by Sorbe, Lisa
Even back then, so early on in our relationship, I was addicted to him.
But Hollis’s mind was somewhere else. He grabbed my waistband and buckled the button, slid the zipper up. “You’re in it,” he said again, peering down at me. The laughter was gone from his eyes, but his voice crackled with admiration. “You’re in this life, as is. You, this place, your circumstances.” He kissed my forehead, my temple, and then brushed his lips against mine. “You’re a survivor, you know that? A fucking survivor. I mean, Jesus, Becca. You’re my goddamn hero.”
And I sucked in the compliment as I sucked in his breath, breathed in his scent.
He took me to meet his parents the next day.
I drop off Gus on my way to meet Hollis.
His owners are frumpy forty-somethings, and oh-my-god they’re so beside themselves with emotion when they open the door and see us on their porch that I’m surprised the wife doesn’t melt into a puddle of fucking goo right then and there. Even the husband with the receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses gets teary; his lenses keep smudging over as I explain my harrowing tale of recognizing Gus from his picture in the paper and chasing him down at the waterfront. I throw in some random creeper who was trying to lure him away, and how I had to use my mace to deter the guy so Gus and I could make our escape. And no, I tell them when they ask. No, I have no idea where he’s been these past several months. And then I shrug when they wonder out loud how he made his way all the way down to Canal Park.
“It’s a mystery,” I agree.
They’re not questioning me, though. Aren’t thinking that I had a hand in his disappearance. That maybe I lifted him right out of their yard and now, for whatever reasons, have decided to bring him back.
Even though that’s exactly what happened.
But today, I’m dressed like Rebecca Cabot Crane, and not Becca Cabot (aka Beautiful Savage). And people who dress like me – with my designer armor – couldn’t possibly be the type of person to steal a freaking dog.
I mean. Come on.
People, man. We always put way too much stock in appearance.
I turn down an offer to go inside for coffee, and flat out refuse the reward – “I just did what anyone would have done, really!” – and get the hell out of there.
And not because I’m worried that they’ll put the pieces together. I didn’t leave any lying around for them to puzzle through.
No. I’m in a hurry because I’m going to meet Hollis.
Hollis, Hollis, Hollis.
I grip the steering wheel so tightly while driving that my knuckles flare white. So many emotions are coursing through me right now; I feel like I could levitate. Fly the whole way to the restaurant of the hotel where he’s staying (because he moved out, he moved out!) and drop into my seat across from him without breaking stride. Or a nail. Or a fucking sweat.
Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t true; I’m a little sweaty. My feelings are rolling through me like one of those suicide sodas your friends dared you to drink when you were a kid. The ones where you filled your cup with every single flavor of pop the machine at fast food joint served, and then chugged, chugged, chugged. (I only did this once, mind you. A classmate’s mother forced her to invite me to her birthday; in retaliation, she and her friends threw down this dare: drink a twenty-ounce suicide soda in one minute. I got sick, of course, but my vomit landed on her new Doc Martins, so it was worth it.)
But I digress.
He didn’t tell me much on the phone. Except that, as I mentioned, he moved out of the apartment he shares with Marla, and that he needs me.
Me.
He also mentioned that he recognized me from a photo that Marla posted on Instagram.
The sneaky, sneaky bitch.
Apparently, she’s been posting photos with me in the background for weeks. In fact, I’m all over her feed. Not that I was aware of it; all the shots were taken without my knowledge. Turns out, when I thought she was taking simple photos of her meals, she was widening the screen, taking photos of everything else, too: random things that randomly drew her short-spanned attention. In one shot, she felt the need to photograph a sign that was right above my head that said Pasta is love, and love is pasta. I remember the restaurant, but not the sign. In the picture, I’m looking away and stuffing my mouth full of spaghetti carbonara.
Pasta is love, and love is pasta.
Fucking Marla.
I haven’t checked her Instagram account lately. Considering how close we’d become, I pretty much always knew what she was doing, so there was no need to scout her out, keep tabs on her.
But Hollis checked.
Hollis kept tabs.
The drive to the hotel goes by in a flash that takes forever. I’m out of time, out of rhyme, and out of my element. Every minute from Gus’s home to the restaurant seems to flow herky jerky – too fast, too slow, too something – because my muscles are twitching and jumping, and my body doesn’t seem to want to listen to my mind, and my limbic system is firing away on overdrive.
Before I get out of the vehicle, I take off the necklace Ford gave me and drop it in the cup holder.
I don’t remember walking to the door of Hollis’s shoddy hotel or stepping inside. I don’t even remember the name of it or the restaurant-slash-bar where we’re meeting.
There’s an ocean in my head, and…
And.
And, then.
And then I see him.
My entire world stills, narrows down to one defining sound.
The beat of my heart.
As much as I thought I was ready for him – ready for the weight of his stare, the power of his attention – I’m not. At all.
“Becca.”
Blue eyes with green striations. The left flecked with gold.
Perfectly imperfect.
I can’t believe I’m here.
With him.
The hotel’s restaurant-bar is small and intimate, with dark décor and muted amber lighting. And I’m thankful for the ambience; I use it as camouflage, hoping the dim setting masks my nerves.
My palms are sweating, so I swipe them against my jeans before tucking them discreetly under my thighs. But then, realizing I want (need) a drink of water, I have to shift around again so I can free my hands and grab my glass.
The vinyl booth squeaks with my movement.
“You look beautiful.” Hollis lifts his beer bottle to his lips, watches me as he takes a sip.
I close my eyes and gulp my water.
Seconds tick. Tick, tick, tick.
“I, um, read your book. It was,” I take a deep breath and release it, “amazing.”
Hollis’s smile is modest, but his eyes light up with my compliment.
I decide to test the waters. “So the main character’s love interest? She seemed…familiar.”
His grin turns from modest to knowing. “Well, she should.”
I feel a sharp movement in my chest when he confirms what I guessed – what I knew – all along.
“She’s you.”
As over-the-moon happy as I am to be right, having Hollis confirm what I suspected to be true all along suddenly, and strangely, feels almost…overwhelming.
I take another sip of my water and think about ordering something stronger.
“So,” he says, setting down his drink and folding his hands on the table, “this is slightly awkward, isn’t it?”
“Not really.” My voice is casual, boasting a confidence I’m annoyed I don’t feel. But actions speak louder than words, and when I shift in my seat again, Hollis smirks.
So much for the ambient lighting.
“Fine,” I sigh. “Maybe a little. Given our past and everything that happened the…well…the last time we saw each other.”
Okay. So maybe bringing up that day isn’t the smartest move. But that day, the day I walked out and didn’t look back, is like a big fucking elephant in the room. We can’t ignore it forever. We need to deal with it, feed it just enough so that it’
ll mosey on its merry way and get the hell out of our lives.
Hollis’s eyes cloud over, murky shadows that hint at murky depths. But it’s gone in a flash, and if I didn’t know him as intimately as I do, I probably wouldn’t have caught it.
But I did. I caught it all in one revealing blink.
Flickers of pain.
Shades of memories.
Ghosts living rent-free in his head.
“That was a long time ago. I hardly remember it anymore.” He reaches for his bottle again. Curls his fingers around the glass, then releases it just as quickly.
Actions speak louder than words.
“I do.” It’s just a whisper, an unconscious expression that I hadn’t meant to let slip. But Hollis catches it. Just like he catches everything.
We’re silent, as silent as two self-conscious teenagers on a first date.
But the thing is, we’re not self-conscious teenagers, and this isn’t our first date. And I refuse to let our reunion become befuddled with the unease of the past. Hollis and I share a wound, and though we’ve each chosen to dress the injury in different wrappings, it doesn’t change the fact that we were sliced by the same dagger.
The cuts are deep; they’re still bleeding. And the only way to heal them is together.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” I bite my lip, sigh again. “I mean, I know that I hurt you, but…”
Hollis laughs, and though I expect it to be tinged with anger, it’s not. It’s soft, but it carries the weight of a symphony. “I wasn’t just hurt. You broke my fucking heart.”
“I know.” Again, another whisper
“You…you were the love of my life.” He leans back in his seat, swipes a hand over his mouth, and cranes his neck toward the bar. But when he finally turns back, his eyes are filled with so much, too much, and I can barely breathe because of the way he’s looking at me. “Christ, Becca. You’re still the love of my life.”
• • •
Heaven is real. It’s real, and it exists in this shitty little hotel restaurant-bar.
I’m never leaving.
Hollis and I can subsist on martini olives and onions, drinking wine and soda water, and fashion bedclothes out of recycled paper napkins. This scarred, rickety booth will be our home, our forever home, and the only thing we’ll need, ever need, is each other.
“Becca?”
I jerk out of my reverie. Remember Hollis’s words.
Tell myself to get a grip.
“Well?” He’s staring at me, expectant, those dazzling eyes all over my face. “Do you?”
I have no idea what he’s asking, because I was off in la-la land, doing spins and basking in the knowledge that I’m still the love of his life.
Fuck you, Marla!
“I just…I need to know. Because if you do, if you still have feelings for me, then…” He shakes his head. “Well, let’s just deal with one thing at a time. How does that sound?”
I nod.
“So do you, Becca? Still have feelings for me?” His eyes catch mine, and I can tell he knows the truth before he even asks the next question. It’s in the upturn of his lips, the slight lift of his chin. It’s the sudden surge of certainty that rings in his words. “Am I still the love of your life?”
I’m tired of lying. Tired of pretending. Tired of, just, everything.
So I give it all up.
I give him my truth.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes.”
And then, “You never stopped.”
I was wrong. Heaven isn’t in that shitty little restaurant-bar.
Nope.
It’s here. Now. In this dingy hotel room with the cheap lighting and the horrid, tawdry décor.
It’s in this bed. This bed with the creaky box spring and the scratchy sheets and the stiff polyester spread.
It’s here, right here, beneath Hollis, caged between his arms, his hips slamming against mine, sending me into eternity.
We’re hungry and we’re rabid, and the lapsed years between who we were and who we’ve become mean nothing at all.
Nothing.
We’re Hollis and Becca again. Becca and Hollis. And together, we are Heaven.
“How long, Becca?” he asks, pushing into me.
I raise my knees and wrap my legs around his waist. Squeeze. I can barely think much less talk. But he wants to know. Wants to know everything.
He thrusts harder, and I press my face into the crook of his neck to avoid answering.
“How long have you been watching me?” His voice is rough, demanding, and it pulls from me things I should be too embarrassed to admit.
I fling my head back, turn my cheek so I don’t have to look at him when I murmur, “Too long.”
His tongue traces my jawline, slides up over the shell of my ear. “And you liked what you saw, didn’t you?”
“Obviously,” I sass back, and am immediately punished for my snark. Hollis slams into me deeper than before, harder than before, bottoming out inside of me and driving himself into my most sensitive spot. But pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain, and I meet his smirk with one of my own. Bringing my hands up, I lay them flat against the headboard and push, grinding back against him even harder.
His mouth drops open, and his eyes flutter closed as he huffs, “Jesus Christ,” in one tense, strangled breath.
I roll my hips and squeeze my thighs, and ask, “Does she fuck you this good, Hollis? Huh? Does your wife feel as good as I do?”
He’s overtaken by his senses now, by the blood rushing to his most intimate area. His eyes are still shut and the cords in his neck are taught with restraint.
“No,” he grunts. “Fuck no.”
“And did you think of me when you fucked her? When you were inside of her, did you ever pretend it was me?”
“All the time,” he rasps. “All the…oh, God…”
Hollis gasps, shudders, strains above me while pouring into me.
And I clutch him harder, grip him tighter, ride out his orgasm with him, drawing out this moment for as long as I can.
When he finally collapses on me, drained and spent, I don’t even mind that I haven’t come yet. Because this is Hollis, and with him, just playing can be enough.
But Hollis minds. Hollis cares.
He slides off and presses his palm against my stomach. “Your turn.”
Somehow, I know he’s not referring to sex.
Hollis wants my sins.
“What about you, Becca?” He slides a finger into me, hooking it just right. “Do you think about me when your husband’s fucking you?”
I writhe beneath him, whimper. His voice, his words are setting my body on fire. “Yes. God, yes.”
He bends down to suck at my neck, and his next question vibrates against my skin. “Did you befriend my wife for me? Try to sabotage my marriage so you could have me all to yourself?”
I gasp as he slides in another finger. “Y-yes.”
Lifting his head, he reaches up with his free hand, running his finger along my lips before sticking it inside my mouth. His eyes darken when I swirl my tongue over his digit, sucking him in. “Fuck, I’ve missed your mouth, baby.”
I grin around his finger. When I buck my hips to meet the hand he has between my legs, he closes his eyes and swallows. “I want to know everything,” he says, and his voice grates like sandpaper. “Fucking everything.” Pulling his finger from my mouth, he drops his hand to my neck. “I want to know what you did for me. I want to know your devotion.”
Oh, Jesus.
I can feel my pulse pressing into his palm, and when I don’t answer, he applies the tiniest bit of pressure. “Tell me, Becca. What did you do for me?”
There’s no way I can tell him. No fucking—
“I lied to my husband.” It pops out of my mouth before I can stop it, and when Hollis growls in satisfaction, I know exactly why it did.
Power.
I never had it over him.
I was never able to say no, never able t
o put my foot down or reel him in when his ideas were to grandiose for our circumstances. Instead, I swallowed my doubt, my concern and questions and worries. I swallowed them until they swallowed me.
And that, more than anything, is why I left.
He slips another finger in, and I’m full, so full, that I can barely take it anymore.
The Devil’s in his features now, and he looms over me, his breath mingling with mine. And as I always am with him…I’m powerless.
“What did you lie about?”
His voice is a whisper, but it beats against my ears like a drum.
He twists his fingers, and I can’t hold back. “I told him I was here on business. But I…I really came to see you.”
His laugh is dark and wicked; he’s enjoying this. Having me under his thumb after what I did to him. Breaking my secrets from me one by one.
“You disguised yourself so I wouldn’t recognize you, didn’t you?”
I press my lips together, and then, with my next breath, hiss, “Yes.”
“What else? Tell me.”
I shake my head, because no, no, I won’t tell him anything about the… “Panda,” I gasp. “I stole your daughter’s stuffed panda.”
I’m a goddamn blubbering fool, and surely this is a confession that won’t go over well. Stealing a kid’s most prized possession is just…fucked up.
Hollis’s eyes widen in shock, and for a moment, his hand stalls entirely.
I watch a muscle in his jaw tick, and cringe. “I’m sorr—”
“Why?” His voice is cold, hard, and it makes my already rapid heart rate quicken in fear. Fear of losing this, him, because of some stupid impulse I couldn’t control.
“Because it was there, and I wanted it.” A pathetic answer, really. But it’s the truth, so I stick with it.
Hollis’s face is stone, a hardened mask I can’t read. But then, slowly, a smile softens his features, and he laughs that laugh I love so much. “You little shit,” he whispers. “You little fucking shit.”