Conflicting Hearts

by J. D. Burrows

  “No, that’s okay. A few minutes ago, I hung up from an unpleasant call, and I didn’t want a repeat performance.”

  “Someone bugging you?” I hear concern in his voice.

  “Well, not really. Just family stuff.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “So what’s up?” I’m immensely curious as to why he’s called.

  “I was thinking about you.”

  My mind squeals like a teenager. “Me too. Uh, I mean me thinking about you.”

  “Listen, I saw the weather report tonight. It might rain tomorrow afternoon at the coast. Still want to go?”

  “Hey, we’re Oregonians. We can do rain.”

  He laughs. “Okay, I just wanted to check.”

  “I’ll pack a jacket and whatever, but I have to hear the waves and walk the beach.”

  “Well, we should be there early enough. The rain isn’t expected until afternoon.”

  “Okay, thanks, Ian.”

  “Hey, no problem. See you in the morning. Bye.”

  “Bye.” I hang up and beam like a light bulb. Gosh, he’s so nice. I want to dream that this will work, but I don’t know if I have it in me.

  I glance at the clock, and it’s time for my purple pill again. Thank God for feigned happiness in a drug. Otherwise, I’d probably be six feet under pushing up daisies.

  Chapter 6

  Pasts Revealed

  My night turns out to be a fitful one. I wake up several times through the evening, tossing and turning. Dreams for the most part are unmemorable, which I know means I didn’t get enough REM sleep worth a darn. When I wake up, the dark circles under my eyes prove it. I look like death.

  After a shower, I carefully put on makeup and dry my hair. When all is done, I look at myself and sigh. It’s not what I want to see. My ex-husband’s demeaning voice from the past runs through my mind like a ticker tape.

  Look at you, you’re pathetic. Who would want you?

  My facial expression confirms to me that I still believe every word he uttered during our married life. It’s time to suppress the pain and insecurities before Ian arrives at my door.

  I walk over to my bedroom window and pull up the blinds. The sky is gray, and it’s overcast but dry. It appears the weather report was right, but I don’t mind if I get drenched from head to toe. I need the ocean, and a kind man is going to take me there.

  My backpack is laying on the kitchen table, and I recheck the items I gathered the night before.

  Lipstick – check

  Hairbrush – check

  Breath mints – check

  Wallet – check

  Cell phone – check

  Small throw – check

  The throw is probably never going to be used; but in case we decide to sit on the beach, we won’t be plopping down in sand. I’m conjuring up visions of us embracing and smooching under the gray skies. It will be wonderful to lounge on the beach and listen to the waves together.

  According to my outdoor thermometer stuck to my window, the morning temperature is about sixty-five. It will be at least ten degrees cooler by the ocean, so I grab my heavy jacket. Before Ian arrives, I run into the bathroom and put my pink baseball cap on, and pull my ponytail through the hole in the back. I turn my head from left to right and check out how I look. Not much can be done. The damage is already there.

  I hear the faint knock at my door, so I dive over and open it. “Come on in,” I invite him with a smile on my face. “I’m just gathering a few last items.”

  He walks in, and Whiskers wanders out of the bedroom. The cat takes one look at his long legs and decides to coil himself around his calves like a snake.

  “Ian, meet Whiskers. Whiskers, meet Ian.”

  “Hey, Whisk.”

  He bends over and picks up the cat. I’m flabbergasted. Ian holds the fuzz ball upside down in his arms and starts stroking his belly, like I do. Why am I not surprised my cat is a traitor?

  “He prefers men,” I tell Ian. “He tolerates me.” I can hear my cat purring in high gear. His eyes look like he’s drugged.

  “Do you have a cat?” Since Ian is so adept at tummy petting, I can’t help but wonder.

  “No. Wish I had a pet, but it wouldn’t be fair. Work too many hours to take care of one.”

  “I think you’ve had enough,” he tells Whiskers, lowering him to the floor.

  My jacket is draped over my arm, and my backpack is hanging from my right shoulder. “Ready,” I announce, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Here, let me carry that for you,” he offers, taking my pack.

  I want to protest with, “no I can handle it,” but he melts me with his nonchalant, gallant behavior. It’s engrained in him, and I wonder if there’s a mean bone in the man’s body.

  With my protest stifled in the back of my throat, we head on out. The SUV makes for a smooth ride down Sunset Highway westward toward the coast, and I feel like a giddy little girl. The first few miles we are both silent. Ian is driving with a pensive look upon his face, and I’m looking out the window at the passing scenery. To break the awkward silence, I ask him an off-the-wall question.

  “Is Cannon Beach your favorite spot along the Oregon coast?”

  “Yeah, you could say that,” he replies, with a sly grin that I wonder about. “What about you?”

  “Yeah, I like it. I enjoy it anywhere the waves crash against the rocky shoreline.”

  “I’m a sand man, myself.”

  “That sounds funny.” I chuckle. “The rocks are what I love, especially on a rough day. I can stand and watch the ocean for hours on end.”

  “Well, if you want, we can drive up Ecola Park, and you can peer over the edge.”

  “Yeah, that would be nice.”

  For the next mile, we revert to silence. He looks as if he’s deep in thought, and I’m calculating how far we are into the hour and a half trip. As we start climbing the coastal range and make it on the other side of the tunnel that cuts through the mountain, he decides to take the lid off of things.

  “Do you mind me asking what happened with you and your ex?” He pauses for a moment and rearranges his question. “I mean why did the marriage end?”

  Ian turns his head and gives me a quick glance, no doubt to determine if I’m reacting to his intrusion into my private life. I ponder for a moment how to respond.

  “Tell you what, I’ll tell you why my marriage ended, if you share why about yours.”

  He cocks his head to the right and rubs the back of his neck with his right hand. It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable. “Fair enough,” he half-heartedly responds. “You go first.”

  “Oh, thanks,” I sarcastically reply, while noting the relieved look on his face. I don’t belabor my response and get right to the point. “I got married at twenty. My ex was seven years my senior. He swept me off my feet, and three months later, like an idiot, I became his wife.”

  “Whoa, that was quick,” he blurts out in surprise.

  “Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that I wed a man with a violent temper. For the next four years of my life, I struggled to find the courage to leave, while he systematically abused me.” As my confession reaches his ears, I notice Ian’s grip on the steering wheel tighten. His swift reaction to my words surprises me.

  “Rachel, did he hit you?” He takes his eyes off the road and glances at me with an appalled look. Shamefully, I tell him the truth.

  “Once, early in our marriage, because he said I mouthed off at him. He punched me in the arm and left a bruise.” I wring my hands together remembering the hurtful moment. Poor Ian’s face cringes.

  “There’s no excuse for men who hit women,” he growls with a sneer.

  “Afterward, it escalated to verbal abuse, which I think is more painful than the other. Although, when he got mad, he threatened me with a raised, clenched fist.”

  “Why did you stay with the creep?” Ian’s voice is deep and angry, as he glances over at me with a quizzical look.

  I
begin to feel he’s climbing my walls of protection. Desperately, I try to find the right answer that won’t make me sound like an idiotic loser for staying. Should I tell him the real truth? Gee, Ian, there’s this thing about me, and I can’t say no to abuse. As an alternative, I wonder whether I should skirt the fact and blame it on another issue. I project the blame elsewhere.

  “I was going to church at the time, and the denomination I was in was pretty strict about divorce. In the pastor’s eyes, it was akin to blasphemy. So I stayed in the marriage, lest I be ostracized for leaving him and not submitting to my husband, like I was taught.”

  “Did the pastor advocate that you were obligated to remain in that kind of abusive situation?”

  “Well, not in so many words,” I say. My ignorance is about to flash like a neon light. “I was afraid to expose my husband for what he was behind closed doors. Frankly, I didn’t know if anyone would believe me, let alone side with me.”

  Ian shakes his head. “Gosh, Rachel, I’m sorry that you went through that.” His voice is more sympathetic than it is angry.

  “Live and learn, but it did turn me against the church, unfortunately. I think my theology got all screwed up because of it.”

  It’s hard to admit I’m a backslidden divorcee. The guilt from religious teaching adds to my sense of sinfulness over my dark desires. Every day I’m afraid of God’s punishment. I never feel good enough, even for God’s love. My eyes water when Ian continues the questioning.

  “So what happened that you finally did leave?”

  My mouth blows out a puff of air before continuing the tale of woe. “A counselor helped me to do it. I didn’t have the courage, and she helped me find the strength to walk away.”

  “Good for her or him,” he says, sighing in relief.

  “Her.”

  “Did you file or he?”

  “I did, and he didn’t contest it.”

  “Well, at least that part of your life is over and buried.”

  My head turns, and I gaze at Ian with profound sadness. His conclusion is far from the truth. Every insult, every belittlement, and every time my husband yelled at me, felt as if he picked up a hammer and drove a sharp, painful nail into my soul. By the time I left, my self-esteem had been damaged beyond repair. I wanted to die.

  My counselor helped me to remove the nails one by one, but all it did was leave gaping holes in the fabric of my heart. I can remember her advice. “Even though he said those things about you, doesn’t make them true.”

  Her pie-in-the-sky statement did nothing to help me, because by that time my brain had accepted every word as fact. How can you change what you believe, when there is no one in your life to tell you that you have value? When I divorced him, I was emotionally bankrupt. The account had been overdrawn, and no deposits of kindness were being made by anyone else to fill the void in my soul.

  Ian returns my sad gaze, and I see a curious look upon his face as if he’s wondering about my sanity. I swiftly avert my eyes and look out the windshield at the road. Then I throw the ball back into his court.

  “So, you next. What happened in your marriage?” I hear him draw in a breath and look to see that his mouth has turned into a hard line. It’s obvious that his revelation will not be an easy one either.

  “I met Susan at Harvard. We dated while in college and before graduation from law school, we married.”

  “Sounds like you took longer than I did to make that decision.”

  “A couple of years, yes.”

  Wise man, I think to myself. “Then what?”

  “After we wed, we wanted to relocate out west. Portland felt more attractive than Seattle, so we both found jobs in firms out here, purchased a house, and then spent the next few years drifting apart.”

  It’s hard for me to imagine why any woman would not stay close to Ian. I try to wrap my head around his ex-wife, but can’t. I press for more. “Why did you drift apart? Was it you or her?”

  “Susan is extremely career-minded, more so than I am. With our crazy schedules and overtime, we rarely saw each other. The marriage grew stale pretty fast.”

  “Sorry,” I say, void of any comforting words.

  “That’s life, I guess. One day I came home, and she shoved divorce papers in my face telling me that it was over.”

  “Was there another guy or something?”

  “Yeah,” he answers with a frown. “Apparently, I had become a bore, and her new male companion was more outgoing and adventurous.” Ian clenches his jaw as he continues. “It was devastating to learn of her unfaithfulness. She confessed she had been seeing him for three months behind my back.”

  “Damn,” I reply. “Did she have…” My words trail off, afraid to ask if she had screwed his competition.

  Ian affirms my assumption with a nod of his head. I am dismayed. How could she do that to him? His face is filled with painful memories. It’s difficult not to wonder if he still loves her, even though yesterday he said he didn’t. He could have lied. While I’m thinking about it, my mouth blurts out my pondering thought.

  “Do you still love her?” I try to sound concerned, rather than accusatory.

  He’s quiet for nearly a minute and then turns his head and looks at me. I’m aghast over the smoldering gaze he throws my way. It practically melts me into the leather seat. His gorgeous blue eyes communicate something totally unexpected. Timidly, I squirm and my breath hitches in my throat.

  “What do you think?” he drawls in that deep velvet voice of his.

  What a loaded question! This man definitely wants in my pants. He pulls his eyes back to the road. Thank God he did. If I had been driving, we would have been wrapped around a tree.

  “Um, probably not.” I gulp.

  “Definitely not,” he quickly replies. “Susan has moved on, and that’s exactly what I’m doing now.”

  Ian reaches over and grabs my clammy hand, which is resting in my lap. He gives it a gentle squeeze, and then pats me on the leg. A moment later, his attention is back on the road.

  “Wish I could kiss you.” He wickedly smirks.

  “Me too.”

  I look out the window and see the mileage sign alongside the road—twenty-six miles to Cannon Beach. God, I can’t wait to get this guy in the sand and attack his mouth.

  Chapter 7

  Pinch Me

  The wind blows into my face, and I close my eyes and tilt my head back. Ian is behind me somewhere. For the moment, I’m lost in the atmosphere that captures my soul. It’s cool—in fact it’s cold. I zip up my jacket to my neck and pull my hood over my baseball cap. When I open my eyes again, I’m greeted with the white, foamy waves of the Pacific Ocean pounding the shore. Out in the distance are dark storm clouds. It won’t be long before the rain arrives.

  Suddenly, I feel Ian behind me. He slips both of his arms around my waist and pulls me back into him. He lowers his head to the right side of my face and gives me a peck on the cheek.

  “Bit chilly,” he says, tightening his grip upon my midsection. My eyes remain fixed on the horizon until I’m suddenly aware of an erection pressing against my derrière. I don’t know whether to run, cry, or laugh. It’s been so long since I’ve felt the need of a male against my body, I’m not sure how to react.

  “Yes, it is, but I don’t care.” I tug away from him, and he releases me. When I turn around, I can see heat in his eyes, but a slight frown on his face.

  “Race you to Haystack Rock.” I tease him with a wink and find my footing on the hard sand where the waves play games getting me wet.

  “You’re on,” he says, and off he goes, flying ahead of me.

  “Hey, you!” I yell at the top of my lungs. He doesn’t stop. Before I know it, I’m out of breath, and I’ve caught up to him. The tide is coming in, and the waves are getting higher and more frequent.

  “Okay, I concede, you won,” I admit.

  He flashes a smile. “Looks like the rain is coming sooner than later,” he says, looking at the clouds
out on the horizon.

  I try and ignore the threat.

  “Do you want to keep walking down the shore?” Ian grabs my cold hand and holds it tight.

  “Yes, and then find a place in the sand to sit. I brought a little blanket,” I announce, patting my backpack.

  “Okay,” he says, drifting off in a weird way. He has a strange look on his face, but I shrug it off.

  We start strolling down the beach, heading into the oncoming wind. The waves are pounding the shore with a roar. I’m in a fantasyland, where nothing hurts me and nature tenderly caresses my wounded soul. After a few minutes, I spot a perfect spot by a large driftwood log that has rolled up on the beach.

  “How about we sit over there,” I suggest, pointing in the direction of where I want to head.

  “Looks good.”

  Ian grabs my hand and pulls me through the sand I’m now struggling to walk in. With every step that I sink, I can feel my shoes filing up with the beach.

  We reach the log, and I throw down my backpack and fish out the old blanket. It’s big enough for two. I set up camp, plop down, and Ian follows suit. He slips his arm around me and tugs me close. When I look up at him, he’s staring into my eyes with a smile that tells me that he wants more. A moment later, his lips give me another sweet kiss.

  His mouth is always tender and non-evasive. I wonder if he even knows how to French kiss, because I haven’t once felt his tongue. The reserved behavior surprises me, because he’s not as aggressive as I secretly hoped. Maybe, he’s taking it slow. When I think about it, that’s probably wise because I’m an easy lay, and I’m not going to brandish that poor quality of my character. At least not yet, I smirk inside.

  “God, I so love it here,” I breathe out in complete satisfaction. I don’t care that the wind is pounding my face, or that I feel a chill from the cold sand underneath the blanket. It’s been far too long since I’ve visited the coast, and I chide myself for not leaving my cave more often.

  Ian is quiet, and I watch him stare out at the horizon as if he’s deep in thought. We leave each other to our musings until I feel a drop of rain splat on my cheek.