Walking Heartbreak (6 page)

My period arrived. I had no idea what was happening to me and hid it for months in the belief that I was dying. One hundred and eleven days in, a congregation member in the next-door restroom stall caught me cleaning up my mess. She explained the female miracle, how the monthly cycle is natural. After that, all I recall is shame. Until the day I met Jude.

“Because dinner is just dinner and it’ll be fun,”
Zoe explains. She pulls a handful of pins from her hair and busies herself in my hallway mirror, arranging her sloppy bun back up into a disheveled princess ’do. “You like Bo, and—”

“Stop saying that.”

“What? Tell me I’m wrong then.”

“You are. Sort of. Just—ah. I don’t want to talk.”

“Always the same thing. Always, always,” she mutters around the remaining pins in her mouth. “Okay, how ’bout this: no talking. Only eating and laughing and having fun. You know, Bo asked a hell of a lot of questions after you left.”

“Did he? You didn’t…?”

“I’m
your
friend. Not his.” She narrows perfectly lined eyes at me. “I’d be stupid to try and rush a confession out of you by squealing on your behalf. We’re doing hibachi, by the way.”

I sigh, shaking my head. After the way I stormed off a few hours ago, Bo must be crazy for wanting to hang out. Then again, Emil is his buddy. Bo is coming along to support him. Or maybe he adores Japanese steakhouses. Either way, it’s definitely not because of me.

Zoe and I arrive first. The steakhouse smells stale from years of grease steaming from enormous burners in a room with bad circulation. As we get seated, I hear, “Four Sapporos!” from behind us. “Oh and get us sake too. A few bottles.”

“Carafes,” Bo specifies. “And ice water, please, if the ladies haven’t ordered drinks yet?”

“Yeah, carafes, whatever-you-call-it.” Emil jerks his head in the direction of our table, continuing, “And what
he
said, and to that table.”

Zoe’s latest infatuation is a rush of fresh air, I think to myself. Now, he lifts a hand, waving like we’re far away and he hasn’t seen Zoe in days.

Bo’s eyes linger on me. To break the contact, I pull a lipstick out of my purse. “I’m not going to drink,” I mumble to Zoe.

“Just loosen up for freaking once,” she hisses. “I want to have fun with my best friend and some cool guys, and I don’t want to worry about you running off again. Some alcohol will do you good.”

“Zoe.” I always feel guilty. There isn’t a moment of the day that I don’t. And she’s a saint—a nutty saint—for dragging me along everywhere. Nadia, the party pooper. When did I last drink more than a few sips? Probably on Jude’s twentieth birthday.

“Just go with it,” she says. “Go with the flow. Let’s have a good time.”

The hibachi grill is wide with room for a chef in the middle and a bar counter in a squared U-shape around it. I sense Bo’s presence even before I look up. It’s psychological, I know, but he feels warm at my side. I instantly blush. I hate my cheeks.

“How are you?” he asks, voice quiet from the chair next to me. I guess I assumed I’d be safe with Emil and Zoe seated between us.

“Emil! You have to use the
tip
of your tongue first.
Then
you swirl,” Zoe exclaims.

“You’re teaching me how to kiss now? I kissed you just fine earlier, I believe,” Emil hums while kissing more.

“’Tis just a suggestion. Check this out,” Zoe says. Irregular breathing ensues.

“Jesus,” Bo mumbles into his hand, and I feel my own face tug into a smile. “You two—simmer down on the affection, will you?”

“Really, it’s too much for you, Bo?” Emil manages between smacks and suckling noises. “This isn’t exactly R-rated.”

“True, which is surprising. We’ve been in this place for, what, two minutes?” Bo leans in against my ear and whispers loud enough for our friends to hear, “If they start to remove clothing, I’ll get you out of here before they claim more casualties.”

The first sip of ice-cold beer tastes amazing. The second one does too. Our ninja chef chops meat and fries veggies, and because we wait so long for our table to fill up with guests, we’re on our second round of hot sake before the food arrives.

Emil’s hands are on Zoe most of the time, only letting go to grab his glass. The banter flicks back and forth between the guys, while Zoe shoots off the perfect witticism, adding her quirky flavor to Emil’s whims.

It’s probably the alcohol, but I feel myself relaxing, a sensation so rare that it’s odd. I can’t decide if I should fight it. I’d benefit from drinking more often, I think for a moment. Until I rethink and decide I would not.

The seating arrangement leaves us so close to each other that Bo’s arm brushes my shoulder with every shift in our chairs. I don’t tense up over it like I commonly would. I’d never drink enough to lose my inhibitions though.

“So you’re not a chopstick guy?” I ask Bo the obvious. He hasn’t even opened his packet. Instead he has opted for the cheap, bendable fork that’s part of our place setting—and he asked for a knife!

He crooks a beautiful smirk around the fried shrimp and mussels in his mouth, and flushes the mouthful down with beer. “Naw, never really got into it.”

“Like with the kites?” I find myself leaning in playfully, and it’s a whole lot like flirting. Bo relaxes against the back of his chair, inviting me closer with a squinted smile.

“Yeah. Like with the kites.”

“I can teach you,” I say, the thought tumbling out on its own. I comb my brain for objections or remorse, but neither appears… because my offer is innocent. It can’t be wrong to teach someone how to use chopsticks, right?

Minutes later, a strange chuckle escapes me. Bo, who dominates his guitar with strong, agile fingers, should be predestined to master whatever requires nimble handling, yet he cannot get a grip on chopsticks.

“No!” I laugh out loud. “You don’t understand, do you?” His
“
never really got into it
”
is a definite understatement.

Bo’s cheek connects with my shoulder while he groans out his impatience, and his shampoo tickles me with an elusive drift of pine and musk. Soft hairs trail up his lower arm, his skin bare and warm at my touch.

I force myself to focus on our hands, on how I’m forming his fingers around the chopsticks in an attempt to nestle them in the perfect spot: one on top of his middle finger and the other between his thumb and index. As I let go, they fall from his grip for the fourth time.

“See? Unlike you, I wasn’t Asian in a former life,” he tells me.

“Ha, but you’re not trying,” I laugh.

“Wow, Nadia’s having fun,” Zoe informs Emil. I ignore her because I can’t deny that I am. Between Bo’s inept approach to the chopsticks and my own buzz, I feel lighthearted. Thankfully I don’t have to own up, comment, deal. Bo is too busy defending himself to pay attention to Zoe.

I leave my brain on “idle.” Slide my fingers down Bo’s, and hold the chopsticks tight with his hand between my own. Then the two of us lift a shrivel of chicken to his mouth. It makes it high enough to smear his lips with grease. I watch the tip of his tongue come out, moist and poised to whip the food inside, but at the last second, the chicken slips from our grasp and rolls down his shirt.

“Dammit, so close!” he exclaims, making me laugh—again—and I quickly reach down and locate the stray piece of food on his formerly white shirt. Bo doesn’t seem worried.

“You’re gonna have to soak the shirt overnight to get rid of the skid marks,” I say.

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs, looking at me, not the food or his shirt.

I fuss, suddenly shy. I wrap the piece of chicken in a napkin, a useless act because—where would it go except for in the trash? When I glance up, a few droplets of sauce gleam golden against his pale throat. Without thinking, I bring a finger to them. Who wouldn’t want to help? It’s the right thing to do, to help, just—I’m cleaning him up with my
finger
.

At first, it’s natural and instinctive. Then it’s hot when his Adam’s apple bobs at my touch, and I can’t find the strength to withdraw.

“You’re even prettier when you smile,” he whispers. There’s sauce at the corner of his mouth too, right where his lip plumps into succulent, living art made to—

I should clean him up with his napkin or show him so he could do it himself. But captivated, I lift my hand and approach his mouth. Bo’s eyelids flutter as I touch him, the response so sensual, I bite down on my lip.

Pull away. Sit up straight, Nadia.

I’m not sure how much I’ve had to drink, but this is the alcohol acting. Not me. It’s been a happy night—I’m, I’m… touching a man’s mouth.

I stroke his lips with the digit I used to remove the sauce. Soft, giving, alive, fleshy. Everything I imagined they would be. When you’re intoxicated, the importance of time fades, and sometimes it speeds by. Like now.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, touching him and seeing us from the outside: a strange girl enthralled by the mouth of an utterly charismatic man.

Gifs of his lips form in my mind, cycling on loops before retracting for others. In miniature film clips, I remember them shifting, smiling, parting in barely acknowledged disbelief. They round with a riff he pulled from his guitar and let cry out over the audience last night.

Then this mouth I’m touching puckers. Kisses my finger, and my heart races like I’m scared. Because I am, or I would be, if hot sake hadn’t numbed my responses.

Carefully, he steadies my hand with both of his and breathes against my palm.

“Very lucky husband,” he murmurs.

I pull my hand free, stand up, and run to the bathroom.

BO

“We’ll be back any minute!”
Zoe shouts as she takes off with Emil. Nadia doesn’t object. An eye-roll is all she commits, and I lean on the kitchen counter, studying her.

Emil’s and my place is walking distance from the Kagawa Hibachi House. He lured the girls back with us after dinner, tempting them with green tea ice cream and acting really fucking surprised when we didn’t have it. I mean, of course we didn’t. We never buy ice cream.

Now, Nadia and I are alone in the apartment.

Or
she’s
alone with
me.

I remember her well from a concert we played a year ago. Remember her friend too. Zoe came with Emil to Troy’s after-party that time, where the two of them engaged in some heavy petting in a corner. Nadia though, had disappeared, and I didn’t see her again until last night.

To me, music is everything. Not that it wasn’t while I was with my ex, Ingela, but since our final breakup, it’s been truer than ever. I’m a been-there-done-that sort of dude with relationships. At twenty-five, I’ve lived in the US for two years, and whether it’s in Sweden or here,
going steady
works neither for me nor for the poor chick involved.

Back when I made an effort at it, what I accomplished was a whole lot of tears from my ex, who loves with so much heart it’s painful to watch. She used to say I don’t have a love muscle, a good expression, really. Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate a hot girl.

My ex was perfect. Sweet and funny. The sex kicked ass too. She was made for me, but after five years of giving her nothing but unintentional agony, I understood what I should have ages ago; I don’t possess the whatever-it-is that makes a person love beyond how you love family.

It’s not a big deal. In my business, people exchange partners like they do underwear, and that’s what the ladies expect. They feel lucky if they get a night with the guitar player, the bandleader, whatever, while for me good sex relieves stress. Hell, even bad sex does. Sometimes, I miss the closeness Ingela and I had, but I have my bandmates. I’m good.

Tonight, I’m here with Nadia. She’s stunning, for sure, but beauties flock to this neck of the woods for work, so that’s not what makes her stand out. No, the girl hides secrets. They simmer under her skin, at the back of her gaze, and they make her damn near irresistible to me.

With her gaze glistening dark beneath long lashes, she’s relaxed from the booze and tempting as hell. I want to excavate her like an archeological site. If it weren’t for that wedding band, I’d want her in my bed, I’d do things to her—find out how to pluck her strings and make her sing.

She looks Hispanic. Half the population of L.A. is from somewhere in Latin America, I’ve learned, and I’m not good at discerning accents. “Where are you from originally?” I ask. “Born in California?”

She smiles. “Buenos Aires, Argentina. I moved here, or to Payne Point down by San Diego, when I was seven.”

“Ah. What made you guys move from your country?”

She shrugs. The lightness of the shrug is telling; she’s sad. I consider pulling her in and holding her until the tension eases. I’m a pro at that.

“Family.” Her thoughts spill across her expression. She’s deciding how much to say and ends up giving me more than I expected. “My parents died.”

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” I say.

“No, it’s fine. I was little. I miss them but… Anyway. My grandparents and I moved here to be with family.”

“That’s cool. Family rocks,” I reply, missing my own back home in Sweden. “Are you close?”

Her eyes widen gorgeously at my question. “Ha, not at all.” There’s sorrow and humor in them at the same time. “My great uncle runs a very… extreme church, and I got excommunicated for not following the rules. There were some severe punishments for having— Crap. Sorry. This is a lot.”

“I don’t mind. Keep going,” I say.

“Ah that’s okay. I don’t usually talk about these things.” Nadia ran off like a startled bunny over too many questions earlier today, so when she continues, “Do you have anything to drink?” I allow the change in subject and lead her to the kitchen.

“Tea? Coffee? We deff have alcohol. Loads of it.”

“I bet you do.” She smiles up at me. “Black tea?”

“Yep, got it. It’s, how you say, ‘Oooooolong.’” Nadia doesn’t strike me as the belly-laughing kind of girl, but I drag out the type of tea for a fleeting chuckle.

Emil and Zoe are taking forever—which I don’t mind. While we wait for the water to boil, Nadia sits on my kitchen counter, busying herself with the mugs and pouring spoonfuls of sugar into them.

She’s shy again, and I’m thinking her buzz is waning. I hope she doesn’t clam up. Of the little I’ve seen, Nadia open and accessible is awesome, like on our hours-long hibachi house visit and the detour through the park we took kites to earlier.

But I’m making her nervous. Her fingers are unsteady around the handle of the mug once she’s done depositing the teabag inside of it. I support my elbows on the counter. I still her hand with mine and narrow my eyes while I try to read her.

It’s two in the morning. Because I’m curious and I don’t get it, my question cuts from me without premeditation.

“Isn’t your husband expecting you home?”

Her sweet face immediately crumbles.

NADIA

When Jude came to Payne Point,
I was young, confused, and unhappy. Once we found each other, he wouldn’t leave me alone long enough to simmer in my family’s dark convictions.

Jude’s love was shiny, new, and ever-seeming. The times we were in the same room in public—in church—I couldn’t stop looking at him.

Soon, he became my mood stabilizer and my reason for sanity, and early on, I knew that my life would not be worth living if he let our sinful love go.

“Shhh, don’t worry. They’ve got it wrong, Nadia. They don’t know. They don’t know,” he whispered while I dug my face into the pillow on my bed, my head heavy with tears and fear and guilt.

“How do you
know
that, Jude? Have you been in Heaven? No. So how
could
you know? My uncle says sinners who don’t repent aren’t invited in. What if we’re sent to Hell?”

Jude’s fists barged into the comforter on both sides of my head. My heart skipped, but I didn’t cower because Father, not Jude, was the one who hurt me.

“
BECAUSE
, Nadia. There is no way how we feel for each other is sinful. Innocent as children: isn’t that what we’re supposed to be in your uncle’s religion? We’re innocent as hell! You need to believe in us. If you don’t, how are we going to pull this off?

“You want to end up married to some old guy you don’t love in a few years? Someone rich enough to suit the Heavenly Harbor and shed out tithes on the level of my parents’ monthly contribution when we attended?

“Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to pull off tithes like that. So then you’ll have to have babies with that old, rich guy, lots and lots of babies—do your duty as a woman to spread Elder Rafael’s crazy story to the masses!”

I sobbed, my face burning with red-hot anxiety.

“I don’t believe in any of your uncle’s tales, the bullshit he concocts with his literal interpretation of two-thousand-year-old crap that means nothing anymore. And why are there no women disciples in the Bible? What about Mary Magdalene? Was she not present too? Did Jesus not love her? Love, Nadia. LOVE! Does
Elder Rafael
ever take a minute to think about what he’s doing to people’s brains with his crazy doctrine? It is
not fair
!”

“Jude, please,” I cried, loving him so much. His thoughts were far out, so much more radical than my brain could comprehend, but in the soft darkness of our nights, I agreed with him in this: the feelings we had for each other could not be sinful.

Life wasn’t easy in Payne Point, but it was safe. It was predictable. For a few years, I even controlled the demand for extreme penance.

Because of Jude’s appearance in our lives and my obvious attraction to him, Mother quit her job as a teacher at the Heavenly Harbor to homeschool me. My days were supposed to be: Mother, sermons, Mother, Mother, then Father’s belt if my penance didn’t cut it. I was rarely allowed outdoors now.

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby. Look at us. We’ve done this for years. Your grandparents are asleep, and I’m here at two in the morning because we have to sneak around. We’re seventeen years old. How much longer are you going to accept living in guilt and shame and denial when what we feel for each other is real and forever? At my high school, heck, everywhere else, people feel like fucking
sunshine
when they’re in love. Why don’t we? Why
can’t
we?”

“We do, Jude.”

“Yes, for the stolen hours we have together. I can’t take you to the movies. Go bowling. I can’t join you when you walk the dog because someone could see us. Hell, I’d love to take you out for ice cream, have you over to my house more than twice in four years. Every night I come to see you, you’ve relapsed. You’re inside that grey
muddy
world of the Harbor, full of illogical shit and rules. Tell me you disagree.”

I drew in a shuddering breath. I wanted his hands on me, those gentle, demanding hands that extracted pleasures I should not allow from deep, deep inside of me. Jude’s fierce tenderness was how I survived now that I had learned the beauty of unselfish love between a man and a woman.

To my church, what Jude and I had should not exist. It was dark, immoral, unchristian. But with Jude, I hovered closer to Paradise than I ever did at the Heavenly Harbor.

At sunrise, once his murmurs of love and his promises of saving me dissipated, another day with Mother awaited.

Oblivious to his nightly visits, Mother hauled me to Earth in the mornings. When I wasn’t in Heaven with my Jude, Mother stirred the dirt up high down here. She anchored me in the desert of pitch-black religion. Spooned out shame over my small but noticeable breasts, the curve of my hips, and the sudden slenderness of my waist.

But then the night would return with Jude’s love-struck gaze and reverent touches. He healed me, made me see my transformation the way he did, as something natural, something beautiful and pure.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this. You should
know
how beautiful you are. Never be embarrassed. And mothers are supposed to be there for you, to make you understand and believe in yourself.”

I’d turn the lamp off then, and thus the conversation. Leaving us in the charcoal night, nestled in ourselves. Because besides his words, Mother’s were the only ones I knew. And I had no reply.

BO

“Isn’t your husband expecting you home?”
I dislike making her sad as much as I like making her smile, but at least she doesn’t scamper off at my question.

“Not really,” she says.

She’s sad and trying to hide it even with her eyes glistening like this. I dry moisture off the tip of an eyelash and remove a stray hair from her face.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.
Again
. Damn me,” I mutter while I pull her in for a hug. Still on the kitchen counter, she allows me to hold her, and I rest my nose on top of her head. It feels good to keep her like this. She’s warm and soft in my arms. I notice now how skinny she is. She’s supple lines broken up by sharp hipbones and bony shoulders. Despite the makeup and the glossy hair, she doesn’t seem to take very good care of herself.