense of numbness inside. Clearly avoidance doesn’t work. My problems haven’t gone away.
André says a person can only accept the love they feel they deserve. He’s helped me face the truth. Self-sufficient as I like to imagine I am, I’m actually lonely.
All the same old shit rolls through my mind: I love sex; I hate sex. This is wrong; this is right. I’m good; I’m bad, and my personal favorite, ‘I’m a monster.’ Is it any wonder I’ve given up on the idea of intimacy?
Tonight I’m going to quit resisting and put myself in Renata’s hands. Renata knows me. She makes it safe for me to communicate.
If I'm capable of facing my demons, it'll be with her.
Renata holds a deck of cards in the palm of her open hand. “OK,” she says. “This is how we’ll do it.” She hands me half the deck. “Take the card that’s on the top of your pack and flip it face up on the table.”
I flip my card over. It’s a ten of hearts. Renata flips her top card to land nearby. It’s a two of spades.
“Your card is higher, so you win,” she says.
I arch an eyebrow in query. “What do I win?”
“We’re playing ‘Truth or Dare.’ You get to ask me a question or give me a dare. I get to decide which.”
“OK,” I say.
She gives me a teasing smirk. “Just ask me, truth or dare?”
My eyes narrow. “Fine. Truth or dare?”
At my compliance, Renata shoots me a playful, heart-stopping smile. My breath catches. For a moment, every thought in my head disappears. Her innate goodness soaks into me, relaxing my hard edges. Just being near her warms my heart and soothes my soul.
The woman is beautiful, inside and out.
“Hmm,” she murmurs cheerfully, unaware of everything that’s been going through my mind. “I’ll take truth. Now you ask me a question and I will have to answer it honestly.”
I say nothing, remaining silent for a long, long time.
I want to know so many things about her. What shall I ask first? Was she a prostitute when she lived on the street? Just how experienced is she? What is she ashamed of? But then I stop to consider—what if she asks me those same questions? I don’t even know how many prostitutes I’ve had. And if she asks me what I’m ashamed of?
I swallow hard. Fuck, no. There’s no way I want to bring that up.
Minutes pass. Renata waits patiently until I come up with a question.
“Truth,” I finally say once I’ve found my tongue. “Have you ever been in love? Who with and when?”
A grim frown mars her face—I’ve surprised her. Now, it’s her turn to take a few moments to gather her thoughts.
“Yes,” she says quietly, taking in a deep breath. “And ouch! You asked a toughie for my first question.” Her laugh is brittle and humorless. She shakes her head sorrowfully. “And here I was going to go easy on you.”
Her response surprises me. I thought I was going easy on her, but I don’t tell her that.
Renata bites her thumbnail for a bit and averts her gaze. When her eyes return to mine, she regards me with a subdued and serious air. “My first love was Jamie, my foster brother who died. My second love was André, who saved me…”
There’s a long pause as she considers what she’s going to say next. “And I feel something for you, Grant. You’re seriously sexy, but it’s much more than that. What I feel for you is definitely love—or at the very least, a strong sense of connection and affection.”
Time stops in bizarre moment of unreality.
What?
Heat rises in my face as a blast of adrenaline, sheer panic and euphoric pleasure rocket through my veins. I force myself to stay perfectly still. I don’t move or even open my mouth to reply, as an avalanche of emotions cascade through me.
I have a strange impulse to laugh—or cry—I’m not sure which. Maybe both.
Instead, I remain silent.
Connection. Affection… and love. The very idea of love makes me break into a cold sweat. I don't know what love is.
A ridiculous number of thoughts race through my mind. I want Renata so badly that I ache for her. Is that love? Yet, I'm not worthy of her. I can't cuddle… I’m afraid to touch her. I can't make love without ending up feeling sick afterwards. She should have so much more than I could ever give her. I want to be deserving, but I’m such a mess. Why does she want me? She should have a whole man—an unscarred man. Shit.
Moments pass.
I notice Renata intentionally ignores what she must see as my hugely obvious reaction. Tha
nk God. I appreciate that more than she can know.
Instead of talking about it, she turns her face down toward the table and flips another card. It’s a queen of hearts. How fitting.
I flip a jack of spades—a knave, also appropriate. She wins.
“Truth or dare,” she says and her eyes are bright with anticipation.
“Dare,” I say, unwilling to risk exposing any of my multitude of embarrassing truths.
“Take off your shirt,” she says surprisingly quickly, as if she’s been waiting for the chance to make this request.
I flinch in surprise. I never take my shirt off around other people. Nobody sees my tattoos. They’re private and they’re mine.
Renata senses my resistance like a piranha scenting blood in the water. “Aha! You don’t want to!” she chortles.
I can only assume that since I made her confess something uncomfortable for her, she’s pleased it’s now her turn to make me squirm.
I school my face to remain neutral, although my lips twitch—holding back a smile at her excessive and somewhat unholy glee.
Resigned, I sigh and begin to unbutton the cuffs on my shirt, and then the buttons down the front. Renata watches my every move in eager anticipation. Feeling her eyes hard upon me, I finally throw my shirt down on the floor, exposed and self-conscious, too aware of her presence.
“Good Lord,” she whispers, her face alive with awe and excitement. She looks as though she’s just had a spiritual revelation.
I frown. “What?”
She blinks, swallows then peers at me with a sudden grin. “Holy Christ on a cracker, Grant! You are seriously built. You are so beautiful! Is that a six-pack? What does a man have to do to get one of those?”
Her enthusiasm captivates me. She’s cute and funny, but the subject of my exercise regimen isn’t really anything to laugh about.
I say nothing. What can I say?
How can I tell her about my paranoia concerning combat fitness? How do I explain that fear and uncertainty, rather than vanity, compels me to train? That the daily physical punishment I force myself to endure helps me maintain some illusion of control. It's how I keep on top of my demons, driving horrible thoughts from my head and unwelcome urges from my body?