by Sorbe, Lisa
Ford is still breathing heavy, and his voice is thin from exertion.
We’re outside, sprawled on my favorite chaise lounge, the night air cool on our sweaty bodies. I trail my fingers over his chest (sort of sticky) and then down his stomach to just below his pelvis (extremely sticky). “Clearly I didn’t do a good enough job cleaning you up.”
He laughs, the sound coupled with a strangled exhalation of satisfied exhaustion. “Wha—? God, no. You did an amazing job of cleaning me up.” Pressing his head back into the cushions, he sighs. “Christ. I wasn’t expecting that when I saw your note.”
“Really.” I rise up on my elbow and shoot him a look. “What did you think There’s a surprise waiting for you on the back deck meant?”
Shrugging, he flashes me a lazy smile. His skin, golden when under the light of the sun, wanes silver when touched by the glow of the pale moon. “Coming from you, I figured it could mean anything. Though,” he says, looping his arm across my shoulders and drawing me back down to his chest, “I certainly wasn’t expecting to find you out here wearing nothing but whipped cream.”
I laugh, happy my surprise was such a success. “I wasn’t wearing it long, that’s for sure. You attacked me like a starving man who hadn’t eaten in days.”
“And you were absolutely delicious.”
“No restraint,” I tease.
He bends his head, sucking at a ticklish spot on my neck. I cringe and laugh, the sensation overwhelming, and fling my leg over his thighs, hopping on top and pushing him back into the cushions. I slide against him, rolling my hips as I do.
“You’re one to talk,” he tosses back. But his lids are heavy, his voice strained as he slides his hands to waist, urging me down onto him. And when his eyes close, when he’s lost to everything but my body and the pleasure that I’m giving him, I chance a glance to the fence separating the neighbor’s yard from mine. It’s too dark to see anything, and any tell-tale shadow that could betray his presence has been swallowed by the night.
But he’s there. I know he his.
And the knowing fills me with so much damn power.
I throw my head back and howl to the moon.
There’s an ocean in my head. Some days it’s loud, and some days it’s soft. But it’s always there, always pounding, a subtle hum beneath the surface…rolling and crashing, rolling and crashing.
We’re out on the lake today, a place I seem to be gravitating to more and more lately. Things are calm – the water, the weather, my mind. Ford is a blur on the horizon, a black dot that disappears entirely when he dips below the surface of the waves. His camera, which is protected by some plastic thing-a-ma-jig, goes with him, and seeing him in his element makes my entire being smile, swell with some kind of emotion I have no name for but feels so amazing I never want it to end. The man is a damn fish, and I swear he’s turning me into one, too.
Because I know his work will take a while, I turn my kayak and paddle farther up the shore. We’re alone today, having driven several hours north, and the solitude is like balm to my spirit. My new kayak splits the water with ease, and I’m so glad I decided to buy my own rather than always depending on Ford’s shitty spare. I’ve become adept at working the waves, and rolling is practically second nature to me now. Ford is amazed with how quickly I’ve taken to the sport, and, quite frankly, I am, too.
Conquering fear is fiercely intoxicating, and I find myself wanting more and more of that heady feeling. The wild rush it brings, whether it’s fighting waves or stealing a dog right out of someone’s yard or having sex in front of my neighbor… Flirting with risk, dancing with danger? It makes me feel alive.
I roll my kayak now, just because I can, and when I pop back up and swipe the water from my eyes, I see Ford bobbing along the surface, his camera trained my way. He motions for me to come back, and then starts for the shore. By the time I pull my kayak out of the water, he’s already got a fire going and is busy unpacking our lunch. Gus, whose long lead was tied to a large piece of driftwood, has been let loose and is prancing at his feet.
“That was quick,” I say, peeling off my wetsuit. Gus notices me and rushes over, starts licking the water dripping down my legs. I nudge him away with my foot.
Ford pauses in his task, watching me undress and then arching a brow at my skimpy bikini. Clearing his throat, he pries the lid off the container of sandwiches he made before we left and waits while I slip into a pair of jean shorts before offering me one. I take it, and he grunts, shrugging. “Just didn’t feel like working today.”
“Is that so?” I sink down onto the blanket he laid out, cross my legs, and take a bite. “Mmm, these are amazing. What’s the dressing? It tastes like…” I lick my lips, trying to decipher the flavor.
“It’s a special sauce. My mom’s secret recipe. So basically, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He takes a bite of his own sandwich and smirks, and I roll my eyes, which makes him laugh. “But seriously, I just figured why work when I could be spending this beautiful day with my gorgeous, sexy, amazing girlfriend.”
My insides swell so much at this that I’m surprised I don’t burst, bloody guts everywhere. I remain calm, however. Calm, cool, and collected. “Well,” I say, tearing off a piece of my sandwich, “I, for one, thoroughly support that idea.”
We spend the rest of the day in the water and lounging on the beach, drinking and eating and making out like we’re twenty instead of (well, in my case) nearing forty. The lake is cold, but the sun is hot, and when it starts to dip below the horizon, I coax Ford back to our blanket and tug off his shorts, taking him into my mouth and making him moan. By the time the stars make an appearance, we’re out of breath, exhausted but satisfied, and the sweat coating our bodies reflect their subtle shine. The temperature has dipped, but pressed skin to skin, we’re warm.
I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.
It’s so deserted up here, in this northern territory that’s so wild it’s like humanity doesn’t exist, has never existed. Though, remarkably, nothing about it is lonely. The isolation is soothing, comforting, and it’s as if something inside of me has been subdued. The urge to pursue, to rush, to devour and consume, consume, consume has been numbed, sedated entirely, and if I could spend the rest of my days here on this beach with Ford – and hell, even Gus – and never run the risk of seeing another soul, I would. In a goddamn heartbeat.
People, man. They’re so overrated.
My stomach pulls a little when I realize that this would also include Hollis. That by wishing away society, I would also be banishing any chance of reuniting with him. Granted, I know there’s really no possible way that Ford and I could stay here forever, alone in a bubble unpierced by the outside world. It was only a musing, a whimsical fantasy based on an amazing day and the promise of an even more amazing night.
But really, who of us doesn’t wish that, when away on vacation, we could stop time altogether, thus escaping the humdrum monotony of our daily lives? The few vacations that Nicholas and I have taken together have felt more like everyday life than not; he spent half of the day working and the other half thinking about work. Rarely was I allotted even an hour of his undivided attention, and asking him to turn off his phone or sign out of his laptop would have invited an argument. So, no. While traveling with my husband, I never once felt the unbridled sensation of complete escape.
And in all the years that Hollis and I were together, we could never afford to take a real, honest-to-goodness vacation. Every now and then, we’d take a road trip, driving a few hours to a neighboring town where we’d visit the local dive bar, eat too much greasy food and drink too much watered-down beer, and then drive back, buzzed and content.
Those times were fun, sure. But they were child’s play, the misadventures of a couple of teens who’d barely breached adulthood. And while I remember each trip, each jaunt, it’s hard to invoke the carefree feelings that went along with them.
But I’m feeling so much now. So much right n
ow, more than I’ve felt in years. It’s pain turned to numbness turned to…peace. And that void that’s been sitting inside of me for so long, containing nothing and everything at the same time, is slowly being consumed by it.
But the fact that I can remember Hollis, call him up at all right now, tells me that this thing with Ford is simply a crush and nothing more. That even though it may feel like I’m teetering on the brink of love, it’s just my deprived imagination running away with me.
I’m needy. Desperately needy after being ignored for so long.
And I need to watch that. Desperate people do, well, desperate things, and I can’t afford to fuck this up.
But I can afford to relax and enjoy myself.
Self-care, ladies. It’s important.
I kick my leg over his and nuzzle my cheek deeper into his chest, appreciating the way it rises and falls with each breath. Ford is life, and I want to suck as much of it from him as I can. Lifting my head, I reach up and nibble at his ear. But I can tell, in the delicate way he slants away from my lips, that he’s in a talking mood rather than a fucking mood.
I prefer the latter. But if I have to indulge one to get the other, I’ll do it.
The man is just that good.
And me? A fifteen-year dry spell has turned me into an addict. One taste of the good stuff and I can’t get enough.
I bite back a sigh and settle in for the long haul, reeling in my urges and preparing for quality time. Ford loves quality time, loves connecting. He’s the most curious man I’ve ever met, always wanting to know about me, more about me, everything about me. And it’s disconcerting, because I’ve bounced back and forth between truths and falsehoods, fibs and confessions so much that it’s hard keeping it all straight. With Ford, I’m the Becca Cabot that both was and never was, along with the Rebecca Cabot Crane I wish I could be.
Tonight, he’s asking me about my family, a topic that throws me off guard, and before I can fabricate something better, the truth slips out. “We’re not close.”
I feel a sting when I say this, a sharp pinch deep in my gut. It’s not regret. Nor is it sadness. But there’s always a feeling of, just, wrongness when I think of my family, of the living ones and the dead. And the missing one. Can’t forget about him.
“What about you?” I ask, turning the tables. If I can get him talking, firing question after question, I’m pretty sure I can steer us way from this topic.
I don’t like to revisit my past. It’s only recently that I even allowed myself to entertain memories of Hollis. But, of course, I hardly had a choice in that matter. His book practically screamed for my attention, the words pulling at me from somewhere deep beyond the flesh.
Ford tells me about his family, about his still-married mother and father who both have traditional jobs (she’s a teacher and he’s a mailman), and then his sister, who has Down Syndrome and who he adores more than life itself (so sweet I could vomit). His dad coached little league, and his mom was a troop leader during the two years he was in Boy Scouts, and oh-my-god his family is so cookie-cutter amazing I want to scream. I bet if I went to their house, I’d find a two-story traditional with a cozy kitchen and granite countertops, maybe an apple-fucking-pie cooling on the windowsill. And his parents would be standing there, arm in arm, smiling ear to ear, giving off a feeling of so much fucking security that even if Ford lost everything he owned he’d still be okay because his family would have his back, always have his back.
It’s so easy to be fucking carefree and daring and creative and devil-may-care when you have a place to go if everything falls apart.
When you’re not alone. Fucking alone.
Just listening to tales of Ford’s apple pie childhood has me tensing up, and it’s only when he calls me out on it that I realize my entire body is growing rigid with indignation. I’m edgy and envious, jealous and jaded, my own issues rising to the surface and clawing at the barrier that’s held them back for so long.
“I’m fine,” I assure him, though my voice is clipped.
But Ford sees through my act. “You’re hardly fine. I can feel how tense you are.” He rubs my shoulder, pressing his hand into the meat of my arm as if trying to work some of the stiffness out of my muscles.
The micro massage works, and the tightness slowly begins to fade, my body turning to butter as I melt back against him. He asks me again what’s wrong, and because I’m basically putty in his hands right now, my defenses softened to the point of uselessness, I tell him. “Family is sort of a trigger topic for me. I just…it’s been a long time since I’ve even thought about anyone in my family, much less talked about them.”
Ford squeezes me tighter. “Sorry, Becca. If I had known…”
“Don’t,” I say, stopping him. I don’t want pity, and I can see now how he might mistake my aversion to the subject as something it’s not, like maybe I was horribly abused and, as a result, am now tainted, broken. And since appearing as anything but strong, confident, and capable is out of the question, I drudge up my demons in order to set the record straight. “It’s not anything terrible. Not in the way you’re probably thinking, anyway.” I rush on through this next part, because even though it’s not, as I put it, terrible, per say, it’s still a harsh reminder of where I started, the sorry sad sack of shit parents I had, and the childhood I lost before I was even out of the first grade. “My mom was a timid woman, afraid of everything. My grandmother said she wasn’t always that way, that it started building when she was a teenager but didn’t spiral out of control until she had me. Nice, right? Apparently, my very existence caused her anxiety to triple overnight. Though my grandmother was a crackpot, too, so I always doubted anything that came out of her mouth. My dad, for his part, did everything for me back then. Again, this is all according to my grandmother. But I sort of believe her about that, because I have these, like, distant memories of him walking me to school and making me dinners. It was always macaroni and cheese, sometimes canned spaghetti or soup. But still, it was an effort.”
“Sounds like a good man.”
Oh, Ford. You’re so fucking clueless. Privileged and clueless.
“He was hardly a good man,” I say instead. “He walked out on us when I was six. Never heard from him again.”
Ford blows out a low breath, and with it a faint, “Shit.”
“Not that I can blame him. For wanting out of that situation, at least. My mom was a trainwreck. So needy, all the time. She could barely function by herself, and by the time she had my brother, she was hardly leaving her bedroom, much less taking care of me and my younger sister. All she did was sleep and smoke pot; she said it calmed her nerves. Never calmed them enough to make her functional, though. I guess it just got to be too much for my dad, having to do everything for three kids and a wife who never had the energy to lift a finger. I would’ve left, too.”
Ford’s lips brush the top of my head. “And what? He never called, never visited, never paid child support?”
I’m in it now, the story, my past, and the truth of who I am and where I came from is tumbling out, gushing like a geyser. “Nope. My mom never fought for child support. And I was barely out of the first grade, so I didn’t have a clue as to what child support even meant. Besides, it took…awhile…for me to realize he was gone. Like, permanently.” I clench my jaw, grind my teeth, loath to give any more information. But my inner child has the reins now, and after all these years of being locked away, she’s demanding to be heard. “I used to think he’d come back. That he was just gone, getting our new home ready. One without my mom, of course. Where I was just, you know, free. Free to be. No one constantly demanding, grabbing at me.”
Ford is quiet, but his hands roam my body, caressing, soothing, comforting.
“But obviously that didn’t happen. My grandmother helped us for a couple of years – financially, at least. She didn’t have much, but it was something. Though she died when I was nine, I think? By that time, I’d already figured out how to shop for groceries and mi
mic my mom’s signature so I could send out checks for utilities and…other stuff.” The skin on the back of my neck crawls when I remember the first month we didn’t have the money for rent; my mom snuck the checkbook out from under my mattress and spent what was supposed to go to bills on weed. The landlord, a sleazy overweight man in his fifties, threatened to throw us out, and when I begged him not to, told him we had nowhere to go, the fucker laughed and offered an alternative way to pay. Beyond desperate, I agreed, dropping to my knees and blowing him right there. It was the first time I’d ever done anything like that and had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But he didn’t care, moaning and grunting like I was the best he’d ever had. He came in my mouth without warning, something I didn’t even know could happen. When I got home, I spent the night in the bathroom, vomiting again and again, over and over, until there was nothing left in my stomach. Then, I dry-heaved.
I was fourteen.
Over the course of the next four years, I paid rent five times with my mouth.
I realize now that I should have turned him in. But back then, I was just a scared kid, terrified of what would happen if I did. If he was locked away, what would become of the tiny, rundown house we called home? What would become of us? And besides, shame does strange things to your psyche. It lowers your sense of worth, leads you down a dark path where you make all the wrong decisions for all the wrong reasons. What would people think? Regardless of my age, I was a willing participant. I’d opened my mouth and didn’t bite off his dick. I made him come, even swallowed it.
People judge. Despite the situation, they always judge. It’s an inevitable human trait: Our lips spew sweet sympathies while our minds draw cruel conclusions.
I was too attached to my self-image, even then. I did everything I could to not appear as white trash as I was. And letting the world know that I performed a sexual act in trade of rent? How much lower could you get?
Hollis is the only person I’ve ever admitted this to, and he never judged. Not once. Though, in their own way, his roots are just as dingy as mine.