“Becca.” Ford frowns, the expression transforming his features from flesh to stone in seconds. The water has darkened his light hair, and his eyes are the steely color of the lake, containing within them depths just as unfathomable. He’s beautiful here, in his element, like an oceanic god who thrives in wild seas that easily devour mortal men.
My heart stutters, and it’s not from the cold.
“Please?” The begging feels good, like a relinquishment of control. There’s relief in it, this need for permission. In letting someone else take the reins for a while. The anticipation I get while waiting for his answer is delicious.
Ford doesn’t smile, and I kind of like it when he doesn’t. He’s all hard edges and firm spirit, somehow larger when he’s the one who holds my desire in the palm of his hand. For a moment I forget Hollis, forget Nicholas, forget about my plan altogether. Right now, Ford is my focus; he’s all I can see, all I can feel.
“Please.” Just a whisper this time. Though I’m starting to realize my request has little to do with staying out on the water and everything to do with…with…something else entirely. A ghost of awareness hovers, though it’s still too ethereal to fully grasp.
“One more try.” He says this with a sternness that makes me bite my lip, bite back a smile and a swoony sigh.
I nod and allow him to glide me over the waves, back in place, and then watch as he pushes away, treading water off to my right.
“Just relax,” he says, and though his voice is soft, the words come out like a command rather than a suggestion.
Determined, remembering that Hollis appreciates an unrestrained sense of adventure, I assume the position and…roll. Like the last three times, my heart rises in my throat, though only briefly, and I’m able to swallow it back down with a new resolve, a fortitude I didn’t even know I had. The water is thick, the pressure suffocating, but I force myself to remain calm, remain present. I don’t think about the precarious angle from which I’m suspended, nor the fact that one desperate inhale would be the death of me. Instead, I think of Ford, of his kind eyes and dark intensity. Of his unwavering belief in me, a woman he met only days ago yet already seems to have so much faith in. He’s a light to my inner world, chasing away the fear, the doubt. Gritting my teeth, I maneuver my paddle to a ninety-degree angle, snag water, pull, and snap my hips at just the right moment.
When I pop up out of the water, I do it with a little squeal of excitement, the sense of accomplishment to enormous to contain. “I did it!”
Ford is smiles, all smiles, and he slaps the lake’s surface with his hand before swimming over to me. “I knew you could!” Pressing his palms against the kayak, he lifts himself up slightly, just enough to brush a kiss over my lips. Then, he moves his mouth to my ear. “That’s my girl.”
His voice is a husky whisper, one that makes me swoon. Right there, atop the wobbling waves, I fucking swoon. Pulling back, I shoot him a look. “Is that what I am, Ford? Your girl?”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah, Becca. Fuck yeah, you are.”
Marla uses the hashtag blessed, like, all the fucking time.
In fact, she posts to her Instagram account so much that, at any given time of the day, I know where she is and exactly what she’s doing. Some of the photos contain Hollis. Almost all of them contain the kid. Quite a few images display meals – both homecooked and of the restaurant variety. From the looks of it, Marla is fond of her crockpot.
Set it and forget it.
Because Marla is a busy girl. Her life is full. She always has something going on, some place to be. Yesterday it was ballet class with the kid, who was so decked out in pink tulle it made my ovaries twist. Apparently, the class is preparing for an end of the summer recital, though the tiny dancers could barely be coaxed into paying attention to the teacher much less maintain the sort of focus needed to perform complex ballet movements. But no one seemed to care; everyone was laughing and smiling and having the best fucking time ever. Marla filmed a portion of the class (of course she did) and uploaded it to her Instagram video feed (of course she did), which I watched no less than twenty-seven times.
Annoying, annoying, annoying.
Today Marla is teaching yoga. And not just any kind of yoga. Laughing yoga.
I mean, good fucking grief, right?
I’m scrolling through her account when the new image pops up, one of her and the kid, and the class is right there behind them, waving, all of them waving and so damn merry it makes me want to puke. The timestamp below the photo shows that it was posted one minute ago, and the caption practically screams: Laughing Yoga at the waterfront! Come on down!
I recognize the location; it’s just down the street from Ford’s building. From what I’ve learned, Hollis and his family live in the same area – the coffee shop where he writes and Ford’s apartment along with the bar where we officially met are all within the same four block radius. Many of Marla’s photos feature the industrial, loft-style apartment that she and Hollis share, and by studying the shots from various angles, I’ve pinpointed the exact building they’re in. I’ve walked by it a few dozen times but haven’t ventured inside yet. (Stupid doorman.)
It’s a little past eight on a Sunday morning, and silence fills the apartment. The quiet is relaxing, but just knowing that Marla is out in the open and so close is hard to resist. I pull myself from Ford’s bed, doing my best not to disturb him, and throw on one of his black t-shirts along with a pair of leggings. Quiet as a mouse, I wind my hair into a bun while slipping into my sandals. Then, snagging my sunglasses from the kitchen bar, I tip-toe to the door. Remembering that the metal hinges tend to shriek if opened too wide, I give the knob a gentle twist and push myself through a crack barely large enough for a child much less a grown woman. But I fit, sucking in what little gut I have, and the door falls shut behind me with a whisper.
Now that I’m out of Ford’s earshot, I pick up my pace, flying down the creaking stairs and through the front lobby, the soles of my shoes scraping against the concrete floor as I jog-skitter across it. I slam into the glass doors, pushing my sunglasses on as I go. Once outside, I force a few deep breathes and slow to a fast walk in the direction of the lake. It’s not far, and suddenly I’m there, right there, quicker than I anticipated. Marla and her hippie students are spread out in front of me, all laughing and rolling their hips and making windmill motions with their arms. There’s a bench a few yards away, and I make my way over to it, plopping down and pulling out my phone, pretending to be so engrossed by what’s on the screen that I can hardly be bothered to look up. But I do, just enough to slide my eyes their way – her way – so I can watch, watch, watch. I take it all in, the way Marla laughs, her voice ringing out above all the rest. The kid wonders between the people, clutching a stuffed animal to her chest, and they all cackle harder when she does something cute, something kiddie, like bouncing on the balls of her feet or dancing to the music crooning from a ghetto boom box on the ground next to her mother.
It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes at this utter display of ridiculousness. The idiots wiggle their bodies and clap their hands and bounce around like they’re drunk, and all the while their mouths are hanging open like fish gulping for air. The kid is having a blast; now she’s up by her mother, circling her hips like she’s working an invisible hula hoop.