Beautiful Savage

by Sorbe, Lisa

  Don’t be a martyr, Marla. If you truly want to give your husband what he wants, I’m sitting right here. In front of you.

  But now she’s crying, like full on tears, and the kid is pushing up on her seat, concern etched on her little brow. “Momma? Why are you crying?”

  Shit. I wanted to bring out her fire, not turn her into this simpering mess. Though, let’s face it, I was probably being too optimistic.

  This is Marla we’re talking about.

  “Hey.” I push my plate aside and reach for her hand, which is greasy from her fries. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any offense,” I say, repeating the apology she gave me just moments ago.

  The waitress approaches, and I shoo her away with my free hand.

  “Don’t be sorry. I know how it must look.” Marla takes a big, shuddering breath and wipes her tears. Then, her smile strained, she urges the kid back in her seat. “Momma’s fine, Belle. Okay?”

  The kid plops down in a flurry of tulle and proceeds to shove a chicken nugget into her mouth.

  Marla presses the tips of her fingers to the corners of her eyes one more time, as if by doing so she’s closing a floodgate, and laughs like I just told a joke. “There are extenuating circumstances around Hollis and his family. They haven’t always had the best relationship, I guess you could say. They only reconnected a few years ago. Right after Belle was born, in fact.”

  That itchy, twitchy feeling is back again.

  “Oh?” I scratch at my elbow, and then my shoulder, but none of it helps because the elusive sensation keeps moving, shifting. Tucking my fingers into a fist, I cross my arms and prop them on the table.

  “Yeah. They were estranged for, God, years.” She waves her hand. “Something about a girl he was living with who was, like, a bad influence or something. I don’t know all the details. Hollis doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  On the outside, I’m calm.

  But inside? My nerves jerk and spasm as if I’ve been electrocuted.

  Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Marla continues. “Apparently she was a real piece of work. You know,” she glances sideways at the kid and cups her hand alongside her mouth, “a psycho B-I-T-C-H.”

  My vision narrows to a pinprick, and I forget how to breathe.

  The sounds of the restaurant are gone. Marla is suddenly a silent actress; her lips are moving, but her voice is drowned out by the ocean in my head. Wave after wave, crashing against my skull. Beating, battering, raging…

  I don’t know how I get through the rest of the meal. To be honest, I don’t have much memory of it. The next thing I know, we’re standing in front of Marla and Hollis’s building, and she’s inviting me up. “…had Hollis sign it and everything.”

  His name is like a siren’s call, pulling me back from the wild, wild sea.

  Marla waves to the doorman, and he nods back, holding the door open as we step inside. I meet his gaze when we pass, and he tips his hat, his eyes twinkling beneath the brim.

  My legs are moving on their own accord, like they’re no longer under the control of my mind, and – without thought or consequence – they’re going to take me wherever the hell they please. They follow Marla into the elevator where I watch her punch the button for the fifth floor. It’s like I’m here but not here, present but viewing everything from somewhere outside of myself, engaged yet disconnected at the same time.

  But when the thing starts to move, I’m snapped back into my body.

  Holy, shit! What the hell am I doing?

  I look around in a panic, reaching for the handle on the wall, and Marla is suddenly concerned, asking if I have a fear of elevators.

  I don’t answer, just close my eyes and press my lips together to avoid saying something I shouldn’t.

  Somewhere to my left, the kid laughs and jumps up and down.

  Up and down, up and down.

  Thump-thump-thump.

  I wince with every jump. “It’s just…I think I’m getting a migraine. Weird, but it just came out of the blue. I should probably go. Usually the only things that work are chugging water and then crashing for a few hours. I haven’t had one in a while. Maybe it was the cheese on the burger. Dairy sometimes brings them on and…” I’m rambling, but nerves prevent me from stopping.

  Marla notices my discomfort and stills the kid, and all the while the elevator is shooting me closer and closer to their apartment. To Hollis.

  But Marla the Martyr won’t have it. Because God only knows what’ll happen if she doesn’t have someone to fuss over. If she doesn’t have someone else’s needs to put before her own. “Hollis gets migraines every now and then. You can have one of his pain pills and then lay down in the guest bedroom. Well, it’s Hollis’s office, but there’s a couch, so…”

  “No!” I practically shriek. “I, um…I don’t want to put your husband out.”

  The elevator dings, and without looking back, Marla steps out. “Don’t worry about it.”

  But that’s the thing Marla. I can’t not worry about it.

  I’m still in the elevator, hands pushed against the doors to keep them from closing, a firm no on the tip of my tongue, when Marla turns around and smiles. “Hollis is in New York, meeting with his editor. He won’t even know you’re here.”

  Her passion was feral; beautiful and untamed, she stirred in him his darkest demons.

  — November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher

  I’m sitting at Hollis’s desk, enjoying the comfort of his ugly ergonomic chair, when I get a text from Nicholas, telling me that the project he’s working on is nearing completion and he’ll be home in two weeks.

  Which means I need to step up my game.

  I have two weeks left to break up this marriage before I have to go back to Minneapolis indefinitely.

  And…that’s not enough time.

  I ignore Nicholas’s text; we’re not the sort of couple who rushes to answer each other’s messages.

  Leaning forward, I continue browsing the files on Hollis’s computer (the man still uses the same password he did when we were together: 1.21Gigawatts) and I get a warm feeling in my stomach when I remember how Back to the Future was our make out movie of choice. Of course, the fact that he still uses that password is just another sign that he loves me. That we’re meant to be.

  Psycho B-I-T-C-H, my ass.

  In my opinion, Marla’s the psycho bit—

  Holy shit.

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  I’m looking at a picture of myself.

  I’m looking at a picture of myself…on Hollis’s computer.

  • • •

  I didn’t take much from our apartment when I left.

  Nicholas knew of my plan to leave Hollis. Hell, he helped me hatch it. And knowing I had no place to go following the destruction of that relationship, he offered me the spare bedroom in his condo, a property that belonged to his father’s firm. It already had everything I would need, and I had no desire to tote along memories of the past into my new life.

  And that included photographs.

  The one I’m staring at now was taken the summer before college. In it, I’m laying back on a beach towel, squinting up at the camera, my mouth frozen open in mid-laugh. Water droplets glisten on my neck, my chest, and wet curls stick to my cheeks, my forehead. The sun has turned everything golden, and my skin is smooth and wrinkle-free and holy fuck I look young.

  And…happy. I look happy.

  But how could I not have been, with high school behind me and the future so close I could taste it? Hollis and I lived in a bubble back then, a tiny world of our own creation, where other people didn’t exist, where time was irrelevant. We were hope and hunger, expectant and arrogant. We didn’t just dream, we dared.

  My finger trembles as I click the mouse, and suddenly I’m looking at another picture of myself. It was taken at the same location – a lake just outside of our crackerjack hometown – and this time Hollis is by my side, pulling me close in a one-armed embrace. It’s
a gritty selfie, shot with one of the disposable cameras Hollis had taken to carrying around that summer. I remember the way he wanted to document everything, every moment of what he considered our before. Because he was certain, so certain, that our after was going to be everything we’d ever dreamed of.

  You’ll want to remember this, Becca, I remember him saying towards the end of that summer, when I complained about always having a camera in my face. Someday you’ll look back and be glad I took these.

  And he was right.

  I scroll through frame after frame, eating them up, marveling at our optimism, the pure unbridled freedom we exuded. We were always touching, always kissing, always drinking and fucking. In one, we’re skinny dipping in the lake. The next, we’re wrapped up together on a cot in the guest house on the Thatcher property. Every shot is either a couple selfie or a picture of me alone, sometimes looking at the camera, but more often staring wistfully into the distance. There are none of Hollis by himself, as if even back then he knew he could never really exist without me.

  As for me? I’ve never looked so peaceful. So content.

  Though I’m surprised to see myself this way, I shouldn’t be. That summer contained the absolute best days of my life; nothing since has even compared.

  Well, maybe these past few weeks with Ford…

  No.

  I push that thought quickly out of my mind, though it proves impossible to banish entirely. It just relocates, this weighted sense of guilt, and makes its home in my stomach, where it lingers like a bad meal.

  The next hour passes in a blur of images, all of them reflecting various points and time in our relationship. Junior homecoming to high school prom to college graduation, with a mixture of less significant memories peppered in between. When I get to the last one – a picture of me doing the dishes in our old apartment, the lighting dim and my forehead creased in concentration as I scrub – I’m desperate to copy or print them, maybe email them to myself so that I can look at them any time I please.

  These photos are life, proof that I exist.

  Chills creep spider-quick up my spine; suddenly, it feels like time is running out, that Marla could walk in at any moment and find me here, abusing her husband’s privacy.

  Of course, it would only appear that way. Because what’s on this computer is just as much mine as it is hers, and I have every right to do whatever I want with it. Probably more of a right. Because aside for the kid (the kid, the kid, the goddamn kid), Hollis has more pictures of me on here than his wife.

  I checked, did the math. And I win by a landslide.

  I wonder…I wonder if he masturbates to them? Pulls up an image of my face and imagines being with me, remembering the way I feel, the way I used to tighten around him when I came…

  Hollis could never get enough of me. And if these pictures are any indication, he still can’t.

  It only takes a few moments of rifling through his desk to find an empty thumb drive. Quickly hooking it up to the computer, I copy the file marked “Back to the Future” (which is deceitfully hidden under several other files marked “Electronics” and “Garmin GPS Instructions” then “Boundary Waters Permit”), and then slip the tiny drive right in my pocket.

  Obviously, I had to do a lot of digging to find these.

  After turning the computer off, I swivel around in his chair, taking in the rest of the room. Bookshelves line one wall, while the other hosts a long couch (on which I’m currently supposed to be waiting out my migraine). Family pictures cover the wall facing Hollis’s desk, positioned in a gallery format and displaying various moments in his life. The two largest photos, both eight by ten, were professionally taken: one on their wedding day (Marla’s dress looks cheap) and one in a studio with a white background that looks to be taken right after the kid was born (Marla still looks preggo).

  Another chill slips over me, through me, and the heavy feeling that’s been sitting like a foul lump in my gut since thinking about Ford expands to twice its original size. It suddenly feels wrong to be here, in the home that Hollis shares with his family.

  His family, his family. Hollis has a family.

  And I’m not part of it.

  Though, if anything can be said for the stash of pictures I just found, he hasn’t forgotten about me. Doesn’t want to forget about me.

  And that means something.

  I scowl at the photos on the wall, stick out my tongue.

  Then, feeling better, I unbutton my pants, slip off of my jeans, and step out of my underwear. Rolling them into a ball, I make my way to the couch and tuck them lightly between the cushions.

  Standing, I cross my arms and smile.

  I’m glad I wore the silk today.

  I’m barely out of my Navigator when a shadow falls over the hood.

  The man is handsome, in a brutish sort of way, with a body that, at some point, more than likely excelled at one sport or another. Football or wrestling, if I had to guess. He’s older than I am; the steely gray of his hair tells me he’s probably nearing his fifties. But his eyes carry a youthful shine, a mischievousness that belies his age.

  I’ve never seen him before, yet there’s something about him that feels…familiar. Like I’m in the presence of someone I know. Intimately.

  Shit. Oh, shit.

  It’s my peeper, out from the shadows.

  He approaches with a frat boy swagger.

  I reach into my pocket and wrap my hand around Hollis’s thumb drive, shielding the most precious thing I own from the impending shitstorm headed my way.

  When he’s within arm’s reach, he offers his hand. “Mrs. Crane, I presume?”

  I consider his gesture, and he responds to my questioning look by tilting his head in the direction of the mailbox at the end of our long drive, which bears the name Crane in flowing script.

  Duh.

  Offering a small smile, I nod and give his hand a quick shake.

  “Randall Beaumont.” His grin is flashy and perfect and full of teeth so white they’re practically blinding in the late afternoon sun. “My wife and l live next door,” he explains, throwing a nod in the direction of his house. “I was doing some yard work when you pulled up and thought it’d be a good time for us to…connect.”

  This may be completely innocent. For all I know, Randall Beaumont could be a standup kind of guy, merely wanting to establish a neighborly camaraderie so that when he someday ambles over to borrow a cup of sugar, I’m more likely to loan it to him.

  But he’s dressed in black slacks and a sleek pinstriped button down that’s rolled up at the elbows, which is hardly appropriate attire for yard work. And there’s something about the way he said connect, the slight dip in his voice implying a darker meaning to the word. It’s as if he’s referring to some secret, inside joke that only we know.

  And he’s right. Because if this is about what I think it’s about, I very much want to keep what we’ve been doing in our backyards a secret.

  I give the thumb drive a gentle squeeze, as if I can somehow siphon strength from the images it holds. “Well, it was nice to meet you. But I’m kind of in a time crunch, so—”

  “There’s no need to rush off, Rebecca. We’ve got plenty of time. All the time we need, actually.” Randall looks like a man used to getting what he wants, and the confident way he speaks reminds me of Nicholas. Like my husband, he’s assertive, though subtly so…to the point that you don’t even realize you’re doing his bidding until you’re knee deep in it.

  Unfortunately for him, I’m hip to this game. I’ve lived and learned under the master, have seen it all, and no random asshole is going to make me his bitch.

  Once upon a time I might have suffered from daddy issues. But not anymore.

  Unwilling to take my eyes off this man, I take a few steps backward, in the direction of my front door. In the back of my mind, that old saying about playing with fire burns its way to the surface.

  “Rebecca, Rebecca.” Randall seems to enjoy saying my name, a name
I’ve never given him. Though with technology the way it is these days, how hard is it to discover something as readily available as someone’s name? Take the last name on my mailbox, type in my address, sort through the slew of photographs of myself and Nicholas at various fundraisers or charity galas…and voilà. There you have it.

  Our properties are the only two on this piece of peninsula, sectioned off from the rest of the neighborhood by a plethora of trees on one side and a seemingly endless lake on the other. But even without all that foliage and water, just the square footage of both our estates combined would ensure that not even a soul would hear me scream. In fact, the home’s privacy is one of the reasons I was able to talk Nicholas into buying the house in the first place. It’s one of the reasons that, earlier this summer, I did what I, you know, did. Depressed and full of gin, I was certain there was no way anyone would ever, ever see.

  But then, when I realized someone could see, that someone was watching…

  “In fact, I’m a big fan of your husband,” he says, taking a step forward, and then another, dogging my retreat. “He’s incredibly talented. Like that hotel he designed a few years ago? The one over in Dubai? Remarkable.”

  I reach into my other pocket, the one with my phone, and slip my fingers around the slick casing.

  “I bet you get lonely, though.”

  He shakes his head, moving closer, closer, and I’m too scared to turn and run, too scared because to give into flight would confirm that I have a reason to be afraid. That what’s happening is real, and because of my own reckless acts I’ve gotten myself into a situation from which there might be no escape.

  My heels butt up against steps leading to the front porch, and I almost lose my balance, topple backwards.

  But I don’t. Because Randall is here, right here, his meaty hand on my elbow, keeping me upright.

  Somehow, it doesn’t feel like a chivalrous act.

  His touch lingers on my skin even after he releases me, the sensation skittering up my arm like the whisper-slither of a snake’s trail.