Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Nine: Cultivating

CIERRE

While my boyfriend details me on what's going down in The Big Easy, Amel's touch and scent lingers on my skin. If Tari hadn't called, what would've gone down? Would we have kissed? Fucked? And if we did slip up and do the unthinkable, would our fresh reconciliation return to step one? Or would it rip us apart forever?

So many questions surface in my mind, along with answers I've withheld from myself. As Tari grins about an adorable dance his niece showed him, I realize I do not at all love this man—at least, not how he loves me. I adore him and believe he has a pure soul, but he's missing the leading qualities I've been manifesting in a partner. Though Tari can be funny, he isn't hilarious. He may not be a bum, but he isn't highly ambitious either. Despite his gorgeous profile, a fervent firestorm doesn't scorch my insides whenever I see him. That "good kind of nervous" never makes a stomach-turning appearance when he's in my presence. I only anticipate him when I feel I need him, when I shouldn't need anyone but myself.

He's a mannequin on display in my heart's core, waiting to be replaced as soon as he goes out of style. Every partner will seem like a waning fad until I'm honest with myself.

Whenever I mention Tari during my talk sessions with Dr. Bryant, a restrained smile captures her face. After blinking at me as if trying to conjure understanding, she consistently strikes me with mystifying questions. Over Tari's voice, my psychiatrist's queries echo with precision and bluntness, holding a gentleness reminiscent of my mother's scolding.

"Are you in love with him, or are you simply comfortable with him?"

"Do you believe he's the right person for you, or does your fear of another failed relationship hold you back from finding your ideal partner?"

Truth is, I'm fucking petrified of falling in love again. With Tari, I'm able to keep control. In the throes of true romance with Amel, I constantly transmogrified into a ravenous beast, forever hungry for the next emotional-draining blood fest. Even though I've been taking care of my mental health, the thought of surrendering my inhibitions to another person drowns me in uncertainty. My outbursts could hurt them as much as Amel, potentially worse.

But Momma always says, "Fear doesn't bring forth anything but failure." And Daddy constantly claims, "Holyfields ain't scared of shit but turbulence." (A very morbid joke I'm sure our ancestors hate.) 

Had I unmarked my fears instead of hiding in depreciating silence, Amel and I might have exchanged vows. We would be arguing over having kids, not grieving the last two years we spent apart. Self-sabotage has done incomparable damage to my life; I won't let it continue to destroy the blessings the universe built around me. I'm thirty-one. Tari's thirty. We're too old for games, especially when people are thinking of making families. My ex was right earlier. The longer I wait, the more painful Tari and I's inevitable break up will be.

My vocal cords rise before a demon in the recesses of my brain objects to the truth. "Tarian..." Our eyes meet. His once carefree smile dampens as he fixes on my downcast stare. For a second, our pitifulness inspects each other as if challenging who'll leave the conversation with the biggest broken heart.

"I believe you're one of those guys everyone prays for," I declare tenderly, steadying my voice and gaze. "For the past six months, I've been hoping I could picture a future with you. But to this day, everything's coming up blurred. I can't continue being in this relationship while understanding you crave more than I'll ever be willing to give. I apologize for leading you through a cycle of bullshit. If you don't accept it, I understand."

Innocent confusion morphs on his face, causing me to peer away. Tucking my lips, I brace myself for any negative reaction. Silence hovers and haunts me, raising my anxiety until I wish to scream.