Imade a deal with Mack. Well, maybe not a deal. Maybe I kind of begged him to agree to see me again.
I don’t think he trusts me, and I get it, I really do. He’s vulnerable in a way most men aren’t. He’s vulnerable to the outside world, to what strangers might say or do or think about him.
I feel like this too. Not just because I’m a woman, although all women are vulnerable in the outside world, but also because something else lurks inside me as well. A secretive part of me that I can’t let others see. Hidden. Protected. Locked up.
I wasn’t always this way. Don’t get me wrong, I was never outgoing or the life of the party or anything. I always had really small friend groups. But I wasn’t locked away. I lived something of a life.
Until my mother stepped in and took it over. Let’s just say the modeling world wasn’t for me.
Let’s just say the limelight wasn’t for me.
Let’s just say older men’s groping hands with cameras and booking agents with leering eyes asking me to put on skimpy underwear in front of them . . . wasn’t for me.
My mother used to exploit my body. And so did so many other people. Yes, I was paid for it. But I wasn’t ever asked if I wanted it.
And now I’m grown, and I’ve made a decree all to myself.
Nobody gets to see my body. Nobody gets to see me. And nobody gets to touch me.
Because now I protect myself. I protect myself for all the times when there was no one there to protect me.
Mack needs protection too. I get that. He’s more than just a body.
His body though . . .
One would think I’d be disgusted. And at first, I thought I was because the sight of him made my whole body shake, sent goose bumps running up and down my flesh. But then, upon closer self-examination, I think I was more . . . intrigued than disgusted.
And it’s true that if I saw him in the dead of night, I’d probably run.
But only if he were a stranger. I’d run from any stranger.
He’s not a stranger. He’s a friend.
He’s the only friend I leave the house for, and that has to count for something.
Speaking of, I’m getting ready to leave my apartment right now. I’ve texted that I’m coming, and he didn’t respond, but I know he’ll let me in. My intuition tells me so.
I brainstormed some ideas about what to bring when I visit him. Thinking about ways I can distract him so that I can ask more and more questions.
We’ve been texting in the meantime.
Jules: I have to show you something.
Mack: What?
The first thought that popped into my head was what Kate always does when she comes to see me.
Cleaning.
I’m going to clean his tank. I’ve already got my bikini on underneath my clothes because, if nothing else, I’m going to assume the sale. It’s better to ask for forgiveness than permission, or however the saying goes. My therapist might’ve said that. Or maybe it’s just something I saw on TV.
And if you want to get to know somebody, you have to get on their level.
This is what Kate does for me. She gets on my level.
And I’m going to pay it forward by getting on Mack’s level.
Which is probably below the sea.
Although I chuckle at my own pun, other thoughts occur to me. Like . . . could Mack live in the ocean? What would happen to him if he left the confines of the tank? He prefers the water, but does he need the water? Does he have to come up for air sometimes like a whale?
The questions are too daunting to even comprehend. Besides, why do I need all this to make so much sense? The only thing stranger than fiction . . .
I pinch my arm hard, dull pain shooting up from my elbow.
Get yourself together. This isn’t a fantasy, this is reality.
Sometimes I forget that in real life, we don’t always discover explanations for every little peeping phenomenon. Sometimes we’re just left to wonder, wide eyed and slack-jawed. We’re just left to live with whatever mysteries we’ve been dealt.
I want Mack to agree to see me again, so I have to be crafty.
Jules: The thing I want to do for you is a surprise. You’re going to have to invite me over again if you want to know.
Mack: God dammit.
Mack: I want to say no . . . but also, I hate not knowing what you might be talking about, even though I suspect you’re up to something.
Jules: I guess you’ll just have to find out then. See you at three?
