Twisted Ever After

by Cole, Kayley

  Her ankle slides off my shoulder, but I let it go as I sink deeper into her and her body bucks under me. She keeps a tight grip on the barbell to prevent my thrusts from shoving her right off the bench. Her perfume floods my senses, the scent irrevocably connected to the rising triumph in every cell in my body.

  She's radiant when she comes. I can imagine an iridescent supernova exploding in her chest as her back arches, her neck hitting against the barbell, and her pussy massages my cock. I slam into her one last time as she relaxes, a supernova flourishing in me.

  I let my body slide off the side of the bench to avoid crushing her. Sweat stains my body and I'm heaving for breath. Ellie's breathing is a little lighter than mine but still as exuberant.

  After a couple of minutes, I turn to look at her. Her damp hair is clinging to her skin. I brush a strand off her shoulder.

  "I love you," I say. She smiles.

  "You better."

  She closes her eyes. I kiss the spot right under her neck. I lean my head against the power rack. This is our film about love— not because of the sex, but because it's unrestrained, it's unpredictable, and it's built on a place of strength.

  * * *

  Ellie

  Ryan is making sandcastles on the beach. He's a thirty-four-year-old man in an award-winning band called Eden's Ocean, but I've never seen a man happier than Ryan making a turret.

  "You won't be in the frame right here, and right there the sun is too bright. You'll look like a goblin," Jake says to Ryan.

  "Goblins," he says, starting to dig a moat. "That's what this music video needs."

  "Well, the good news is that goblins are a better idea than your previous idea of messenger pigeons," Jake says. "But I'm still going to reject that idea. Destroy your castle, so we can start."

  I sit in a director's chair, watching Ryan kick over his castle, then smooth the sand with the edge of his shoes. Jake stands close to one of his cameramen, his hand making a circular motion as he gives instructions. I love watching Jake work. He always keeps a tight leash on everybody, and everybody listens to him like he's a prophet. It's so good to love someone who is considered a genius in their field and knows how to command a room.

  I cross my legs, sliding my hand in-between my thighs. The memory of his body, his masculine scent, the way his touch dissolves me into a storm of lightning, thunder, and rain.

  His phone lights up on the table beside me. I pick it up. It's a text from his assistant, Kellan.

  Kellan: Thank you. Getting my mom out of the hospital took a little longer than expected. I'll be there soon.

  I stare down at the message, then back up at Jake. He's still standing next to one of his cameramen, immersed in his work.

  His mother could be in a hospital somewhere, injured. She could be anywhere. I unlock his phone, using his password, EllieEmmy4.

  I search through his contacts. He has a number under Mom. I look back up. Jake is talking to the cameraman.

  I stand up, trying to walk casually toward the parking lot. If he asks, I was just going to find a bathroom and I forgot that I had his phone in my pocket.

  As soon as I'm in the parking lot, a row of cars between Jake and I, I click on his mother's number. I hold the phone up to my ear, listening to it ring.

  And ring.

  And ring.

  "Hello, this is Karen Amberden. I'm sorry, but I can't come to the phone right now. If it's a short message, please leave me a text. If it's a longer message, my email is KCAmberden247@mail.com. You can leave a voicemail, but it may take me some time to listen to it. Thank you for calling and I hope to speak to you soon."

  The message beeps. I bite my lip, my mind racing. I take a deep breath.

  "Hi, Mrs. Amberden. This is Ellie. I know we haven't had time to meet, but I've heard that your husband hasn't heard from you in a while and neither has Jake, so I just want to make sure you're okay. I mean, I could get the paparazzi to track you down, but I think I can wait a few days for that."

  I force a laugh after my dumb joke.

  "Anyway, I just hope you can get ahold of Jake and tell him you're okay. I hope to meet you soon. Thanks for your time. Goodbye."

  I hang up, regret already permeating my chest. It's not that I don't think Jake cares; it just feels like the family has tiny fissures in their relationship and I don't want him to wake up one day and realize he could have saved his mother from pain or loneliness.

  I know what Jake would say— I only think this because I think about how I could have helped my brother from his mental illness before he took it too far— but it has nothing to do with that.

  Or, at the very least, it doesn't have everything to do with that.

  * * *

  Jake

  I've found that earning someone's love is accomplished much more quickly when you cook them good meals. There's something primal about desiring someone who can provide food for you, something sensual about food in general, and something deeply loving and reverent about wanting to sustain someone with meals prepared by your own hands. It's an offering in the same way that people used to give offerings to gods.

  The seasoned steak is cooking on the skillet. I'm not a huge fan of mushrooms, but Ellie always becomes infinitely more interested in any restaurant meal if the word 'mushrooms' is used, so I'm going to top the steak with wine-soaked mushrooms and some caramelized onions. The homemade macaroni and cheese with Monterey Jack and asiago is finished and staying warm on the top right burner.

  When I flip over the steak, Ellie comes into the kitchen and leans against the kitchen island.

  "It smells amazing," she says. "I didn't think I was hungry before, but now you've tempted me. You're like the serpent with the apple and I'm Eve, but your food is much more enticing."

  "I hope it's not just my food that's enticing."

  When I look up at her, her voice from earlier cuts into my mind, she was talking to someone on the phone in the parking lot, and she looked guilty as hell when she hung up. The call could have been about anything, but she never mentioned it to me. Lately, she's been telling me everything— from the smallest changes to her songs for her album to the various plans for the wedding. It's made me wonder how I never caught on to the fact that Robin was a man, but sometimes things slip by me until they prove themselves to be worth my attention. And the appearance of Robin certainly seems worth a lot of things.

  She pulls her hair back into a loose bun, her movements effortless. "Oh, you've got all kinds of temptations, but after yesterday's enticement, I think it's best if I refuel."

  She runs her fingers along her jawline. Even with her playing guitar all of the time, her fingers remain delicate and soft.

  "Have you heard from your mother?" she asks. I prod the steaks with my tongs.

  "No. She wouldn't get ahold of me even if she showed up. My father wouldn't either. It's the way they are."

  "I just thought maybe she would have called you."

  "She hasn't. Do you want to get some plates and silverware?"

  She moves around the island to the cupboard. She pulls down two plates, her leg muscles tensing in the most delicious way as she stretches. She sets the plates down next to the stove and gets the silverware. I slap the steaks on them and serve the macaroni and cheese. I carry the plates over to our dining table, setting them down beside each other. As a child, I always ate alone because my parents were either at the hospital or they brought their work home and ate in their private offices. I swore I'd never become workaholics like them, but a child's promise always seems to become their downfall, and both nature and nurture were working against me. But I'm going to be a good fiancé— at least for tonight.

  Ellie hands me a fork and knife. "I need to know your mom is okay before I can relax. Don't you feel the same way?"

  Ever since visiting my father, I could see how easily our marriage could become a reflection of my parent's marriage— two highly successful people in their fields that become consumed in their work and eventuall
y grow to resent each other.

  "I know you didn't have the best relationship with your parents, but she's still your mother. You still love her."

  The words my father said as soon as Ellie left the room seep into my mind. Marriage is a con. It's meant to give us something to aspire to— to make us more likely to be selfless instead of selfish in the hopes that a mate will notice us and commit to us, but it's a con. Two people can't co-exist for decades. People change as soon as they believe they've got you legally bound to them and they continue to change as life happens to them. Statically, one of you will change significantly and you'll no longer be able to love each other because you're not the same people.

  I had walked away from him and toward Ellie because I knew Ellie is what I wanted. But she seems to be already seeing something in me that she hadn't noticed before, and in the last few months we've both been so busy that it already feels like we're falling apart at the seams. It's the perfect opportunity for a poacher like Robin, and I can't blame him for wanting her.

  "Jake?"

  I look up at her. She's got that autumn hair, that pale winter face, the summer swimsuit body, and the spring bright eyes and smile, but there's some season in her that doesn't quite have a name. It's that time when nostalgia and ambitions for the future collide— that time between Christmas nostalgia and New Year's resolutions.

  "Don't you need to know that your mother is okay?"

  "I'm certain she is okay," I state, picking up my knife to start cutting into the steak. She cuts up some of her own steak and takes a bite. A sense of contentment washes over her face, and she smiles at me.

  "This is great," she says. "Thank you."

  "Of course." I bite into my steak. It is impressively good. It's easy to get lost in the flaws of a movie, slowly counting them up every time you see a flaw or hear a criticism, but with food you just get that moment of eating it and deciding if it's good. This is good.

  "Did you and your mother…not get along? Is that why you don't care?"

  I carefully set my knife and fork down. "I care, Ellie. My mother used to disappear all of the time. She found raising me to be too stressful from the time I was born. She found interacting with the nanny to be too stressful. She found telling the housekeeper what she wanted to be cleaned too stressful. I wouldn't be surprised if she left because the idea of calling us to RSVP was too stressful. The only kind of work she liked doing is the kind of work she would be praised as a genius for and have other people's family members talk about her like she's God. That's all she cares about. I can promise you that if I disappeared, she wouldn't bat an eye. I know because I ran away when I was ten, and it was my father that realized it after three days."

  She looks down at her plate, her shoulders slumping, but the anger has excavated me, leaving me hollow.

  "You need to stop worrying about it," I say. "It doesn't matter. She's gone, and if she shows up at the wedding, then she shows up. That's what you're marrying into. If you don't like it, then you can bail now."

  Her head jerks up. She stands up, her chair nearly tottering over as it's slid back. She turns around, pushing the chair back farther and walks out of the dining room.

  I jump out of my chair, following her. "Where are you going?"

  "I'm going to find out what happened to your mother," she says. "You can sit here and not worry, but don't tell me how to feel about anything. Don't ever do that again."

  She grabs her jacket from the hook near the door. As she jerks the door open, I try to find the right words to say, but all I see is all those times my mother left my childhood home in the same way that Ellie is.

  She slams the door shut behind her. The house echoes with her absence.

  * * *

  Ellie

  When I knock on Mr. Amberden's door, my head is still filled with unsaid words and fear over how the words I have said could cause a conflagration.

  I can't lose Jake. He's the only person that has ever known every part of me and didn't flinch away.

  I knock on the door again, almost to a new beat— dun-dun. Dun-dun. Dun. Dun-dun. Some guitar fingerpicking. Maybe a choir of children singing fuck you, fuck me in the background because that's what's been chanting in my head.

  I really can't lose Jake. He's turned me into his depraved little doll, always ready to be taken by him, and I know there's no other man that knows how to turn me from a proud, independent woman whose most scandalous fashion is low-cut dresses to a woman that would get on her knees, begging to be used by him. Settling for anyone else would be choosing emotional, mental, and physical deterioration.

  The door swings open. Mr. Amberden's lips tighten as he sees me.

  "What?" he demands. "Did you want to accuse me of more felonies? I can assure you that if I wanted to harm my wife, I wouldn't have informed you that I hadn't seen her or that I detested her. If I had any desire to get rid of her in such an extreme way, you would have found a crashed car or a suicide note. But I wouldn't do that. Karen will let you know that she suffers every second she's married to me, and I'm determined to prolong that as long as possible."

  "I forgot my sweater," I lie, trying to make my face impassive. "It's just a small cardigan. I think I left it in that bedroom— not yours. The one your wife was sleeping in."

  He blinks several times. I can imagine him trying to return to the memory of when I was here and whether I had been wearing a cardigan, but I know there's a good chance he hadn't paid enough attention to remember my hair color, much less what I was wearing.

  "Come in," he says. "But be efficient. I was watching TV."

  I walk into the house. I follow Mr. Amberden as he walks deeper into his home. He's really a rather good-looking man— the same broad shoulders and muscular build as Jake— but he's not like Jake. Mr. Amberden tries to maintain control of people around him by being an asshole. Jake does it by being an asshole, being relentless, and demanding precisely what he wants. It's quite honestly amazing how aggressiveness can cause exhilaration or annoyance.

  Mr. Amberden suddenly spins around, causing my chest to slam into his shoulder. I take two quick steps back.

  "By the way, I was just in that room," he says. "I didn't see any sweater, but I did see you and Jake vacate the room earlier, and I know Jake wouldn't have entered the room on his own volition, so it must have been you that decided to intrude my wife's privacy. I have one question for you, and it's in your best interest to be honest with your answer."

  I wait, my heart feeling like it's sinking toward my knees.

  "Are you purposefully trying to create an issue in order to get out of marrying Jake?"

  Usually, the shock from his question would get me to stutter or make some sudden movement that would result in me whacking my hand against something hard or tripping over something. But I'm tired. Life has been an emotional circus lately, and I'd prefer to be punched in the face rather than having my emotions juggled. It's good for my music and terrible for every other part of my life.

  "Why would you even think that?" I ask.

  "You didn't answer the question."

  "And I'm not obligated to answer the question," I say. "I'm going to look for my sweater. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean it's not in there."

  I walk past him, and he doesn't stop me. I have no plan here, which is regrettable. I've found that since I started dating Jake, I'm more likely to do spontaneous things, but spontaneity doesn't seem to like me because it always leaves me stuck in a place I don't want to be.

  I open up the closet, hoping Mr. Amberden doesn't catch me. I look in the back of her closet, hoping to find a cardigan that he wouldn't remember his wife ever wearing. I grab a small white sweater off a hanger. It's not a cardigan, but it's at least generic enough that he wouldn't assume it belonged to his wife.

  I look down as I roll it into a ball to make it indistinguishable. As I'm looking down, I notice a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. I pick it up, flattening it.

  IN THE CIRCUIT COURT
OF ZUHLS COUNTY

  COUNTY DEPARTMENT-DOMESTIC RELATIONS DIVISION

  IN RE THE MARRIAGE OF:

  KAREN AMBERDEN

  Petitioner,

  And

  RICHARD AMBERDEN

  Respondent.

  PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE

  Divorce papers. And Mr. Amberden hasn't signed them. It also seems likely to me that he was the one who crumpled it— maybe he threw it at Karen while she was looking in her closet for something. The violence could have escalated from there. Mrs. Amberden asking for a divorce could have easily bruised his ego, or he didn't want people to know he was being left. It certainly seems like he never mentioned it to Jake.

  "What are you doing?"

  I spin around. Mr. Amberden is so close to me that my shoulder nearly hits him again. He snatches the paper from me.

  "What the hell is wrong with you? Aren't most women supposed to try to impress their fiancé's parents? Why don't you mind your own goddamn business?"

  His body is tense, the muscles in his arm protruding like a cat's fur raises when it senses danger. But I am certainly not the dangerous one in this situation. It's a shame this closet is only filled with soft clothes. If I was desperate, I could take one of these wooden hangers, snap it, and turn it into a stake— a relatively decent weapon.

  I reach for a hanger. Before I can lift it off the metal bar, Mr. Amberden grabs my arm. His fingers press so deeply into my skin that I can feel it in my bones. He shoves me hard against the wall. I can hear the photos on the desk wobble from the whole room shaking.

  Jake had me take self-defense classes, but all lessons abandon me as I slap my hand across Mr. Amberden's left eye. He flinches backward, giving me enough time and space to launch my knee upward.