Spinning

Chapter 8: Screamer

Eddie is what I imagine the physical manifestation of Time would be: an enemy and an ally, always passing, morphing, unpredictable. Both their cruel methods are hard to analyze until the day is done, actions are acted and thoughts spoken, and all remains un-interpretable until they allow for interpretation. But currently, Time and Eddie are quite clearly my enemy, with each torturous second leading to another competition between heavy loneliness and welcomed solitude.

I'm not sure how long I sat in that spot on the beach, but when I came back to consciousness, reality, away from the numbing comfort of the nothingness I had entered, the moon had risen and was glistening on the water. My sweatshirt was still around my knees, my hood over my head, my feet wet from the approaching waves.

I don't feel fully back in my body. I'm like a turtle trying to retreat back into its shell, but something intrinsic to the turtle – it's morphology, or a previous injury – is preventing its retreat. The poor turtle can't protect itself from the environment, from the other cruel turtles and tortoises out there. And so my sweatshirt must double as a shell. I pull it tighter around my head, rest my forehead to my knees, and I feel the goddamn hot tears again.

"Jordan?"

My head shoots up so fast I pull a muscle. My vision is blurry, but I recognize the outline against the moonlight. It can't be. I blink rapidly, while wiping beneath my eyes, hoping to lessen the raccoon eyes I've developed.

One final blink reveals my guest. It is Eddie. It's my heaven-sent, sex god; the personal security man of mans is standing – nope – sitting next to me. He's critically reading my face. I look away. I have to. I know my eyes are bloodshot, crusty mascara stuck in my wrinkles, my hair a mess. I wipe my running nose with the edge of my sweatshirt, terribly embarrassed to be caught in this moment of weakness. I am not weak. And this does not help in my competition with Angela. I can't be the needy girlfriend; I need to be the sexually insatiable fox. Girlfriend – who am I kidding? Right now we are confused third graders who shared a single kiss.

Just as I managed to stop the flowing tears, I feel an arm around me. I'm startled, certainly, because Eddie has never shown one iota of intimacy, sympathy, loving feeling in general, any of those gushy words, towards me. He hasn't even kissed me since that first one on the roof deck, and here he is with his arm around me, pulling me into him, removing my hood, kissing my hair, right at the top of my head, his free hand on my knee, and suddenly my face is an ugly crying troll, buried in his neck, internalizing dramatic sobs that turn into full body heaves.

It takes time, Time and Eddie now an ally, but I eventually center my breathing and close my tear ducts. Time is still an enemy, however, because every step towards my emotional stability means another moment towards losing Eddie's embrace. I would spend the whole night harboring this pain if it meant staying twisted in his arms.

I need to speak. I don't want to undo myself from him, but I need to concoct an excuse for this behavior, instill that this is not the norm, that I rarely have any emotional feeling whatsoever, in any capacity, at all...

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called you, I—," but I'm cut off by an even tighter embrace, to which I instinctively bury myself deeper in Eddie. But no, I mustn't, I need to explain...

"Really, I'm a mess. You shouldn't have to spend your Saturday night like this."

"Shh. Don't apologize. Something seemed wrong, and I needed— I mean, I would've been here earlier but we were—," he stops himself short, and reroutes, "—but I had something I couldn't get out of..." Eddie's muttering trails off. Angela. He couldn't get out of Angela. But he's here, isn't he? How did he find me?