Beautiful Savage

by Sorbe, Lisa

“Maybe we could go on a double date, or something. You and Ford, me and Hollis.” She reaches for her wineglass and takes a sip, doing her best not to move her head. “You know, I really like your boyfriend. He’s so good with Belle, don’t you think?”

  Remembering how Ford was with the kid last week – the way he jumped into a princess brunch with such unbridled enthusiasm – warms my heart, makes my chest swell. Not many men would do what he did, that’s for sure. Nicholas wouldn’t be caught dead in a tiara, even if it was for the amusement of his own child.

  Then again, we don’t have children. We’ll never have children, so it’s a moot fucking goddamn fucking point.

  Smoke starts to drift from the curling iron.

  “He’d be such a great dad. I mean, the way a man interacts with a child tells so much about his personality. For example, one of the kids I worked with last year was really struggling, but his dad…”

  I listen, listen to her stupid prattle. And as I do, the warmth coursing through me freezes instantly, turning my entire body cold, as cold as death, and I’m nothing but a barren landscape, where nothing grows, nothing thrives…nothing survives.

  And nothing can change that. Not even Hollis.

  I give the curling iron a tug, feign a shocked “Sorry!” when she yelps.

  Feeling slightly better, I unwrap the chunk of hair and watch as it spirals down in a long coil, joining the other curls. She’ll probably have a few fried ends after tonight, but who fucking cares? Using my fingers, I run them along her scalp, fluffing the roots, my actions stiff and quick. Because what I really want to do is scratch the skin right off her head, pull her hair out by the roots. Maybe squeeze her head like a melon, watch it pop like a jelly-filled balloon.

  But Marla doesn’t notice my tension, because alcohol makes Marla chatty, and as this is her second glass of wine, she’s really on a roll. She wants to talk about kids and the future, kids and the future…kids and the fucking future.

  “I know you two haven’t been together long, but you know when you know, right? With Hollis, I knew right away. Like, pretty much after our first date.” She takes a deep breath, her exhale ending in a giggle as she recalls a memory that I’m not privy to. “Anyway, do you think you and Ford will, you know, get married? Have kids, do the whole shebang?”

  Her question is more than words, more than rhythmic vibrations that float through the air and tickle my ear drums. Rather, it hits like a punch, exploding into a kaleidoscope of images filled with so much emotion it makes me ache. All over I ache, so thoroughly and deeply, the pain surpassing my muscles, my bones, my nerves, and seeping right into the very thick of my soul. Which is weird, because if, deep down, we truly are made up of nothing but ethereal junk, then how can we hurt like this? Experience such intense suffering that it extends beyond our physical senses?

  So this spectral pain, this twist in my gut? It can’t be real. Can’t be caused by something that stemmed solely from my mind’s eye.

  And yet, my jaw clenches. My entire body feels heavy, burdened by grief I don’t even understand. My eyes grow hot, grow wet, and I find that I’m losing myself entirely, mourning a life I don’t have, will never have.

  The scenes flash like they’re on an old film projector, cutting almost as quickly as they start. Ford and me together, together and getting married on our wild beach. And there’s love, so much love, true love, the kind of love that’s worth more than money, more than stuff and security and image. Then, another flash, and it’s the two of us in a delivery room, and I’m greasy with sweat and ripe with pain. But I’m smiling, smiling because the pleasure outmatches the discomfort, and my life is about to change, change forever…

  “Becky?”

  Marla’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. “No,” I say, my voice clipped. “No, I don’t think we will.” Stepping back, I tuck my fingers into my palms, fight the urge to shove her forehead into the mirror. Because that’s not something one friend would do to another, right? I’ve never had a real friend before, but I know that much.

  I mean, this isn’t reality TV.

  Catching my reflection in the mirror, I note the twisted expression, the tightness around my mouth. The way my eyes are narrowed in spite, in hate. I’m practically shaking from it all, from the need to wrap my hands around the neck of not just Marla, but every woman who has what I want, what I want, what I want but will never have…

  “You okay?”

  Marla leans forward, studies my face, and then slants back and slightly away, like what she sees in my eyes scares her. Freaks her the fuck out.

  And I can’t freak Marla the fuck out. Not now. Not when I’m so close.

  I need to be her friend. The friend I thought I was becoming, could become.

  Bringing a hand to my head, I blow out a breath. “Sorry. I haven’t had much to eat today, and I think this wine is getting to me. Would it be okay if we grabbed some food before we hit the show?”

  She nods, looking relieved. I doubt she’d know what to do if I unleashed my crazy, the crazy that’s been building for so many years. Marla’s never dealt with crazy. Never felt true, honest-to-goodness suffering, the kind that breeds in your bones, lays waste to your heart.

  Marla is all innocence and clueless privilege.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, so is Ford.

  “Yeah, I could go for a bite.” She returns her attention to her hair, lips curving up as she studies my handiwork. “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out. “I have to admit, I was worried about the makeup. But with the hair…” She runs a hand over her waves. “…it totally works. It’s kind of eighties, but I like it.”

  I release a pent-up breath I didn’t even know I was holding. One of relief. I can feel myself slipping back into character, back into friendly, go-with-the-flow Becky Beckett. Pasting on a wide smile that I only partially feel, I grab a can of hairspray. “Well, speaking of the eighties…close your eyes.”

  Too bad I’m already spraying when I say this.

  She squeals, and I suddenly feel every bit of my smile.

  I know I’m crazy. The inner landscape of my mind has been a slippery slope for a while now, and I’ve been doing my best to keep my balance, maintain my footing.

  But it’s hard. So hard.

  It’s like I’m running up a hill that’s covered in snow, in ice, and just as I’m about to crest the top, I slip, fall, skid all the way back down. Hit rock bottom.

  Swift and brutal.

  Elation to desolation in one rapid heartbeat.

  But I keep trying, keep on keepin’ on, because the top is where I want to be. It’s where the normal people are. The ones who aren’t wretched and invisible, stained and tainted, broken and wrecked. The people who live without worry, laugh without care, love without thought.

  What I wouldn’t give to be normal. To patch my cracks, sand them away entirely. How wonderful would it be to no longer need their sharp edges, the ones honed by my past and kept jagged by my present.

  I want to trust in the smoothness of life. The smoothness that everyone else seems to experience so easily, so…fluently.

  I want that so badly. So badly, in fact, there are days I don’t even dare admit it.

  But.

  I’m getting tired. So tired of falling, of slipping, of having to get the fuck back up and start all over again.

  Over again.

  All over again.

  Again, again, again.

  I’ve heard it said that Hell is about repetition. If that’s the case, I’ve been in Hell my entire life.

  Some people – lucky sons of bitches that they are – don’t know they’re losing their minds. They remain blissfully ignorant of their declining mental states. Comfortably sedated, turned on but tuned out.

  I’m not one of them. But I wish I were.

  Things would be so much easier. These potatoes with legs don’t have to be subjected to the trauma of witnessing their sanity slip away, piece by precious piece. They never feel the sharp b
lade of panic press in, dig in, shish kabob their fucking organs when they look in the mirror, faced with what they’ve become yet still able to remember who they used to be.

  When their worlds turn dark, they don’t remember the light.

  Oh, but I do. I do.

  I see my madness. Every day, I see it.

  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.

  Does anyone else out there have to work so hard to not hurt? To not feel like a shattered soul repaired by despair?

  Depression turns to desperation, turns to hate so easily.

  And I am filled with it.

  I can still taste the garlic fries I had for dinner. It’s a foul flavor, and it coats the back of my tongue like a fine layer of yuck that refuses to fade, regardless of how many sips I take from my beer.

  Garlic, man. So much better going down than it is coming back up.

  I belch, then laugh, and Marla laughs, and fuck this is weird.

  “I can’t believe I’m here.” Tilting my bottle, I down what’s left of my drink and shake my head.

  Marla, of course, has no idea what I mean. “And I can’t believe you were going to come here by yourself.” She looks around, peers over her shoulder. “It’s kinda seedy, don’t you think?”

  I follow her gaze, noting the men in leather biker gear shooting pool across the room. One has a red bandana wrapped around his bald head and a t-shirt with the face of a kitten stretched across the front. The tattoos winding up his arms are colorful sleeves of vibrant reds and greens, and a thick leather cuff is wrapped around one of his beefy wrists. When he sees us staring, he lifts his chin and shoots a friendly grin.

  Marla. So fucking judgmental.

  “No, I don’t think it’s seedy.” I allow the irritation to seep into my voice, because her attitude pisses me off. “It’s a dive bar, sure. But just because some of its patrons ride bikes or drive pickup trucks caked in dirt doesn’t mean it’s seedy.”

  I dislike all people across the board equally, but I’m open minded enough to know that just because someone has tattoos doesn’t mean they’re seedier than someone who doesn’t.

  I, of course, learned this the hard way. Nicholas, who appears as clean cut as you can get, wears no notable warning signs. Yet he’s as coldhearted as a snake. The biker with the tatts and kitten t-shirt is a goddamn teddy bear in comparison.

  I bet he gives good hugs. Him and those thick arms.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean seedy in a bad way.” Marla leans forward, desperate, it seems, for my approval.

  “Because seedy is such a compliment, right?” I spat.

  She pushes her beer away, cocks her head. “Are you okay? You seem, I don’t know, a little edgy today.” Concern furrows her brow. “Did I do something?”

  Oh, stop being a victim, Marla. Stop making this about you, you fucking attention whore.

  But her ignorance does prove a point. Reminds me that tonight is all about her.

  Because Marla needs to reconnect with Andy. Needs to reconnect with him so that I can reconnect with Hollis.

  It’ll be so much easier this way, with Marla distracted. And the best-case scenario would be her leaving Hollis, leaving Hollis for Andy, and taking the kid with her.

  And I’d be there, right there, helping Hollis work through it all.

  This thought makes me smile, tames the cobra rising in my chest. “No, it’s not you. It’s just been a tough day.” I bite my lip and will my eyes to glass over. “I didn’t want to bring it up, but apparently I can’t hide it.” I look down at my beer bottle, start to pick at the label. “Ford and I had a fight this morning. And we decided to take a break.”

  Marla gasps, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “That explains so much.” She lays a hand over mine. “And there I was earlier, talking about marriage and kids and…shit. God, Becky. I’m so sorry.”

  I shrug and slide my hand out from under from hers. “It’s okay. I didn’t want to bring it up. Honestly, I’d rather just forget about it. For tonight, at least.”

  She juts her chin, determination etched in her features. “Then that’s what we’re going to do.” Trying but failing to catch our waitress’s attention, she hops up from her seat. “Screw it, I’ll just order straight from the bar. Wait here. I’m getting us some shots.”

  I arch a brow. “Shots, huh? After what happened last time?”

  She just smirks. “The things we do for friends, right?”

  • • •

  By the time Andy arrives, we’re lit.

  I see him first, out of the corner of my eye. A grizzled blonde with broad shoulders and a thick, barrel chest. He’s wearing a denim shirt and black jeans and worn leather work boots that remind me an awful lot of Ford’s. He has more beard than he did in his Facebook profile pic, but it only does him justice. He’s hot, manly hot, the kind of hot that makes you wet just looking at him. He’s tall, too. Big and tall, and wearing enough muscle that he could easily pin a woman to a wall and hold her there with one quick thrust.

  In fact, he almost looks like Nicholas – if Nicholas would ever let himself go wild.

  The band hasn’t started yet, but they’ve taken the stage to warm up, and tables near the action are filling fast. I grab Marla’s arm and move us to one of the last spots near the makeshift platform, which also happens to be right next to Andy and his group of friends. There are about seven or eight of them, all men, and as we slip into our seats, I easily make eye contact with the one to Andy’s left.

  Yeah, this is going to be a piece of cake.

  The band works through its first five songs, a mix of country and rock covers, and by the time the sixth starts up, the dude I’ve been eye fucking for the last twenty minutes pushes back his chair and makes his way to our table. Marla’s back is to the group – something I made sure of when we sat down – so she doesn’t see him until he’s already seated. She blushes, her eyes darting my way, and I just shrug and smile, excited that the real show, the one I’m actually here for, is about to begin.

  The guy is cute, in a blue collar, rugged kind of way, though he can’t hold a candle to Hollis. Or Ford, for that matter. But he’s perfect for what I need him for, and I flash him a coy smile over the rim of my bottle before taking a drink.

  It’s only a matter of time before the rest follow.

  Playing hard to get isn’t on the agenda. This guy needs to know he’s in like Flynn. That I’m up for grabs and ripe for the pickings. I need his ball attached to my chain in order to guarantee a merger of our two groups.

  Between songs, I learn that his name is Landon, and by the time the band takes a break ten minutes later, Joseph and Rigley and Bryan have also joined us. Landon buys us all a round of drinks, and while we wait, he explains that they’re up here not only for the band, but to celebrate his thirty-fifth birthday. Tomorrow they plan to kayak through the sea caves on Lake Superior’s Wisconsin side, and I’m instantly jealous. We immediately launch into a discussion about the sport, and as new as I am to the hobby, I’m happy to be able to keep up. Landon has kayaked all over the world, even took a two-week trip touring the Broken Group Islands in British Colombia, and I’m so engrossed by his tales that I almost miss Marla and Andy’s emotional reunion.

  Almost.

  Fuuuuuck.

  So this might not have been the best idea.

  You. Bitch.

  You bitch!

  You bitch, you bitch, you lying bitch!

  I can’t say this, though. But I want to. I want to wrap my hands around her neck and shout it in her face while choking the life out of her.

  Because Marla is a fucking liar.

  All this time I was working under false pretenses, with bogus information. Marla fed me one reality while the true story was a far, far different matter.

  Marla and Andy didn’t just wake up one morning and d
ecide they didn’t want to be married anymore. The culprit of their demise wasn’t youth and inexperience, as she claimed.

  Nope.

  Marla was the reason. Is the reason their marriage ended.

  She cheated on her husband.

  And I knew it. I knew it the minute Andy laid eyes her. He was the last of the crew to meander over to our table tonight, and when he pulled out a chair, when he was only half-seated in it and he saw his ex-wife, his eyes widened and his nostrils flared just enough that I knew – I fucking knew – there was more to their story than Marla told me.

  Andy, for his part, didn’t cause a scene. Instead, he quietly set down his drink and, with measured movements, rose from the table and walked away.

  Marla, of course, was more dramatic. She gave a little yelp of surprise when she saw him, slapping her hand over her mouth in a ridiculous effort to cover her surprise.

  Yeah. It didn’t work.

  The last we saw of them for a good half hour was Marla leaping up from the table and making a beeline for Andy’s large form as he shouldered his way through the crowd.

  Apparently, the friends that Andy was with tonight were made after the demise of his marriage, because no one at the table knew who she was or why Andy had the reaction to her that he did. There was some uncomfortable joking about a bad one-night stand that garnered very few laughs, and when one of his friends went to check on them, he came back to the table with a somber face. “Dude,” he said, and then paused to chug some beer, as if what he’d seen was so traumatic that he needed to drown the image with booze. Everyone leaned forward with interest – including me – while waiting for him to finish. “That’s his fucking ex-wife.”

  Quiet murmurs and foul expletives ricocheted around the table. Landon, who’d scooted his chair closer to mine, slid his eyes my way and shot me a look I couldn’t quite read.

  Bryan (or Rigley or Joseph or John-Fucking-Doe for all it mattered) about choked on his beer and blurt out, “The one that—”

  “Yeah. That one.”

  Everyone at the table seemed to be in the know then. Everyone except me.