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Authors: Rachel L. Jeffers
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fear. With absolute certainty, I am heard. It would be the last time that I would suffer the suggestion of suicide. I will not be anyone’s victim. I will not be my own victim. Of this, I am certain.
Chapter Seventeen
The only real power that Nate held over me was the result of something he had said to me in a brief moment together and those words have haunted me for years, always bringing me back to the same place, the same question. Did he love me, even though the words were never spoken?
It is difficult to imagine a man like Nate in love. He loved his whiskey. He loved to comment on a sexy girl, especially if she had a strong back, or some other appeal that seemed unique to his tastes. He loved to dazzle with his intellect, and thrived on writing and playing with words, as it were a game, leaving the lay person to gather the meaning. He loved staying up most of the night letting his gin, vodka or whiskey work its devilish magic, warding off the demons that so frequently come to us all in our midnight hours. He loved girls with accents. But, was he in fact capable of loving a woman, for all of who she was, and if so, why had that woman not been me?
We laid side by side, the ceilings a bit wobbly over us, the walls close, our minds blissfully muddled. I move closer, kissing him, ready in one instant to abandon every belief I had in the sanctity of the marriage act. I had received confessions of love from various suitors, even the foretelling of a proposal, but never considered giving myself in the sacred act to a man I was not married to. The courage, no doubt was fueled by the two drinks I had consumed, but the desire itself came from a place deeper than I could have realized. I loved him, and did not know it, because I had never loved any man before. He met my kiss, and I was both unsure and sure of myself in that moment. This was everything I wanted, and nothing I wanted at the same time. He touched me, and then he rolled onto his back and running his fingers through his hair. "I can't do it," he said. "You will regret this, and I don't want to be the one that brought that pain. I'm sorry, but I can't."
For a man who was inconsiderate enough to comment on another beautiful woman in my presence, and who often poked fun at me in ways that seemed innocent enough, I found it very difficult to believe that he cared anything about what regrets I might have. I assumed he was relieving himself of whatever pressure and forced obligation that he thought might result in the aftermath. He didn't know me very well, because I was not a woman to grovel for a man's affection. It came often enough on its own, without my bidding, and I certainly was not about to attempt to ensnare him on the guilt of lost virginity. Nonetheless, I brushed the comment aside, not taking any offense where none was meant.
"I would like this to be more than it is," I said to him, rather matter-of-factly, as mincing words is not my strong suit. To which he carefully responded that he was focused on his career, and didn't have time for a committed relationship. And that was my cue. That bright Sunday morning when I backed out of his driveway was the last time I would see his home. He would call a few times, and I would ignore the calls, not returning them. And within a few weeks, the calls stopped altogether, and that is when the intense pain of loss saddled itself to me.
I had not known that when I would meet up with him at work, the heavy beating of my heart and sudden lurch of my stomach was a result of loving him. It did not make sense that I should love an unreligious man, so therefore it must mean that I did not. But when the phone calls ceased, and he met me at work with the birthday card which told me everything and nothing at all, my grief at losing him enveloped me.
And it was Gregory, who came to me as a friend, asking nothing and giving everything, and gently,
Chapter Seventeen
The only real power that Nate held over me was the result of something he had said to me in a brief moment together and those words have haunted me for years, always bringing me back to the same place, the same question. Did he love me, even though the words were never spoken?
It is difficult to imagine a man like Nate in love. He loved his whiskey. He loved to comment on a sexy girl, especially if she had a strong back, or some other appeal that seemed unique to his tastes. He loved to dazzle with his intellect, and thrived on writing and playing with words, as it were a game, leaving the lay person to gather the meaning. He loved staying up most of the night letting his gin, vodka or whiskey work its devilish magic, warding off the demons that so frequently come to us all in our midnight hours. He loved girls with accents. But, was he in fact capable of loving a woman, for all of who she was, and if so, why had that woman not been me?
We laid side by side, the ceilings a bit wobbly over us, the walls close, our minds blissfully muddled. I move closer, kissing him, ready in one instant to abandon every belief I had in the sanctity of the marriage act. I had received confessions of love from various suitors, even the foretelling of a proposal, but never considered giving myself in the sacred act to a man I was not married to. The courage, no doubt was fueled by the two drinks I had consumed, but the desire itself came from a place deeper than I could have realized. I loved him, and did not know it, because I had never loved any man before. He met my kiss, and I was both unsure and sure of myself in that moment. This was everything I wanted, and nothing I wanted at the same time. He touched me, and then he rolled onto his back and running his fingers through his hair. "I can't do it," he said. "You will regret this, and I don't want to be the one that brought that pain. I'm sorry, but I can't."
For a man who was inconsiderate enough to comment on another beautiful woman in my presence, and who often poked fun at me in ways that seemed innocent enough, I found it very difficult to believe that he cared anything about what regrets I might have. I assumed he was relieving himself of whatever pressure and forced obligation that he thought might result in the aftermath. He didn't know me very well, because I was not a woman to grovel for a man's affection. It came often enough on its own, without my bidding, and I certainly was not about to attempt to ensnare him on the guilt of lost virginity. Nonetheless, I brushed the comment aside, not taking any offense where none was meant.
"I would like this to be more than it is," I said to him, rather matter-of-factly, as mincing words is not my strong suit. To which he carefully responded that he was focused on his career, and didn't have time for a committed relationship. And that was my cue. That bright Sunday morning when I backed out of his driveway was the last time I would see his home. He would call a few times, and I would ignore the calls, not returning them. And within a few weeks, the calls stopped altogether, and that is when the intense pain of loss saddled itself to me.
I had not known that when I would meet up with him at work, the heavy beating of my heart and sudden lurch of my stomach was a result of loving him. It did not make sense that I should love an unreligious man, so therefore it must mean that I did not. But when the phone calls ceased, and he met me at work with the birthday card which told me everything and nothing at all, my grief at losing him enveloped me.
And it was Gregory, who came to me as a friend, asking nothing and giving everything, and gently,
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