by Sorbe, Lisa
“The email attached to it was very, uh, enlightening.” He glares up at me. “So what? Is your rich husband too busy for you? Are you some poor neglected housewife, huh? Just a victim to your circumstances, right?”
Tears spring, too many to stop. They well over, drip down my cheeks, smear the already smeared mascara that I’ve been wearing since yesterday morning.
I can still feel Hollis between my legs.
I’m still sticky with him, from him, and he’s still inside of me.
Up until now, I hadn’t thought much about how I looked. A mess, sure. Wild hair, wrinkled clothes, day old makeup. I can only imagine what Ford thinks.
No, wait. I don’t have to imagine. Because he tells me. Flings it at me.
“Where were you last night? Were you…Jesus…were you with someone else?” His eyes widen, understanding turning his features from anger to disgust.
And the disgust, the disgust…it’s so much worse. Infinitely worse.
I open my mouth, work my mouth, and when the words finally come, they fall from my lips with a jerky tremor. “L-let me ex-explain. Ford. P-please.”
I’m terrified. More terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. More than when my dad left, more than when I realized he wasn’t coming back. I’m even more terrified now than I was the first time my old landlord pulled down his pants and slapped my cheek with his short, stubby dick.
Because back then, I didn’t have anything to lose. Back then, I was already at rock bottom. Already down low, so low, that when those people knocked me over, I was practically numb to their assault.
But I have something to lose now.
Now, now, now.
He pushes up, as if to leave, and I take a step back and to the left, moving right into his path. “Please,” I say again. “If you loved me, just listen. Okay? Please?”
One heartbeat, two heartbeats, three heartbeats, four…
“Fine.” He drops back down, folds his arms, and looks away, in the direction of Randall-fucking-Randall’s house. I follow his gaze, though I don’t expect to see my snake of a neighbor. He’s a lurker, hiding somewhere in the bushes, no doubt. Probably so erect with excitement and revenge that he’s poking a hole in his pants. I can only assume he saw Ford’s picture in the paper, the photo used to promote that damn art show up in Lost Bay, and snagged his contact info from the article.
But I don’t care, because right now my focus is on Ford, on us, and doing everything I can to save our future.
I’ll deal with Randall later.
“There’s no one else,” I lie. “No one. And as far as my husband, we’re, uh, we’re separated.”
Ford looks at me like he doesn’t believe me.
I need to be more convincing.
So I slide the box over, and squeeze between it and him. When I place a hand on his arm, he flinches, but he doesn’t smack it away like the last time I tried to touch him. A good sign.
I can do this. I can work this in my favor. And then I’ll never lie to him again. Ever, ever, ever.
“We’ve been separated for a while now. A few months, actually. That’s why I’m staying up here, at our place in Duluth.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me that? When we met, why didn’t you say anything?”
He still won’t look at me, and his voice is measured in a way that I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“Well, you never asked. And technically, I never said I wasn’t married…”
Bad move.
Ford laughs. A horrible, dry rumble that smacks of fury rather than humor. “You have nerve, I’ll give you that.”
I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that’s not a compliment.
“You lied,” he continues, finally turning to face me. “You fucking lied, Becca. Or Rebecca. Or whoever the hell you are. You didn’t just omit the truth; you made a whole new one up.”
He shakes his head, and again…that laugh…that laugh…that laugh directed at me.
“Dog walker,” he says, and now he tilts his head back and roars. He sounds like a crazy person; the humor that finally found its way into his voice is laced with madness. He swipes a hand down his face. “I bet you rented that dog, am I right? Rented Gus, if…Jesus…if that’s even his real name.”
I don’t respond. Not to that. What would he think about that truth?
“Fuck, I’m a fool. A fucking goddamn fool.”
And hearing this…breaks my heart.
“You’re not a fool.”
This time, I look away. This time, I’m the one who can’t stand the sight of him.
Because he’s pain. A raw nerve. Wrapped in misery.
All because of me.
“You’re the only one I’ve ever cared enough to lie to,” I whisper, taking a line from Hollis’s book. But that’s all it is, a line, because I lie all the time…to Ford, to Nicholas.
To myself.
Silence. More silence. Bottomless silence.
So much bottomless silence that, when my eyes finally flicker his way, I already know how this is going to end.
Ford’s face twists, his expression flitting between horror and disbelief. “That’s insane. You’re insane.” He’s staring at me now like he’s never seen me before. Like I’m some science experiment gone wrong. Or maybe something worse, something purged straight from the bowels of Hell.
“I didn’t think I was good enough for you,” I rush on, despite his expression, despite the way he’s looking at me, scooting away from me. “I didn’t expect things to go this far, to, to…fall in love with you.”
The tears are falling freely now, and my lips are trembling, turning everything I say into a quivering mess.
“I love you, Ford. I love you so damn much, and I didn’t even know what love was until I met you. Until you loved me for me, unconditionally. And, and…no one’s ever loved me before. No one.”
He huffs. “And what? That’s supposed to make everything better? Giving me some sob story about how no one’s ever loved you? That gives you the right to…shit…do what you did? And as for me? Loving you? Now?” He leans over, gets nose to nose with me, and his eyes are filled with so much hate, I flinch. “I don’t even know who you are.”
Dark eyes. Full of sunshine. Now filled with an apocalyptic storm.
“We’re done.”
And the part of me that’s invisible, that I can’t see but always seems to hurt, hurt, hurt…screams, rails, shrieks in pain.
I’m trembling all over now. My entire body quakes like I’m on some vibrating bed.
No, no, no…
Ford rises, turns his back to me.
No, no, no…
Starts walking to his truck.
No, no, no…
“Wait!” It’s a cry more than a word, but I call out just the same. “Wait…Ford, please…”
He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t acknowledge me in the slightest.
Desperate people do desperate things.
“I’m…I mean…what if…What if I was pregnant?”
This gets his attention. His shoulders tense, and he turns slowly, so slowly. And if I thought I saw horror, thought I saw disgust on his face before, it’s nothing compared to what I see now.
Loathing. Hate beyond hate. Outright revulsion.
It’s the same look Andy gave to Marla that night…the night I sprung her on him.
Ford’s expression, his reaction to the very thought of sharing a child with me, tells me everything I need to know.
He swallows, presses his lips together, and when he finally peels them apart to speak, it’s with the voice of a stranger.
“Are you?”
The nursery is coming along.
We chose navy blue for the accent wall and slathered the rest in a cool white. The furniture is dark mahogany, and the bedding is safari-themed, with artsy little animal faces all over the patchwork quilt and sheets. I’ve already stocked the dresser full of everything we’ll possibly need in the first few months – onesies and
pajamas and little bib overalls and tiny undershirts and adorable socks that barely span the palm of my hand. Yesterday, I hung the four large prints we special ordered from an artist in Sweden, and now the navy wall bears the painted faces of a tiger, elephant, zebra, and giraffe. On the other wall, block letters form the name Grayson.
It’s the perfect room for the baby boy growing in my belly.
Of course, if down the line he wants to change it to, say, pink, I’ll fucking do it.
Because this kid is going to get whatever the hell he wants.
I’m only five and a half months along, but already the tiniest bit of activity throws me into exhaustion. I’m also huge. Gigantic. And my ankles and calves are so swollen I can’t wear any of my favorite boots. Which, during the Minnesota winters, can be a real bitch.
But.
It’s all worth it. People that never noticed me before, notice me now. They smile, they nod at my stomach. They ask how far along we are, and do we know what we’re having, and oh-my-god-aren’t-you-guys-so-excited?!
And we tell them, yes. Yes, we are.
Are you?
They say that life is defined in moments. That with every decision we make, we alter the course of our destiny and yada, yada, fucking yada. Make the wrong decision, and it’s sink or swim, sister.
Are you?
Nicholas made me (and yes, I use that term loosely) give up the child that wasn’t his. He talked me into it, into the direction I really didn’t need much talking into in the first place, to be honest. So no, I don’t blame him for the decision I made all those years ago. Truth be told, he didn’t make me do anything.
Are you?
Nicholas would never raise another man’s child. That’s a fact I don’t question. But, if I take it further, slipping in my own, shall we say, unique perspective: Nicholas would never knowingly raise another man’s child.
Are you?
Judges don’t favor mothers. Not in the way society thinks. They favor families. Wholesome, good-to-the-bone families. The kind with warm kitchens and cheery smiles and apple pies cooling on their counters. And Ford? He comes from that type of family. He’s part of a team, a whole entire team that’s good-to-the-bone and has the sort of apple pie charisma the courts look for. He has the kind of parents that have his back, that can step in and provide whenever or if ever he can’t.
Ford is ripe security.
And me? I’m…not. Not on my own, at least.
Are you?
In the last three months, Nicholas and I slept together one time.
And me and Ford? Well…how many stars are there in the sky?
Are you?
Ford isn’t the type of guy to walk away from a pregnant woman. Or, more accurately, he isn’t the type of guy to walk away from his child.
Are you?
If this child is Ford’s (and let’s face it, it probably is), then Nicholas will divorce me. Immediately. And prenup, prenup, that lovely prenup will make sure I get nothing. Which will just make it all the easier for Ford to take my baby.
Take, take, take.
Are you?
The loathing in his eyes. The deep, dark hate filling his gaze.
“Are you?”
And I told him no. No, I wasn’t pregnant.
He huffed out a thought so and walked away.
I’ve steered clear of him since.
Almost five years later…
In fact, when it really comes down to it, no one makes us do anything.
We act like victims, think like victims, and hell, some of us even like being victims. Because then we don’t have to take responsibility for the shit we cause, the chaos we create. We steer clear of triggers so we never have to deal with them; we numb our sadness so much we lose the ability to feel anything at all; we relish clashing with our enemies to the point that, eventually, we become the very thing we’re fighting against.
And all the while – all the while – everything that we refuse to look at keeps building up, up, up, clogging our minds and souring our perspectives.
In some form or another, I’ve lived the role of victim my entire life. Drowned sorrow in gin and donned helplessness like it was a designer wardrobe, blaming people, blaming fate, blaming whatever Almighty Being is running the show. I sharped my edges and abraded my wounds; I spit and hissed and raised my hackles at the unfairness of life, and I used my past as the reason for not taking responsibility for my future.
Turns out I’m not a victim.
When it comes to my life now, I choose. I choose what’s best.
For me.
And, more importantly, for Grayson.
I look at him now, sipping his hot chocolate, and my heart swells so much I can barely stand it. When he catches me staring, he pulls the mug away from his lips and grins.
“You have a chocolate mustache,” I tell him, running the side of my finger over the top of my lip.
He giggles. “Like Daddy!”
I nod. “Yep. Just like Daddy. But,” I say, dipping my finger in the whipped cream floating atop my own drink, “you need a beard, too.” I dab the cream on his chin, and he laughs harder, drawing stares from the other diners.
Adoring stares.
Because my Grayson is the most beautiful child in the whole entire world.
“There. Perfect.”
He leaves the blob there, happy to resemble the man he believes to be a real, honest-to-goodness hero. And sure, with the new beard Nicholas has acquired since Grayson was born, he does look a bit like Thor. If, that is, the God of Thunder ever sported Armani business suits and Stefano Ricci ties.
As for me, I like the beard. It fits his new personality.
The Nicholas after Grayson is far more carefree than the Nicholas before.
For the last four and a half years, I feel like I’ve been married to a new man.
I’ve heard it said that children can put a damper on marriage, on the intimacy between spouses. For us, the opposite has proven to be true.
Does this make me bitter, that my husband transformed his way of life for Grayson and not me? That it basically took bearing a child to gain his attention, his affection?
Nope, it doesn’t. Truly. Really.
Not.
At.
All.
Grayson turns his attention to his coloring book, which is more like an astronomy workbook for kids. At four years old, he can already point out constellations (his first word was moon) and gets a kick out of the fact that Sirius is also known as the Dog Star. (He loves dogs, by the way. We have two now, both Golden Retrievers. And no, I didn’t steal them.) It amazes me, how smart he is, and sending him off to kindergarten this fall is going to gut me.
He’s also loving, so damn loving. Not to mention, sweet and kind and thoughtful, compassionate and empathetic and caring…all traits he gets from his dad, obviously.
But I’m getting better. I am. Grayson is showing me how to be better.
He is, after all, my absolute everything. Better than I deserve. Though I work hard every day, hoping to eventually earn the right to be his mom.
But for now, I’m simply #blessed.
We both return to our work, Grayson coloring one of Jupiter’s moons and me working on a poem in the old leather notebook I’ve been carrying with me for the last four and a half years.
The clank-clatter of silverware fills the diner, and the hum of voices rise and fall like the waves on the Great Lake, and we when the waitress brings our lunch, I don’t even need to urge Grayson to put away his book so he can eat. He does it by himself.
Because he’s perfect.
He cuts his chicken strips into bite-sized pieces without help from me, little prodigy that he is.
“I like your hair today,” he says, ignoring his food for a moment and turning his sunshine gaze on me.
That gaze, that gaze, that sunshine gaze.
Reaching up, I smooth my hand over the dark strands. The length falls just below my chin, a straight cut that exudes n
o-nonsense sophistication. “Oh, yeah?”
He nods, furrows his little brow. “It’s black, but sorta blue, too. Like the sky at night.”
“You know, you’re right. Pretty cool, huh?” I pull down my glasses, red frames with clear lenses, and shoot him a wink. “Thanks, munchkin.”
He smiles, and I die when he does, because he’s just so cute, so fucking cute that if I could stop time and keep him this age forever, I would.
I’m a balloon of happiness right now, because this diner in Lost Bay, along the shores of Lake Superior, is the place to be today. There’s an art show in town, and the place is buzzing with energy, with smiles and laughter and friendly hugs and clinking glasses. Celebration is in the air, because the town is also hosting a wedding tomorrow, one that will join two of its most prominent citizens.
The bell above the door jingles, and I look up, snap my attention up, feeling a swoony woosh in my stomach as I do. But then, when I see the elderly couple tottering over the threshold, it dissipates just as quickly.
I spear some lettuce with my fork, think about ordering a bacon cheeseburger to go. Everything about my pregnancy was bliss except for the weight gain. Over four years later and I’m still fighting the last ten pounds.
“What are we gonna dress up as tomorrow?” Grayson tugs on the brim of his baseball hat (the Minnesota Twins) and cocks his head. Because today he’s a baseball player, and I resemble a bespeckled version of Uma Thurman’s character from Pulp Fiction.
I shift in my seat, feel the waistband of my black slacks cut into my gut, and decide against the bacon cheeseburger.
“Well, tomorrow’s event is special, so I think we should go with something dressy.”
He considers this for a moment, then nods. “What color hair are you gonna wear?”
“I might just go with my normal hair. What do you think about that?”
His face lights up. “I like that best. Your real hair looks like the sunset. Or…a strawberry!”