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 along 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.