Fade In (24 page)

His hips rock and pull me with him, my body fitting with his just so. Ben's fingers run slowly up my back, right under the jewel swinging to and fro from the neck of my dress. Once it reaches between my shoulders, warm fingertips press firmly. Chest to chest, our bodies synchronize in perfect time to the magical song that surrounds us.

For minutes upon minutes, forever it seems, I cling to him and forget all my worries and doubts. How could this be the wrong thing to do when it is the only thing that's ever felt this right?

His steady breathing and the way he softly sings along when the band does “You've Really Got a Hold on Me” lulls me, and I instinctively squeeze him, telling him with my embrace how good he makes me feel. We dance and dance until my feet start their end-of-the-night routine of surrendering to my shoes.

By about midnight, everyone is cleared out, and after we generously tip and thank the staff of The Yard, Ben texts Ray to pick us up. I wonder to myself what Ray does when he isn't just waiting around for us to call. It's kind of funny to me in that moment and I deliriously laugh. Partly from sheer exhaustion and partly because it's so strange to think about.

“Are you drunk, baby?” Ben asks, standing behind me with his arms dangling over the front of my shoulders. His fingers are pointing and poking at my cheeks.

“No. Well…maybe a little buzzed. I'm not drunk. I was just thinking about what it is that Ray does in between running me all over the place. Like, is there a club where drivers go to wait for their passengers?” I laugh again, finding the absurd idea hilarious.

“Ha! That's a good question. I never thought about it. I suppose I just thought they were driving other people around in the meantime like cabbies. That isn't right either though. Is it?” The way his belly jiggles the jewel on my back when he laugh tickles, and I laugh more.

“No. Or maybe it is, and when we call, he just kicks them out and hightails it back to me. He's like Batman and I run the Batphone.” I continue to crack up.

“You should ask him when he gets here. I bet he'll tell you.” His poking has ceased, and one of his hands rests across my collarbone and lightly traces it.

“I don't know if I want to know. Ignorance is bliss and all that. I think I'll maintain my stupidity.”

“Have it your way,” he says. “Hey, I think I'm going to have Ray drop me off after he lets you out if that's alright with you?”

Is this a trick question? Is he trying to coax me into asking him to stay? Or maybe he really did get sick of me? Either way, it stings.

“Yeah, sure. I'm tired. You have all of tomorrow off, too. So I will just see you Monday morning.” I can't hide the sudden turn of emotion I have in my gut. I shrug out of his arms and go to stand closer to the curb. I'm instantly cooler, both inside and out.

I'm so stupid.

At this moment, the car pulls up to the curb, and without waiting for Ray, I open the door and scoot all the way over to the opposite side. Ben and Ray exchange pleasantries over the roof of the town car and I wait. Impatiently. I'm ready to be home.

How the winds can change. When did my feelings get this sensitive?

Toughen up, Tatum.

“Are we going or not?” I say with a little more venom than I intended, but my ego is hurt. Both men get in and off we go. I lean forward to talk to Ray. “Hey, Ray. Thanks for picking us up so late. You're the best. Do you mind dropping Ben off on the way?” I sit back in the cool leather of the bench seat and wait for his answer.

“Sure, I can take him, but your place is actually closer. Should I take you home first?”

“No, we'll drop him off first.” My foot is down.

I glance in Ben's direction and find him sitting comfortably. There isn't a worry on his face. This only makes me even sourer. As we ride through the streets that are still bustling at this time of night, I watch the people we pass out my window and think about the night. Regardless of how it's ending, it was amazing.

I smile despite myself and hear Ben say from across the wide seat, “That's a better color on you.”

“Excuse me?” This time I'm not as bitter sounding as I am tired. Feelings are exhausting.

“You are upset, but just now you're smiling. I like that better. You misunderstood me, by the way, and then overreacted. I wish you wouldn't have.” I think he knows he's walking a thin line and his words are cautious.

Did I? “I'm not following. I'm fine.”
Deny. Deny. Deny.

“Tatum, look at me.” His hand reaches for mine and I look at his fingers stretched open for me to hold on to. Again, my body can't resist him, even if I am rubbed the wrong way. “You told me on the phone that you want to take this slow. I'm fine with it. This is our second date. What do you want me to do?”

Oh, yeah. I did say that. I suppose slow in this context needs a little definition. Like any other woman, I meant ‘slow until I want it faster.’ I thought he would know that that was what was meant by that statement. It's really more like ’let’s take it slow until I change my mind and then just follow my lead.’ That's what that means.
Men.

“All right. I admit that I said that, but it wasn't like I asked you up for anal and some light bondage. I didn't even ask you up. You didn't give me a chance to.” I can't believe I just said that. Yes I can.

“You don't
still
have a chance?” He smiles. “Light bondage?” He smiles bigger.

“Well—”

“No, instead, you got bent out of shape and threw a tantrum.”

“Hey, I didn't throw anything, Ben.” What can I say? Is he right? Did I blow up over nothing? God, this man is an irritating, thought-reading bastard.

Pulling my hand closer, Ben reels me into him. I go hesitantly at first and then cave, curling into his side. “Do you want me to come up, Tatum?” he asks in a low voice so that Ray can't hear him.

“I don't know. I mean yes. Wait. No. You were right.” I look up at him apologetically. “I'm sorry. I don't think I know what I want. But I want you to want to come up. Does that make any sense?”

“Yes,” he says and lifts my chin towards his. Our lips are so close that I can feel how warm his mouth would be to touch. So close that even not pressing them together feels like a kiss. My eyes close by themselves and I wait.

And I wait.

And I wait some more.

“You're so beautiful when you stop fighting.” The kiss moment vanishes, but something else replaces it. I leave my eyes closed in fear that he'll see more than I'm willing to show.

The things he says and how good he is to me are more than I deserve. This isn't fair to him. No matter how badly I want this little fantasy he's painting of an us, it just isn't right.

I'm too stubborn. Too selfish. He should be with a woman who gives more than she takes from him. The sad thing is this was—almost—just the beginning. I can't imagine how much taking I'll do in my dark future.

Ben's thumb traces both my brows and then tenderly skates over my eyelids, down my nose, and across my cheeks. So faint are his touches that they almost tickle and leave nothing but calmness in their wake. A finger traces first my upper lip and, in turn, my bottom one.

He's knows I'm not glass. I don't shatter when dropped. So why does he insist on handling me like this, with such care?

“Fighting who?” I finally ask on a whisper.

“Fighting yourself. Fighting me. Fighting the truth.”

Ben doesn't kiss me, but I want him to. So I don't call him Benny as a quiet punishment. I'm such a rebel.

He gifts me the customary forehead peck when we drop him off first, per my request. He says that he's had a wonderful night. Before he shuts the car door, he leans in and tells me that he'll ask me out again and that he won't be waiting as long as I did to do it.

The days and weeks fly by after Winnie and Cooper's party, and soon it is almost the end of June. I received thank-yous from many guests, saying that it was the best shower they'd ever been invited to. I believe them, because it was the best shower I've been to also.

The last week of the season for the show was turbulent to say the least. Chel-Ro was a no-show, which fucked with our whole lineup. Luckily, Winnie, Wes, and I were still able to wrangle up a few old friends and rising stars to make appearances. It worked, but it felt a little half-assed.

The Devons’ skits were funny and they did amazing. They did one of the planned Chel-Ro skits with a cardboard cutout of her likeness and it was funnier than if she would have been there. After wrapping that Thursday, I skipped the after-show party that was hosted by our network, saying I didn't feel that well, and went home.

I just felt so tired, and my mind and heart were at odds with everything.

I couldn't stop thinking about Ben and thinking that he deserves more than what I can offer. Seriously, I'm a pain in the ass as is. Add in my hectic life and crazier-by-the-day ex-boyfriend and then, for good measure, top it off with a good old-fashioned case of vision impairment. Peaches.

Since the night after the show when Kurt lost his shit in the ABN lobby, he’s called so much that I had to change my number. He’s sent flowers with rambling apologies. He’s even started calling Winnie to find out how I am doing.

I did get a formal order of protection, and Cooper went a step further and spoke to his family. They assured him that they'd do whatever they could to help. I tried to keep as much of it played down in front of Ben, but I was glad when finally ended. He sent one flower arrangement and it just said “Goodbye.”

Then there's the whole sight thing. I hate to admit it, but it's making me depressed. I can tell that my moods have been all over the place. Nothing is funny. I'm having a hard time writing anything for next season, which has never happened. I don't want to go anywhere unless I have to. I know that I have the wedding coming up, and I've mentally prepared myself for most of it. But I'm just laying low until I get out of this funk.

I've avoided Ben to the point of getting up early and going down into our building’s gym and walking on the treadmill in the mornings when he arrives and then sometimes I go sit in the coffee shop when I know he's dropping things off.

It seems unfair to have all these feelings for him. I can't figure out a way to make it work out for either of us in my mind. If I give in to what I want, then he's stuck with me. Good for him.

Then what happens when I'm completely blind? What happens to our relationship, if there is one then? He'd be stuck taking care of me like a child. He could do so much better.

What if he wants marriage and children? How does that work out for a blind chick? You use your cane to smack all of the ankles of the guests as you walk down the aisle?

Our working relationship continues to be totally beneficial to me, but the week after the show closed for the season, I told him that he could just work Mondays and Thursdays, thinking that I'd be a lot less busy. And I am.

Mostly my time is spent editing and reading projects for other people I know. I'm actually really into one by a screenwriter in L.A. that I met while working on Up Late.

It's about a band that breaks up and reunites after the loss of a member years later. I love the story, and I've been asked in to add some ideas where comedic scenes were concerned.

They are quite good already, so I'm basically just making notes for timing and delivery. Mostly, I am wrapped up in the love story within it. And it makes me want one of my own.

Ben asked me to go out with him the Friday after the last show, but I used the same excuse as I had to get out of the wrap party. It wasn't a total lie. I'm having more frequent headaches and I'm too nervous—or scared—to admit that there is a major deficit in my sight. My vision's peripheral now blurs into where it, just weeks ago, was clear and unclouded.

Even though I'm staying clear of Ben and cooling it with the flirting, he consistently asks me out all the time. I make up excuses, but the last time I just smiled and shook my head.

He simply replied, “You will.”

Today, I’m sitting in Dr. Meade's office, where he's telling me that my condition is more rapidly sliding into a territory that we both knew was coming.

“What do I do, Dr. Meade? Are you sure that there isn't anything available? Treatments that are in trial? Anything?” The quicker this is happening, the more I am desperate to find a fucking loophole.

There has to be some experimental monkey piss treatment or a treatment where I only eat raisins and goat's milk. A treatment where I have to sleep in one of those hyperbaric oxygen chambers and listen to The Cure for six hours each day. Something.

I just can’t accept that this is it. And at the rate that the fog framing my sight is swallowing up my vision, Dr. Meade and I both estimate that it will be only months until it is mostly gone.

My heart is breaking. I feel isolated and scared. I'm angry and irrational. Not only is my sight fading away, but the glimmer of hope that I'll have anything normal in my future is vanishing too.

“I'm sorry, Tatum. I think you need to see a psychiatrist. For real. Someone you can talk to about this. Someone who is educated about the stress and anxiety you are and, most likely, will continue to feel for a while until this stabilizes. I can't say if you'll be totally blind when it does, but that is usually the way this disease works.” He sighs and offers me a kind smile. “On a hopeful yet atypical note, it could slow down again. It could stop getting worse altogether and remain like it is. There just is no way of knowing, but at the rate it's deteriorating now, the chances of that aren't all that good.”