Spinning

The sunlight streamed through the open window, filling the room with fresh morning air.

"You'll be late," I whispered, running my fingers through his hair as his lips traced over my bare breasts.

"Mhm," came his muffled reply as his fingers moved softly over my sides.

"I don't want you to go," I said quietly as he slipped his hand lower, beneath my waist line, making me gasp softly as his lips covered mine.

"I can stay," he said in a breathy tone, trailing his mouth towards my neck and forcing another soft sound from my lips.

"I--"

He laughed softly against my neck when I let out a sharp gasp, tightening my thighs together and grabbing his arm where my nails dent his skin.

"OH!" Is all I managed to say as his hand moved from my thin underwear and down my thigh where I had gripped it again, pulling him towards me and forcing myself not to gasp.

He just grins.

By eight thirty, I've kissed him good-bye and watched as he disappeared into the elevator. Another morning practice. At least it's another day he'll be here, in Chicago. With me.

I force myself to go back inside and clean the apartment. The place is fortunately a mess, leaving me with something to do for the next hour and a half besides thinking about Jon and Pat and the whole terrible thing that is our relationships.

By the time Patrick gets home, though, I'm still in the bedroom, sitting on the floor and looking through pictures from years ago.

I look up and place the photos down beside me, "hey, babe. How was practice?"

He looks at the album and then looks to me, dropping his bag on the floor and then slumping down on my side, "it was good. What're you doing?"
His legs settle on either side of my hips and he pulls me to him, picking up the album and viewing the pictures.

"Wow," he says, grinning a little, "these are so old."

"Remember that?" I say, pointing at a photo of the two of us standing on his parents' dock with his hands clasping mine, helping me hold the fishing rod steady.

"Yeah," he laughs and runs his finger over the picture, "you were so scared it would jump out or something."

I smile as he flips the page and we both grin again seeing photos from a drinking game we had played.

"We were so sick the next day," I say, remembering only the morning and not much of the night.

"I don't remember anything from that weekend," he says, smiling up at me before softly pressing his lips to mine, "well, I remember a few things."

Like the way he carried me down to the beach after the whole night together because it was four in the morning and I was half asleep. The way he whispered, wake up, so gently into my ear just before the sun started to rise over the horizen. I remember that. I remember the way we laid down on that warm blanket, myself curled up in his arms as the sun rose over the lake on that brisk summer morning. I remember how he never let me go, how he'd promised to keep me safe. I remember the feeling of his lips, the curve of his muscles, the smell of his cologne.

"Me too," I whisper, almost seeing my thoughts mirror themselves in his eyes.

Today, about two years since that night on the beach, it's so much different. His muscles curve differently, stronger. His lips are scarred, with a different touch. His cologne has long since changed, like his clothes, his words.

Yet, he's still somehow everything he was that night. He's still kind, and caring, and funny
and sensitive. He's still everything I fell in love with, and everything I want to love. He's still the person I want to spend all my time with. No matter what shit happens between us, I still want him. I need him.

Now there's only one thing I'm still not sure of.

The drive to Jon's house that night is something I am almost unable to do.

"You don't have to go, Carly," Pat had told me, keeping me in his strong arms and kissing my hair with tired lips, "I'm sure he'd understand."

But I'd just shaken my head, assuring him that I'd put it off for far too long. And I have. It's been months of neglecting the conversation that neither of us wanted to have. Unfortunately, it has to happen. The longer Jon and I don't speak, the harder it's going to be in the future.

"What are you going to tell him?" Patrick had asked quietly, visibly shy for asking.

"I'm going to tell him that I love you, and that whatever was going on between him and I is simply no longer possible because of how I feel for you."

He breathed out and held me a little tighter, "that's the truth," he had whispered more to himself than to me.

"Yes it is," I had whispered back.

I'm knocking on Jon's door now, still unsure of how I'm possibly going to formulate the words. It's quarter after eleven, and most of the lights are out in the other apartments but I can hear him moving around inside, making a post-game meal of what I know for a fact is penne pasta with chicken and tomato sauce. He seems to drop it all at the sound of the door.

I wait patiently as his footsteps move towards me, hesistate for what feels like hours, and then watch as the doorknob turns before me.

"Hi, Jon."

He doesn't say anything.

"Can we talk?" my voice sounds small and frightened, and not very confident at all. His silence doesn't help the rapidly rising panic in my chest, "I really need to--"

He starts to close the door on my and I throw my hand up to stop it.

"Are you serious, Jon? Really? You don't want to talk to me that badly that you'd slam a door in my face? That's low, Jon."

He scowls at me and throws the door open with more force than necessary, striding into his apartment without looking back at me.

It's saddening how much I would never be able to turn around, and leave. I want to keep him happy so badly that I immediately close the door gently behind me and follow his steps softly into the living room where his back faces me.

"It's okay that you're mad at me."

He turns and the look on his face forces me into his arms before he can deny me.

"I don't want you to hate me," I whisper into his shoulder, closing my eyes and squeezing him tighter, "I can't handle you hating me."

"I don't hate you," he whispers roughly, and I'm surprised to feel how firm is grip is.

"But you're mad at me. You're just so, so mad."

He's quiet and I take the oppurtunity to let go of him and pull him to the couch where he sits.

"I love you, Jonny," I keep his face in my hands as his eyes grow heavy, "I just can't keep telling myelf that it's okay to kiss you when I'm with Patrick," no, no, no! This isn't how I wanted to explain things.

"So you're staying with Patrick?" he asks me and I nod, fighting a quiver in my lips.

"I love him, Jonathan."

He says nothing but pulls my hands from his face and stands up, "why'd you come here, Carly?"

I follow him to the window, pulling his hand into mine, "because I have to fix things between us. I can't have you hate me for liking him. It's not fair. It's--"

"Carly, you told me you loved ME! You kissed me. Fuck, you and I were--we were--" he stops and now his hands have gripped my face, pulling me to him, "we were in love. Don't deny it. I still am and as for you, well, that's something I never really understand."

I place my hands over his and close my eyes, breathing deeply, "I know, Jon. I know. I just can't do it anymore."

"DO WHAT? Love me? You can't love me anymore? Why not?" he's growing weaker, suddenly pressing those lips to mine in the most innocent of kisses and then pulling away, "why don't you love me anymore?"

I didn't kiss him back, though. Sure, their was the soft temptation but I kept still, almost numb to his touch, "I never said I didn't love you, I just can't love both of you. I can't kiss you. I can't date you. I'm with Patrick and that's what I need to realize, Jon. I'm cheating on him everytime we're together."

His thumb moves over my lips but that's all he does before staring me hard in the eyes, "is this it? Is this what you really want?"

I nod and I can see his chest tighten.

"Then okay, Carly. I'll stop. We'll stop."

"Okay," I whisper and he kisses my forehead before squeezing my hands and then letting me go.

There's so much I want to say. Words that I can't seem to form stick in my throat like they were never event there. How am I suppose to explain to him something I'm still trying to understand myself?

"Are you still going to talk to me?" is all I can think of asking him.

"Obviously," he says and the smile he forces onto his face is so untrue that it makes my stomach coil to a point of illness.

"Alright. I should go."

He swallows hard and I pretend to not see the way his eyes are becoming glass orbs,
"yeah."

"You played good tonight."

"Thanks."

I put a hand on his shoulder, unsure of what to do after that, "I'll see you."

"Yeah," a tear rolls down his face and he doesn't try to hide it.

I lie to myself as I turn from him, pretending that this is all okay even though I've hurt him more than I ever thought I could. I lie as I walk down the hallway, get into the elevator and eventually into my car. I lie as I drive away, back to Patrick, where I can't even keep my hands from shaking to unlock the apartment door.

I lie because I do love him, but I can't love him, and I don't know how to just move on and let things fall into place.