Curiosity got the better of me. “Why Sisyphus?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“I’m not following.”
“Do you know what a Sisyphean task is?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s one that can never be completed.”
I kept my gaze forward, rounding the bend with him. We passed extravagant paintings, statues, and sculptures. I cared for none of them like I did the Triumphant Sisyphus.
Nash stopped me with a hand on my hip. He continued, “Life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns.”
I couldn’t think past his touch, but I tried. “And when there’s no place untouched by the fire?”
“You live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames.”
“That’s a horrible way to live.”
“Newsflash, Little Tiger, it’s life. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it than to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“And when you’re burnt everywhere?”
“Don’t succumb to the fire. Be the bigger flame.” His fingers dipped below my shirt, skimming the sensitive skin.
You are the biggest flame I’ve ever met, Nash Prescott. You deprive me of oxygen.
We continued down the path. I toyed with his conviction, considered fighting it, and decided against it. The creed suited Nash, the man with the penance tattoo and the unlikely streak for charity. Nothing about him made sense, which was exactly why it made sense.
I liked odd.
Thrived on it.
I accepted Nash for who he was.
Silently, because the second I told him I saw him, he’d morph into someone different, and I’d have to solve the puzzle as the pieces changed.
My very own Sisyphean task.
The path led to the sculpture in the center. My heart rattled its cage when we rounded the last turn. I wondered if I’d remembered it correctly. But the second my eyes reunited with it, I knew I’d made the right choice.
“It’s wrong,” Nash said five minutes after he saw it.
He’d spent that first five minutes silent.
Just staring at the sculpture.
Not a single word.
I spent those five minutes staring at him, only to realize, in this moment, I couldn’t read Nash.
“It’s perfect,” I argued.
“It’s not what I wanted.”
“It’s what you needed.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. Three times. “It’s inaccurate.”
“Yeah?” I stroked the base of the mountain. The same reverence you’d give something holy. “What’s Sisyphus supposed to be then?”
“Sisyphus is a treacherous sea. One that drowns you.”
A response sat at the tip of my tongue, but all I could conjure was silence. Ben had called Sisyphus a treacherous sea. As in, Ben from Eastridge.
Horror dawned on me the same time Nash turned to me and said, “We’re not getting it. It’s not right. Find another.”
“We are not getting anything. You are.” I released a shaky breath, forcing myself to play it cool. I had no confirmation. Freaking out would be pointless. “This is the sculpture. There’s no other.”
“Emery.”
“Nash.”
“It’s not happening.”
My fingers trembled at my sides. I shoved them into my jeans and stared at Triumphant Sisyphus. The anguish Nash had demanded was chiseled into its face, but the artist laced it with strong undercurrents of triumph.
When I looked at the sculpture, I saw Sisyphus winning.
He carried the boulder above his head like a trophy rather than a punishment.
He reminded me life was a matter of perspective. You can see your losses as failures or lessons. The choice is yours.
My eyes slid to Nash.
Ben.
Whomever he was, he hadn’t turned away from the art since we entered.
If I hadn’t been blinded by my idea of Nash, I might have considered him as Ben earlier. I inched back, allowing him to study the sculpture. The phone in my palm felt heavy. I chewed on my lip, considering what to text Ben.
Durga: What are you wearing?
I didn’t need a response. The read receipt would confirm it. Over ten minutes passed until Nash received a phone call from Delilah. He ended the call, clenched his phone, then held it out in front of him.
My eyes skated between Nash and the Eastridge United App.
The read receipt said, read.
A few seconds later, a message popped up.
When Nash slid his phone back into his pocket, the green dot beside his name turned red.
I didn’t bother looking at his answer.
It was like the end of a football match.
Fourth down.
Three seconds to go.
One yard from the end zone.
No time outs left, and the whistle blew.
A ref had thrown down the gauntlet.
The end.
Game over.
Final score.
Nash was Ben.
Ben was Nash.
And I was fucked.
Because Ben finally had a face.
A body.
An existence.
He wasn’t a fantasy.
He was human.
Real.
Mine for the taking.
Because I lusted for Nash, but I loved Ben.
I reread the messages between me and Durga from two nights ago, feeling oddly guilty about them. And I never felt guilty about Durga.
Benkinersophobia: What are you wearing?
I'd sent her that because she'd sent me the same thing earlier. Then, ghosted me.
Durga: A t-shirt. It’s loose and long, hitting the top of my thighs. I’m wearing nothing under, and if you asked me to, I’d take it off.
Benkinersophobia: Don’t take it off.
Durga: Are you on your back?
Benkinersophobia: Yes.
Durga: Flip over.
Benkinersophobia: Tell me when you’re done.
Durga: I’m on my hands and knees.
Benkinersophobia: Reach between your thighs and brush your thumb against your clit. Moan my name.
Durga: I don’t know your name.
Benkinersophobia: Rules.
She hadn’t responded.
Benkinersophobia: Just call me Ben.
Still no response.
Benkinersophobia: You feel the cold air brushing your pussy?
Durga: Yes.
Benkinersophobia: I like the idea of your ass in the air as you cum, waiting for me to enter you, knowing I never will.
Durga: Never say never.
I stopped reading, changed into a tee and sweats, and wandered around the hotel, struck by how goddamned empty it was. Reed would spend this weekend with Basil and Ma, Delilah had flown to New York a few nights ago with her husband, and my plans for the weekend included Durga, who’d been acting weird, and my fist, because the idea of seeking a meaningless fuck did nothing for me.