Beautiful Savage Page 2

  I’ve never had sex in a freezer, though Hollis and I did do the deed in the kitchen of our high school’s cafeteria, where he pressed me up against a walk-in freezer. It was after hours, and we were supposed to be living it up with the rest of our class in the gymnasium, which had been decorated to look like Paris (complete with a flimsy Eifel Tower wrapped in tinfoil and white Christmas lights) for our senior prom. But Hollis and I never liked to conform, thought we were better than the hundred and eight students we graduated with, and opted to say good-bye to our youth in our own way. We shared hits of rum from a flask while Hollis pushed into me, poured into me, my bare back sticking to the freezer’s cool metal, but I didn’t care, didn’t care at all, because Hollis was whispering Fuck, Becca, I love you, I fucking love you into my ear over and over again and giving me more orgasms than I could count.

  I think about this now, think how pathetic it is that the hottest sex I’ve ever had has all been with a man who isn’t my husband.

  When Nicholas and I do fuck, which isn’t often, it’s usually in our bed back home in Minneapolis. It never lasts long; Nicholas usually falls into a deep sleep right after he comes, while I retreat to our bathroom, sprawl naked in our oversized clawfoot tub, hoist my leg over the edge, and finish with my vibrator.

  It’s not ideal, but I’ve gotten used to the routine, of taking care of my own orgasm. There’s a reassuring rhythm to the strokes, a comfort that comes with timing my own release. It’s nothing, of course, compared to what I experienced with Hollis. But everything comes at a price, and this is mine.

  Walking out onto the back deck is like walking into a sauna, not a freezer, and the sudden change in temperature along with the heaviness in the air makes my head swoon. Or maybe it’s the gin. I’ve already downed half my glass, and by the time I slide into the chaise lounge, I need a refill. I pour some more, and after that drink, I ditch the glass, opting to take long pulls straight from the bottle.

  The heat and the liquor have loosened my limbs as well as my mind, and before long, my mood turns from anger-tinged depression to a relaxed buzz, allowing me to re-examine the events of the morning from a new angle.

  I don’t make it a habit to check up on my exes. All, well…both of them. Though you can hardly count Garret, my high school boyfriend that moved away at the beginning of our junior year and wasn’t smooth enough to talk me out of my virginity. The poor guy just didn’t have a way with words. Not like Hollis, who was able to talk me out of it, even while I was dating Garret. Words were my Kryptonite and, back then, Hollis didn’t even have to use his hands to get into my pants.

  I swill more gin and think about this now, about our first time together under an old afghan in his parents’ basement, remembering the gentle way he spread me open, slowly, taking me from pain to pleasure with his hands, his mouth, his voice. I think about all of this as I slide my hand down my stomach, over my smooth mound, spreading my legs wider and wider, hooking one knee over the arm of the chair and pretending my fingers are his. I’m already sweaty, sticky, and as I dive into more wetness, the thrill of performing such a lewd act outside makes me tremble, moan, writhe with want, need. I push in one finger, then two, three before pressing my thumb to my clit, circling it round and round and round. I’m drawing this out, this self-sufficiency, the ability to take charge of my own orgasm. And I am taking charge, arching my back, the sun hot on my skin, its rays like a lover’s caress, its heat a heaviness that’s urging me on, on, on. I’m exposed, completely bared, every inch of me on display out here in our backyard, on our deck, bathed in bright sunlight. A few yards away, the waves of the Great Lake lap at our private beach in the same way I’m imagining Hollis’s tongue lapping at my core, sucking on my flesh, the pressure gentle yet insistent. And when I come, when I cry out his name, I hear another sound. Another voice, deeper in pitch, coming from the other side of our privacy fence. A strangled grunt, crying out with its own release.

  I don’t have to look to know who it is. We’ve had a standing date this past week, this fence peeper and I. Like clockwork, we meet in our backyards, pretending to be unaware of each other yet knowing, knowing the other is just steps away, close enough to touch if we wanted, if we dared.

  I don’t know our neighbor to the left, the only neighbor we have, the one who moved in next to our vacation home a few months ago. I’ve never seen him before, either. Though I have seen his wife, have nodded to her over the hood of my Lincoln Navigator when passing her driveway. She’s a little older than me, though still maintains her appearance.

  I wonder if she does this for him, shares herself in this way? If she lets him watch her when she’s at her most vulnerable, her most powerful? Or if that’s the reason he watches me, feasts on my body, my orgasm, because, like me, he’s unsatisfied at home?

  Either way, it’s nice to be appreciated.

  From the other side of the fence, I hear a rustle of bushes.

  See you tomorrow, asshole.

  I decide to extend my solo trip, visiting the coffee shop every morning, altering my appearance subtly each time I do. One morning, I sport a suede fedora along with a black and white stripped halter top that shows off my toned shoulders, my firm arms. The next, I pile my hair high on my head, paint my lips bright red, and wear a frilly blouse that buttons up to my neck. Yesterday, I went so far as to forgo my glasses altogether, counting instead on a complicated smoky, cat-eye look and tight chignon to mask my identity.

  Each time, I carried with me his book.

  In the end, every single one of those efforts were wasted. Because even though Hollis arrived every morning like clockwork (sans the bitch he married), he never once glanced in my direction. Here I was, a mere twenty or so feet from the love of my life, yet I might as well have been sitting on the moon.

  But isn’t that what I wanted? Wasn’t that the very purpose of shifting my appearance, altering myself in such a way that I could slide in under his radar? Right under his nose? A watcher, able to look but not touch?

  The thing is, I want to touch.

  So this morning, I show up as me. The me I’ve become, that I am now, which is far different from the me that he used to know. But nonetheless, when I fall into my regular seat at eight o’clock sharp, it’s with my usual look: platinum hair down, black V-neck tee, dark skinny jeans. My makeup, artfully applied layers of moisturizer and cosmetics, is so subtle it looks like I’m not wearing any at all. I curled my hair in such a way that, as the waves spill over my shoulders, the soft curves frame the swell of my breasts. My necklace, an antique heart-shaped locket, falls just low enough so that the V of the charm brushes the top of my exposed cleavage. I left my wedding ring at home, and while it might not seem like much (the union it symbolizes is as dull as its diamond is glittering), the absence of its weight is unbelievably liberating.

  I’m subtly sexy, casually sexy, approachably sexy. It’s the sort of style that seduces all men across the board equally, regardless of their preference for hair color and body type. I suppose it appeals to their animalistic nature, this uncomplicated girl-next-door vibe, igniting a hunger that’s always there, writhing just beneath the surface. An alpha always wants to dominate his catch, and dressed like this – innocently sexy, unknowingly sexy – I’m the most delectable prey.

  But I’m a wolf in sheep’s clothing, waiting for her dinner. Every inch of my outfit is designer camouflage, starting with my A.L.C top and trickling all the way down to my Manolo Blahnik sandals. It’s my armor, my security blanket, a way to wrap wealth around me, keep me afloat in a cold world, a cruel society.

  Bite me, and I’ll bite you back. Harder.

  When Hollis arrives half an hour later, I eat up his every move. The way he unpacks his laptop, taking a sip of his coffee while he waits for it to boot. I note the way he squares his shoulders before he sets to work, blowing out a breath and cracking his knuckles like he used to do when we were together. I’m thrown back in time as I watch; suddenly I’m sitting next to him, typing al
ong with him, two writers in love and ready to take on the world. So much about him is still so familiar, so known, that if I narrow my gaze even more, shift my awareness so that it’s remembering with my heart rather than my mind, I can almost fool myself into believing that no time has passed at all. That these fifteen years between who we were and who we’ve become is nothing, nada, and I can go to him now as easily as I did then, back when I’d slide into his lap and lean my head on his shoulder, listening as he read me his day’s work. Through his words, he bared his soul. And judging by the book in my hands, he still does.

  If he’s still the same man – at least, mostly the same man – wouldn’t it stand to reason that he could still love me? Still find me desirable? He always said he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone, more than he ever could love anyone. And when I pretended not to believe him just so I could hear him say it again and again, over and over, he would become more adamant, more fervent with his promise, with his confession that he could never adore another soul the way he did mine. I always dared him to prove it, and he would, pulling me to our bed and worshipping me from head to toe.

  And I worshipped him right back, every damn inch of him. Because that’s who we were. Who we’d always been.

  Hollis and I…we were a flame, an everlasting flame. And though we may have flickered, I refuse to believe that we’ve gone out entirely.

  His wife. My husband. They’re just placeholders. Fillers, random relationships on our journey back to each other. We needed to try out new things, test life’s waters in order to gain the experience we needed, the certainty to fully commit. To know without a doubt that we were meant to be together.

  That we are meant to be together.

  And it’s more obvious now than ever.

  It’s all so straightforward, this line of reasoning, so beautiful in its simplicity that I laugh out loud, a short but sweet chuckle of happiness that shoots all the way down to my toes. This sudden illumination is clarity, a crystal-clear clarity that leaves me buoyant, bobbing blissfully on a sea of hope, of possibility. And surely Hollis will understand this, too. Surely he’ll see the light, appreciate the deeper meaning behind what appeared to be deceitful acts. We always joked that we shared one mind, and I half expect him to look up now, look right at me now, hit with this same knowledge, this knowing, the same revelation from which I’m reeling.

  I squeeze his book in my hands, feel the smooth cover slick against my palms, and think of the signs he left for me in its pages.

  Before I know it, I’m on my feet, brushing past the edge of my table, my fingers trailing along the smooth surface as I go. My heart has turned to hope, turned from stone to hope, and it’s throbbing in my chest, bringing me back to life again. Back from the grave I dug with my own two hands.

  I’m going to him. I’m going to him, I’m going to him, I’m going to him…

  And he’s looking up, up at me, a smile slipping across his face, brightening his features.

  “Hol−“

  “Daddy!”

  I’m halfway to Hollis when something brushes past my thigh, the whisper of a breeze kissing the bare skin of my arm. A dark-haired tornado dressed in a princess costume flies by me in a blur, a whirlwind of sweet smells and bouncing pigtails. I turn my head as the kid throws herself into his arms, turn away just in time to hide my profile behind my curtain of hair as he lifts his gaze to someone directly behind me.

  “Sorry about that.”

  It’s her, his wife, and her apology is a laugh, thrown carefree over her shoulder as she passes, her words emphasized by a quick touch to my arm. She doesn’t even wait for my acknowledgment, her sorry so insincere I’d roll my eyes at her audacity if I was an immature thirteen-year old. I take comfort in the fact that she looks ridiculous, with a gaudy princess-themed backpack thrown over one shoulder and a leather laptop case over the other, face free of makeup and wired rimmed specs perched haphazardly on the top of her ginger head. I scowl at the backpack – at that stupid damn kiddie backpack – before turning on my heel, retreating to my table.

  I pull my fake glasses from my purse and push them over my nose, as if the clear lenses can hide the wetness blurring my vision.

  She has more wrinkles than I do.

  I turn this fact over and over in my mind, taking comfort in the mantra, losing myself to it the way a meditator might lose herself to a Sanskrit chant.

  But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work because, deep down, I know that Hollis doesn’t care about shit like that. About wrinkles and belly rolls and cellulite and saggy tits. He’s a man, and while he appreciates what’s on the outside, he’s always, always been more enamored by what’s inside. By heart, by soul, by an open-minded intelligence and a thirst for wild adventure. Back then, when we were together, he valued non-conformity and a loyalty so fierce it could never be questioned.

  Turned out, I lacked the last two qualities.

  Back then.

  Back then, but I’m different now.

  My values are in check now.

  There’s a hollow somewhere inside of me. It’s deep and vast and full of everything and nothing at the same time. Everything I was, everything I’ve become – it’s all there and not there, flitting in and out of reality, in and out of the void I am, the empty person I am, the one who’s so full of hate some days that I can barely see straight. It’s all there, like a grain of sand in my eye, reminding me of what could have been but never was.

  I didn’t know he had a kid.

  A fucking kid.

  Strangled breaths shudder through me.

  I’m going to give in for today. Let them win…for today.

  The metal legs of my chair scrape the hardwood floor as I push back from my table and stand. I’m louder than I need to be as I pack up my bag (my designer bag because, you know, no goddamn kiddie backpack for me!) and head for the door. A few heads turn my way, though I don’t look back to see if Hollis is one of them. When I get outside, I pull off my fake glasses and squint against the sun, searching through the white glare until I find what I’m looking for. Then, holding my head high, I stroll down the street, through the front door of what can only be described as a mediocre salon, and slap the fashion magazine I picked up earlier that week down on the receptionist’s counter.

  “I need to speak with the best colorist you have on staff. Now.”

  The mirror behind the bar reflects an image I haven’t seen in years.

  I nurse my gin and stare at my reflection, awed at the way a simple change in hair color can so significantly alter one’s appearance. It took tripling her regular rate and the promise of a hefty tip to coerce the stylist to boot her other two appointments of the day so she could spend the next five hours coaxing my locks back to their natural strawberry hue. But when everything was said and done, and I looked in that oval-shaped mirror and saw my younger self looking back at me, I felt rejuvenated. Like life suddenly made sense, and everything I’ve gone through has been to prepare me for this moment right here, right now.

  And for everything else that’s about to come.

  In fact, I’m fit to burst just thinking of it all, sitting here in this dive bar, filled with ripe possibility and so much damn purpose.

  This is the girl Hollis had loved so passionately, the one he claimed owned his very heart in a way that no one else ever could. And while I may have vacated the premises, temporarily abandoned my stake, that heart is still mine. Further proof that whatever space his wife is holding has been, at the most, merely rented.

  I lift my glass, watch my reflection as I take a sip, and smile.

  It’s time I wrote that bitch an eviction notice.

  • • •

  I’m drunk on confidence and wasted on drink.

  My hair is something I can’t stop touching, can’t stop smoothing and running my hands over. The warmer tone makes my skin look even more porcelain, my eyes brighter, a more striking shade of blue. Aside from a trim, I kept most of the length, and the curls
the stylist ironed into my hair before I left are still holding strong, flowing over my shoulders in ginger tined waves.

  Hollis’s coffee shop is directly across the street from the bar, and though it’s well past his morning work session, I stare at it now, a picture of him from earlier sliding into memory, the way his hands flew over his laptop, his forehead creased in thought.

  It was his book that brought me here.

  I read his novel, devoured his words, and couldn’t get him out of my head after. For days, thoughts of him, of us, of how we used to be, swarmed my mind, giving way to an obsession complete with pounding headaches and a helpless fury that I was unable to control. I was filled with bitterness and rage, though not remorse, for I’d suffered too much to lay waste to regret. I was the victim here and, as a result, felt entirely justified in wallowing in my wounded state of existence. But when everything came to a head, when the only balm that would soothe my flayed soul was Hollis Thatcher and only Hollis Thatcher, I left Minneapolis for Duluth in a desperate state, telling myself that to see him, to simply watch him, would be enough. I ached, inside and out, and I needed to find out what he was like now, after all these years. I wanted to know if the object of my obsession still deserved my attention.

  But merely seeing him wasn’t enough.

  It’s not enough.

  Sitting here now, with my new hair and my old look, I’m formulating a new plan, one that started at the coffee shop this morning and matured while I sat in the chair at the salon this afternoon. Although the execution is still up for debate, just knowing I’m moving forward, towards something, towards him, has me feeling better than I have in years. This venture, unlike the phony business excuse I gave to Nicholas before I left, is going to take finesse, persistence, patience, and…time.

  And time, I’ve got. I’m a woman with no real responsibilities and a husband who works so much he’s never home. His indifference and his deep pockets are my saving grace; I’ve earned every penny of what I’m about to use in this mission. This past week has fashioned me into a woman of focus, of stringent determination. A woman who wants change enough to make it happen, regardless of the cost. I’ll be as patient as priest during confession, as chill as a Buddhist monk on a fucking mountaintop at sunrise. From here on out, I’ll bear no doubt, be as smooth as the waters of a lake on a tranquil day and as subtle as a tiger stalking prey on the Serengeti.