by Sorbe, Lisa
Can you keep a secret?
Oh.
Oh, yes.
And just like that, I’m awake. Awake and alert, my entire body tingling with energy.
As quietly as I can, I slip out of bed, peel off my halter top and jeans, and throw on one of Ford’s black tees. Already I can smell something sweet coming from the kitchen – coffee and something else, something mouthwatering – and hugging my arms to my chest, I pad out to investigate.
And what I see pushes my ovaries into overdrive.
Ford and the kid are sitting at the table, plates of pancakes spread out between them. A carton of milk is cooling in a wine bucket, and several wine glasses are arranged by its side. Ford and the kid each have one in their hands, colored dark from chocolate syrup, and at my approach, they look up, grinning. Per usual, the kid is decked out in princess attire. And…so is Ford.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
Ford lifts his glass, and as he does, the plastic tiara on his head wobbles. “Ah, my queen, my love! Please, come, come. Sit, and join us for a spot of brunch.”
I do as he says, though I give him a look. “A spot of brunch? Is that a thing?”
He shrugs, the feather boa around his neck fluttering. “I have no idea. It sounded royal.”
Something wet nudges my leg, and I look down to see Gus, sporting a hot pink hair bow around his collar. “Well aren’t you dashing?”
His already wagging tail quickens to a blur.
I turn back to Ford. “The dog too, huh?”
“But of course.” Giving me an impish grin, he starts to pile an empty plate full of pancakes. When he’s done, the stack sits several inches high and leans precariously to the left. Setting it in front of me with a flourish, he reaches for the wine bucket. “And will you be having chocolate with your milk today, m’lady?”
“Uh, no. I’m good.” Peering over my towering stack, I note the kid’s drink, which is so loaded with syrup it’s practically black. As I watch, she wraps both hands around the glass and chugs.
Her pancakes are also smeared with chocolate.
“Well, surely my queen would like some whipped cream with her royal cakes?” His voice is filled with suggestion. Brandishing a canister, he lifts a brow.
I match his flirtatious tone. “I’d prefer it on something else. Something big and…hard.”
Ford closes his eyes and clears his throat, no doubt falling into the same memory I’m neck deep in. I watch him swallow and think about dragging my tongue along his throat, his cut jaw. In fact, screw breakfast; I want to drag my tongue all over him, hop right onto his lap and devour his moans.
Tiara and fluffy pink boa be damned.
But the kid is here, right here, so I can’t.
Instead, I just nod at the gluttonous display before us. “Dude, do you realize how much sugar this is?” Lowering my voice, I tilt my head toward the kid. “She’s gonna be flying high all day.”
Have fun, Marla.
Before Ford can even answer, a groan sounds from the bedroom.
“Momma!” The kid perks up at the noise, hops down from her seat, and flies out of the kitchen. Seconds later, we hear the screech of bed springs, followed immediately by a loud Oomph.
Ford’s brows dip in concern, but I just cut into my pancakes.
“You know, on second thought, some chocolate in my milk sounds absolutely divine.”
Andrew “Andy” Kershaw. Ex-husband of Marla Thatcher. Owner of a mechanic shop in a Minneapolis suburb and, according to his Facebook page, enjoys brewing his own beer and volunteering at the local animal shelter.
And, he’s single.
I push my faux glasses up the bridge of my nose and try not to think about the itch on the top of my head, the one that feels like a scampering beetle scurrying across my scalp. Unfortunately, the black wig and panama hat I’m wearing prevents me from scratching, so I crack my neck and train my attention over my laptop, hoping the view will distract me from the annoying tickle.
It does.
Hollis is back from New York, back where he belongs, back here in this tiny café…with me.
The last few weeks have been…weird. With all the time I’ve been spending with Marla and Ford, Hollis hasn’t gotten the attention he deserves. He is, after all, the reason for all of it. The reason I got involved with Ford in the first place, as indirectly as that may seem. And he’s the reason I finally have a friend, a real honest-to-goodness friend, one who I’m determined to see finds happiness outside of her sham of a marriage.
Because, yeah. I guess you could say that Marla and I are friends. In a really fucked up way, sure. But after our girls’ night out, after laughing and dancing and holding her hair back while she puked, I feel bonded to her in a way I’ve never felt toward another woman. The few meaningful relationships I’ve had have all been with men. But this gal pal fling with Marla? It’s cracked open a whole new dimension, flung me into an entirely new reality. My heart feels weird, like it’s too big for my chest now, and my loyalties feel like they’re being tested. It’s damn near impossible to fantasize about Hollis without feeling an itchy twitchy sort of guilt deep in my stomach.
I’m no longer completely comfortable with just, you know, snatching her husband away and not giving a shit about how (or even if) she picks up the shattered pieces of her life. I mean, what has to be done, has to be done. That’s a given. And I still plan to do whatever it takes to reclaim what’s mine. But if I can lead Marla back into the arms of someone she loves in the process, perhaps making this whole transition easier for her, then I’m going to do it.
What can I say? I’m a softie.
And I have to admit that, even though this is my first real female friendship, I’m totally knocking it out of the park. Because I just found out that Andy Kershaw is going to be in Duluth this weekend. After digging through a few of his friends’ Facebook accounts, I discovered his name on a list of attendees for a live show at a dive bar on the outskirts of town. I’ve already texted Marla, inviting her to go, claiming that this band – Saving Mercury – is, like, my favorite band from The Cities and we totally have to go. I also threw in a bit of a guilt trip, saying that if she doesn’t go, then I can’t go, because Ford’s busy and I’ll have, like, no one to go with. Then, to seal the deal, I added another text, saying that I could probably just go alone, even though the bar is kind of seedy and way out in the boonies.
Okay. So I might have laid on the girly drama-tude a little too thick, but I had to. It’s imperative that we go. For her sake, if not mine.
Because like I said, gal pal or not, nothing’s changed. I’m still going to do what I’m going to do.
So really, this is an entirely selfless act. Hollis is pretty much mine already; the electronic photo album of our past that he keeps hidden away on his computer practically confirms it. Reconnecting Marla and Andy is like kismet. And, honestly, how wonderfully strange is it that Marla’s future lies in her past, just like mine?
Maybe, after the dust has settled, we can all be friends. The kind that go on double dates and frequent the same bar where everyone knows our names. We could split holidays between our houses and even plan vacations together. You know, sort of like those television couples that aren’t related but who are just as close, if not closer, than family.
Humming the theme song to “Friends”, I watch as Hollis pauses in his work to check his phone. He smiles, his eyes pinching up at the corners as he reads the message, and chuckles softly as he replies.
Seconds later, I get an excited text from Marla: Hollis said I can go! Had to promise every sexual favor I could think of, so I’m basically booked for the rest of the week.
The text ends with an annoying lol and a winking emoji.
My eyes snap back up as I realized what I just witnessed. Hollis is back to work, focused as ever, fingers flying over his keyboard faster than, it seems, they were before.
But he’s smiling, still smiling, fucking smiling.
And,
no doubt, thinking about Marla.
My chest burns, feels red hot, and heat licks its way up my throat.
The happy party-of-four montage that’s been running through my mind fizzles out like a burnt match.
Nah. We’re not going to be friends after this. She’ll always be a bitch that Hollis fucked, and I don’t need her around after the divorce, providing him with reminders of her sexual favors.
Okay, so maybe my newfound loyalty isn’t as unshakable as I originally thought.
I stay until Hollis leaves, and though I’m seething with jealousy, there’s a part of me, such a small part of me, that’s swelling with shame. And it’s a new feeling, this sensation of doubt – not because I haven’t felt it before, but because I haven’t felt it lately.
Growing up, shame was my constant companion. One I ditched when I married Nicholas. When I took his name, bathed in his wealth, his power.
How odd that it rises now, after all these years.
But I don’t contemplate the lowly emotion, for fear it will stick around if I do. And really, I have no reason for feeling it. No reason at all. So I focus on efficiency instead, packing away my laptop, making sure it’s tucked securely in its case before zipping the bag shut and flinging the strap over my chest. I take deep cleansing breaths and remember who I am now, of the power I hold now. I’m no longer the poor girl I used to be, the one who had to offer up pieces of herself just to survive.
I deserve to be happy. And Hollis? Hollis is the key to my happiness.
And whoever gets hurt in the process… Well, shit happens.
On my way out the door, I pass right by Ford.
Who does a double take.
• • •
“Have you given any more thought to Patagonia?”
I hate this question. Because it’s one I don’t want to answer.
So far, I’ve brushed it off every time he’s brought it up. But tonight, there’s something different about him. There’s an intensity in his actions, his words, that’s never been there before. Not quite like this, in this way, without the lightheartedness that usually accompanies everything he does. And though the question is the same, it sounds different now. More forceful, more…severe. Like he’s hip to my evasion tactics and, tired of them, is determined to pry an answer out of me.
One way or another.
We’re in bed, Gus at our feet, and I lean in closer, rub my hand along his chest, hoping to distract him.
“Becca.”
Yeah, didn’t think so.
Sex isn’t going to get me out of this tight spot.
“I want to go.”
There. That’s the truth. One hundred percent.
“That’s not an answer.”
Frustrated, I slide away and pull the sheet up from where it’s tangled around my waist. Tucking it under my chin, I turn my head so that I’m staring at the room’s brick wall instead of Ford. The material feels like silk against my bare skin, though my nerves are responding as if it’s a scratchy burlap sack. My body prickles all over, itchy little twitches from my neck to my toes.
I press my nails into the meat of my thigh, dig deep.
“We should probably talk, huh?” Ford props himself up on his elbow and stares down at me. “Do you want to go first?”
Ever the gentleman, this guy.
Thoughts slither like eels through my mind, eating away at the happy memories I’ve accumulated with him over the last two and a half months. Aside from his work trip to Iceland, we’ve spent at least some part of almost every day together. I’ve rekindled so much in that time, discovered the girl I used to be and married her with the woman I’ve become. And it’s all thanks to Ford. Every damn bit of it.
I like who I am when I’m with him. And I don’t want to lose that.
But now? It’s all about to end. I can feel it.
I shake my head, knowing there’s nothing I can say that will make this any better. If I tell my truth, we’re through. Finito. But if Ford tells his, maybe, just maybe, I can figure out a way to turn it in my favor. Talk my way out of…whatever he’s about to bring up.
Keep us, this thing, going a little while longer.
So far, he hasn’t said anything about seeing me at the coffee shop this morning. Hasn’t even mentioned the dark-haired hipster that brushed by him with wide, shocked eyes. The one that looked far too much like me to be a coincidence.
I worried about it. I did. All day, in fact. But his texts that afternoon gave nothing away, and when I arrived at his place that night and he still hadn’t mentioned it, I thought I was in the clear. Then, later, when he made love to me with the same vigor he always does, with the same passion and savage intensity that overcomes him every time he enters me, I stopped worrying about it altogether.
But now?
We should probably talk, huh?
Fuck.
I guess all good things have to come to an end some—
“I’m in love with you, Becca.”
—time.
Huh?
Surprise more than anything shocks the truth from my lips. “You can’t be. You don’t even know me.”
Ford slides his hand along my neck, under my chin. Gently, he turns my head, forces me to look at him. “I do know you.”
And I laugh. Laugh so hard that tears spring to my eyes. A rogue one leaks out, drips down my cheek, leaving behind it a wet trail that turns sticky when it dries. “You don’t, Ford. You don’t fucking know me.” I shake my head, shake loose from his touch. “You think you do. But trust me, you don’t.”
The tears come freely now, obnoxiously now, and I turn my head away again, bunch the sheet in my fist. “You deserve better than me, Ford. So much better.”
And he does. I know it.
But he just wraps an arm around me, pulling me across the bed, back to his chest. “Stop.” He pushes his face into my hair, hugs me tighter. “Just stop.”
So I do. For now. For now, I let him hold me, bask in his attention.
Greedy bitch that I am.
“You’re right,” he says after a while, when the silence has stretched as much as the shadows in the room. “I don’t know you. At least, not all of you. But, that’s the thing. Because what I do know about you? It makes me want to know more. And more.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, swallow past the lump in my throat.
“All my life, I’ve been trying to leave. First it was home, then this city, then the damn state. I never wanted to stick around a place long enough to form attachments,” he murmurs. “And I was so arrogant about it all, thinking my way was better than everyone else’s. I thought that being entirely untethered to anything and anyone was freedom. But it wasn’t. I see that now. I was only drifting. Aimlessly drifting, keeping myself in chains by shunning the stability I thought was so binding.” He laughs, and it’s sharp, bitter. “How’s that for pathetic? But you, Becca? You ground me. You’re the only thing that’s ever made me want to stay.”
His heart in his words and his breath on my cheek and his goddamn sincerity…it’s all just too much.
“I didn’t mean for things to go this far.” This is what I say in response. This, the only truth I can give him. “You’re sunshine, Ford. And I’m the opposite. I’m the dark. I’m blacker than black. The long night that comes after the night. I’m the night that never ends.”
“Maybe,” he whispers, “I like the dark.”
No, Ford, I want to say. You like the sex. You like the uninhibited way we play and fuck, the seemingly confident way I don’t give a damn because this is all just a game, only a game, and you were never meant to be a permanent player.
We’re a deadly fit, the two of us. I’m fractured and jaded. And Ford, in all his sweet purity, wants to fix me. But I’m not some broken piece of pottery that needs to be molded back together. I like my cracks; they keep me sharp.
Ford’s light turns my dark into a gray murky mess, and the more I’m with him, the harder it is to be certain about anything any
more.
But I keep my mouth shut, and soon Ford’s breaths even out, become shallow, and somewhere deep inside of me, I know what I need to do. What I should have done a long time ago.
The hours pass, and I fight off sleep, determined to savor this moment for as long as I can. The familiar weight of his arms, the heat of his body pressed against mine…close, so close…and his smell, fresh and earthy, like the forest on a rainy day.
I stay awake and soak it up, every bit of it. And all the while, the night pushes back, right back, doing its best to swallow me whole.
“Hollis really wants to meet you.”
I freeze, fingers tightening around the curling iron. My eyes catch Marla’s in the mirror – wide, expectant – and quickly flutter away. Turning my attention back to her hair, I section off a chunk and wrap it around the hot barrel. “Really?”
She nods, then winces when the movement causes the hair wrapped in the iron to tug against her scalp. “Yeah. He’s been talking about you a lot lately, wondering when I’m going to invite you over.”
“Cool,” I say, though I’m anything but. “I’d love to hang with your husband.”
It’s not a lie.
Luring Marla over to my place for drinks and makeovers before the concert tonight wasn’t ideal. Not with my nasty neighbor lurking so close by. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Randall since he left here last week, tail tucked between his legs. But out of sight has always been his game, so the fact that I can’t actually see him doesn’t mean shit. Meshing my fake life with my real one has already come back to bite me in the ass once, and the last thing I need is another incident, another near miss. But as this is Marla, vanilla Marla, frumpy Marla, I see no reason that her presence here should raise any red flags. I’m simply a woman spending time with a friend, doing what friends do – drinking and primping and gossiping before heading out for the evening. And really, I had no choice. Because tonight, I need her looking hot, so hot, out-of-this-world hot. The sort of hotness that she’d never be able to pull off without my help.