by Sorbe, Lisa
From what I’ve heard of Ford’s rose-colored past, he’s never struggled through any hardship, never had to scramble and sacrifice just to survive. He’d judge, of that I have no doubt.
Sweet sympathies and cruel conclusions.
“So, anyway,” I say, doing my best to sound light and airy while inserting a note of finality into my tone, “my mom died when I was twenty. And I haven’t spoken to my brother and sister in years.”
Ford takes the hint, remains quiet as I take back my power, running my fingers over his chest and trailing them down, down, down. This time, he doesn’t lean away, but lets me have my way with him…as if, on some subconscious level, he knows exactly what I am and is giving me exactly what I need.
I’m standing in line at a local food truck that sells everything from tacos to hot dogs to fried Snickers bars, fielding texts from Ford and Nicholas when, suddenly, I find myself face-to-face with Hollis.
I didn’t recognize him from behind, was hardly paying attention to anything other than my phone. My thoughts were on Ford and my husband, briskly flipping between the two and lamenting over Nicholas’s message that he would be coming home in a week. It’s only for a few days, but as I don’t want to leave Duluth at all, trading our vacation home for our permanent one, it’s an inconvenience. I’ve been playing Ford’s girlfriend for over a month now, and I find this new role far more appealing than my old one, where I impersonate an unappreciated but dutiful housewife who drinks too much.
Lately, I’ve lost focus. Hollis has been slipping from my thoughts more and more, replaced instead by images of Ford – his mind, his body, his beautiful damn eyes. The man consumes all of my time. He’s become a distraction; the purpose he was supposed to serve has been filled. Yet here I am, still clinging to the rush of him, unable to let go. I’m now a well-rounded woman, sexually experienced with the confidence to hold a conversation and a rabid thirst for adventure. I’ve had sex in the wild, conquered Lake Superior’s tumultuous waves, and have even – gasp! – broken the law.
Which, coincidently enough, is what draws Hollis to me in the first place.
Gus is panting by my side when a shadow falls over my phone, causing me to look up.
At first, he’s blurry. Not blurry blurry, like I’m peering at him through a rain-washed window. But blurry in the way that someone is right before your brain catches up with your eyes and you realize that the person isn’t a stranger at all, but a person you know. Deeply and intimately.
“Hey, buddy.”
His voice carries his image into focus, and though it’s deepened with the years, I’d recognize it anywhere.
I snap my teeth together so quick they click. But the knee-jerk response successfully holds back the squeak of surprise that’s now curdling in my belly, squirming around like a fish. For a split second, I feel vulnerable, certain I’m about to be found out, like I’m doing something wrong and I shouldn’t be here, where he is. But then I remember the oversized sunglasses I’m wearing along with the baseball hat that I snagged from Ford’s closet before running out for coffee this morning and still haven’t taken off.
This getup is so cliché I’d laugh if I wasn’t so shocked.
Gus’s nose is quivering, his neck straining against the leash to get at Hollis’s hand, which is outstretched, fingers curled in and palm down.
“Is it all right if I pet him?”
My heart is in my throat, stifling my voice. So I just nod, waiting until he’s focused on the dog before reaching up and tugging the brim of the hat farther down my forehead.
“Such a good guy, huh? So well-behaved around all these killer smells, aren’t ya?”
Gus leans into Hollis’s hand, grumbling affectionately.
“You’ve got him trained well.”
Hesitant to speak, afraid my voice will give me away, I simply nod and smile.
“Yeah, my daughter really wants a dog,” he says, giving Gus one final scratch behind his ears. “But my wife is allergic.”
Is it just my imagination, or was there a hint of annoyance in his tone?
“That’s too bad,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “Every kid should grow up with an animal.”
Hollis straightens, tightening the grip on his takeout bag. The paper crackles like arthritic cartilage. He slides his other hand into his pocket, making a fist as he does. “Tell me about it. But my wife…” He stops abruptly, like he’s biting his tongue. His attention is still on Gus, so I can study him freely, up close, in a way I haven’t been able to in fifteen years.
There’s a sprinkle of freckles over his nose; I’d forgotten that. How had I forgotten that?
He flicks his eyes my way and blushes, offering a self-deprecating smile as he does. What he was about to say is giving him guilt; it’s right there, etched on his face. A muscle ticks in his jaw, and he looks away, out over the crowd behind us.
I open my mouth and shut it, bite down on my lip to keep in the words I long to speak. Now’s not the time.
“Next!”
A portly man leans out the window of the food truck, eyes on me and obviously annoyed I haven’t stepped up to put in my order. And I get it; the line behind me is snaking halfway down the block. It’s a busy day, it’s hotter than a mutha, and this guy is stuck in a tin can on wheels that’s roasting under the midday sun.
“You just gonna stand there all day, lady? I said next!”
Shitty jobs lead to shitty attitudes.
Hollis grimaces. “Looks like I got you in trouble. Sorry about that.”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, and then offer him a slight nod before moving forward, putting in an order for a jalapeno burger with cheese fries, two tacos, and a root beer float. Studying the menu behind the counter while I wait for my food, I read each item, forcing my attention elsewhere so I don’t look back. I mean, I know Hollis isn’t still standing there, waiting for me, wanting to talk more about dogs or anything like that.
But a part of me wishes that he was.
A part of me wishes I could take off the sunglasses and hat and show him exactly who I am.
I want to see his eyes light up when he realizes that his book reached me, that I read his words and sussed out the meaning between the lines.
And now, after talking with him, I can see just how much he needs my help. He’s stuck in a marriage from which he feels there’s no escape. Or, perhaps more accurately, there’s nothing to escape to.
I can relate.
The love for his daughter is evident. And it’s obvious now why he remains with his wife, with Marla, an overbearing bitch who won’t even let him get a dog.
Hollis may love me, may even want to leave his wife and be with me. But the fact of the matter is, he won’t. Not as long as the kid is happy. Not as long as Marla is a good and capable mother.
But what if the key to getting Hollis back isn’t, as I first thought, getting back in his good graces? I’m starting to realize that I could be the most desirable woman on the planet, and that still wouldn’t enough to lure him away from his family. He’s always going to put the kid’s happiness first.
The kid, the kid, the goddamn kid.
It’s clear what I have to do. As clear as a blue sky on a fucking cloudless day.
I need to break Marla. Make her an unfit mother. I need to drive her so far off the rails that Hollis has no other choice but to take the kid and leave.
I shove the takeout sack into my oversized tote bag, slurp a long sip from my root beer float, and start back for Ford’s place with a new spring in my step. Gus trots happily beside me; surprisingly enough, he doesn’t seem to be missing his old life.
Realizing how cute he is, I bend down and pat his head, tell him he’s a good dog and promise him loads of treats when we get home. It’s because of him that I have this new insight, that the zest for my initial plan has been rejuvenated. I’m back on track, better than ever.
Despite Marla. Despite the kid.
Despite Ford and his gorgeous eyes
.
Gus licks my hand, and I feel loved, so damn loved, that my fucking heart sings.
So animals, right? They’re really not so bad. Maybe I’ll keep him.
After all, Hollis did say his daughter wants a dog.
The only way out, is through.
But first, I need to get in.
Into the belly of the beast.
With this thought, I snort back a laugh. Which is stupid, because here I am at laughing yoga, and laughing is the one thing I’m supposed to be doing.
So I tilt my head back and let it rip.
I’m still high from seeing Hollis yesterday, from hearing his voice and learning of the frustration he holds for his wife. This is welcome knowledge. It’s pure power and motivation. And I’m not letting anything distract me. Okay, so I did let Ford fuck me last night. But I closed my eyes and pretended it was Hollis the entire time.
How’s that for devotion?
The music crooning from Marla’s boom box today is of a mixed bag. Already I’ve heard songs from New Kids on the Block and Lady Gaga. Right now, it’s The Black Eyed Peas, and the dozen or so dancing bodies around me are eating it up.
This is lame.
But I think of Hollis. I think of Hollis and remember why I’m doing this and wiggle my ass, acting just as ridiculous as the rest of these clowns.
“Lion call!” Marla hollers over the crowd, and we all roar like a bunch of wounded jungle animals.
The kid bounces by me, carrying a new stuffed animal (a lion, if you can believe it). She looks at me and brandishes make-believe claws. “Rawr, rawr!”
She has Hollis’s eyes, Hollis’s dark hair. But her skin is fair like her mother’s, and she has this little heart-shaped face with round cheeks that I could just pinch. Her bangs are too long and hang in her eyes, but the rest of her hair is pulled out of the way in a high ponytail.
I make a scary face and roar, pretending to swipe at her with claws of my own.
She laughs – like a kid this time, and not a lion.
Apparently, I’m not as frightening as I thought.
I watch her bound away, and when I look back up, Marla is smiling in my direction. She nods and waves, and I return the gesture, because today I’m a laughing hippie, approachable and friendly and ready to bond.
The rest of the class is idiotic, and by the time it’s done, I’m sweating like a pig. Who would have thought laughing (fake laughing) could be such a workout?
I swipe the back of my arm across my forehead and listen as Marla reminds us to grab some cookies and sugar-free lemonade before we leave. She claps her hands together and beams. “Skye used carrot pulp for the cookies, so they should be delicious!”
Gag.
I ignore the group gathering around the picnic table and head instead for my tote bag, thinking only of the sugar-laden lemonade cooling in my water bottle. I unscrew the lid and am just about to take a big swig when I see Marla approaching. She gives a shy little wave and then, when she sees she has my attention, her face splits into a wide grin.
I cap my bottle and mirror her expression.
“Just checking in to see how our newbie enjoyed the class.” She laughs, the same laugh that I heard at the coffee shop all those weeks ago. The same laugh that haunts my dreams, not to mention some of my waking hours.
Like nails on a chalkboard.
It’s all I can do not to cringe. “I did.” My voice sounds too monotone, too mechanical, so I bump it up a notch. “It was so much fun.”
God. I still sound like a robot.
But Marla either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “That’s so good to hear. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Marla, by the way. Marla Thatcher.”
Her hand is sweaty, and when I take it, I try not to think about what she does with it when she’s in bed with Hollis. “Bec…” Shit.
Marla tilts her head, her gaze questioning.
Realizing that I can hardly give her my real name, yet also realizing that I pretty much just did, I quickly rush on. “Uh, Becky. I mean, Rebecca Beckett. But everyone calls me Becky.”
Oh, for the love of…
“My parents obviously had a sense of humor.” I force a laugh (as if I haven’t done enough of that already) and shrug like an idiot.
“Becky Beckett,” Marla parrots. She purses her lips. “Sounds like a superhero name.”
“Or a supervillain.” I snort, laughing at my own joke. Because, you know, it’s sort of the truth.
Marla doesn’t get it.
Shaking my head, I sigh. “Sorry, it’s been a long week. Hence, you know, the reason I’m here.”
Marla nods. “Tell me about it.”
A few seconds pass awkwardly before she motions toward the rest of the group, the majority of which are clustered around the picnic table bearing the healthy, sugarless, flavorless treats. “Are you staying for the after party?” She says after party like it’s a joke, making a face as she does.
I scrunch my nose. “Nah. I’m not really into…what did you say they were? Carrot pulp cookies?”
“Don’t forget the lemonade.” She smirks. “It’s sugar-fucking-free.”
I raise my brows, and Marla slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter. As if she hasn’t been, you know, laughing like a damn hyena for the last hour. Now she feels the need to stifle it.
“Sorry. But yeah, I totally understand. I can’t eat that shit, either.” She gives a fake shiver, and I laugh – a real one this time.
Marla, Marla. Who are you?
“Anyway,” she continues, blushing. “I hope the class helped. Lifted your spirits, at least.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Laughing yoga did absolutely nothing for me. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe…
Marla notices my pause, calls me out on it. “It didn’t do shit, did it?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Honestly? No. Not really. I mean, it was fun and everything,” I lie, not wanting to offend her. After all, I need her to like me, to trust me, so I can eventually screw her over. “It’s just that…”
“A stiff drink would’ve worked ten times better, yeah?” She nods in agreement, as if she shares my preference for liquor over laughter, too.
Before I can respond, the kid gallops over, clutching a cookie that looks like a log from Gus’s morning pile of shit. She barrels into Marla, wrapping an arm around her leg, and proceeds to shove the treat in her mouth.
She’s sweaty and sticky and gross.
And maybe just a little bit cute.
I smile down at her, and she grins back shyly before pressing her face into her mother’s thigh.
“And this bug,” Marla says, reaching down to ruffle the kid’s hair, “is my daughter, Belle.”
Belle. Ten to one she named the kid after the Disney cartoon.
“That’s a beautiful name,” I say, and try to sound like I mean it.
The kid slides her eyes my way, her cheek still pressed against her mother’s leg. “It’s from my favorite movie,” she loud whispers.
I scrunch my brow, pretending to think. “Let me guess. Is it…Beauty and the Beast?”
The kid nods happily, and I chuckle.
Thought so.
Real original, Marla.
“Well, Becky. I hope you come back again. Or,” she stops suddenly, presses her lips together, and regards me almost as shyly as her daughter. “If you ever want something a little stronger than laughter…” She shrugs and gives me a hopeful look.
Jesus Christ. It’s like taking candy from a baby.
I can’t even begin to contain my giddiness. My smile is absolutely Cheshire. “How about now?”
Marla is desperate for a friend.
We’re sitting in the bar that I frequent with Ford, still clad in yoga wear, with a pitcher of beer between us. Marla is an eager beaver, her flushed face growing redder with each sip. “God,” she breathes. “I needed this. I haven’t been out since…since…well, since before Belle was born.”<
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“Wow,” I say, and mean it. Being cooped up with a kid all day, all night…all the damn time…with no break? I suppress a shudder. “And you said she’s almost four? That’s a long time.”
“Tell me about it. When she was born, we couldn’t afford a sitter. And my husband…” She shrugs. “Anyway, the only people I really know up here are from work, and they’re hardly the type to let loose with.”
“You’re not from Duluth?”
“Nope.” Her fingers trail along the side of her glass, licking up condensation. She’s nearing the end of her third beer already, and we haven’t even been here a full thirty minutes. “And to be honest, I’m not so sure I like it here. It’s so different from home. Or what used to be home. Although, I guess this is home now.”
Although I have a high tolerance, I’m only on my second glass, and it’s still more than half full. I need my wits about me as I wade into these murky waters.s
Something tells me that, without any help from me, Marla is already about to slip off her rocker.
Sucks for her.
Super-duper convenient for me.
“Where are you from?” I’m curious to know more about her. Now that we’ve talked, I can hear a slight twang in her voice. It’s subtle, as if smoothed away by years of moving around. But if I had to guess, I’d stake her roots somewhere in the south.
“Texas,” she confirms. “Austin, specifically. We moved up to Minnesota when I was fifteen.”
“Culture shock, I bet. At least as far as the weather’s concerned.”
Marla downs the rest of her drink and grimaces. “Yeah, for sure. I hate, fucking hate, winter.”
Interesting. Winter just happens to be Hollis’s favorite time of year. The man loves everything about it: the snow, the cold, the ice and the dark skies and the wild wind.
“You definitely need a certain mindset to survive the winters up here, that’s for sure.”
And, Marla? You don’t have it.
I grab the pitcher and refill her glass. Already her eyes wear a slight glaze, their lids starting to droop.