The Brink of Destruction

Have you ever gotten tired of having you around?

The commons room was half-full of people watching "Mythbusters" because of the rain. Mike and Wynn were up in our room, talking and listening to music, but I felt like they deserved some privacy. The library was boring, the union was too loud, the Chapel was too full of memories, and East Campus was just too damn far to go in the rain.

So I sat alone, up in the study room in the sixth floor of the tower--the only room on the top floor, and the only one with windows all the way around. Two chairs pulled together made a serviceable recliner, and when I leaned my head against the windowsill, the rain made a comforting drumming sound.

Only a few weeks had passed since I'd gotten here, but a lot had changed in that short time. I missed home, and Dustin, but I also could feel my old life growing fainter, as if it had really been someone else's all along. Was I changing, too, breaking ties with everything that made me who I was?

The things I'd always wanted were so clear in my mind before I came here. Med school, internship, then maybe a small practice in the beautiful Blue Ridge mountains. Hopefully Dustin and I would have children, one or two, and he would have his own architect firm. It had all seemed so possible, so complete, and we'd spent hours planning just how we'd get there together.

Now I doubted it all. Why, I asked myself, did I want so much to choose a path that was going to take so much from me? The freedom, the spontaneity that I was enjoying for the first time--all that would be gone when medical school started. Sleep would be a thing of the past--48 hour shifts, pagers, endless rounds and tests and procedures would be my world. How would I even be able to think of having children, and if we did, what kind of mother would I be? Another fucking MIA, that's what. And if I was a good mother, doing the grade mother thing, and the PTA thing, and the scouts thing, and the soccer thing--what would that leave for me? Would I gradually disappear as I became just an extension of the things I did for my family?

And was it selfish to want more than everything I'd ever wanted?

I ground my fist into my forehead, trying to push out the rising chorus of voices humming like a hive of angry bees. This was not how it was supposed to be...

My skin felt too tight, and I had to get up and move. The window that overlooked the Chapel was open slightly, a chilly breeze whistling through the narrow crevice. I pushed the panels closed, and as I reached for the lock, I noticed several dried, muddy footprints on the ledge. While I couldn't be certain, they sure as hell looked like Converse prints. He'd left his mark, sure enough--not just here, but on the entire fabric of my mind.

What must it be like, to come and go as you wish, to say exactly what you think? I'd always been given a lot of freedom growing up, but never really used it. Now I wondered how much I had missed while I was trying so hard to do everything right.

I closed the window, but left the lock unlatched.

***************************

The knock at the study room door startled me, and I didn't realize I'd fallen asleep.

"Come on in!" I called. The door creaked open halfway, and Mike's ice blue eyes peered around it.

"Okay if I join you for a few minutes?" he asked. "Unless you're busy."

"Oh, no, I just came up here to listen to the rain and do some thinking. Pull up a chair--they're pretty comfy."

He swung one of the chairs around so we could talk face to face, and sank into it, his long legs stretching out and crossing at the ankles. He laced his fingers behind his head and looked around.

"Nice place to sort things out, isn't it?" he asked.

"Mmmhmmm..." I said absently.

"So how's school going so far?"

"Pretty well, I guess. I'm doing okay, except for calculus--that's my toughest class. And the C I got on my French exam. Could be worse." It was easy to talk to Mike, and being honest about my screw-ups didn't bother me with him. He was beginning to feel like the older brother I'd never had.

"That sounds pretty good to me, but you don't seem too happy."

"I'm just worried about losing my financial aid. Well, that and getting into med school."

"Lots of pressure, huh?" His eyes were kind, and he leaned forward in his chair earnestly.
"You can do it, though. Don't give up. Sometimes I wish I'd gone on to college, too."

"Really? Wow, if I had a gift like you guys, I'd never look back. I'd love to be able to write music." It was true, I'd always wanted to be in a band, but the sad truth was, I had no talent. At all.

"It's a scary way to make a living, I'll tell you that. I'm scared to take on an apartment or anything, because I never know if I'll make enough to cover the rent. That's why Billie and I are living in a basement right now." He chuckled, but I could tell he was a little embarrassed.

"Smart move. You can save your money, get the equipment you need, and play bigger gigs!"

"Yeah, I like the way you think!" he grinned. "You know, you and Wynn are welcome to stop by anytime. We just live two blocks from East. It's a rat hole, but it's home!"

I had to smile at him. "Thanks, Mike. It sounds great, and I love hanging out with you and Wynn, but you guys need time to yourselves."

"Oh, we see each other pretty often," he nodded. "Maybe you could come over tomorrow night and eat dinner with us? Sunday night is breakfast-for-dinner night. I make a killer pancake!" He looked eager and hopeful.

"You're probably as good with a spatula as you are with a bass!" I giggled. "But I've got a lot of studying to do, so please don't think the invitation isn't appreciated."

He looked at me a little too steadily. "Is it Billie?"

It stung just hearing the name, and I dropped my head a bit. "No, Mike, I just have--"

"It's okay, you don't have to explain. Look, Gen, I don't want to pry. But if you need to talk, I'm happy to listen. I've known him half my life, and not much you could say would surprise me."
He had a point. I didn't want to cry on his shoulder, but maybe he could help me understand Billie better.

"How much has he told you about...us?" I began.

"He said you'd hung out a couple of times. He likes the fact that you're smart and that you'll stand up to him. He said you're a really decent person--pretty high praise coming from him."

It made me feel good to hear him say that, and I probably blushed a little. "Did he mention that he kissed me last night?"

"He didn't tell me that, but I sort of put two and two together. How'd that go?"

I didn't see any need to hold back with him. "Mike, it blew me away. I couldn't think straight. All I could focus on was that if I knew Dustin felt about someone else the way I felt after that kiss...it would kill me."

"Yeah, I can see your point," he agreed. "What about now?"

"That's the worst. He's so--so--volatile, I guess is the word. He'll be really nice, all considerate and everything, and then it's like something I can't see sets him off and he's pissed off at everything and everyone, especially me."

Mike was shaking his head and smiling. "Yep, that's Beej alright. He's exactly the same with me. There is no gray area with him--everything is black and white. It's made him more than one enemy. He's always had a hot temper, but it wasn't quite so bad until last summer. This girl he was dating--cool chick, real punk--cheated on him and hurt him. Ever since then, he's been a lot more withdrawn and angry."

I thought about what he'd said about not being my guilty secret, and it began to make more sense. No wonder he was so insistent on my being honest with Dustin.

"Mike, what's he really like, as a person? The longer I know him, the more he confuses me."

He leaned back, sighing deeply, and a long moment passed before he spoke. "Billie's my best friend, has been for years. He's smart--no, brilliant is probably a better word for it. He just has a lot of anger about his dad, his stepdad, and stuff like that. And he got ragged some in school because he's not very big--not fights, just some teasing, but it gave him a set of balls as big as church bells. The thing you have to know about Billie as that he doesn't give a flying fuck, and at the same time, he cares too much. Just..."

I cocked an eyebrow. "What?"

"Just remember he's like a tornado. It's fascinating to watch, and kind of draws you in--you want to get closer, see what it's like inside. But if it sucks you up, you're fucked."

*************************

The bus swayed to a stop, and as I climbed off, I felt a huge weight drop off my shoulders. Sunday afternoon, the French assignment was finished, and I felt good about it because I'd been able to focus. My shift at the music library was over, shelving CD's and cataloging returns, so the rest of the evening was open.

Wynn had reminded me about our invitation to the IBOP--Mike and Billie's "Infectious Basement of Pancakes," as they called it. And I'd decided to go, though I wasn't really sure why.

I wasn't thrilled about it.

Wynn and I walked over from the East bus stop. The ground was still damp from the rain on Saturday, but everything had a freshly washed feeling, and the grass was soft and brilliant green. A couple of student houses were having cookouts, and the smell of the charcoal was making us both hungry.

We walked around to the back door under the stairs. Mike met us at the door before we could even ring the bell, and he was a picture of domestic inexperience. His face and hands were streaked white, and he was wearing a dark blue apron that was plastered with flour and egg. Even his hair was dusted.

"Come on in," he grinned. "It's almost ready."

It was dimly lit inside, with a low ceiling and pipes showing overhead, and we could hear Buzzcocks music from the back. The living room had a small sofa, with clothes draped over the back, and a couple of lawn chairs with TV trays set up in front of them. A television with rabbit ears covered in aluminum foil sat like a blind eye on top of a bookcase that held stereo cables and odd socks. The rug was worn nearly through in the middle, but the neat tracks showed it had just been vacuumed.

"MIKE! Where the hell is my Blatz shirt?" a voice roared from the back of the apartment.

"You put it in the bathroom last night so you wouldn't lose it, dumbass!" he shouted back. He smiled sheepishly at us, shaking his head. "We're a little disorganized. I guess you could tell."

Billie poked his head out of his bedroom door. "Oh, you're here already. Sorry for yelling." He crossed the hall into the bathroom, bare-chested and muttering to himself. When he was dressed, he stopped in the kitchen to flip the pancakes.

"You're about to burn dinner, you know. Jeez, what would you do without me to take care of you?" he snorted.

"Why don't you have a seat, and we'll bring everything in?" Mike excused himself, and joined Billie in the tiny kitchen. When they reappeared, Billie was carrying a tray with a heaping platter of fluffy pancakes and a bottle of maple syrup. Behind him, Mike held another tray, loaded with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, strawberries, butter, and nuts. He set it down on the table by the sofa, and returned with a steaming pot of what smelled like hazelnut coffee.

"Mmmmmm....that looks incredible!" Wynn said, breathing deeply. "Smells great, too!"

Mike beamed proudly and ruffled her hair. "Wait till you taste it--I'm gonna be a chef when I grow up!"

We fixed our plates, and settled into our seats. The room got quiet as we dug in, a sure sign the food is delicious, and pretty soon everyone was leaning back, rubbing their stomachs.

"Good God, Dirnt, I feel like a beached whale!" Billie moaned. An ear-splitting belch ripped out of him, and a smile of relief spread across his face. "Much better," he sighed.

I was impressed--by the cooking, not by the belch. "Guys, that was really wonderful. Where'd you learn to cook like that?" I asked.

"We worked part-time at the restaurant where my mom waited tables," Billie said. "It's helped a lot, or we would've probably starved by now."

"Or turned into junk food," Mike added. "Ramen Man and Captain Pop-Tart, fighting crime and bad table manners!" he said in his best narrator voice, his hands on his hips. He was hopeless, he was.

Wynn and I helped them clean up and wash the dishes, and they decided to watch "The Blues Brothers." Billie brought out sleeping bags to throw on top of the rug, and Mike hauled an armload of pillows out of the bedroom. He and Wynn stretched out, snuggled together, and Billie made himself comfortable on the floor, leaning up against the front of the couch. After a moment's hesitation, I settled for sitting cross-legged near the bookcase.

An hour later, full stomachs had gotten the better of Mike and Wynn--they were asleep in each other's arms. My back was beginning to get tired, and I leaned back, propping myself with my hands behind me, so I could stretch.

"You doin' okay?" Billie said in a hushed voice, soft enough not to wake up Mike and Wynn.

"Yeah, just a little stiff," I nodded. "I hauled a bunch of boxes at work this afternoon and I'm feeling it now."

He glanced over at the sleeping couple, and then stood up, holding his hand out to me. "C'mon, I think I can help you."

Dammit, what was this all about? Surely he knew better than to think I was that stupid.
"I'm okay. Thanks, though."

"Will you calm down and just trust me for five minutes?" he said smoothly. "I'm not going to rape you or anything, jeez!"

I couldn't explain it, but it was like he could make me forget all the reasons I had for avoiding him. My hand lifted itself into the air and settled into his, and then I was on my feet, following him down the hall.

He pushed open a door, and inside was a large mattress and springs sitting on the floor, neatly made up with a black and grey comforter. In the corner sat a plastic chair beside a practice amp and several gig bags, and a pair of studio headphones hung over the back of the chair. Guy clutter was strewn over the rest of the room, but what caught my attention was the shelves of CD's that lined the wall behind the bed. There must have been three hundred or more lined up, many hand-labeled and obviously bootlegged, most of which I didn't recognize.

He took one down and put it into the player, and I was surprised to hear Santana's unmistakable guitar from the speakers in each corner of the room.

"You like Carlos?" I asked wryly.

"What, you think I have no taste? How the hell do you think I learned to play? I listened to all these guys and picked it up from the best!" As he spoke, he reached behind him to close the door, and suddenly I felt nervous as a skittish horse. I was about to speak, but he interrupted me before I could get the words out.

"Will you PLEASE stop treating me like some kind of pervert? Look, if I wanted to fuck you, I'd just ask. I'm not subtle. And if all I wanted was a piece of ass, you're not the one I'd be talking to."

"Oh, now that's going a little too far--" I started, sputtering indignantly.

"What, you mean you'd rather I treat you like a stupid bimbo? If that's what you want, fine, but I thought you deserved better," he shrugged.

"No, that's not what I meant! But that sounded pretty insulting, don't you think?"

"No, I don't. There are a lot of other girls that wouldn't want anything else, and that's why they're not worth the time it would take to use them and get rid of them."

"You're a real romantic, aren't you?" I said, dripping sarcasm.

"Lie down."

"Excuse me?"

"Lie down. On your stomach." He stood watching me, his arms folded across his chest, eyes steady. He was so outrageously bold, I knew he was being straight with me.
God, he was fucking my head up so bad.

Watching him from the corner of my eye, I knelt on the mattress, and then stretched out, face down. The sheets were clean, at least, and the pillow smelled like green apple shampoo. Well, at least I didn't have to worry about catching....something.

"Okay, now what?" I asked, my chin resting on my forearms.

"Now you relax." He sank to his knees beside me on the bed, and I felt his hands spread across my lower back. I couldn't help flinching a little--in spite of everything he had said, he made me nervous. But why?

"I said, now you relax. You know how to do that, I assume?" he said, his voice low and calm.

Now his palms were pressing into the tired muscles on either side of my spine, rotating in circles, the warmth sinking slowly through the fabric of my shirt. His thumbs--damn, he had strong hands!--slid around and found the tension below my ribs, kneading and rubbing until the tightness disappeared completely, and left me feeling like a limp rag doll. His hands curled into fists, and thumped softly up and down the length of my back, then dug into the spot just under my shoulder blades, rolling in small circles.

I have to admit it was bliss, much as it kills me.

When I was thoroughly tenderized and stupid, he softened his touch and his hands stroked lightly over my whole back. As they neared the hem of my shirt, I felt his fingers slip under the fabric, and started to raise my head to protest.

"Sshhhh...it's okay." He was whispering, and his fingers kept brushing like butterfly wings over my skin. I was trying to remember why I didn't want him to be doing this, but my fucking brain wasn't working anymore.

Finally, he laid one hand on the back of my neck, running his fingers through my hair up to the crown of my head over and over until my scalp felt like it was immersed in champagne.

Don't. Stop. Don't. Stop. Don't stop. Don't stop....

"Feel better now?" His voice actually startled me because I'd faded into a half-dream state. I opened my eyes and turned over to face him. His face was calm, almost smiling, and I realized I hadn't actually thought of him as handsome until now. Actually, with his large green eyes and full mouth, the word I thought of was "beautiful," but he'd definitely kick my ass for that.

"You know, you aren't such a bad guy when you put your mind to it." What was my hand doing lying on his arm?

"Don't let it fool you. I'm trouble waiting to happen," he said, laughing softly. "You're used to a nice guy like Dustin, and I'm not a nice guy."

My fingers--traitors that they are--were trailing up and down his arm now, and I noticed goose bumps on his skin. The sane person who used to live in my head was screaming at me to stop and look at what I was doing.

I told her to shut the fuck up.

I raised myself up on one elbow. "I've been thinking a lot about what you said last night. I respect how you feel about Dustin. You pissed me off, but you made sense."

"And?"

"And I think there's a part of me that would enjoy being with someone who was more--I don't know, spontaneous, I guess."

"More exciting, huh?"

"Maybe. Just...a little more free."

"Hmm." He just looked at me, not seeming to be surprised at where I was headed with this. "So he does his damnedest to be good to you and play his part in this fantasy world you've built together, and for that he gets booted to the curb."

There it was again, that awful, maddening frustration. I lay myself out to him and he slaps me away. I pulled my hand away and sat up to look him in the face.

"That's really harsh!" I muttered. "You keep saying I have to make a decision, and I'm trying to tell you how I feel, but you're just waiting to smack the hell out of me every time I do!"

"You want to know why?" he asked.

I didn't even answer. He was going to tell me.

"It's because I want you to own your part of this. If you're going to stay with him, then fine, I'll leave you alone and we won't have this conversation again. But if you aren't, if you're going to ditch him, then for God's sake, do it for the right reason. Don't blame him for not being some impossible fantasy guy. Do it because you admit you're not the person you thought you were. Do it because you want something else for your life. But don't lay this on him because he doesn't deserve it. Just talk straight and say what you want."

The emotion in his voice was a little too raw to hide the pain. It wasn't just me he was talking to--it was her, too, the one who had hurt him. And suddenly it all made sense, the anger, the defensiveness, the insistence on making me decide.

And I realized, then, that I had decided.