On weekends, I returned to the dungeon, but not to work; only as a spectator, and to be with Bev. I only went once each weekend, because I didn't want to attach myself to her too closely, and then have to experience losing her to her own partner. But it was good to have a lover who helped create emotional distance between Lynn and me. Eventually I would be ready for someone else. For now, I was content to be in limbo, neither dying inside nor pursuing a mate. It was back to square one where I would just work and write. I figured another three weeks of writing and I could look for agents and publishers. All I had to do was keep myself busy and I was sure it wouldn't hurt so much.
Chapter Eighteen
I was so ashamed. I had done it again.
Despite my weekend trysts with Beverly, and no matter how hard I tried, I frequently found myself masturbating and thinking about Lynn. If she ever found out, I would die.
It was deeply humiliating. It had happened before with other lovers. I knew it was just a stage and it would go away, but at the moment I was stuck, and it was unbearable. I would think about being in her pussy, or think of her boots on me, and I would explode, and then I would cry, and spend the rest of the day hating myself.
But it was happening less often and I didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned that our love hadn't meant enough. She was slipping away from me. I was sure I was already less than nothing to her.
It was a sunny Saturday in the middle of the summer. I forgave myself, got out of bed, and took care of the dogs. I had errands to run and got them over with so I could apply my backside to my chair and write. I was coming to the end of my novel and was already thinking sequel. I had to have something to do while I tried selling Captive Planet.
As I put away groceries, I saw I had a message. Probably some giggling kid or confused elderly person.
“Hello, Jane. This is Lynn. I have your disk and I'd like to return it. Please call me. Thanks."
I stared stupidly at the blinking light. Why hadn't she just thrown it away? Some misguided sense of propriety about my literary assets? No, I decided it was some kind of closure she wanted, some way of telling me it was too late.
I picked up the phone and dialed. My hands were shaking as I rehearsed my little sound bite. “Lynn, this is Jane. Just toss…"
“Jane?"
“Um…” Shit! She never picked up. She had been waiting.
“Jane, let me bring it over. Let me bring your disk,” she asked, and she asked nicely.
“Lynn… I… I have been trying so hard to heal. Please… don't make it any harder. Just throw it away,” I begged her.
“I've been trying, too. I think this would help both of us. It isn't just the disk. I have something else. I have to… explain something. Please. Just for a few minutes,” she pleaded back.
My brain was screaming “NO!” but my heart desperately wanted to see her. I sighed. “When?"
“When is good for you?” she asked. “Now?"
“Uh… aren't you busy?” I stuttered.
Lynn was quiet a moment. “No, not that busy. Would you like to come here, or should I come there?"
I decided instantly. “I'll come there.” I didn't want any more memories of her in my house.
“I'll be here,” she said, and we hung up.
I found I had started sweating profusely while talking to her. I had to wash up and change. I sat still and tried to lower my heart rate, and then I got into my car.
By the time I got to Lynn's house I was shaking like a leaf, and I had to sit and try and calm myself again. It didn't work. I gave up and walked up to the door and, before I could ring the bell, it opened.
“Jane. Please, come in,” Lynn said, stepping aside. She closed the door and turned to face me. I saw circles under her eyes. She was so tiny in her shorts and tank top! I had forgotten. She had always seemed so much larger than life to me.
She seemed about to say something, then bit her lip and looked away. I waited for her to gather herself, but she couldn't. When she looked up at me again, her eyes were filled with tears. “I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm so sorry!"
I couldn't stand it. I embraced her. She wrapped her wiry arms around me and wouldn't let go.
“Oh, Lynn,” I said, losing control and letting my own tears fall. Now I would have to start all over. It was so unfair. With her solid little body against me, sobbing like a child desperate for a parent's love, it seemed she knew I couldn't resist her vulnerability. “Oh, fuck,” I sighed, resting my cheek against her hair.
I pulled back slightly so I could take her hand and lead her to the couch. There I sat down, let her sink into my lap and lean on me, and waited while she cried herself out.
Clearly, it wasn't closure she sought after all. She wanted something else from me, some continuation of our relationship. However, I wasn't going to chide or reprimand her for it at the moment. Obviously she had been having a worse time getting over us than I thought, and I remembered again how she held herself so far apart from everyone else, and how she may not have had anyone to express herself to while I had.
“I… I didn't lie to you. I do have something to give you. I have your disk and… something else,” Lynn finally said, her face still against my chest.
“Okay, take your time,” I told her. I was in up to my eyebrows already. A few more minutes didn't matter.
“It's in my study. I'll get it,” she said, slipping off my lap.
In a few minutes, she came back with an accordion file that she set on the coffee table. She sat down next to me and opened it. “Here's the disk,” she said unnecessarily, and then she reached in again and pulled out several business envelopes, all of which had already been opened. She looked at me for a moment and handed them over, all but one. “I know these are addressed to me, but they're actually yours.” She seemed very ill at ease for reasons I gathered went beyond our breakup and recent reunion.
“Okay,” I said, taking them. I turned them over and fanned them out. They were all from publishing companies. “What are they?"
Lynn took the first one from my hand, opened it and unfolded the paper. “These are letters expressing an interest in Captive Planet. Some editors are more interested than others. The top three are the best offers, I think."
“Offers? What have you done, Lynn?” I asked her, confused.
She chewed her lip and looked away. “I sold your book."
I looked at the letter. Someone in New York was thanking her for discovering me and asking her to convey an offer for an advance. It was in five figures. Okay, a low five figures, but even so…
“You mean, like an agent?” I was dumbfounded and noted with annoyance that my hands were shaking.
Lynn shook her head. “Not exactly. More like… an intermediary. I don't get a percentage. I just sort of formed a conduit between you and them, temporarily. I'm really not involved anymore. You respond to them as you wish."
I quickly opened the other letters. All were from houses I'd actually heard of, whose books I had held in my hands and sometimes even bought. They all wanted to see more, and the top three offered advances.
“I… I don't know what to say! When… when did you do this?” I asked. Like it mattered! I just couldn't seem to think of anything more relevant.
“Shortly after, uh… the last time I saw you, I started offering your manuscript to my contacts,” Lynn began slowly. “And of course, it took some time before I heard back from these people, as you can see by the dates of the letters."