I'm Not in Love

As Remi approaches orgasm, he grabs my dick and strokes me with the same determination as his thrusts. My legs slide from his shoulders as my passion mounts. But I don’t want to come because this is lust—plain and simple—and I shouldn’t reward it. I can’t seem to get that message to my traitorous body—it rises in ecstasy with Remi, its partner in crime. United physically, but emotionally never more distant, we let go. Clinging to each other, we ride out the pleasure.

The bliss is brief.

Once sated, Remi collapses at my side, and as we lie panting, I do what needs to be done. “I said that I love you. Did you hear me?”

“I heard you.” There’s no warmth in his tone.

I sit up, lean heavily against the headboard, and grip the sheets. “Do you…” I stare down at his face, noting the tightness of his jaw. “Do you love me too?”

He closes his eyes, more fully shutting me out. Preparing himself… and me, maybe. When he finally opens them, and I see his hollow stare, I’m ready.

“I’m sorry, Tristan… I’m not in love with you. I want you, and that hasn’t changed. I like being with you too. But love—it’s not that.”

Though not entirely surprised, I gasp. Then I nod several times, so he knows I heard him. I rub my eyes but not to hold back tears. Because I’m not going to cry—not in front of him.

“Sit next to me,” I say softly.

Remi is like a statue—made of hard, white marble that can somehow, miraculously, flex and bend and shift so he’s sitting beside me on the bed. I place my hand on top of his. “Don’t worry—it’s okay.” I told my mother this every time I saw goodbye in her eyes.

Confused by my sweet response to his blatant rejection, he tilts his head.

“I’m not who you need,” I say simply.

Sometimes it goes this way in matters of the heart. Tara has lost the affection of her children’s two fathers. And of course, neither of her twins could snag a loving commitment from Mom.

Remi shakes his head almost imperceptibly and then asks, “We can keep dating, right?”

I shake my head with enough vehemence to make my meaning clear. “I can’t. Not now.”

“Why not?” My hand is suddenly engulfed in his. And gripped… like a lifeline.

“I can’t pretend I don’t love you. And I don’t want to.” I pull in a long, deliberate breath to help prevent the inevitable tears. I’ll let them come—they can bowl me over—when I’m alone. “One day, I promise, we can be friends again.”

“What about now? What happens to us now?” Remi’s question is as frantic as his lovemaking was, which honestly confuses me. His grip slides to my wrist. “Answer me, dammit.”

“I need some time away… and so do you.”

“I don’t need time away from you—I never said that.” He seems shocked and bitterly so.

If we stay together—days spent tending to the kids, nights in each other’s arms—he’ll exist in an easy comfort zone and will never discover who he’s meant to be. He won’t find the person he should be with—in love with—forever. And I’ll suffer more when he eventually cuts the cord.

“I’m doing this for you as much as for me. You’ll understand someday.” My voice doesn’t even shake. I think I always knew it would come to this.

“Exactly what are you trying to tell me?”

I don’t understand why Remi is unwilling to grasp that our “dating” relationship is over. It shouldn’t be so difficult to get this message across. In fact, he should be relieved.

I slide from the bed and reach for my clothes. “What we had—the dating thing—is done. It’s over, at least until I can see you and be your friend, and I won’t…” And I won’t fall apart.

I’ve got to get out of here. I refuse to force him to face my tears.

Still frozen to his spot on the bed—leaning rigidly against the headboard—Remi stares at me, his jaw hanging in disbelief. He’s no longer pale, though. Two fiery red splotches have made their home high on his cheekbones.

“Everything is going to be okay, Remi.” I need to convince him of this. I can’t bear the idea of him feeling guilty about hurting me.

We never agreed to anything more than a casual dating relationship—I just got carried away. Remi even refused to discuss the subject with me after I brought it up on Thanksgiving Day, which should have told me everything I needed to know. This is my bad. I pull on my clothes quickly and force a smile.

He shakes his head fiercely. “I don’t want to stop seeing you.”

“You’ll see…” I step deliberately toward the bedroom doorway; it’s a challenge not to run. “This is for the best.”

“When will I talk to you again?”

“Why don’t you let me be the one to get in touch with you? When I’m ready.”

I’m met with silence.

I don’t turn back to look at him. Seeing as I’m close to losing control, I can’t even manage to voice my goodbye. Once free of the bedroom, I snatch my purple-flowered backpack and sneakers from the rack in the kitchen, step out of the loft onto the landing, slide the heavy door shut behind me, and then race barefoot down the stairs onto the cold city street.

Where I end the battle with my tears.