Beautiful Savage

by Sorbe, Lisa

  And yes. I realize that I just called Ford my boyfriend. Which makes me a married woman with a boy toy. But marriage is a loose term for what Nicholas and I have, and though neither of us has come right out and said it, the only thing tying us together these days is keeping up appearances and an iron clad prenup. Not to mention, actions speak louder than words. And his? Cheating or no cheating, his are hardly better than mine.

  Despite what they say, absence does not make the heart grow fonder.

  With this in mind, I’m suddenly desperate to get back to Ford, back in his arms, feel his lips on mine, the way his fingers skim my back whenever he passes behind me. Touching, he’s always touching me, like he can’t get enough of me, and fuck, I’m starting to crave everything about him so damn much.

  When I turn to leave, I see that the class has ended, and in my haste, I cut right through the group, not bothering to go around them. No one takes notice; they’re all still high from laughter, talking and joking like they just can’t get enough of each other and never want the stupid class to end. But for once, this display of intimacy, of closeness, doesn’t bother me, because now I have my own. I have my own person to get back to, someone who cares if I live or die, if I breathe or expire, and I want to soak up his attention, his affection, as much as I can while I can.

  Up ahead, I see Marla and the kid; copped in a squat, she’s finally fixing the limp ponytail. “Mother of the year,” I mumble as I near them, reaching up and adjusting my sunglasses. I’m closer to the pair than I’ve been since that morning at the coffee shop, when the kid knocked by me in a sweet breeze and Marla touched my arm in a pathetic gesture of apology. The urge to take advantage of this nearness, to see up close and personal what I’ve come to know via screen, is hard to resist. But just as I turn my head, my foot catches something, kicks it ahead of me a few steps, and when I look to see what it is, my heart practically stutters to a stop. My stomach drops, drops, drops as I bend over and, without breaking my stride, pick it up, tuck it under my arm, and speed walk away, out of the park and across the street. I chance a look back as I turn to head up the sidewalk, but no one seems to be watching me, pointing fingers at me. All I see is Marla wandering around aimlessly, the kid at her heels, both looking far less jubilant than they were earlier.

  I don’t slow until I get to Ford’s building. And I don’t allow myself to take a good look at the bundle in my arms until I’m in the safety of the stairwell. But I can feel it, the faux fur soft against my palms, the squishy body giving way to my death grip, the plastic nose and eyes hard like marbles. I feel enchanted, like I’m in the presence of a celebrity, my excitement barely contained. This thing is in practically every photo the kid is in, whether clutched in her sticky little hands or propped up somewhere in the background, temporarily abandoned but, I’m sure, hardly forgotten.

  Sinking onto a step, I hold the stuffed panda out at arm’s length before pressing it to my nose, taking in her scent, which is Hollis’s scent.

  Jesus Christ, this is heaven.

  My good fortune has me so giddy that, when I toss my head back, my laughter bounces off the walls, echoes around me, one voice multiplying into many, and it makes me cackle all the more because suddenly I get the appeal of laughing yoga, and isn’t that just fucking hilarious?

  #blessed.

  The dark gives me courage, she thought. And then she kissed him.

  — November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher

  I once read an article about newborns that stressed the importance of touch, and how the absence of affection can significantly slow a baby’s development. Even worse, if these infants are kept in this type of environment long enough, they can begin to develop a fear of being touched, becoming emotionally stunted children who turn into withdrawn adults that can’t tolerate even the most superficial of relationships. Of course, some of these babies don’t even make it that far. Because they die. Regardless of receiving the proper nutrition and medical care, they still die…all from lack of human connection.

  Lately, I’ve been wondering if this scenario can also be applied to adults. Just because we’ve spent years riding this planet, circling the sun again and again and again, doesn’t mean that we’re immune to loneliness. That because of our ripe age, we can take or leave the warmth of another’s touch. Isolation is so easily attainable these days, even when you’re surrounded by others. It’s no longer necessary to escape into the woods to be alone; just dip your nose into your phone, and you’ve got what Thoreau had all those years ago on Walden Pond.

  Okay, so maybe not exactly. But the point I’m trying to make is that, with the way society is these days, it’s far easier to be alone in a group of thousands than it is to find true, meaningful connection with those in your own home.

  With Nicholas, the affection melted away slowly. So slowly that, by the time I realized it, years had passed since I felt his touch. And I’m not talking the ten minutes of sex we indulge in every month. That sort of touching, where the sole purpose is getting yourself off without thought of the person writhing beneath you, doesn’t count. I mean, sure…that kind of sex can be great, amazing even, and everyone needs those moments where the only goal is sweet fucking relief. But that shouldn’t be all that sex is, the only thing that sex is.

  Sex should first and foremost be about love. Or, at the very least, like. It should be about connection at the highest level, about dishing out as much pleasure as you take, perhaps even more. It’s reaching in and touching the other person’s soul, giving their goddamn heart a fucking hug.

  Ford gives the best hugs.

  He gives them in the mornings, before I leave his bed for the day. He gives them when I walk through his door in the evenings, while we’re in the shower and when we’re cooking dinner or sitting in the bar where we met. He pulls me in for one armed hugs while we’re walking down the street, pressing his lips to my head as he does.

  And…he’s always so happy to see me.

  I can’t even remember the last time someone was happy to see me. Like truly, honest to goodness fucking happy.

  I’m wrapped up in one of Ford’s hugs now. This one is a full body hug, his chest pressed to my back, his legs entwined with mine. Every once in a while, he’ll flex his arms, giving me a gentle squeeze, and run his lips over my ear.

  And I eat it up. Every damn bit of it.

  Because who knows how long it will last?

  “Tell me something about yourself,” he says now.

  Aside from the soft glow of the streetlamp pressing against the bedroom windows, the apartment is dark. The distant hum of the air conditioning is a soft buzz underlying the sound of our breath, still heavy after hours of lovemaking. Ford’s bare chest is warm against my bare back, and I can feel the strong beat of his heart as it pounds against me, through me, like his very center is determined to reach mine.

  It was still light when we fell into bed. But now, with the way the night has blackened the day, I feel bolder, more open to revealing parts of myself that I usually keep hidden.

  I take a deep breath, and Ford tightens his grip. “I, um, used to write.”

  He buries his face in my hair, and I can feel his smile. “What did you write? Wait, let me guess. Poetry?”

  There isn’t an ounce of mockery in his tone, not the way there was in Nicholas’s back when I told him all those years ago. Instead, Ford sounds impressed, like it was something he sensed about me before I even confirmed it.

  “How did you guess?” My voice is light, playful, though the question does bear a hint of accusation, as if by guessing correctly he’s somehow violated my privacy and I need him to tell me how so I can search for the crack, discover the breach. Tighten security.

  “Really, Becca? You exude it. It’s in the way you move, the way you speak.” His voice drops. “The way you make love.”

  My face heats. “Ford…”

  “I want to hear one.”

  So I quote him one I didn’t write, one by Edgar Allen Poe called An
nabel Lee, and laugh when he pinches my side, because he immediately recognizes it.

  “One you wrote, nerd. I want a peek inside that mind you keep such a tight lock on.”

  I huff, pretending to poo-poo his accusation. “Whatever. I don’t have a lock on my mind.”

  Ford’s hand slides down my side, caresses my hip. “You’re hardly an open book.”

  “Maybe I’m not a book worth reading.” It just slips out, this random expression of insecurity, and I immediately bite my lip. I don’t like to portray anything other than cool confidence, especially when I’m around people that can take my vulnerabilities and use them against me. The world is hard, it’s dog-eat-dog, Darwinism at its most extreme, and revealing a weakness, any weakness, is more than foolhardy. It’s downright suicide.

  Ford doesn’t say anything for a while. Just strokes me all over, soft touches meant to be reassuring and not sexual. When he swipes my hair away from my ear and off my neck, he leans in, his breath hot on my cheek. “Do you know what the first thing I noticed about you was?”

  “How hard I could pound gin?” I say, remembering that night at the bar when he introduced himself by paying for my drink.

  He chuckles but shakes his head. “No, not that night. Earlier that week, when I saw you at that coffee shop. You were beautiful, of course. Breathtaking, actually.”

  I nuzzle back against him and laugh. “Aw, you’re making me blush.”

  Now Ford snorts. “Somehow I doubt that. But,” he continues, growing serious, “your beauty? It wasn’t the first thing I noticed.”

  I worry my lip between my teeth. I was watching Hollis that day, Hollis and Marla, and can only imagine what godawful energy I was exuding, what unattractive expressions were flitting over my features.

  I very much doubt that, at first glance, the thought Beautiful Savage crossed his mind. Probably more like Grotesque Jaded Beast.

  “The first thing I noticed,” he continues, “was your sadness.”

  Well…I wasn’t expecting that.

  And I’m certainly not expecting the tear that slips free, squeezing past my defenses, as this revelation sinks in.

  “And I felt this pull, like the only thing in the world I wanted to do was to take it away.”

  I flip so that I’m facing him, this man who knows me better than my own husband. Almost, it seems, better than I know myself.

  Ford lifts his hand, brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek, swiping away the tear. I’m grateful when another doesn’t follow.

  His lips graze mine, and before he pulls away, he whispers, “Let me in, Becca.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, swallow hard.

  Ford kisses me again. “Let me in. Tell me what’s in your heart.”

  “I can’t even remember any of my poems anymore,” I whisper back, and it’s the truth. I can’t. I can barely remember the girl who wrote them.

  Ford just smiles, rubs his nose against mine. An Eskimo kiss, Hollis used to call it. “Then write a new one. Right now. Right here. Write for me.”

  “But I can’t…I can’t even think….I don’t know where to start.”

  “Don’t think, then. Wipe your mind. Leave it blank. Wait for the words.”

  Taking a deep breath, I do what he says. Then, with a shaky exhale, I say the first one that comes to mind. “Invisible.”

  My eyes are still shut, though I can see Ford, see him in my mind’s eye, watching, waiting for more. His sunshine gaze is the encouragement I need, and after another deep breath, pain tumbles from my lips.

  “Over my shoulder, it’s where everything lands—your attention, your attention.

  Over my shoulder, your eyes wander, they wander while I wonder. What do you see? It’s not me, it’s never me, though my finger bears your mark. Though my heart bears your scars. Though my soul is bound by your ties, by the vows you swore and then forgot. Broken promises in my ears, such a wicked lullaby. My tears reflect your indifference, my silent pain. And tonight…I’m alone. Again.”

  I grit my teeth and cringe. Because it’s awful. Utterly and completely awful. It’s out of time and I’m out of practice, but it came from my heart, something that is either entirely awesome or wholly pathetic.

  Is this how I feel? Truly?

  Why, when I’m lying here with one wonderful, amazing man, does my soul weep for another? One who doesn’t care, who isn’t amazing, and perhaps never was?

  Are we always destined to want what we can’t have? Can we never be satisfied with what is, with what’s already in our lives, right here and right now?

  Before I can ponder this further, Ford’s hand is behind my neck and he’s pressing his mouth to mine, madly to mine, and any second thoughts I have about my marriage, about my husband, are swallowed.

  What started as a fling is quickly turning into…something.

  I hesitate to say relationship, because Ford and I are a couple that can never be – not in the long term, at least. I’ve stretched the truth about so many things: my age, my job, my name. And while I haven’t come right out and told him that I’m not married, I haven’t told him that I am.

  Based on my behavior, he just assumes.

  Certainly, the job thing isn’t much of an issue, and maybe, just maybe, the age thing isn’t, either. Love conquers all, right? These days, when forty is the new thirty and thirty is the new twenty, would he even care about a six-year age difference? I mean, a woman lying about her age is hardly uncommon, and shaving five or six years off for the sake of appearances isn’t exactly a crime. Of course, as long as I never show Ford my driver’s license, he’d never have to know. It’s not like I’m in danger of getting Over the Hill cards from anyone in a few years when I do cross into the dreaded forties. Hell, the very last birthday card I received from anyone was from Hollis, and that was back when I turned twenty-one. Nicholas, on the other hand, believes that the greeting card industry is a racket; his assistant buys my gifts, and none of them coming bearing heartfelt correspondence featuring sappy terms of endearment.

  But I digress.

  For now, I plan to live in the moment, enjoying Ford and everything about him for as long as I can. Love is a bitch, and it’s even more so when you fall for someone you can’t keep.

  Tonight, I’m having him to my place. Er, well, to my client’s place.

  Yep, another lie.

  Fortunately, this house is as cookie cutter as you can get as far as decoration goes. There are no wedding or family photos, nor are there any meaningful mementos that need to be stored away before he arrives. The only preparation I had to do was buy a crockpot (set it and forget it!), pull up one of Marla’s recipes (garlic chicken parm, for the win!) and set some mood lighting with a new twenty-four piece candle set (thank God for Amazon Prime).

  Oh, and I adopted a dog. Temporarily. It’ll go back to the yard I snagged it from when I’m finished with it, so no harm, no foul. And really, those electric fences are weak, and people who depend solely on them to keep their pets safe deserve to have their damn animals stolen. It was all so easy; after scouring a few neighborhoods and spotting an unattended dog, all I had to do was make sure no one was watching, figure out which of the its collars was connected to the faux fence, snap it off, and flash some stinky cheese. The fur beast didn’t think twice before following me one block over and two streets across before happily hopping right into my Navigator.

  The way I see it, I’m doing these yahoos a favor. Giving them a much-needed wakeup call. Maybe now they’ll install a real fence, one that’s not only meant to keep their loved ones in, but the sick fucks out.

  And believe you me, this world is full of sick fucks.

  Anyway, according to the tag on the dog’s leather collar, his name is Gus, and he lives at 2245 Cedar Creek Drive. (Which is so helpful, because by the time I grabbed him, I’d taken so many twists and turns in an unfamiliar part of town that I couldn’t tell you what street I picked him up on, much less the house number.) He’s a medium-sized mutt, black with
white spots around his nose, and seems to enjoy the lake more than Nicholas and I have in all the years we’ve vacationed here.

  I’m sitting on the back deck now, enjoying a drink and watching the dog bounce around in the waves, when I hear a rustle in the bushes to my left. Proximity tells me it’s coming from the other side of the fence, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s my peeper, hoping for a show. It’s been at least three weeks since I’ve, uh, performed for him, and unless his wife is putting out regularly, he’s got to be getting antsy.

  But Ford will be here any minute, so there’s no time for my one-woman act. Then again, maybe he’d be interested in a performance of a different variety.

  Leaving my drink on the side table, I dash inside, scribble a note for Ford, and stick it to the front door. The spicy-sweet smell coming from the crockpot has filled the house, overpowered the kitchen, and as I rush through, the delicious aroma teases my stomach, makes my mouth water. But when I lick my lips, it’s not in anticipation of the coming meal, but in excitement for what I’m about to do. Just thinking about the risqué act I’m about to partake in has my head swirling, and a mad giggle slips past my lips as I picture it playing out. On my way back through the kitchen, another idea springs to mind, and I pop by the fridge, snatching a can of whipped cream before heading outside, stripping as I go.

  Who says you can’t have dessert before the main course?

  • • •

  “I’ve never been this sticky in my life.”