I woke up three hours later. It felt like I hadn't slept at all and my eyes were all sticky from the tears. There was still no sign of Sergei. That was bad. Sergei isn't one to hold grudges for very long. Three hours is almost unheard of for him.
I know that I have really messed up this time. I sniffle pathetically, trying to work myself up to going upstairs. I don't know if I can face him right now. But I know I have to try. I can't stand the silence and distance.
I walk up the stairs like a robot. Slowly, but without hesitation. I have to put my mind on autopilot to do this. I can't think about Sergei or what I'm going to say.
Sergei is sitting on the bed, reading a book, of all things! Calm as can be. I know he isn't calm because of the way is jaw is set, and the scowl on his face, the way his muscles are bunched up. He is wound tight as a drum. But the impression of calm hurts me and makes me angry at the same time. How dare he sit there like nothing happened!
He doesn't even look up as I come in. Emotions war inside me. Contrition wins out though and I break the silence with,
"I'm sorry." It's soft and shaky.
Sergei doesn't move. Now I am getting truly angry and more hurt by the second.
"Sergei? Did you hear me?"
"Forget it, Maggie." He snaps it, without raising his eyes from the page.
I feel like I'm having trouble breathing. The anger boils over in me faster than I can control it, and I can feel myself shouting my words. "How can you tell me to forget it! I can't forget it, I can't forget what happened. Even if I could, you'd resent me for it. You'd resent me then like you resent me right now for what I did." When I'm done, I'm shaking and the heat in my cheeks makes my skin tingle.
Sergei shuts the book with such calculated motions that I begin to be a little afraid of what he's going to say. He glares at me for a moment before replying.
"Why are you mad? You got what you wanted, didn't you?" he replied icily. I am so shocked by the utter cruelty in that statement that I can't speak. He continues, though he doesn't look at me anymore. "'Resent' isn't the word. Betrayed is."
I can barely believe what I'm hearing. He's angry about something that he could've prevented. I blurt, "You agreed to it! You agreed to no safeword! You knew just what you were getting yourself into." I'm making wild motions with my arms now in my fury.
"That should not matter. You went too far. And I had no way out." He speaks so calmly, with such measured words, that it kills me. He's serious. He thinks he's right.
I open my mouth to respond, shut it, press my palm to my forehead, and then try again to speak. "That was precisely the point. It's trust."
"I don't trust you," he replies immediately and I snap.
"What!"
"It was selfish and mean. I do that for you, and you just take and take and take, you keep pushing. You're..." he pauses, trying to think of the perfect word that will cut me in two. "Merciless," he finishes. "I hate doing that. I do it because it makes you happy but I hate it."
"Well then don't fucking do it anymore!" I scream, lunging for the nearest thing that I can pick up and throw. I end up with my shoe and I throw it hard against the left wall. It leaves a big black smudge and I wish that I could've thrown something that would have shattered, or maybe gone through the wall. But I'm not done. "No one forces you to do it! I don't make you do anything! If you hate it so goddam much, then don't! How dare you throw that back in my face anyway? You fucking martyr!" I shriek incredulously.
Sergei doesn't even flinch, but I keep screaming.
"I do that because I love you! You don't ask for that from someone you don't care about; that's what makes it so special!" At last, I get a reaction. He tears his gaze away from the far corner of the room and fixes me with a cold stare. "You love me?" he asks, and I can tell he's very angry now. I'm too enraged to care.
"Yes!" I snap.
"Then act like it!" he shouts.
I am frozen to my spot for a moment. Sergei rarely raises his voice, rarely even gets angry with me. I can't remember him ever yelling at me. But before I let the hurt register, I turn around and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me so hard that the pictures in the hallway rattle and shift. It's a satisfying feeling, and so I keep going down the hall - not even consciously I don't think - and pick another room.
I slam that door too.
Then I cry.
*****
I stand in the middle of the guest bedroom not sure what I want to do. I feel like throwing myself onto the bed, or kicking a hole in the wall. I feel like breaking the glass jars holding candles on the dresser, or screaming until I lose my voice. But those options all seem so childish and pointless, so instead I lean against the wall and bend my knees until I sit down softly on the carpet. I draw my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on my knees, letting the tears flow freely.
How could he say those things to me? How could he?
How could you, the little voice in the back of my head asks me coldly. I cry harder. It's right. It's my fault. I pushed him too far. Still, what he said...
I stop thinking altogether and let myself cry, curled against the wall for an indeterminate amount of time. I hear Sergei open the door but I don't look up. He stands in the doorway for a moment before taking a few steps to the middle of the room where he stops and just looks down at me.
"Can I talk to you?" he asks quietly. I sniffle and raise my head from my knees just enough to give him a nod. He sighs and shifts his weight uncomfortably, takes a step toward me, and then stops, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"I'm sorry," he says, and I know he means it. "I'm so sorry. What I said... I didn't mean. I wanted to hurt you."
I bite my lip to keep from saying something I'll regret. I sniffle again and say nothing.
"It scares me. Sometimes."
This I find more interesting than anything and I perk up my ears. He goes on.
"I don't like being scared. Out of control, I can handle. When you do things to me like… that, when I can't do anything to stop you, when I feel so helpless, it scares me."
I sigh heavily because I know what this means, and at last I raise my head. "Then you don't trust me. You were telling the truth. You didn't say that to hurt me, you said it because you meant it." I feel numb.
"No," he says quickly as I wipe my eyes. "I do trust you."
"No, you don't," I argue sadly. "You said it yourself. I scare you. If I scare you, how can you trust me? You can't. You don't."
"Don't misunderstand, Maggie, please," he begs and his voice is desperate. "I trust you, I do. You don't scare me. What I feel sometimes scares me. I get scared that I am so helpless and that I can let someone have... I mean..." He struggles to express himself.
I clear my throat. "It scares you that you can allow someone to control you?"
He nods. "And that I... that I..."
I take a chance. "That you like it?"
He nods again.
I push things a little further. "Then why did you get so mad at me?"
"Not mad at you. Mad at myself, but I took it out on you. Because you make me like something that scares me. Something I think I should hate. Sometimes I don't handle emotions well. This time was one of them."
I study the ground as he speaks, so honestly, so candidly. "I'm sorry," I tell the floor.
"Please don't. Everything you said was right. I'm the one who should be sorry. And I am. I'm so very sorry."
Sergei at last gets up from the edge of the bed and cautiously kneels beside me for a moment before sitting down next to me and placing an uncertain arm around my shoulders. He takes a shaky breath and when he lets it out, his whole body shudders.
"I wouldn't do it, if I didn't love you," I murmur without moving toward him but without moving away, either. It still hurts, but I'm forgetting what was said already.
"Don't explain, I know," he says quietly. "You don't have to explain, please. I understand already. I understand you."
It's the truth. He does understand me, and he's probably the only one who does. I can't continue to cultivate my hurt feelings. I don't even want to anymore. I let it go.
Sergei looks at me intently and I uncurl myself, stretching my legs out and turning toward him. I move toward him tentatively and I can see the relief written on his face. "Come here, angel," he says softly and I lean into him, my head on his shoulder. He folds his arms around me tightly, one hand gently stroking my hair. And he holds me for a long time.
I don't want to move. I wish that we could stay there forever, that I could just listen to him breathe and feel his hand on my back and never get up. But I have to at least deal with the mess I made. I wonder what will get the mark from my shoe off the wall and it makes me giggle.
Sergei shifts his position a little and asks, "What" in an amused tone.
"I threw a shoe," I say simply and giggle a little more.
"As long as you didn't aim at me," he replies immediately and we both start to laugh.
"I have to clean the wall," I tell him as he plays with my hair, and he giggles, an odd sound coming from a man such as Sergei. It makes me laugh every time I hear it.
"All right," he says after a minute and stands up, pulling me to my feet. We walk back to the bedroom, Sergei behind me with his arms around my waist and his chin resting on my shoulder.
It takes all of a minute to dampen a washcloth and wipe the smear from the wall, and I blush the entire time, feeling incredibly ridiculous for throwing a shoe in the first place. Anger makes me irrational and crazy.
I glance at the clock. It's just a little past six a.m. on a Saturday morning. I realize I'm hungry when I hear my stomach growl, and I glance at it. Sergei grins.
"Hungry?"
"I guess I must be," I answer him, although I hadn't noticed until now. "Wanna get some pancakes at the IHOP?"
"The IHOP," he repeats and sighs wistfully, remembering the last time we went and how excited he was over the selection of syrups.
"Get your shoes," I tell him, chuckling over the word shoes.
I wonder how long it'll be before I can say the word with a straight face.