“You will never believe what came in the mail for my parents yesterday,” Molly says. “An invitation from Gwen and your dad for Harlow’s dedication.”
Flipping mindlessly through a magazine as I lie on my bed, I wonder aloud, “Harlow?”
“Earth to Ady. Hello? Their new baby.”
I push the magazine away and sit up, feeling the exclusion return. I haven’t spoken to my father in nearly a year, not even after the baby was born. I count back in my head and resolve that she must be around four months old by now. As much as I don’t want to care, the mere mention of my father’s life—the life I’m no longer a part of—is enough to trigger all the feelings of abandonment I’ve done a good job avoiding.
“Why would they send you guys an invitation?”
“Apparently, Gwen is on the Junior League with my mom, and they’ve been working on a couple of charity events together.”
Hearing Molly say her name makes my skin crawl. “As if she hasn’t taken enough from me, now she’s making friends with your mom. Before I know it, you’ll be babysitting for them or some crap.”
“Not a chance. Your enemies are my enemies,” she declares, and as silly as it sounds, it makes me feel a little better. “Speaking of enemies, how are you dealing with the breakup? Is Kason still keeping his distance?”
“I don’t know. Things got a little weird last night.”
“What happened last night?”
I go on to tell her about going over to Kason’s to pick up my things and his mother being taken to the hospital.
“Oh, my god. That’s so scary.”
“I saw him at the hospital.” I still can’t say his name without feeling it’s effect on my heart, so I avoid it when I can.
“Did you guys talk?”
I grow quiet, still overwhelmed by everything he revealed to me. I barely slept at all last night as I tried to make sense out of it all, including my feelings toward him. It’s a hard confliction that still has me wading in the depths of confusion. My head tells me to feel one thing, and my heart screams the opposite.
“Ady?”
“I really miss him,” I confess.
“Are you forgetting that he cheated on you? That guy is an ass.”
The moment I told Molly that Kason cheated on me, he went to the top of her hate list, and she’s had nothing good to say about him ever since. Her anger helped get me through all the times I wanted to call him. All I had to do was talk to her, and she would be more than happy to remind me of all the reasons why I needed to stay away. But now, knowing what I know, I don’t think there’s anything she could say that would cut through the magnetic pull toward him that I’m starting to feel again.
“What he did was really bad,” I tell her. “But he isn’t a bad person.”
“What did he say to you, Ady?”
“It isn’t something I can really talk about.”
Her voice pitches in annoyance. “I’m your best friend. You tell me everything.”
“I know, but . . . He just explained some things that helped me understand him a little better. It was a very private conversation, and I don’t want to betray him by telling anyone about it.”
“So, he can betray you, but you can’t betray him?”
“Molly, don’t be mad. I’m not trying to be mean or anything.”
“You’re not thinking about getting back together with him, are you?”
If only she could see the side of Kason he allows me to see, maybe she’d be more understanding of him and my feelings toward him. But to her, he’s a jerk who didn’t care about me enough to stay faithful. But I know he cares, and I trust him when he tells me that. And now knowing his issues with sex and how much his urges torment him, it’s hard for me to continue being mad at him.
“He’s not a bad guy,” I contend.
“You seriously expect me to agree with you on that? Really?” She releases a frustrated sigh. “What’s going on with you?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Ady I know would never put up with a guy treating her the way Kason has. I still can’t believe that you almost slept with him!”
And I get it. Molly and I grew up conservative, vowing to each other when we were fifteen that we’d save ourselves until marriage. It probably sounds stupid to some since it seems everyone in high school is having sex, but to us, it was a pact we took seriously. Then I fell in love with Kason, and even though I held off for as long as I did, I always knew it was him I wanted to give myself to.
“I feel like you let this guy change you.”
“People change all the time, Molly.”
“I know that. But I can’t even begin to understand why you’d even consider giving him another chance.”
“Because I love him,” I affirm without any doubt. “And he loves me.”
“He has a strange way of showing it.”
“I’m not defending what he did. It was wrong, and he knows it.” I do my best to speak confidently, because I don’t want her disapproval. “There are reasons why he cheated, reasons I can’t tell you, but you have to trust that I’m not some stupid, love-struck girl who can’t be alone so she takes back her loser boyfriend. That’s not what this is.”
“Well, it’s what it sounds like. And if you can’t tell me whatever it is you’re keeping secret, then you can’t expect me to see it any differently,” she snips before quickly adding, “Look, I have to run. I’ll talk to you later,” and then ends the call before I can say anything else.
I drop the phone from my ear, feeling as if I’m the one responsible for Molly being so upset with me. There’s no way I could ever tell anyone what Kason fought so hard to tell me. His compulsion is a pain that harbors so much shame and condemnation that he hides so deeply within the fibers of his being just to make it through the day. I’m the only one he’s ever told, and I would never reveal to anyone what he’s trusted me to keep safe.
The clank of the wrought iron gate closing jerks my attention to the window. Slipping off the bed, I walk over and see Kason down below. I wasn’t expecting him to show up since he didn’t go to school today, but here he is. Just like every other time he’s been at my house since we broke up, I watch his every movement as he works. Loneliness makes its mark on me the way it always does whenever I see him or think about him. After a while, the disconnect becomes too much, and I decide to make my presence known.
Kason never misses school, but with everything that happened yesterday, it didn’t come as a surprise when he was a no-show. Concerned for him and what he must be going through, I step outside as he’s pulling the skimmer out of the water, and give him a somber, “Hey,” as I stand on the veranda.
He looks up from across the pool and acknowledges me with an equally somber, “Hi,” before dropping his attention back to his job.
I hesitate to move any closer to him or to say anything else for fear he’s embarrassed by what I now know about him. Awkwardly, I watch as he moves about his business, and I can tell he’s as uncomfortable as I am. It’s a strange feeling to be out here with him after I’ve been hiding away all this time. I’m tangled in uncertainty about how to act around him when more than anything, I long for the ease to return between us. Then the thought that it may never return with all we’ve been through hammers on my already heavily battered heart.
When he rounds the pool to my side and kneels down to the water, I slowly walk over to him with a timid, “I didn’t see you at school today.”
“I was at the hospital.” After checking the chemical balance, he dumps the water from the vials back into the pool and places everything back in the case.
“How’s your mom doing?”
Latching the box shut, he stands and finally looks at me with exhaustion in his eyes. “Better. They think she might be able to come home tomorrow.”
“And how about you? Are you doing okay?”
“I’m trying.”
I should reach out and touch him. I should give him a hug. I should be able to show him some sort of affection, knowing that he must be starving for it so badly. It was always something he was hungry for when we were together. It was as if survivorship was dependent on nothing more than touch alone, and I was always happy to give it to him. I have to wonder if it was the fact that he’d been denied physical compassion his whole life that has made him unconsciously needy for it to try to make up for all he’s been deprived of.
“Will you thank your mom for me for the flowers she sent to the hospital. I doubt she’d want to hear from me, so if you wouldn’t mind—”
“I never told her why we broke up,” I say when I cut him off, and his face twists in what looks to be regret.
“I don’t deserve that.”
“You do,” I assure him, because even though he hurt me, he doesn’t need to be publically disgraced by everyone knowing. I told Micah and Molly because I had to. As much as I wanted to hide from my own humiliation, the pain was too much for me to deal with on my own. “You’re not a bad person, Kason.”
He shakes his head, refusing my words. “I should get going.”
“Okay,” I murmur. He turns to walk away, and I drop my shoulders, wanting nothing more than for him to stay. “Kason?”
Stopping, he turns back around.
“You, umm . . . you want to hang out some time?”
I hold my breath, rankled with the same nerves that used to plague me when we first met, but he grants me relief when he nods, saying, “I’m going back up to the hospital after work, but I should be home around eight.”
My lips lift in a subtle smile, and so do his. When he leaves, I return to my room, fall back onto my bed, and pick apart the last twenty-four hours. Last night it felt as if I had become an intruder upon his soul, unworthy of the glimpse into the crux of who he is. But what’s at his core is enigmatic beyond my comprehension.
What exactly was he trying to say?
Does he even understand it himself?
In the absence of clarity, I grab my laptop and open the lid. Words rattle around as I stare at the empty search bar. Thinking back to our conversation and the way he described things to me, I type in “uncontrollable need for sex” and hit enter.
The screen floods with websites, highlighting words like hypersexuality, uncontrolled masturbation, compulsive sexual disorder. Seeing these words so blatantly in black and white edges on alarming, and I grow upset when I think about how much I never knew about Kason.
How could we be so close and so disconnected all at the same time?
I click on one of the websites and am taken to an article about sex addiction. My chest tightens as I read some of the same things that mirror what Kason was trying to tell me. I continue to scroll down until I hit a passage that explains:
Sexual addiction has nothing to do with love, intimacy, or emotional connection with another human being. Rather, it involves an uncontrollable craving for the euphoric high that is associated with the sexual fantasy or actual activity. Many experts believe this intense high is different from the normal pleasure non-addicts experience from sexual activity. The intense craving drives the addict to do whatever it takes to satisfy it.
I don’t realize I’m crying until a teardrop falls onto my hand, which is trebling above the keyboard.
Sex addicts, like alcoholics, gamblers, and drug addicts, typically use sex as a way to alleviate stress and numb painful or unpleasant feelings. In some cases, the addict’s sexual activity may not directly involve another person, for example, masturbating excessively or viewing pornography. However, when it does involve someone else, the addict generally views the other person as nothing more than an object.
Many experts believe that sex addicts have problems with intimacy as well as close relationships in general. This may be due to the deep-seated self-loathing, shame, and sense of unworthiness that often accompanies the disorder.
Visions from the day Kason admitted that he cheated on me reappear in my mind. He was on his knees, shaking and cowering against the wall as his own tears streamed down his face. The anguish he felt must’ve been excruciating as he confessed what he had done, knowing all too well that once I knew, we would be finished. And we were. But after reading this, seeing how you could easily switch out the words sex addiction for alcohol addiction and it would parallel in description, is heartbreaking.
Is that what this is?
Is that how he feels?
Addicted?
Imprisoned?
If this is true, then maybe this explains the times he couldn’t get hard.
When I hit the next paragraph, it explains the differences between men and women with sex addiction. I click on the link for men and am directed to another page with the title “Satyriasis” in large bold text. Apparently, that’s the medical term used for sexual addiction in men.
I continue to navigate through various pages that discuss all aspects of satyriasis. The more I find, the more I want to find. Because everything in me wants to understand everything in Kason. So, I read until I get to an article that explains possible progressions of satyriasis. Words pop out at me, and I become frightened by what couldn’t possibly ever be Kason. Words like sexual predator, rapist, child molester, sexual sadist, stalking, exposing . . .
I slam the lid down, my stomach is in knots, and I feel the onslaught of a headache forming behind my teary eyes. Confusion, denial, and the realization that, aside from the last few things I read, most of what I found describes what he was trying to tell me.
But I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want there to be something wrong with Kason. I care about him more than I care about myself at this point, and it scares me to think that this might be what is going on with him. It scares me because, even though he’s telling me the same things as these articles, I don’t see him that way. All I’ve ever seen is an exuberant desire for closeness and affection. If I was around, he wanted to be holding my hand, hugging me, kissing me, any connection he could get. I never felt like he was pushing me for sex, and if I said stop, we stopped—no matter how hot and heavy. When I was ready to take that step with him, it was me who asked for it, not him. I can’t even picture him like the type of man these websites are describing. Maybe that’s because he only showed me what he wanted me to see.
A sweet, loving, and patient guy who would never intentionally hurt me, or anyone for that matter.
At the same time, if this is what is going on, then I want to help him. No one deserves to suffer in silence the way he’s admitting to doing.
Time passes slowly, and with so many thoughts bearing down on me, I do what I can to busy myself. After finishing my homework and then reheating leftovers for dinner, I flip on the television. But mindless reality shows don’t remain mindless when I start reflecting on all the times Kason and I would make out on this couch. There isn’t a place I can find that doesn’t hold at least one memory of our time together.
Eventually, the sun sets, and I grab my keys and phone and head out the door the same time my mother is pulling up the driveway.
She lowers her car window. “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going over to Kason’s for a while.”
With inquisition in her expression, she hints at a smile when she asks, “Are you two back together?”
There’s no ignoring the part of me that wishes I could say yes.
“We’re just hanging out, Mom,” I tell her when I open my car door. “By the way, he wanted me to thank you for the flowers you sent his mother.”
“Tell him hi for me. And don’t stay out too late.”
The drive up north is all too familiar, and though it was only a month ago that we broke up, it feels much longer with the burden of space that’s been wedged between us.
His old Camaro is parked in its usual space, and I pull up beside it. Jitters nag me when I knock on his door, and I start to wonder what I’m even doing here. I come with no purpose other than to simply be near him.
The door opens, and he stands there in a pair of shorts and nothing else. His hair is wet, and I can smell the soap from the shower he must’ve just gotten out of.
“I was just getting dressed,” he says, walking straight back to his room. I follow but stop short of the doorjamb. He pulls open a drawer to his dresser and grabs a T-shirt before shrugging it on.
The air is silent between us, and I wish I knew what to say. Instead, I stand here feeling as if I’m loaded with my own secrets. Secrets of knowledge from my earlier internet search. For some reason, I feel like I’ve crossed some ambiguous line. As if I’ve trespassed on information I shouldn’t be privy to. It’s a strange sense of consciousness of a situation, and I wonder if he’s ever looked into it the way I did.
“You want to come in?” he invites, and I take a slow step into his room. “Why does this feel so awkward?”
“I don’t like it.”
“I don’t, either,” he says as he walks over and sits of the edge of his mattress. He looks up at me with eyes that seem so innocent, but I know they’ve seen more than I can comprehend, yet right now, they’re adrift. Just like my heart. “Come here.”
I go and sit next to him, my leg brushing against his.
“What have you been doing all afternoon?” he asks, and my need to want to help him begins to find its way to the surface.
My eyes lock with his, and I’m met with the reminder of his honesty, never once hiding from the truth no matter the consequences. Armed with knowledge that could possibly shed some light for him, I take a hard swallow and admit, “I did some reading online. And . . . I-I was only trying to make sense out of what we had talked about yesterday.”
He fidgets uncomfortably, his hands wringing together.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” I recant. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, muttering, “It’s fine.”
“I just . . . I care about you, that’s all.” He doesn’t react, and I decide to pull out my phone. His eyes are downcast as I open up the internet and type “satyriasis” into the search bar.
With nervous fingers, I tap on the first link that pops up, and we can’t even look at each other when I hand him the phone.
He reads in silence, and it spans more than what’s comfortable. Apprehensively, I turn to see him running his finger along the screen, scrolling up and down, and finally, his brows pinch together and he snaps, “What the fuck, Adaline?”
My heart plummets, detonating a stream of ice through my veins.
“This is what you think of me? That I’m anything like this?” he stresses in disgust, handing back the phone only for me to see that he went straight to the bad, reading about deviant behaviors.
“No,” I blurt out. “I know you’re not like that. But the other stuff—I thought—I’m sorry. I was just trying to help.” The revulsion on his face slaps me with the pain of instant regret, and I backpedal as fast as I can. “I thought . . . maybe if you could understand, you wouldn’t have to—”
He pushes off the mattress and paces across the room, raging in fervent denial, “That isn’t me, Adaline. I’m not fucked up like that. I’m not fucked up like that.” He continues to repeat himself over and over, as if he could erase it from existence if he says it enough. I rush to my feet, and he walks straight into my arms. I hold him tightly, but his arms are even stronger. So strong I can feel the fear in the tension of his muscles as he crushes me against him until he finally cracks. “I’m not fucked up . . . am I?”
“No,” I insist. “No, Kase. You’re not. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve shown you that. I never should’ve even thought that could be you.”
His arms constrict around me, and I hate myself for two very blatant reasons.
One, I never should’ve attempted to diagnose him. All I did right now was plant the seed of fear that he could possibly be someone who could harbor such horrific compulsions.
And two, I lied to him when he’s never lied to me. I told him no, when my gut is telling me yes, that what he’s dealing with could very well be an addiction to sex.
His denial is vehement, and I would do anything to soothe the chaos I set off inside him. But all I can do in this moment is hold him and do my best to reassure him that there’s nothing wrong. If he isn’t ready to face it, I won’t push him. I will never push if pushing means hurting him. Never in my life have I ever wanted to protect anyone the way I want to protect Kason, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll wrap him in whatever strength I can offer and hope that it’ll be enough.