But what if the key to getting Hollis back isn’t, as I first thought, getting back in his good graces? I’m starting to realize that I could be the most desirable woman on the planet, and that still wouldn’t enough to lure him away from his family. He’s always going to put the kid’s happiness first.
The kid, the kid, the goddamn kid.
It’s clear what I have to do. As clear as a blue sky on a fucking cloudless day.
I need to break Marla. Make her an unfit mother. I need to drive her so far off the rails that Hollis has no other choice but to take the kid and leave.
I shove the takeout sack into my oversized tote bag, slurp a long sip from my root beer float, and start back for Ford’s place with a new spring in my step. Gus trots happily beside me; surprisingly enough, he doesn’t seem to be missing his old life.
Realizing how cute he is, I bend down and pat his head, tell him he’s a good dog and promise him loads of treats when we get home. It’s because of him that I have this new insight, that the zest for my initial plan has been rejuvenated. I’m back on track, better than ever.
Despite Marla. Despite the kid.
Despite Ford and his gorgeous eyes.
Gus licks my hand, and I feel loved, so damn loved, that my fucking heart sings.
So animals, right? They’re really not so bad. Maybe I’ll keep him.
After all, Hollis did say his daughter wants a dog.
The only way out, is through.
But first, I need to get in.
Into the belly of the beast.
With this thought, I snort back a laugh. Which is stupid, because here I am at laughing yoga, and laughing is the one thing I’m supposed to be doing.
So I tilt my head back and let it rip.
I’m still high from seeing Hollis yesterday, from hearing his voice and learning of the frustration he holds for his wife. This is welcome knowledge. It’s pure power and motivation. And I’m not letting anything distract me. Okay, so I did let Ford fuck me last night. But I closed my eyes and pretended it was Hollis the entire time.
How’s that for devotion?
The music crooning from Marla’s boom box today is of a mixed bag. Already I’ve heard songs from New Kids on the Block and Lady Gaga. Right now, it’s The Black Eyed Peas, and the dozen or so dancing bodies around me are eating it up.
This is lame.
But I think of Hollis. I think of Hollis and remember why I’m doing this and wiggle my ass, acting just as ridiculous as the rest of these clowns.
“Lion call!” Marla hollers over the crowd, and we all roar like a bunch of wounded jungle animals.
The kid bounces by me, carrying a new stuffed animal (a lion, if you can believe it). She looks at me and brandishes make-believe claws. “Rawr, rawr!”
She has Hollis’s eyes, Hollis’s dark hair. But her skin is fair like her mother’s, and she has this little heart-shaped face with round cheeks that I could just pinch. Her bangs are too long and hang in her eyes, but the rest of her hair is pulled out of the way in a high ponytail.
I make a scary face and roar, pretending to swipe at her with claws of my own.
She laughs – like a kid this time, and not a lion.
Apparently, I’m not as frightening as I thought.
I watch her bound away, and when I look back up, Marla is smiling in my direction. She nods and waves, and I return the gesture, because today I’m a laughing hippie, approachable and friendly and ready to bond.
The rest of the class is idiotic, and by the time it’s done, I’m sweating like a pig. Who would have thought laughing (fake laughing) could be such a workout?
I swipe the back of my arm across my forehead and listen as Marla reminds us to grab some cookies and sugar-free lemonade before we leave. She claps her hands together and beams. “Skye used carrot pulp for the cookies, so they should be delicious!”
Gag.
I ignore the group gathering around the picnic table and head instead for my tote bag, thinking only of the sugar-laden lemonade cooling in my water bottle. I unscrew the lid and am just about to take a big swig when I see Marla approaching. She gives a shy little wave and then, when she sees she has my attention, her face splits into a wide grin.
I cap my bottle and mirror her expression.
“Just checking in to see how our newbie enjoyed the class.” She laughs, the same laugh that I heard at the coffee shop all those weeks ago. The same laugh that haunts my dreams, not to mention some of my waking hours.
Like nails on a chalkboard.
It’s all I can do not to cringe. “I did.” My voice sounds too monotone, too mechanical, so I bump it up a notch. “It was so much fun.”
God. I still sound like a robot.
But Marla either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “That’s so good to hear. I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She sticks out her hand. “I’m Marla, by the way. Marla Thatcher.”
Her hand is sweaty, and when I take it, I try not to think about what she does with it when she’s in bed with Hollis. “Bec…” Shit.
Marla tilts her head, her gaze questioning.
Realizing that I can hardly give her my real name, yet also realizing that I pretty much just did, I quickly rush on. “Uh, Becky. I mean, Rebecca Beckett. But everyone calls me Becky.”
Oh, for the love of…
“My parents obviously had a sense of humor.” I force a laugh (as if I haven’t done enough of that already) and shrug like an idiot.
“Becky Beckett,” Marla parrots. She purses her lips. “Sounds like a superhero name.”
“Or a supervillain.” I snort, laughing at my own joke. Because, you know, it’s sort of the truth.
Marla doesn’t get it.
Shaking my head, I sigh. “Sorry, it’s been a long week. Hence, you know, the reason I’m here.”
Marla nods. “Tell me about it.”
A few seconds pass awkwardly before she motions toward the rest of the group, the majority of which are clustered around the picnic table bearing the healthy, sugarless, flavorless treats. “Are you staying for the after party?” She says after party like it’s a joke, making a face as she does.
I scrunch my nose. “Nah. I’m not really into…what did you say they were? Carrot pulp cookies?”
“Don’t forget the lemonade.” She smirks. “It’s sugar-fucking-free.”
I raise my brows, and Marla slaps a hand over her mouth, muffling her laughter. As if she hasn’t been, you know, laughing like a damn hyena for the last hour. Now she feels the need to stifle it.
“Sorry. But yeah, I totally understand. I can’t eat that shit, either.” She gives a fake shiver, and I laugh – a real one this time.
Marla, Marla. Who are you?
“Anyway,” she continues, blushing. “I hope the class helped. Lifted your spirits, at least.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Laughing yoga did absolutely nothing for me. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe…
Marla notices my pause, calls me out on it. “It didn’t do shit, did it?”
I shrug my shoulders. “Honestly? No. Not really. I mean, it was fun and everything,” I lie, not wanting to offend her. After all, I need her to like me, to trust me, so I can eventually screw her over. “It’s just that…”