Some Sort of Happy Read online

  “I really don’t give a fuck.” Sebastian got to his knees and undid his pants. “So come here and sit on my cock. I’ll hold my hand over your mouth if you want.”

  I sat up, giving myself a moment to enjoy the sight of him there on his knees, his dick hard and waiting for me, his eyes dark and glowing in the candlelight. I loved the way his forearms looked when he cuffed his button down shirts. Crawling up on his lap, I put my hands on his shoulders and slowly lowered myself onto him, enjoying every slick, warm inch gliding deeper and deeper. When my ass rested on his thighs, his cock penetrating so deep I felt that wicked good twinge of pain, I wrapped my arms around his neck.

  We stayed there a moment, eyes locked on each other, mouths open, breath mingling between us. The light, playful mood of a moment ago was gone, something heavier in its place. I threaded my hands into his hair, staring with wondrous disbelief at this man who was so beautiful, so smart, so strong, and yet still retained that sadness in his eyes, that lingering fear that he wasn’t good enough for me. My heart was pounding so hard, it echoed in my head. I felt so full, so deliciously full with him that I knew I was going to burst right then—not an orgasm, but an emotional release.

  “I’m so in love with you,” I whispered, starting to roll my hips over his. “I’m so in love with you, Sebastian.” My eyes teared up, although it made me happy to tell him. I didn’t care if he said it back or not—I felt it and I wanted him to know it.

  “Skylar.” He squeezed me tight, burying his face in my neck. “You’re all I want. All I dream about. I think I’ve always loved you.”

  Tears dripped, although I smiled too. “Really? Always?”

  “Yes.” He used his arms to move my body against his, a slow, undulating rhythm that had my core muscles coiling again. “Because I can’t remember what it feels like not to love you. Not to ache for you. Not to yearn for you.”

  The words he used to describe his feelings broke my heart. “You don’t have to ache or yearn, love. I’m here.” I covered his forehead in kisses, pulling his head back to force him to look at me. “I’m here, and I’m not leaving.”

  “You will,” he said, that inexplicable sadness in his eyes. “You should. I should suffer for you.”

  “Shhh.” I kissed him before he could say anything more, plunging my tongue into his open mouth, wrapping my legs around him.

  He straightened up so the base of his cock hit my clit and grabbed my ass hard with his hands, grinding me against his body. “Oh god,” I breathed against his mouth. “It’s so good, so fucking good.”

  He groaned and thrust up hard and deep inside me one final time, using his arms to move me over him as we came together, our bodies pulsing in wondrous relief at the same time.

  Afterward, he hid his face in my chest, and when a small sob made his shoulders twitch, my throat squeezed tight. Why was he so convinced I’d leave him? Why did he think he needed to suffer for me? Was it because no one had been understanding enough in the past? Had no one tried hard enough to break down his walls? Would he shut me out, retreat into isolation to protect himself?

  “Sweet boy,” I soothed as his tears dampened my blouse. I ran my hands over his shoulders, down his back, pressing kisses to the top of his head. “You’ll never suffer for me. I won’t let you.”

  “Don’t make that promise. You’ll regret it.”

  “No, I won’t. What is this? What’s wrong?”

  “Fuck. Sorry.” He quickly wiped at his eyes.

  “Sebastian. Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing. I guess I just didn’t realize I was holding in a lot of tension.” He focused on pulling out of me, and the moment he did, I sat back and brought my legs together, covering myself with my skirt.

  “Oh.” Well, this was a letdown. Was he really shutting down on me right now? After what we’d just said to each other?

  “I’m sorry about your skirt. I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

  I stared at him, blinking twice. “My skirt?”

  “Yeah. I got…stuff on it.” He stood and did up his pants.

  “Jesus Christ, Sebastian.” I scrambled to my feet, feeling warmth trickle down my leg. “I don’t care about the damn skirt. I care that you’re closing yourself off from me, right after I told you I love you.”

  “I’m not.” This without even glancing at me.

  “You are. Why?”

  He was silent for a second, staring out at the water, and I recognized the stubborn set of his jaw. He wasn’t going to talk.

  “Fine. Be stubborn.” Instead of engaging in the argument, I leaned down to pick up my shoes and my binder and stomped off the dock and up to the cabin.

  Inside the bathroom I cleaned up with a wet washcloth, fighting tears as I looked at myself in the mirror over the sink. This is him. This is what you’ll have to deal with every time your relationship hits a milestone that freaks him out.

  But what milestones would there be? He’d just said the other night that he doesn’t want the forever things—getting married, having kids. I’d played that off, and then we’d gotten distracted with sex—amazing, hair-pulling, wall-thumping, name-screaming sex—but later, as we lay next to each other in his bed, I felt sad that there was a possibility he didn’t want those forever things with me. Maybe he was just scared of that kind of commitment—a lot of guys were. Or maybe he worried about passing his OCD on to his children if he had any. Maybe he’s scared he’d stab me with the cake knife at our wedding. But who the fuck knows, because he won’t talk to me!

  A gentle knock sounded on the door.

  “Just a second,” I said. “Actually, just come in. I don’t care.”

  The door opened and a downtrodden Sebastian appeared behind me in the mirror. I met his contrite eyes before rinsing out the washcloth in the sink.

  He entered and stood beside me, taking the washcloth in his hand. Without a word, he wrung it out and dropped to his knees, and turned me to face him. Then he gently ran the cool, wet cloth up the inside of one leg.

  I sighed. “I already did that,” I said, although it was so sweet that he wanted to do it, I didn’t protest when he stood, rinsed and wrung again, and knelt down to wipe the other leg, and then tenderly washed in between them.

  He looked up at me. “I do love you. More than I’ve ever loved anyone.”

  I cupped his jaw with one hand. “Then let me in, and let me stay.”

  “I want to.” The fear in his eyes broke my heart. “I’ll keep trying.”

  I started slipping the night Skylar told me she loved me. I knew I would.

  It was all kinds of fucked up, I knew that too. Because I’d spoken the truth—I did love her more than I’d ever loved anyone before. My heart knew the truth, but it was as if my head refused to cooperate. Refused to believe in a future with her. Refused to let me feel secure in the knowledge she was happy with me.

  She hadn’t brought work clothes for the next day, so I had to take her home that night. Halfway down the driveway, I had to go back and check the locks on the cabin doors. The second time, we reached the road, and I had to reverse to check them again. A quarter of the way to the farm, I felt the need to go back and check them again, and I nearly turned around. I was so agitated, my hands shook.

  “Hey.” Skylar put three fingers on my wrist. “Stop. You locked the doors. I saw you.”

  I swallowed. “OK.”

  “What’s going on with you? Talk to me.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Is it…what I said? Maybe that was too much.” The worry in her voice was like a punch in the stomach.

  “No, Skylar.” I glanced at her, saw her chewing her bottom lip. I took her hand and kissed it. “I’m so glad you said those words to me, and I meant what I said to you.”

  Which was why I counted lines in the center of the highway, there and back.

  And why I made sure I kissed her goodnight eight times and told her I loved her twice, praying she wouldn’t catch on to what I was doing.
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  It was why I counted as I brushed my teeth, made sure I stopped reading my book on an even page, and switched the lamp in my bedroom off eight times.

  In the dark, I lay my head on the pillow and worried with an intensity like pain.

  I loved her, and she loved me.

  Now it was my responsibility to keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  keep her safe.

  • • •

  Three days later I saw Ken, and he knew right away something was off with me. “How are things?” he asked, eyeing me warily from his chair.

  “Fine.” I kept all my answers short and offered nothing. When he asked about Skylar, I told him things were comfortable, and even as I spoke the words I tapped the side of my leg eight times, then dropped my head and blinked eight times. I’m sure Ken recognized I was not myself, at least not the self that I’d been in the past few months, but he didn’t push. When I left the building I made sure I took an even number of steps to get out to my car. I hated what I was doing, felt sick and shameful and loathsome, but I couldn’t stop.

  Skylar was tougher on me than Ken.

  “What’s with you?” she whispered two weeks later when she caught me rearranging the place setting at my brother’s house. I was trying to make sure the two forks were exactly the same distance from each other and the one nearest the plate was that same distance from it. Same with the spoon and butter knife on the other side.

  “Nothing.” I gave her a smile when she reached over and took one of my hands under the dining table.

  “Are you nervous about something?” By contrast, she seemed cool and calm, although she was meeting my entire family for the first time today.

  “No.” Leaning toward her, I kissed her cheek to reassure her. The last thing I wanted was for her to think I had an issue bringing her around my family. I didn’t—in fact, this had been my idea. Well, mine and my sister-in-law’s. She and Skylar had met already because Skylar had arranged a meeting between Kelly and Mrs. Nixon about supplying her guest houses with products. Skylar had also arranged a meeting with Mia Fournier, and Abelard now stocked and sold Kelly’s honey-based products as well. Kelly adored Skylar, and had encouraged me to bring her to dinner to meet the rest of the family. My father was here with his longtime girlfriend, my brother David was here with his wife, Jen, and my nieces and nephews sat at a kids table in the kitchen.

  Skylar was her usual self, beautiful, relaxed, and outgoing, and it was wonderful to see how she fit in with my family. Diana had come to Michigan twice in our two-year relationship, and neither time had I felt as comfortable or proud as I did tonight. In fact, I quite enjoyed the impressed looks on my brothers’ faces when they first saw her. My father, who’d met her once at the office, kept looking back and forth between us with a curious look on his face, and I wondered if he was thinking How the hell did a guy like you get a girl like that? Which is basically what I thought every time I looked at her.

  “Your family is wonderful,” Skylar said later as I drove her home.

  “They loved you.” I tried to sound relaxed, but I was horribly tense behind the wheel. Lately I’d been obsessing over her getting into a car accident. She’d purchased her own car last week, a little Mini Cooper, and I was terrified that it wouldn’t protect her. It was so small. Even in the truck, I was nervous about a crash. Then I felt awful for even having those thoughts because my brain convinced me I might cause the accident just by thinking about it.

  “I love you.” She reached over and rubbed my leg. “Are you sure you’re OK? You seem distracted lately.”

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” Inside my head were multiple voices screaming at me. One warned me that by shutting her out, I was avoiding the issue of relapse and contributing to the relationship’s demise, if not my own. Another cackled with I-told-you-so glee, finding delight in watching me fuck this up just as predicted. Another begged me to keep doing what I was doing because it was the only way to reassure myself that no harm would come to her.

  “Seems like you’re more than tired.” Her tone was wary. “I—I’ve noticed a couple things in the last couple weeks, and I’m concerned.”

  “Oh? Like what?”

  She took a breath. “Like the checking the locks thing.”

  I bristled a little. “I’ve always done that.”

  “And the outlets?”

  “I live in a cabin. I worry about fire.”

  “And putting the knives back above the fridge?”

  I’d been hoping she wouldn’t notice that. “I just did it to clear the clutter off the counter. I hate clutter.”

  She didn’t say anything until we pulled up at her parents’ place. Right after Labor Day, she’d moved back into the guest house she’d lived in last May, and I’d spent a couple nights there, although I felt much more comfortable at the cabin. Being in my bed with her was the one place I felt completely at ease in my body—and in hers.

  “Want to come in? I have to work early tomorrow, but I’d love for you to stay the night.” She took one of my hands in both of hers. “If you’re tired, we can go right to sleep, I promise.”

  I smiled, with effort. “That rarely happens with us.”

  “I know.” She gave me a wicked grin. “But I like it.”

  “Why don’t you grab your stuff and come to the cabin with me?”

  She considered. “I’ll need my car in the morning, though.”

  “I’ll drive you to work and pick you up,” I said quickly. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I’m not working.”

  “No, that’s silly. I’ll get my work clothes and meet you back at the cabin.” She leaned over and kissed me quickly, and before she could get out of the car I grabbed her and kissed her again.

  She caught on and grinned. “I know, I know. Two is better than one.”

  “Busted.” I laughed a little, but inside I was dead serious.

  Nothing could be done in odd numbers. Nothing.

  As autumn progressed, I fell more in love with Skylar every day, and knew if I could fucking let myself be sure of something, it would be that she and I belonged together. But the sense of impending doom, and the irrational fear that I would be the cause of it, tormented me.

  I did my best to hide my anxiety from Skylar, but not all of my compulsive behaviors were easy to conceal. She knew something was up with me, but when she’d ask if I was OK, I’d lie and say I was stressed about work, or tired, or hadn’t been eating right. She either believed me or pretended to, probably in order to give me space to work this out on my own, which made me feel even guiltier. I was lying to the woman I loved and she deserved better. Don’t believe me, I wanted to tell her. Don’t let me shut you out. Don’t take my silences for answers. Don’t let me ruin this with fear.

  On my bad days, it felt like every step I took could trip the wire, every drastic thought I had would come to fruition, and every minute was sixty seconds closer to losing her. Of course you’ll lose her, the voice taunted. When have you ever been able to hold on to something good?

  But there were good days too.

  When Mia Fournier had her baby in mid-October, Skylar was given a promotion, a raise, and a box of Abelard Vineyards business cards that said Skylar Nixon, Brand Representative on them. I sent her two dozen pink roses at work the next day and told her how proud I was of her that night. She asked if she could have a reward, and I said of course.

  The wicked little thing asked if we could take a shower together, during which she begged me to jerk off in front of her and come on her chest.

  Which I did.

  Later on I blindfolded her and tortured her endlessly with my tongue for being such a naughty girl, her hands tied, her body stretched out on the bedroom floor.

  On those kinds of days, I felt like a god. I could do anything as long as I had her. One chilly fall evening
we dragged my sleeping bag out on the dock and spent the entire night out there, whispering and kissing and making love until the sun came up, when we finally went into the cabin and slept for hours in my bed. I came so close that night to asking her to move in with me, but I was too scared—if she was there constantly, it would be much harder to hide my rituals from her.

  But God, how I loved her. Madly. Passionately. I wanted her with me all the time. I craved her with every fiber of my being. That night on the dock, I knew without a doubt I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her.

  Finally, some fucking conviction.

  In November, I started fantasizing about proposing. This was how you were supposed to feel when you asked someone to be your wife—wildly in love, every vein in your body running hot with blood when you’re together, every beat of your heart an explosion. But the more I thought about it, the closer I came to asking her if she wanted to stay with me forever, the more fragile she seemed in my eyes, the more obsessive thoughts pummeled my brain, and the less I felt I was good for her. She wouldn’t be happy with me, would she? She couldn’t be. I was a liar. I was a coward. I was despicable, tying her up and fucking her just to make her feel defenseless and vulnerable the way I did.

  But I couldn’t stop.

  Fear, guilt, and shame tortured me, and the more I fought it, the worse I felt in my skin. My life became a charade. I hid my relapse from Ken by canceling sessions for four weeks straight. I was able to hide it at work because my father let me keep my own hours—it never mattered if I was late. I stopped writing in my journal in the effort to hide it from myself, and I tried desperately to hide it from Skylar—but eventually it became impossible.

  “What is with you?” she asked one cold, rainy November night after I’d driven back to the cabin for the second time to check the outlets and appliances. We were on our way to meet the Fourniers for dinner and were late already, but I’d made soup on the stove that afternoon, and it was an odd day, and even though I remembered turning the burner off, I didn’t trust myself. What if that memory was from a different day and the gas was still on? I’d made up some story about forgetting my wallet and then needing one of my meds, but those were flimsy excuses and she knew it. “And if you say ‘nothing,’ I’m getting out of this car. I’ve put up with this behavior for too long.”