by Sorbe, Lisa
“I missed you, too,” I say, because it’s true. As much as I don’t want it to be.
We’re quiet after that, but every now and then, I’ll feel his hand move – brushing over my hip, trailing along my arm, sliding my hair back from my shoulder. He presses his lips to my ear, my neck, the back of my head. And while none of this is sexual, it’s like he can’t stop touching me, can’t stop confirming that I’m really here, lying next to him. After being apart for two weeks, he can’t seem to get close enough.
“Closer,” I murmur, and he laughs, crushing me against him.
“How’s that?” he teases.
I giggle. But when I speak, there’s a quiver in my voice. “Don’t let go.”
Ford’s breath ruffles my hair. “Never, Becca. Never.”
• • •
At first, I just thought I heard him wrong.
But now, after he’s said it again, I’m certain he’s joking.
“Go to Patagonia with you? For a whole month?”
It’s late morning, and we’re sitting in the kitchen, easing into the day with a hot breakfast and even hotter coffee, sporting nothing but underwear and gnarly bedhead.
Ford shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth and shrugs. “Why not? The family you’re sitting for will be back by then, right? And you said you don’t have anything else lined up after that, so the timing is perfect. Food and lodging are already taken care of. Though,” he shoots me an adorable grin, “in fair warning, it will be a bit rustic. The locations we’re shooting in are pretty remote. But October, man. It’s the perfect time of year to go.”
I just stare at him, at a loss for words.
In all the years we’ve been together, Nicholas has never once asked me to come along on one of his business trips.
Stalling, I reach up and fiddle with the necklace he brought me back from Iceland – a delicate silver chain bearing a sterling rune pendant that Ford said means strength. According to lore, it’s supposed to help the wearer face challenges in life.
It’s simple but beautiful, and nowhere near as expensive or random as something Nicholas would have had his assistant buy for me.
I fucking love it.
Ford mistakes my silence for apprehension. “I’ll take care of the plane ticket, if that’s what you’re worried about. And any expenses that come up.” He slides his plate away and reaches across the table, taking my hand. “I just want you with me.”
“I…” My mind is racing, scrambling to come up with an excuse as to why I can’t go, because there’s absolutely no way that I can spend an entire month that far away from home. I mean, driving two hours between Minneapolis and Duluth is one thing. But a six thousand mile plane trip to another freaking country? As unobservant as Nicholas is, surely he’ll notice that. My husband may have the emotional capacity of a robot, but he’s not stupid.
Plus, there’s Hollis.
It’s the end of July now. Hell, by October, I was hoping to be with Hollis. Or at the very least, see Marla thoroughly kicked to the curb.
I can’t go. For so many reasons, I can’t go.
As much as I may want to.
Because yes, there’s something swimming through me – sadness? anxiety? – at the thought of being left behind while Ford goes on his exciting Patagonian adventure. It sounds thrilling and wild, and it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity that I’ll never ever have again. And what if…what if he meets someone while he’s there? Perhaps a raven-haired beauty with big tits and curvy hips and full lips who takes a liking to Hollis – I mean Ford, who takes a liking to Ford – and slips into his tent one night with the excuse that she only wants to stay warm, but that’s a lie, we all know that’s a lie, because she’s just a slut who wants to fuck my boyfriend…
A version of Ford’s life without me in it flashes through my mind’s eye so fast it’s like a download, some weird type of remote viewing experience where I see everything in such specific, minute detail it’s like I’m there. Only I’m not, I’m not. No, he’s with other women– nameless, faceless women – and doting on them, giving them his undivided attention.
And me? I’m just a blip in his past. A flicker in his memory.
“Becca?”
My vision clears, and when it does, I see Ford, his lips turned down and brow furrowed in confusion. Or maybe…worry?
I quickly check myself. Clearing my throat, I force a smile. “Sorry. Just lost in thought.”
I can’t not go. Fuck, I can’t not go.
“Look,” he says. “I know I’m springing this on you out of the blue. We’ve barely been together for two months. But I just feel…” He pauses, takes a breath, and my heart flutters a mad beat against my sternum while I wait for him to finish. “I just feel like it’s right, you know? Like we’re right. You and me. Us.”
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly thick.
Ford tugs on my hand, pulling me out of my chair and onto his lap. Kissing my nose, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and leans his forehead against mine. “Just think about it,” he says. “For me.”
“Fine.” I laugh, though thoughts of him with other women are still fresh in my mind. But they’re fading, they’re fading. Still, I kiss him, feeling an irrational need to mark my territory. “I’ll think about it. For you.”
Hollis gave me a ring once.
It wasn’t an official engagement ring or anything like that. We were still in high school and too young for that shit. As much as we loved each other, marriage wasn’t a tie we wanted so early on in our lives. We both had messed up parents, and though his came from money and mine didn’t, they warped our views of the institution just the same.
The ring was white gold with a diamond setting that encircled a .57 carat ruby. It was antique and classy, almost regal looking, and fit my finger perfectly (just another sign that we were meant to be). I adored that ring, partly because it was beautiful but mostly because Hollis stole it from his cranky, rich bitch grandmother just so he could give it to me. It was a testimony to how much he prized me over his family, chose me over their wealth and upturned noses and small minds. They hated that he dated trash like me, even though the only thing that made me trash was the fact that that my family was poor while they were rich.
Hollis gave up money for me, gave up security for me.
And how did I repay him?
I gave him up for money. I tossed aside what we had for security.
As for the ring, I hocked it when we were twenty. Sold it for less than half of what it was worth, just so we could make rent. Hollis was furious, of course. Though, at the time, I didn’t care. I mean, what was I supposed to do? Blow this landlord, too? Get a second job when he had none? His parents had stopped helping by that time, disgusted not only that he chose to get a degree in something as frivolous as creative writing, but that he was still associating with me. It didn’t matter that I managed to score a 4.0 and graduate college with honors – all while working a job and taking care of Hollis (who only graduated with a 3.2). I was still white trash Becca Cabot, not good enough for their only son.
But that was a long time ago. I heard his father passed away a few years back, and I have no idea if Hollis made amends with the rest of his family after we parted ways. I always found it maddening, their snobbery, and wondered how they could condemn my family when their own closets were positively bursting with skeletons.
As far as the ring goes, I do feel bad about that. And I look for it, every now and then. When I pass by a pawn shop – whether here or in the Cities – I always nip in, check out the jewelry section. Back then, I was desperate for cash; there was never enough coming in to account for what had to go out. Now, however, I’m swimming in it. I’m a woman of wealth, and I could buy that fucking ring back ten times over if I wanted. If, that is, I ever find the damn thing.
Not that I expect to.
Still, when I come across a greasy looking shop one afternoon while out with Marla, I snag her elbow and, ignoring her qu
estioning look, drag her inside. And since the kid is attached to her other hand, she follows.
The kid, the kid, the goddamn kid is always with us. This is our third lunch date, and Marla refuses to leave her behind, always using Hollis’s work schedule as an excuse. But that’s piss poor, because from what I can tell, Hollis adores his daughter. Marla’s just one of those control-freak mothers who refuses to let anyone else watch her child – even her own fucking husband.
Not to mention, she wears the kid like a damn accessory. I mean, it always looks obnoxious, wearing princess costumes instead of actual clothes. We’re a spectacle wherever we go; the kid always bouncing around our legs with her gaudy fairy wand in one hand and her stuffed lion in the other. People, for the most part, are polite, smiling and patting her head or even squatting down to let her “bless” them (barf). But they’re just putting up with Marla’s shitty mothering skills. Because, let’s face it, not everyone is a fan of sticky brats. Sometimes, kids need to be left at home.
Like now. The kid is galloping through the small shop, her gummy fingers reaching out to grab at this, pull at that. Marla follows, and every now and then I hear her exhausted voice, “No, Belle. Put that down. No, leave it be. Belle, I said no.”
I bend over the ring case and roll my eyes. It sounds like she’s talking to a dog.
The man working behind the counter looks up from the hunting magazine he’s reading, his eyes following the pair around the store. He’s Paul Bunyan big, with a red beard and a plaid flannel shirt that strains against his shoulders. He narrows his brows, looking irritated, though something tells me that’s just his normal appearance. When he casts his gaze my way, I give my head a little shake and shrug as if to say fucking kids, am I right?
Returning my attention back to the display, I push the button and scroll through row after row of crap, none of it worth the asking price.
“So what are we doing in here?” Marla appears by my side, her voice a whisper, like we’re in a library or a church or something. The kid is in her arms, squirming, but finally controlled.
I don’t lift my eyes from the case. “Just checking for something. A family heirloom that was,” I blow out a breath, “lost. Years ago.”
“Like a ring?”
Oh, my God, Marla. Yes, a fucking ring! What the hell do you think I’m looking at rings for, you idiot?
I’m not religious in any way, shape, or form. But right now, I could use a little divine intervention. God, grant me patience…
My snarky reply is on the edge of my tongue, which is getting harder and harder to hold around her. But thankfully, I’m saved when Paul Bunyan lumbers over, his shadow announcing his presence before his voice.
“Anything I can help you ladies find?”
He sounds bored, like helping us is the very last thing he wants to do, and I don’t blame him one bit. If I worked in this shithole, I’d be hella depressed, too. “I’m looking for a ruby ring. Silver gold, .57 carat.”
The guy crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Nothing in there that fits that description, I can tell you that much.”
I peer up at him before straightening and matching his stance. He’s younger than I initially thought; the beard and surly look pack on a good decade or two to his appearance. “Have you seen anything like that come through here?”
His expression remains blank. “Nope.”
Shit.
Sighing, I pluck my necklace from where it’s dipped into my cleavage and finger the charm, a subconscious tick I’ve taken on since receiving it from Ford last week. Now more than ever, I’d love to find that ring. How wonderful would it be to present it to Hollis after we reconnected? He’d be so grateful, so appreciative. First, I arrive out of the blue and save him from his horrid marriage. Then I reunite him with a family heirloom that was thought to be lost forever.
Hocking the ring is the only thing I’ve ever done that’s made him truly angry. Even leaving him for Nicholas didn’t bring out rage, not in the way I expected. He was a broken man, sure. Hurt beyond repair, his voice cracked with anguish rather than anger when he begged me to stay.
I must look completely pitiful, because Paulie’s tough expression softens. “If you want to give me your number, I can check with the guy who owns the place. See if he knows of anything that fits that description.”
I nod, taking what I can get, and flash him grateful smile while scribbling my phone number down on the business card he hands me. I don’t’ have a lot of hope, but you never know.
After we leave, Marla peppers me with questions about the ring. I lie, of course. Even if I told her the truth and changed Hollis’s name to, say, Barney, there’s always the chance she could go home and repeat what I say. And even if Hollis didn’t make the connection right away, it would certainly get him thinking. And I can’t have him remembering any of our bad times. Not before I can remind him of all the good. So I tell her that my grandmother gave it to me when I turned sixteen, and that my brother stole it out of my jewelry box a few years later and pawned it for drug money.
“Wow,” she breathes when I’ve finished. “That’s terrible.”
We’ve made it to the diner we’ve taken to frequenting for lunch, and Marla’s expression remains troubled as she blows on her coffee. Next to her on the booth, the kid spills her orange juice and shoves her stuffed lion’s nose in it, encouraging him to drink.
I press three sugar packets together, rip them open, and shake them over my own mug. “Family, right? What do you do?”
Marla takes a sip from her drink and shakes her head. “Fu—” She grimaces, looking down at the kid, who is now staring up at her with wide, doe-like eyes. “Shoot,” she amends. “I can’t even imagine my brother doing something like that.”
“Lucky you,” I huff, the words spilling out before I can bite them back.
But instead of being offended, Marla apologizes. “Oh, my God. Becky, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any offense…”
I hold up my hand, successfully stopping her annoying prattle. “It’s fine, really. And I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Family is just a tough subject for me. I’m sorry if I got…snippy.” When she looks unconvinced, I smile. Smile so fucking wide my cheeks hurt. “So, I take it you’re close with your family, then?”
She nibbles her lip, as if deciding whether to answer or not, and then nods before launching into vivid detail about how perfect, adoring, helpful, loving, (insert admirable quality here) every single fucking person in her family is. She has one brother and two sister who are just, like, her best friends, though unfortunately she doesn’t get to see them as much as she’d like because they moved back to Texas a few years ago and she’s still way up here, in northern Minnesota.
We’re interrupted briefly by the arrival of our food, and after the waitress leaves, I shake my head and sigh.
Marla looks up from her club sandwich and frowns. “Something wrong with your burger?”
I pretend to be confused by her question. “What? Oh, no. No, it’s fine. I just…” Pushing some fries around on my plate, I wait a few seconds before continuing. “Actually, it’s not my place. I just need to keep my big mouth shut.”
I take a bite of my burger, filling my trap, and wait for her to take the bait.
Wait for it…
“Not your place to say what?”
I shoot her a sad smile. “It’s just that you seem so unhappy here. And now I know why. I mean, your family…your, like, best friends…are all together, in a state that you adore, and you’re stuck all the way up here alone, suffering through horrid winter after horrid winter, just so your husband can be happy.” Reaching for the ketchup bottle, I squirt some on my plate. “I just don’t get it.”
“Well, he’s my husband. I want him to be happy.”
“And you’re his wife,” I say, putting a twist on her words. “Shouldn’t he want you to be happy?”
Marla looks down at her plate, and though she doesn’t answer, there’s an air of
embarrassment in the slump of her shoulders, the way she won’t meet my gaze.
“You deserve to be happy too, Marla.” I pace my words, keeping my voice as gentle as I can. “I mean, what’s keeping him here? He’s a writer, so he can basically work from anywhere, right?”
She nods. And then, rather than look at me, she nudges the kid’s plate, encouraging her to eat.
“Then, what? Oh, wait.” I pause, as if letting an a-ha moment sink in. “He has family here. Is that right? And they’re close?”
Marla pushes a fry through some ranch dressing. “Yeah. Well, not here; they live in some small town about an hour west of here. And Hollis is extremely close with them. Especially his mother.”
I mask my shock. This bit of news is…interesting.
She looks up, and though she’s smiling, there’s a hint of discomfort in her grin. “Besides, marriage is all about compromise, right?”
“So he gets to stay in the state he loves while keeping his family within arm’s reach. And you,” I point a fry at her, “get to endure the godawful cold while living in a state that you hate – all while being separated from your family. Seems fair to me.” I huff and pop the fry into my mouth. “But what do I know?”
I return my attention to my meal, pretending to believe her answer, like the literal definition of compromise has changed or something, and now it means that one party has to give up everything while the other loses nothing.
Marla, Marla. You’re so blind.
If Hollis really loved her, truly loved her, he’d move. He wouldn’t let her suffer, let her turn into the miserable, sad sack of shit that’s sitting here now, tears brimming her eyes.
Because you want the person that you’re with to be happy. For fuck sake, it’s half the reason I’m working so hard to get Hollis back. Sure, my motives may seem selfish. And they are, they are. But not entirely. Because I’m answering his call, the call he placed in his book, the one he directed at me. It was a silent plea for help, one last ditch effort to reach out, to reconnect. And it had to be done that way, like this, under the radar from his nosy, annoying, pathetic martyr of a wife.