by Tara Sivec
Pushing myself off of the wall, I press my palms to either side of his face and force his head down so he’s looking me in the eyes.
“You and me against the world, Fisher. It’s always been you and me, and it always will be. I shouldn’t have brought up counseling out of the blue like I did. Whatever you want to do, however you need me to help, I will do it. I will always do anything for you. Let’s just calm down and forget about this for right now. We can go for a walk to the lighthouse, we can do whatever you want. We don’t have to talk about this right now.”
I don’t want to come right out and say that we shouldn’t do this when he’s been drinking, but it’s definitely implied. He’s so quick to anger lately and I never know what’s going to set him off. All I can do is apologize afterwards and pray that he’ll get better, that it won’t always be like this and eventually he WILL get better.
Fisher brings his hands up and rests them on top of both of mine against his cheeks. He leans forward and presses his forehead against mine and I’m able to take a breath for the first time since I came up to the bedroom and saw him packing my things.
I move my hands from his face to the hem of his shirt, sliding my palms underneath the material to feel the hard, warm skin of his abs and chest. Kissing my way down the side of his face, I lightly nip at the skin of his neck, doing whatever I can to bring him back to me, to see me, to feel me. I miss making love to him. I miss the closeness we always share when we connect on that level. All of our problems go away and nothing matters but the two of us. Maybe it’s wrong to try and seduce him now, but I’m out of ideas on how to break through to him. My hands slide over his chest underneath his shirt and my thumbs graze over his nipples as I move my body closer to him.
I should have known better than to let my guard down.
“Oh, Lucy. Sweet, innocent, pathetic Lucy. It’s really cute how you honestly think you’ve been the only one all these years. You were a virgin when we met and sorry, but I prefer a woman with a little more experience to get me through the nights away from home.”
I jerk my hands out from under his shirt, take a step back and stare at him in shock and horror. I’ve always, ALWAYS lived with the insecurities that I’ve never been enough for him physically and sexually, but he’s never made me feel like I was anything but absolutely perfect for him. Is he honestly telling me right now that he hasn’t been faithful? That some other woman warmed his bed and gave him things I couldn’t give while he was away from me? Sure, he had a lot more experience than I did when we met and I hated it. He’s right, I was a virgin, but he helped me lose some of my insecurities by teaching me all the ways to please him and make things feel good for myself. Over the years, we learned each other’s bodies and our sex life has always been good, but I never quite learned how to ask for more, never really understood what more meant. It wasn’t until that night in the kitchen two months ago, the night when he took me with all-consuming passion, that I realized what I truly needed from him. Maybe that’s what he’s always wanted and he hated that I didn’t give it to him. I would have given it to him. I wanted to give it to him more than he even knows, and it kills me to think that he shared that with another woman.
“Congratulations. You did it. You made me hate you,” I tell him as the tears fall silently down my face and he goes back to the bed, closing the lid on the suitcases and zipping them shut.
“Took you long enough,” he says with a sarcastic laugh. “Jesus, how much more shit were you going to put up with before you realized that? You just thought we could live happily ever after on this shithole island, grow old and die here? This place is eating me alive. Every time I come back here, I want to burn the entire fucking place down. It doesn’t get better when I come home to you, it gets fucking worse. You and your positivity and always trying to ‘fix’ me. This is it, babe. What you see is what you get, and every time I have to come home it gets darker and darker and I hate this life more and more.”
He lifts up the suitcases, walks them to the doorway next to me and tosses them out into the hallway.
“Get out so I can finally fucking breathe without you always trying to ‘help’ me. I don’t want or need your help. You better be gone by the time I get back.”
He walks past me and out the door, stepping over the suitcases as he goes. I hear his shoes pounding against the hardwood floor and then seconds later, the slamming of the front door.
I sink to my knees and then crumble to my side on the carpet, curling my body into the tightest ball I can. If I make myself small enough, maybe it won’t hurt as bad. Maybe I won’t feel like my heart has been ripped from my chest and stomped to pieces. Maybe if I’m small enough, this won’t feel like the biggest betrayal and most soul crushing moment of my entire life.
If I’m small enough, maybe I won’t want to die from the enormity of the pain.
If I’m small enough, maybe I won’t feel like such a failure.
Chapter 6
Lucy
Present Day
“You are so beautiful, it takes my breath away,” Stanford whispers in my ear after he places a kiss on my cheek.
I laugh uncomfortably and rest my hand on top of his on the table. It’s been a long time since anyone called me beautiful, and I try my best to accept the compliment and not brush it off. I know I’m not classically beautiful. Contrary to what Trip said this morning, I’m not all skin and bones. I have curves and thighs that I hate, freckles on my face that piss me off and a nose that’s too small for my features. I’m small and short and most of the time, people call me cute. Fisher used to always tell me I was adorable, that he wanted to put me in his pocket and carry me around with him everywhere. But when we were alone, naked in bed, he worshiped every part of my body. He was the only one who could get away with calling me beautiful and sexy and actually make me believe it.
Get it together, Lucy. You’re on date with another man. Stop thinking about Fisher.
While Stanford tells me about his day clearing up accounts at Fisher’s Bank and Trust, I take the time to study him. Six years older than me at nearly thirty-seven, with short blonde hair he keeps slicked back from his forehead, light blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, he’s definitely a good-looking man. He’s not the type of man I ever thought I’d be attracted to, but I also never thought I would be out in the dating world again, so none of that really matters. He always looks put-together, wearing clothing that probably costs more than the monthly upkeep fees on the inn and he never has a hair out of place, but he’s also funny and treats me well. He’s incredibly smart and a huge book nerd just like myself, even though my book preferences have been the cause of his raised eyebrows on more than one occasion. It’s only been a little over a month, but I already feel like I’ve known him for much longer. He’s easy to talk to and he always has great suggestions and ideas for things I can do at the inn to bring in more revenue and increase business. As I tick off all of his qualities in my head, I realize he’s everything that Fisher isn’t. Regardless of his family’s wealth, Fisher is a blue-collar worker at heart. He likes to get dirty and he never cared if his clothes were name brand or from Target. He was a Marine through and through – intense, focused, direct, loyal…well, I guess not always loyal.
Thinking about my ex-husband is definitely not appropriate when I’m on a date with another man. A good man, a steady man, a man I feel like I already know would never throw words at me that were sure to cut me in half. It’s been a damn year, why can’t I just forget? A year where the only contact was via an envelope filled with divorce papers. Even after all the things he said to me, I still thought he might come back. He’d get better, he’d get help and he’d come back to me. Those divorce papers were the end of everything. Every dream, every hope and every idea I’d ever had about love.
I hate that everything on this island reminds me of him. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, there’s a memory of the two of us together. It doesn’t help that I know he’s close. He’s in this to
wn, breathing the same air as me, looking out at the same ocean and walking the same streets. Shoving those thoughts firmly from my mind, I flip Stanford’s hand over and intertwine my fingers with his. He stops talking and leans closer to me.
“Is everything okay, Luce? You seem a little distracted tonight.”
There it is, the one thing in the negative column for Stanford. I really hate that he calls me Luce. I know it’s a common nickname for Lucy, but I feel like he’s calling me loose. Every time he says it, I inwardly cringe. Seriously, though, if that’s the only thing I don’t like about him, I need to count myself lucky. I wet my lips with my tongue and I watch as he stares at the movement, his eyes narrowing as I glide my tongue across my bottom lip. It makes my body heat with excitement, knowing that he wants me. He’s told me more than once, but seeing it is better than hearing it.
“I’m sorry, I’m just a little tired,” I lie, answering his question distractedly as my thoughts continue to wander while he flags a waitress down and orders us drinks.
I really had no idea what I was doing the first night I went out with Stanford. Fisher had been my first everything. I didn’t know the one thing about satisfying someone other than the man I’d married and, based on the last words he spoke to me, I didn’t even do that well. I let all of those old, teenage insecurities blossom once again and I spent a year wallowing in misery, wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Then Stanford came along and swept me away with romance and sweet words, soft kisses and light touches, making me feel cherished and worthy of the affection he gives me. I like the way he makes me feel, even if something I can’t quite put my finger on is missing. It’s the reason I keep putting him off when he attempts to go beyond second base.
Stanford pulls his phone from his suit pocket when it starts to buzz with an incoming call. Turning away from me, he starts talking rapidly to someone about interest rates and refinancing. He chews on his bottom lip during a pause in the conversation and I can’t help but stare at his mouth. I like kissing Stanford, I like feeling his hands on me, but I don’t crave it. I don’t dream about it when I’m away from him and I don’t feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get him inside of me. Try as I might, I can’t help but crave that feeling, the twinge of nerves coupled a touch of fear that you’re about to do something unexpected and thrilling, elicit and a little dirty.
But I had that once.
And look how that turned out.
It went to shit and was I left feeling ashamed of who I was and the things I wanted.
So pleasant is my new normal.
This is what falling in love is supposed to feel like. It should be easy to be with someone, as natural as breathing, and it should leave you content, exactly the way I feel with Stanford. We barely know each other, so I’m sure that the rest will come. Six weeks of dating really isn’t that long when you think about it. Maybe it will just take time for the passion and butterflies to kick in. Hell, maybe I need to start being a little more forward with him and try my hand at making the first move.
Reaching across the table, I run the tips of my fingers over the top of his hand to try and get his attention. He turns his head and looks at me questioningly while I give him my best sultry smile.
“Do you need something?” he whispers, moving his hand to cover the mouthpiece.
“Just you,” I tell him softly with a wink.
“What do you mean there isn’t time to lock in that rate? I gave you that paperwork four days ago,” Stanford argues into the phone, turning back away from me and ignoring my attempts at flirting.
Make that two things in the negative column.
When Stanford is working, he doesn’t pay attention to anything around him, including me. It’s a little hard to get used to after being married to a man who made me feel like the center of his world when he was home from a deployment…until the next time he’d volunteer to go back and I started to wonder if he loved his fellow Marines more than me.
I haven’t told Stanford everything about Fisher. He knows the basics – that I was married to his boss’ son and we got divorced. He knows I’ve been single for a year and he knows I had no intention of getting serious with anyone, least of all someone who didn’t live here permanently on the island. I’ve been with one man my entire life, and I wasn’t about to start having flings with vacationers. Who knows what kind of gossip he’s heard around the island since he’s been here? I haven’t asked and he hasn’t offered it up. I don’t know where this thing will go with the two of us, but there’s no way I could taint a new relationship right off the bat with my sob story. I let him think I’m just a single, shy island resident who lives a sheltered life and he goes along with it. I don’t tell him that I still fantasize about my ex-husband and worry that I’ll never find another man who can make my body feel the way he did. I don’t admit that I think I’m damaged and will never be able to feel comfortable enough to let go and be the woman I’ve always wanted to be with someone else like I did with Fisher. I certainly don’t tell him that I’m neither shy, nor sheltered when it comes to sex and that I’m afraid of the things I fantasize about, the things I want and the things I need.
Stanford finally ends the call, scooting his chair closer to mine and rubbing his hand up and down my arm as he smiles at me. He doesn’t have any dimples, but that’s just another checkmark in his favor. Women turn stupid for dimples and I’m not about to be a stupid woman ever again.
“How about we finish our drinks and then head back to the inn? I can build a fire, and hopefully all of the guests will be in bed by then so we can be alone.”
It’s time to stop being a wuss. I can’t hold Stanford at arms-length forever. I like kissing him and I enjoy him touching me. My body doesn’t burn when he does it, but it’s nice and I need a little nice in my life. Maybe sex doesn’t need to be punishing, frantic and desperate all the time. Maybe soft and sweet and loving is normal. Looking at Stanford, I know he can quiet that part deep inside of me that screams for something more, something illicit and dangerous. I won’t let myself even think the word “boring.” Stanford is NOT boring. He’s dependable and constant. I’m a thirty-year-old woman who owns her own business and I have an image to uphold in this small town. I need a man like Stanford to keep me grounded.
We finish off our drinks and Stanford comes around behind me to pull out my chair. He holds my hair off of my neck as I secure my wrap around my shoulders. As we turn towards the door and he holds his arm out for me to take, a voice from my dreams and my past resonates from behind us. A deep, raspy sound with a touch of a southern accent that never fails to make my legs weak and my stomach flop.
“Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Aren’t you just a sight for sore eyes?”
Chapter 7
Lucy
April 8, 2014 – 9:12 PM
“You don’t have to do this, you know. He’s not your responsibility anymore. Not after today. Not after the bullshit things he said to you.”
I glance over at my best friend, Ellie, as we quickly walk through town to Barney’s. As soon as I managed to pull myself up from the floor of our bedroom, I grabbed my suitcases and went right to Ellie’s house. We became friends years ago when I went to my first support group meeting on the mainland for wives of deployed soldiers. She was the most vocal person in the room, always quick to help another wife out when they needed it, and she protected the people she cared about like a rabid pit-bull. I found out at my second meeting that she was a widow, losing her husband at the age of nineteen during his first deployment. It amazed me that, after everything she’d been through, she still took the time to go to those meetings and help other people. After a few visits to the island, I managed to convince her to move here permanently and help me out at the inn. She does all of the cooking for the guests, all of the website maintenance and anything else I ask her to do.
“He’s sick, Ellie. That doesn’t excuse the things he said to me, I know that, but I can’t just turn my back on him. We h
ave too much history, too many years together for me to just give up.”
She wraps her arm around my shoulder as we walk and pulls me against her in a quick hug. “You’re too good a person, Lucy. I’m still going to kick Bobby’s ass for calling you. He should have taken care of the situation himself.”
Bobby called my cell phone in a panic fifteen minutes ago telling me Fisher was holed up at Barney’s, drinking his weight in Jack Daniels. When the bartender cut him off an hour ago, Fisher started getting combative and belligerent. Bobby obviously had no idea about what happened earlier in the day or that I would be the last person Fisher wanted to see, so I couldn’t blame him for calling me. He was worried about his best friend and couldn’t get him to calm down. I’d always been the one to get through to Fisher, to calm his fears and ease his pain. He naturally assumed I could work my magic again.
“I’m not going to stay long. I’m just going to see if I can get him to leave Barney’s and sleep it off,” I tell her as we cross the street in front of the bar.
I don’t tell her that everything inside of me is hoping that, as soon as he sees me, he’ll apologize and take back the things he said earlier. I don’t admit that I’m still holding onto hope that I didn’t lose him completely.
Ellie pushes open the door to Barney’s and holds it for me to enter. A country song is blasting on the jukebox and the air is filled with the usual smell of stale beer and old cigarette smoke. It’s not very busy in here, but it still takes me a few seconds to find Fisher through the small crowds of people gathered around tables and walking back and forth to the bar. He’s sitting on a stool at one of the tall tables and Bobby is in front of him. I can see Bobby throwing up his arms every few seconds while he speaks to him, and I can tell he’s getting frustrated that Fisher most likely isn’t listening to a word he says. Fisher’s hair is a scattered mess on top of his head and I can just picture him running his hands through it all night while he sat here, trying to drown his misery. His face is flushed from the alcohol and his shirt is soaked through with sweat. My heart starts hurting all over again seeing him like this, so lost and unable to focus on Bobby’s face as his body sways a little from side to side.