Beautiful Savage

by Sorbe, Lisa

  But it needs to be done.

  Figuring I can use this time that Hollis is away to write an email to Ford (because Lord knows I’ll never be able to do the deed in person, I’m far too weak when it comes to him) I cast my gaze around the dingy room, trying to figure out what Hollis did with my phone last night. I don’t have to look very far; it’s on Hollis’s nightstand, sitting right next to his…laptop.

  Hmmm.

  Time slows to a stop, and the room’s silence softens to a distant hum.

  It would only be a peek, a quick look to see what he’s writing. I mean, his first book was based on me, on my poor pathetic upbringing; all he did was change the names. But the stoner mother? The absentee father? The siblings who took, took, took? Even the shady landlord who accepted sex in lieu of a check…all characters in his novel.

  And me, of course. Me, Becca Cabot renamed Emma Abbot, who rose above it all…until she didn’t. Hollis’s main character, Horace Knight, killed her two chapters before the book’s end. Granted, it wasn’t poor Horace’s fault, not really. He was half-demon, and society’s corruption got the best of him.

  Hey, it happens.

  I wasn’t offended.

  But. But, but, but.

  What is he writing about now?

  Just a quick look, I tell myself, grabbing the laptop.

  A tiny little peek, I promise, settling back into the cushions.

  Only a few sentences, I swear, lifting the lid and turning it on.

  The password for his laptop is the same one he uses for his desktop, and within seconds, I’m in. The Word document he was working on pops up immediately; he must not have closed it before shutting the system down.

  I don’t even have to snoop to find what I’m looking for. It’s all right here, his next book, spread out on the screen in front of me. Which is unfortunate, because after reading just a few meager lines, I wish I’d never looked at the fucking thing.

  I’m trembling.

  I’m shaking.

  My vision narrows, blackens around the edges. Narrows more.

  But it doesn’t matter. Because I can still see the words.

  I can still read the fucking words.

  I can’t stop reading the mother-fucking-goddamn words.

  She was fixated on him, the only man who could save her from herself, and her obsession grew like cancer, spread to her mind and infected her morals. She had lost her heart, lost what made her human, and sinking deeper into this state, she became the very thing she loathed.

  My finger jerks as it skids across the touchpad, scrolling further down the document.

  The hotel room was dank and dour, and it reflected her state of mind; anything above a pay-by-the-hour joint would fashion her worthless. She needed something that reflected her mottled soul, that matched the madness within.

  The screen’s white glare flares pink before burning red, so red, blood red.

  She was the angel that fell, the demon that rose.

  Her self-interest bordered on lunacy.

  I feel a sharp pinch in the palm of my hand, the one that’s not clawing at the keyboard, and realize I’ve dug my nails into my flesh. Forcing my fingers open, I flatten them against my thigh and continue to read.

  It was a game, pure and simple. To Becca, winning meant everything. And losing? Well, that wasn’t an option. As she drew the blade across his wife’s neck…

  Oh, and then. And then!

  …diseased with need, plagued by regret.

  But the final straw. The final fucking straw:

  It was only a stuffed animal, but she cradled it to her breast as if it was the child she aborted, all the while mourning the children she could never have.

  Well, that….that’s just shitty writing.

  I slap the fucking thing shut.

  In the absence of security, I became desperate.

  In the deficit of love, I became cold.

  In the presence of adoration, I became foolish.

  And now, here with Hollis, as the muse for his next book…I’m an idiot.

  That’s exactly what I am.

  That’s exactly all I am.

  And that’s all I’ve ever, ever been.

  It’s like my eyes are wide open for the first time in years, for the first time ever, and I’m not seeing only what’s in front of me, but also what’s behind me, what’s ahead of me. The past and the future slam into the present, and I see, I finally see, that the now is all I have. This moment right here, and I’m free to take it and do with it whatever I please.

  Regardless.

  Regardless of the restrictions I falsely believed I was bound by.

  Regardless of the trashy family I came from and the revolting things I had to do to survive.

  Regardless of the people I’ve been foolish enough to love who never loved me back…and the one person whose love I’ve been too terrified to accept.

  Regardless of the unfulfilled dreams and the lost years and the dizzy days of empty longing.

  Regardless of being used, always used, accepted only for what I can give but never for who I am.

  None of that matters. And yet it all matters. Every single bit of it.

  The choices I made, everything I’ve ever gone through, have all led me here. It’s clarity, an awakening, a fucking energy bolt spiraling up my spine.

  Countless self-help books preach it; they stress that the present moment is all we have and blah, blah, blah. It’s something I’ve always known, though it was merely on an intellectual level. I never truly understood it, felt it at the core of my very being, until…now.

  Holly-hell and oh-my-god and freaking hallelujah!

  All of this sudden awareness provides an out.

  A glorious, wonderful, dreams-fulfilled out.

  And it’s up to me to take it or leave it.

  I can keep on living the same way I’ve always lived, surviving from one day to the next, sedated by wealth and numbed by drink. I can continue to hate myself, make damaging decisions based solely on self-loathing. I can continue on with Hollis or run back to Nicholas, and whatever fresh hell the future brings will be no one’s fault but mine.

  Or. Or, or, or…I can dare. Step out of my comfort zone and fucking dare.

  Ford.

  I think of Ford, and something flickers in my abdomen. Though, this time, it’s not nausea from the flu or acid reflux due to an empty stomach. Instead, it’s a happy little wave, a tiny ripple of joy, fluttering, fluttering, fluttering.

  Holy shit.

  • • •

  The only way to achieve perfection is to embrace imperfection.

  I drown Hollis’s laptop in the bathtub before I leave. Of course, I know this will only stall the story and not prevent it. But I feel better all the same. Granted, I also open the room’s one gummy window and empty everything from his suitcase into the grimy alley below. So that helps.

  I may be awakened now, but I’m still human.

  For a brief moment, I consider sticking around, wait for him to return so I can tell him exactly what I think of him. But I’m not sure I could do it without tears. Without a tremor in my voice that would give away the initial pain I felt when reading his words. It’s clear that Hollis presumes to have godlike power over me, and I don’t want to feed his ego any more than I already have. No, it’s just better if I walk away, not give him the satisfaction of a confrontation. He’d only just put it in his book, anyway.

  One thing bothers me, though. And as I urinate in the toilet and then swirl his toothbrush around in my waste, I can’t help but wonder…how did he know about the abortion? And all of my failed attempts to get pregnant?

  I briefly wonder if he’s been watching me for years, just as closely as I’ve been watching him these last weeks, but quickly realize it doesn’t matter. If the only material he has to write about is me, if I’m the only fucking muse in his life, well…that’s just plain sad.

  Um, can you say loser? I mean, get a life, right?

  I’m
high as a kite as I walk across the hotel’s lobby and through the front doors. On the way to the parking lot, I pass a bum wearing some of Hollis’s clothes, and I cock a finger, give him a wink. “Lookin’ good, buddy,” I say as I pass. He just stares at me, too stunned by my compliment to respond.

  Look at me, spreading sunshine and shit.

  I rest my hand on my lower stomach and skip, skip, skip the last few steps to my Navigator. My phone buzzes as I get behind the wheel, but I don’t look at it. There’s something I need to do first. Something that’s more important than anything else.

  I need to make sure. I need to make sure before I talk to Ford.

  Because…because…because.

  I still haven’t checked his texts. I’m sure he’s ticked that he hasn’t heard from me yet. Or, at the very least and probably more likely, just worried. I’ve never really seen him get angry, not in all the weeks we’ve been together. And now, with this new possibility brewing deep in my belly, I don’t want to go to him until I know.

  Because I’m about to do something radical, commit to him in a way I never thought I could. I’m going to dare to believe that…I’m good enough for him.

  I cried after my abortion.

  For days.

  Curled up in my bed in Nicholas’s guest room, I wept for the life I ended, for the child whose cry I would never hear. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t ready to be a mom, was sick of caring for so many others that I didn’t have it in me to provide for yet another needy soul.

  For some reason, my heart still broke.

  And I couldn’t understand. I didn’t understand. Because I’ve never been one to judge. Never been one to takes sides, figuring a woman should be able to do with her body as she pleases. But all I knew at the time was that I felt empty, hollow, as if a piece of me had been cut away. I mean, I was used to giving up parts of myself for others. But this was different. This was on par with losing an entire organ, one that wasn’t vital for survival, but affected the overall quality of life just the same.

  In a way, I suppose I’ve always associated losing the baby with losing Hollis. They were entwined in my mind, father and child, and maybe that’s why I thought getting him back would somehow repair the damage, curb the longing I could never seem to quench.

  Nicholas was there, of course. Filling my head with what he thought I needed to hear. Now, I realize he was merely placating me. Prepping me for his needs, for a life with him. He consoled me by speaking of the children we’d have together, his children, and not the one he talked me into giving up.

  But the joke was on him, because we never had any.

  Couldn’t have any.

  Until now.

  I can’t wait to get home to do it. I take the test into the private bathroom at the grocery store, peel open the box with shaky fingers, and pee on the stick while hovering over the public-use toilet. And then, placing the test on the back of the commode, I pace the five-by-five-foot square space, back and forth, back and forth, feeling the soft tug of my soles against the sticky tile while I wait. It only takes two minutes (not even three like the box says!) to tell me what I know, what I know, what I already know.

  And then the room tilts. The tacky floor tilts, and I grab the sink, the slick porcelain sink, and stare into the mirror, stare into forever…right into the very heart of the universe.

  I

  am

  pregnant.

  “You’re the only person I’ve ever loved enough to lie to.”

  — November’s Night, Hollis Thatcher

  When I pull around the bend in our street and see the vehicle in the driveway, my heart leaps up into my throat. My first thought is Nicholas, and that he’s not supposed to be back yet, not yet, not for a few days. And even if he decided to surprise me and arrive home early (something he’s never done before), he’d never come here.

  Would he?

  I can barely remember the last time my husband visited our lake house, the last time he spent more than a night under its roof, and the thought of seeing him so soon after learning what I’ve learned instantly throws me into fight or flight mode.

  My foot hovers over the brake pedal, presses it lightly, and the pregnancy test – the positive pregnancy test – slides across the passenger seat. And then, just as I reach over to grab it, my brain clicks into place and I realize that it’s not Nicholas’s Tahoe that’s parked in the driveway, but Ford’s old pickup.

  Which throws me into a different kind of panic. One that has me pressing down on the gas rather than the brake.

  I’m still clutching the pregnancy test when I leap out of my Navigator, because holy shit what’s he doing here? It doesn’t take more than a glance to see that he’s not in the truck, and when I realize that, I immediately cast my gaze around for Randall, Randall, the stupid asshat Randall. Because surely he’s lurking somewhere, nosey piece of shit that he is.

  Suddenly I’m worried less about the why of Ford’s surprise visit and far more concerned with how long he’s been here.

  I round the truck and start up the walk, and there he is, sitting on the rustic log bench butting up against the house, a black smudge against the white siding. He’s bent over at the waist, forearms resting on his knees. His shoulders rise and fall with my approach, as if he’s taking a deep breath or an even deeper sigh. But he doesn’t look up, not at all, not even when I’m right in front of him, the toes of my sandals brushing the tips of his boots.

  I carefully drop the pregnancy test in my bag, because something about this situation, about him, feels wrong. So very fucking wrong.

  “Ford?” I whisper-whimper.

  He doesn’t respond. Not right away. Minutes turn into hours turn into years before he finally raises his head. And the look in his eyes…the look he’s giving me right now…

  Oh, God.

  “Hello, Rebecca.”

  • • •

  There’s an ocean in my head.

  Every nerve in my body is dry tinder, and Ford’s gaze is the spark that ignites the inferno. It’s as if I’m on fire, my cells are on fire, and I’m burning from the inside out.

  “W-what?” I try to laugh like he’s joking, like he’s merely saying my full name because he’s angry I didn’t call him last night, didn’t respond to his texts. Sort of like a parent who reprimands his child by using its full name.

  But that look, the one he’s giving me right now, isn’t of a concerned boyfriend. One whose relief upon discovering my safety sands away some of his anger, taking him from pissed to merely frustrated.

  I can deal with frustrated. Please God let him just be frustrated.

  Then I notice the box. Next to him on the bench.

  Filled with my shit. Random shit I left at his place over the course of our nearly three-month relationship. Shampoo, conditioner, two t-shirts, a damn bra… And on the top, the very top of the pile, is a gift box dressed in silver wrapping and roughly the size of a ream of paper. “What’s that?” I point to it, desperate to get him talking.

  Because silence, this weighted silence, isn’t good.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry about last night. And I know you were probably worried when I didn’t respond to your texts, but I have a good reason, I swear. And if you’ll just…”

  “Stop.”

  And I do, clamping my teeth together so sharply they click.

  Ford’s expression is impassive, just as empty as his voice.

  The heat that was coursing through me, burning through me, turns to ice.

  “I know,” he says.

  Two little words. Two little words that mean too much.

  But the next two undo me completely.

  “Mrs. Crane.”

  No.

  “Ford—”

  He holds up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it. There’s nothing you can say to explain this away. No excuse in the world to,” he pauses, swallows, and huffs out the next words in a strangled gasp, “make this better.”


  And then he breaks. His shoulders sag and his face cracks, crumbles, twists with so many emotions I can’t tell which one he’s reeling from when he says, “I loved you, Becca. Do you realize that? I was in love with you. And I trusted…”

  He knows. Somehow, some way, he knows.

  He fucking knows.

  Something inside me sways, and my throat thickens so much I can barely swallow, and there’s a ringing in my ears that just won’t stop…it won’t stop, it won’t stop, it won’t stop.

  I start to reach for him, reach down to him, but he slaps my hand away before my fingers even brush his shoulder. And his touch, the feel of his skin against mine, no matter how briefly, shocks me back to my senses.

  “How?”

  Ford looks up at me like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “How? You,” he chuckles, shakes his head, “you want to know how? How I found out that you’re a lying, cheating bitch?”

  I cringe, and then nod. Because, yes. Yes, I fucking want to know.

  Because I’m going to kill whoever told him.

  Fucking kill.

  Too focused on him, on us, I hadn’t noticed the phone in his hand. But when he holds it up, I see it. And when he thumbs the volume as high as it will go, I hear the sounds, the moans of that night, the night that Randall-fucking-Randall filmed Ford and I having sex.

  No, no. Filmed us making love. Making love.

  Because that’s all we’ve ever done.

  It’s never been mere sex between us. Never just sex. It’s always been more.

  I clear my throat, try to sound normal. “What’s that?”

  Ford just huffs, then chuckles, then throws his head back and laughs. “Jesus, look at you. Still acting, always fucking acting.” He drops the phone, looks at it, and I note the way his shoulders stiffen, the hurt that ripples across his face before he drags his finger across the screen, turning it black. The vulgar sounds stop, everything stops, the day dropping into silence so deep I can’t even make out the beat of my own heart.