Cai
Tansy is sobbing and she won’t stop. Her shoulders curl all the way to her knees. She’s wrapped into a ball of emotion in more than one way. The wild snarl of her curls hides her face.
I say her name, but she doesn’t hear me. She can’t through those gut-wrenching cries. They’re hard enough that I see the arch of her spine like lonely islands in a sea of pale skin.
“Tansy,” I say again, and I take her shoulders.
She snaps, flailing out at me, smacking me away. She doesn’t know how to hit, doesn’t know how to make a fist, but the smacks hurt nonetheless. Not in a stinging way, but in what they mean.
“No,” she cries. “No, no, no,” until it becomes a chant that makes my blood run cold.
I back up, hands held out, then back up farther until I’m barely on the edge of the bed. And then I get off it too, because something tells me that the last place Tansy wants to be is in a bed with anyone else.
“Tansy. Little one. Sweetheart.” I use every name I can think of, but none of them are getting through to her. She’s lost, and I don’t know how to save her.
She folds her hands over her face. Her shoulders shake. Even her toes are trying to curl up toward her bottom. She couldn’t possibly get any smaller. I stroke her calf, but that makes her flinch hard, so I pull away again and give her space.
I walk around the room slowly flipping every possible light on. I even turn the TV on, though I mute it, and turn it to the Animal Channel because it’s the most innocent channel I can think of.
The box of Kleenex in the bathroom is as rough as sandpaper, but I bring it to the bedside table anyway. I also fold up my softest T-shirt, the Black Flag shirt I’ve had for almost twenty years, and line it up next to the tissues. I take a spare blanket from the closet and cover Tansy as much as I can without coming into direct contact with her skin. She twists the blanket in both hands and uses it to cover her face, but it’s worth it because I think her crying is slowing down.
With an open bottle of water in hand, I kneel at the side of the bed and wait.
I say very little, partially because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing, but mostly because this seems like a storm that’s breaking open. I don’t want to get in the way of a hurricane. This is the kind that scrubs the land.
I’m not sure how long it takes her crying to ease. It kind of doesn’t matter. I would be willing to wait a century as long as I got to comfort her when it’s over. Her great, keening sobs eventually give way to weeping.
When she swipes at her eyes with the back of a hand, I nudge the Kleenex forward so it brushes her wrist. She takes a handful blindly. Once she wipes her nose, it’s crimson. Her skin is blotchy and her eyes are swollen.
“I’m sorry,” she says, without ever opening her eyes.
“There is absolutely no need to apologize.”
“You must think I’m crazy.”
“No. I don’t.”
She shudders. More tears leak from the corner of her eyes and crest her soft cheeks. Her hairline is sticky and damp. She wipes her face as if she could wipe away the traces of her crying, but it’s a part of her now. “I think you know.”
I don’t want to pretend like I don’t. “Can I touch you?”
“Oh god.” She rolls flat so that she’s facedown on the bed. Her hands cover the back of her head. “See? I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.” It’s safe enough, so I ease up onto the edge of the bed. “But I don’t want to scare you or push you.”
“You can touch me,” she says, and I’m free to cup the back of her neck. She still flinches, but then eases a little bit. Not much. She’s made of barbed wire and knotted twine.
I start small, little strokes down the back of her neck to the top of her shoulders. It takes a long time, but eventually she scoots closer to me and lays her forehead against my knee. The small contact is enough to make my heart break. She’s so fragile. I could fold her pieces and rip them up in a way that she’d never be able to put back together again.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“‘It.’” She presses her face against my leg as if she’s trying to burrow beneath me. Her word comes out muffled. I reach farther down her back and pet her spine, then the muscles on each side. “‘It.’ As if it were only one time.”
My heart stutters in fear, but I don’t think I let it show in any movement of my body. It’s probably good that she can’t see my frown, though. “I’m so sorry.”
“You and me both.” This is a cynical, hard-bitten Tansy that I haven’t seen before. I wish I didn’t have to see it at all, but I’m glad that she feels safe enough to be all sides of herself.
The C-shape of her spine loosens a fraction, and her knees lower. There’s a little more give in her muscles. “When we were in college, she used wheedling as foreplay. It wasn’t very sexy, but she’d pout if I didn’t give in or if I was busy. Or if I didn’t have an orgasm, because then she felt like I wasn’t ‘invested’ in what we were doing. I faked it. Just once or twice at first, but then more, and she didn’t notice when I did or I didn’t.” She stops to take a breath. Her sigh comes out shaky, like a sob.
I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry would be too little and far too late, and I feel like I should be saving it for the true gut punch that I know is coming. “You did what you had to do.”
She looks up, obviously startled. “That . . . that’s not what I expected to hear.”
I shrug, and I don’t stop touching her now that she’s given me the chance. “What, did you think I was going to say something shitty about faking comes?”
“It’s a straight-girl thing.”
“It’s a sad thing, whether it’s in straight sex or queer.” I push her hair back from her face. Her skin is blazing hot. “No one ever goes to bed with someone else saying, ‘Gee, I hope I don’t come and am able to give a great performance.’”
She gives a sharp, dry laugh and lowers her head again. This time she only lays her cheek on my leg rather than trying to get under me. Having her head in my lap makes me feel warm and trusted. I like the feeling.
“Then came the stage where she didn’t really believe in foreplay and just wanted to ‘get to the good stuff’ right away. She said I’d catch up, and she was right. I got wet enough that it didn’t hurt anymore.”
I can’t help it; I make a growly noise that’s not like anything I’ve made before. “I’ve got some tough friends. Meet a lot of people when you give tattoos. I’m going to fuck her up.”
Tansy clenches my calf. “Don’t do that. Don’t. I don’t want anyone going near her.”
It’s only the obvious panic in her voice that makes me mutter an okay. But I tuck the idea away for later. Skylar has a mean right hook. Her girlfriend is kind of scrawny but fights dirty.
“It wasn’t usually like that anyway,” Tansy says, and she sounds so much like she’s trying to be apologetic that my rage only gets bigger. But I shove it down further. She needs me calm. “Usually she was the one who wanted to get off, and I’d do things for her.”
My stomach flips and churns. “So that’s what happened now. When I held your hand.”
Her agreement is only a small nod against my lap. Then she shudders. More tears leak from the corners of her eyes. Her long, thick lashes are matted together and spiky. She clings to me, and I do my best to be her rock.
It’s not a position I’ve been in before. I’m the one who leaves. Who scatters and runs, fearful of a past that haunts my choices. But I don’t have those fears anymore. Tansy might leave me one way or the other, and with this talk of moving home it seems even more likely than might. But that’s okay. She deserves to have someone who’ll hold steady for her.
I rub her back and cup her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Even if I don’t know how to make that happen.