The Choice Not Taken (14 page)

***

The first time I let Philip touch me was a gesture so natural for everyone else, yet to me it signified the equivalent of climbing Mt. Everest.

His skin within mine, holding my hand, led me to flinch out of pure habit. But when I searched his eyes, I found not only the pervasive hurt but something greater.

Philip
needed
me to touch him back.

And so on that night, I allowed him to hold first my right hand and then my left in his rugged palms. Securing my gaze on his thumbs as they rubbed the faint scars coating my wounded skin, I begged the growing fear to dissipate. Not for my sake, however, but his.

I didn’t want to let him down.

The longer he caressed me, the more I became aware how he felt. First, the ridges of his fingertips branded indelible prints upon the backside of my hand. And then, I clearly
saw
every dotted pore,
smelled
lingering soap,
heard
a pulse. All that remained was to
taste
his salty skin.

An hour later, he released his grip. And I returned home with an excitement inside I had never known existed.

The next time we were together, he did the very same thing.

Nestled on a plaid fleece blanket one late fall afternoon, we shared a picnic in the fading Midwestern sun. Sipping cider from a thermos, I wondered, with extreme curiosity, if this was how Marnie and other young women felt when in the presence of someone they liked–or possibly loved. Were they also lightheaded and scared and anxious for what might happen next?

Though lasting apprehension remained, it was entirely different. Now, I was terrified to leave this moment because it, in itself, gave me such unbelievable delight.

I never wanted it to end. But when he kindly asked to kiss me on the cheek, the passage of time literally stopped.

In a hesitant pause, I realized I was at an unexpected cross-roads with little idea where to turn. His lips touching mine never once entered my girlish daydreams as I only explored what proved safe.

Hand-holding was safe. It allowed connection-or detachment- whenever I wished. It kept Philip near, yet at a secure distance. Kissing afforded me no control over either of those things.

Sensing my indecision, he immediately released his hands. “I’m sorry, Courtney.” And as he spoke with undue apology, I nodded my assent.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“You better do it before I change my mind,” I hoarsely whispered.

The spot where his mouth grazed my sensitive skin ignited into a million tiny embers. Piercing his dewy eyes, I silently begged him to do it again. And when he finally complied, I eagerly pulled him into me. I wanted his lips on mine; having them just on my cheek was no longer enough.

Unsure at first, he soon followed my lead. Philip gently parted my mouth with his tongue, and the taste of him made my blood simmer. I’d only naively kissed a couple boys in high school and despite adolescent excitement and nerves, they were no match.

Again, I didn’t want him to stop-ever–but he did. And to this day, even with my caring Alex kissing me in loving and passionate and erotic ways, nothing ever compared to that first experience with Philip.

But then, just as his hands innocently grabbed my shoulders, the cries of migrating geese, rush of colorful leaves, and scent of burning wood made me hysterically push away.

“Courtney. I didn’t mean to...” Philip stammered.

Caught up in rapid flashbacks of my attack, his words dissipated into the crisp wind, and I gave no reply. Mystified, he silently shifted far across the blanket, yet his eyes never strayed from me.

“Philip,” I began while fixing my eyes upon the dying grass.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“There’s something you should know about me. I’m...”

“Courtney,” he interrupted. “You don’t have to explain anything. Honest.”

“No,” I insisted. “I do! That is, at least, if we ever want to move forward together.”

“Okay. But only when you’re ready,” he agreed.

Without dwelling on it, I quickly determined now was the time.

“When I was nineteen, I was raped during my first semester in college,” I blurted.

Philip inhaled so deeply a definite hiss escaped with the rising of his chest. “I am so sorry, Courtney. It must be awful for you. I-I just can’t imagine the...” He wiped the back of a hand along his eyes.

“Thank you, Philip, but it’s alright. Really. I’ve been through a lot and worked very hard to get to a pretty good place.”

He somberly shook his head and nervously rubbed his palms together. “How can I help you?”

“You already have.” I moved across the open space. “With your friendship. And patience. You’ve helped me more than you’ll ever know...”

“Just the thought of you enduring something so horrific,” he seethed. “Hurts me to think of it.”

“So don’t think of it, Philip. I’ve learned to do that.”

“Courtney,” he vowed with intensity, “I will never hurt you. And I promise we don’t even have to do anything but be together. Seriously, I don’t need to touch you, because I can worship and adore you just as easily from afar.”

Hearing Philip say such things when I knew he actually thrived on physical contact became one of the most selfless things anyone ever did for me.

“That won’t be necessary,” I told him with outstretched arms. “But a little patience will.”

From then on, we’d entwine hands and kiss like young kids in love. And our sheer happiness helped me forget-over and over-that he was older, a father...and technically married.

Yet still, deep inside, their separation gnawed at my very core. However, I failed to ever broach the topic, believing it to be a definite mood-breaker and something I didn’t want Philip to explore.

They were working things out on their own and proceeding with the divorce as planned. And for the time being, I preferred to imagine it that way–even if maybe it wasn’t the truth. Because being with him awakened parts of who I was before the assault. But more importantly, it confirmed the idea of who I hoped to be.

Somehow, Philip not only lent me the required strength to live a legitimate life, he granted me the invaluable power to
breathe
again.

boundaries

Sunlight perforated a reddish glow through my eyelids, and I opened them to find an unmade bed. Curled inside the corner chair, my still-dressed body stiffened from an awkward night of rest.

Within a burgeoning layer of light, I guessed it to be very early-more so than I was accustomed–and I unwound my numb limbs to stand shakily upon the floor. Through gauzy sheers draping the French doors, the brightness bouncing off the dewy grass of the back garden temporarily blinded me into complete confusion.

“What the hell am I doing here?” I queried to the vacant room.

After waiting for a reply which would never come, I fearfully considered the limited time I had left. There was much more to do! How would I ever make it?!

An internal voice assured there would be plenty of time...I just needed to ask for more. Impetuously, I dialed the phone and once Alex answered with a groggy tone, I stayed silent and breathless on the line.

“Hello?” he repeated with a sexy hoarseness totally lost on me.

“Alex.”

“Courtney?”

“Alex,” I croaked. “I need more time!”

“What do you mean?” He was awake now.

“I need to be alone a little longer. This is...” I choked. “It’s just all too much. The trying to remember, the feelings. I-I can’t seem to manage it, and it comes so unexpectedly I can’t control it,” I sobbed, so terribly miserable I even needed to make this call.

“How much longer?” he frostily asked.

“I’ll be home tomorrow after my appointment. I promise.”

“We’ll see you then,” he replied sharply and hung up.

The absence of feeling–or connection–between the humming phone and the rest of my body was chilling. And when I
commanded
the hand to move, it did nothing.

Much like after the assault, the integration of mind, body, and spirit, particularly a broken one, was nowhere to be found. Unable to reconcile any with another, I remained motionless, allowing light to shift through the room and over my body in its natural phases.

Eventually, a hard knock on the door finally made me drop the phone. And I stumbled toward its sound and heard a woman cheerily announce she was from housekeeping.

Through the closed door, I politely informed her I wasn’t in need of any services. Sadly, the bed was still made and no towels were soiled. Alex would be devastated to know we spent money on a room I failed to enjoy.

Well, I did eat dinner
, I silently reminded. And just the thought of that lovely meal made my stomach turnover with hunger. Without further thought, I ran fingers through tangled hair, grabbed my purse and jacket, and headed for the door.

Although it was fairly early, the quiet streets were coming alive with workday traffic. I was surrounded by people who needed to be places-they had things to do, family to care for, and normal lives to pursue.

They were in the present while I’d become imprisoned by the past.

I entered the same coffee shop, only this time I sought a chair in the back and settled in. Emptying a pink packet of sugar into the biggest cup they offered, I once again allowed thoughts to roam free.

I had little choice. Time was running out.

***

Philip and I spent every free moment together, which wasn’t much due to other, more pressing, commitments.

He continued to dedicate two nights a week and every other weekend for his kids and that combined with the stresses of corporate ownership demanded much of his time. Yet somewhere early in the relationship, we decided weekly dinners and coffee breaks would be a comfortable routine for us.

I unwillingly agreed to this arrangement. But what I really desired was to be with him every minute and every hour I wasn’t required to toil away at the ad agency. Because when we were apart, there just wasn’t enough air. I was suffocating.

Worse, however, was the jealousy.

For while I supported the time set aside with his kids and admired his dedication as their father, I hated the very idea of losing him to a part still connected to
her
. Our conversations skillfully avoided such subjects, yet every casual mention of school events or parental duties created an acute worry to undo any joy I experienced during our limited hours.

There was little need for alarm since he employed every possible action to display just how much I meant to him. Philip called each morning on the way to one of his offices and then again later in the day before going home. And within these talks, it gave me great comfort to know-even on days I couldn’t physically see, smell, touch, or taste him–that I would at least hear his voice.

Come summer, dinners out were replaced with time at the cottage where he now lived. It was a year-round home situated in a community of vacation properties. And with the onset of a warmer season, its population exploded causing Philip to bemoan the loss of solitude on his beloved man-made lake.

Still, we discovered quiet weeknights provided a special mode of privacy. Without visiting crowds and the incessant whir of their jet-skis and boats, the lake remained glassy smooth and secluded. Other than the resident early morning fishermen, we were pleased to have much of the water to ourselves.

And the nights...the nights in a sticky Midwestern heat were peaceful, aside from the random loon, and unequaled in their encouraging expressions of life and devotion.

Over time, my confidence in Philip slowly grew to a level I’d never experienced with a man. Of course, I wholeheartedly entrusted myself with my father, but it was founded entirely on years of selfless care, unwavering security, and unconditional love.

With Philip, however, it reached far deeper. It bore under my skin, into the center of my being. My soul appeared dormant until I met this man. And somehow, with the mysterious magic of who we were within, it could only be unlocked by him.

He alone held the key.

Except I didn’t really understand this until that night upon the lake.

It had been a late afternoon of grocery shopping at the local market for fresh bakery rolls and cheeses, wine, and some other snacks for a picnic of sorts on the motorboat. And while he packed the cooler and basket, I gathered a beach bag of towels, sweatshirts, hats, and sunglasses.

“How much stuff do I need?” I asked aloud, not really sure what to expect for a night on the water. I’d only done boat rides during the day.

“It can get cool,” he replied. “So a warm layer of clothing for each of us should be good.”

Considering how cold I got even on the hottest days, I threw in two lap-size quilts just in case. Stuffing them in an oversized bag, I froze. I knew these blankets probably belonged to
her
, and the realization turned my excitement to revulsion.