Thank you to GaiusPetronius for editing this series.
* Donna and Steve had been talking for so long that the waitress kept coming by just to ask if they needed anything. The food was long gone, as were most of the other patrons of the restaurant. And yet the two of them continued to swap stories. That they had much in common made conversation easy. That they each seemed to never tire of the other's company made conversation enjoyable.
Donna liked the way Steve would ask for more details when she was telling a story. She never caught him looking around the room, though she was sure there were much prettier women about. Even the waitress, with her long, sleek, black hair and perfect-looking svelte figure didn't distract his attention from her. Maybe Hannah was partially right. Or maybe Steve was a perfectly gentlemanly gay guy. Either way, it wouldn't take long in this town for him to find a girl (or guy) who really suited him. Especially once he started doing shows. His interest in Donna was easily attributable to her being the only person he knew in town, but that would change soon.
When Steve finally called for the check, Donna assured him, "I'll get this."
"No," he objected, taking the small black folder from the waitress, "I'm old-fashioned that way."
"Old-fashioned?"
"A guy asks out a girl and he pays. That's my way."
"So, this is a date?" she asked with some hesitation.
"What else would it be?" he laughed.
"You don't have to do this, Steve. We want to sign you. I don't need to be..."
"Donna," he spoke her name firmly, cutting her off. "I
wanted
to take you out."
"Well, that's... sweet. Thank you," she said, still not sure how to respond. Her inner voice was warning her that a guy like him wouldn't be interested in a girl like her for very long. Not when he had better options available.
As they walked the two blocks back to Donna's place, she tried to talk about what he could expect on Monday. But Steve interrupted her. "Can that wait? I mean... I'd like you at least for right now to think of me as something other than a... a client, or whatever."
"Oh," she said, feeling embarrassed. "OK." Not knowing what else to talk about, Donna pointed out a few of the local places as they passed them. Steve listened with a smile, often watching her face as she spoke.
When they got to her apartment building, Steve said, "Like I told you, I
wanted
to take you out. And I'd
really
like to again. I don't know if that makes things weird, but... I'm more interested in
you
than in your agency, if that makes sense."
"Oh," Donna said, nodding. It made sense on one level, but she couldn't really comprehend it.
"So," he said, prompting her. When she didn't respond, he clarified, "Can I take you out again, sometime next week?"
"Oh! Yeah. Yes. That would be nice." Then she stepped towards him and rolled up onto her toes. Craning her neck up, she placed a friendly kiss on his cheek. Steve froze. Donna, on impulse, kissed his cheek again. At the same time, Steve pressed his lips to the side of her face, as well. Then, ignoring the warning bells in her head, she rose up one more time and touched her lips to his. They kissed softly for a few seconds, his hands on her elbows, their breaths rising in little clouds on either side of their faces.
Donna pulled back slowly, then lowered her feet to be flat on the ground. She stepped back, forced a nervous smile at Steve, waved goodbye, and walked swiftly into her apartment.
As she walked the flight of stairs to her apartment, she repeated over and over to herself,
Don't get your hopes up. Don't get your hopes up. Don't get your hopes up.
*******
Hannah had grit. She had done many things in her life that required determination and strength. Just surviving her teenage years, until she was old enough to leave home took courage. Making her way across the country by herself took perseverance. Each partner she left behind, each casually discarded cell phone took a measure of resolve that few people possessed.
But by far, the hardest thing she had ever done was to show up on that chilly Saturday afternoon to see Wes.
Easier isn't better
, she kept reminding herself.
Wes was waiting for her. He had reserved a table in the rooftop greenhouse of a downtown restaurant. Because it was mid-afternoon, they had plenty of privacy. Hannah appreciated the foresight that choice of time and venue showed on Wes's part. It's easier to trust someone who is looking out for you, someone who anticipates your needs.
They exchanged simple greetings and ordered their food. Hannah had decided that the only way this would work was if she said everything she could think to say while she still had the courage to say it. So while Wes was casually buttering a dinner roll, she took a deep breath and began.
"My father raped me almost every night for four years," she began. Wes's eyes went wide and his hands froze in place, butter still on the knife. For fifteen minutes, Hannah unloaded her story, speaking of things that she had never before acknowledged to anyone other than her sisters. Her mother's craven timidity, her father's savage cruelty, her escape, using her body to buy space between herself and her father, learning to stop feeling anything, learning to fake sentiment, Tim, Ernst, Kyle, Penny, Andrew, Donna. She told him how safe she felt with him, how she didn't feel deserving of such respite, how she wanted to pretend to be what he wanted, to want what he wanted, hoping it would become reality.
Their food came and Wes still listened. She described the great stone dam that had for years contained her fear and anger, and with them, her capacity to love and delight. She described a dry world, barren of of color and life, yet safe. She told him how each day with him chipped away at that stone wall, allowing cracks of affection to slip through. She described their last night, when, caught between dreaming and wakefulness, she mistook him for her father. The great dam, weakened by the trust and security she felt with him, was no longer sufficient to contain the reservoir of emotions. And in a great deluge, her long-repressed rage and fear overwhelmed the landscape.
"When I walked into that hospital room," she recounted, trembling as if she were living the moment over again, "my thought was that you looked as bad on the outside as I did on the inside. And I knew I had done that to you. And I didn't think it was safe for me or for you if I stuck around. I blamed the... the feelings I had for you. Everything had been fine when I shut down those emotions. But once you opened that door a little bit..."
"The good and the bad came out," Wes said softly.
"Exactly," she said, her voice even. "And so I sat there in the hospital, paralyzed with fear. And I did the only thing I knew how to do. I put the walls back up. And I knew if they were to stay up, I couldn't be with you. It wouldn't work... for either of us."
Wes chewed thoughtfully on a bite of food, nodding as he processed Hannah's tale. Then narrowing his eyes, he asked a question that was bothering him, though he now thought he knew the answer. "Hannah, how can you talk about this without even a hint of... of tears, or emotion or something?"
"I've been shutting off that valve for a long time, Wes. I'm
pretty
good at it."
"That's scary."
"Maybe."
Wes finished chewing a bite, then said, "I have no idea what to say, Hannah. I suspected a little bit of that, but,
damn
. I mean...
damn
."
Hannah looked at him and shrugged. "So that's it. You want everything; that's everything, more or less. You can probably understand why I held that back from you."
"Yes and no. But we don't need to have that discussion right now," he said.
Hannah's face began to harden. "And that look you're giving me right now," she said with a hint of anger, "that look is one thing I hate, one reason I
don't
want to talk about this."
"What look?"
"That look that says I'm some kind of damaged goods, some poor broken thing that needs to be handled delicately. That... that
pity
. I don't want that," she spat out, almost losing her unflinching demeanor.
Wes sighed. "I'm sorry. It's a little bit of pity, yes, but not what you think. I just can't imagine how you've carried this burden alone for so long.
Nobody
should have to do that."
"I've gotten kinda used to it," she said calmly. Then visibly softening, she added, "But I know I can't keep that up. And that's why I'm here. I
need
to be in the kind of situation we had -- a place to feel safe and treasured and... and maybe to heal a bit. That's why I'm doing all this stuff I've never done before. I'm a walk-away girl. And now I'm banging on your door in the rain trying to get back."
"I wish it was that easy, Hannah. But you really hurt me, and you broke my trust. And... and this is a lot to take in all at once. I need to really think hard about whether or not I'm ready to take on all this."
Hannah sniffed in derision and rolled her eyes. Her impulse was to brush it off and leave. She fought against that impulse and said tersely, "I understand."
As they got up to leave, Wes moved close, leaned in, and gently kissed her cheek. Hannah never used to like such soft expressions of affection, but in that moment she cherished it, pressing her cheek towards him and longing for him to move closer, to place his cheek on hers, to wrap even one arm around her back.
"Give me a week to think it over," Wes said. "No showing up at my house, no calls. Just give me a week. I'll call you either way," he said.
Hannah closed her eyes. Some days felt like an eternity lately. "A week," she agreed.
*******
"I'll say it again, Hannah, so you know I mean it," Donna said, pouring coffee into her sister's mug, then walking the pot back to her kitchen. "You're more than welcome to stay with me."
"I don't think it's come to that," Hannah said, looking around at the small apartment. "He'll say yes, I'm sure of it." It had been four days since Wes had asked for a week. Hannah was a little surprised that he hadn't called her yet -- Wes was really playing this out to the end.
"How do you know that?"
"Because he's a guy, Donna," she answered with the tone of someone explaining something obvious to a child who should know better. "He's alone right now, and I
never
said no to sex with him. He's trying to show me that he doesn't need me, that he has the upper hand, but I've got what he doesn't have and always wants, so..."
Donna paused from scooping sugar into her mug and looked questioningly up towards the ceiling. She shook her head a bit to get the bangs away from her face. "Don't you think you're oversimplifying it? Is he really that shallow? And if he is, do you really
want
someone that shallow? Someone who treats you like... like an object?"
Hannah gripped her mug a little tighter at that last question, remembering that the reason she abased herself and went back to Wes was precisely because he did
not
treat her like an object. But she still had no other categories for thinking of men and her relationships to them. It was a consumer culture, and her sexuality was her greatest commodity.
"How do you know you're not overcomplicating it?" she retorted. "Guys want sex. If you give them that, you have power."
"Is that what you want?" Donna asked. "Power?"
"Well, the sex is nice, too," Hannah replied, her smile appearing above the rim of her mug. "But seriously, yes, I think. Power to... to have them play by my rules, I guess. But, no." She put her mug down and sighed. "That's what's so confusing. I'm finding myself wanting to try the sincerity thing."
