Which he did.
One cold winter afternoon shortly after we began dating, I remember walking through the sliding glass door of our kitchen, a laundry basket of frozen jeans and shirts propped on my hip, to see Hollis poking around in our fridge. “If you’re hungry, you’re out of luck. Pretty sure there’s nothing edible in there.” I wasn’t embarrassed when I said this. His family had money, sure. But deep down, they were just as imperfect and trashy as mine.
Both of us had familial scars that ran deeper than the deepest oceanic trench.
“Not true. There’s a stick of butter, one pickle, and a container of what looks to be” – I hear some clanking around – “moldy cottage cheese.” He laughed and pulled his head back just enough to peer at me over the refrigerator door. And then, he took the pickle – the one remaining, edible piece of food that we had left in our home – and ate it.
But I didn’t care, because it was Hollis. And he could take whatever he wanted.
Chewing, he closed the door and shot me a look of pure admiration. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I had no idea what he was talking about, but praise from him was my favorite form of praise, and I turned away so he wouldn’t see my cheesy grin. I wasn’t comfortable showing affection back then, hated giving someone the upper hand, and Hollis always had to pry my emotions out of me, draw them from me…almost as if he was luring me away from myself so I could be myself.
I dropped the basket on the kitchen table and fiddled with the frozen clothes, and soon Hollis was by my side, flush against my side, wrapping his arms around my waist and tugging me close. “Man, Becca. You’re in it, you know? You’re so fucking in it.”
I pushed him away, laughing, and began sorting laundry. “What are you talking about? In it. What does that even mean?”
But Hollis answered my question with a question. “If I wasn’t taking you out to dinner tonight, what would you have eaten?”
I snorted and tossed aside some socks. “Probably that pickle you just ate.”
Hollis grinned and reached for a pair of my brother’s jeans. They were frozen almost solid, the pant legs stiff and shedding flecks of ice. “Why don’t you just use the dryer?”
“We can’t afford a dryer,” I said, because it was true. I peeled off my leggings while he mulled this over and grabbed the jeans I wanted to wear on our date from the pile. Then, shaking the ice crystals from the stiff material, I proceeded to squeal in dramatic discomfort as I pulled them up and over my hips. I remember the way he watched me, almost like I was something exotic, taboo, and the sexy way his lips curled into a smile made me suddenly want to tug the jeans right back down. At that point, we hadn’t been together very long, but already most of our dates ended in hot and steamy sex.
Even back then, so early on in our relationship, I was addicted to him.
But Hollis’s mind was somewhere else. He grabbed my waistband and buckled the button, slid the zipper up. “You’re in it,” he said again, peering down at me. The laughter was gone from his eyes, but his voice crackled with admiration. “You’re in this life, as is. You, this place, your circumstances.” He kissed my forehead, my temple, and then brushed his lips against mine. “You’re a survivor, you know that? A fucking survivor. I mean, Jesus, Becca. You’re my goddamn hero.”
And I sucked in the compliment as I sucked in his breath, breathed in his scent.
He took me to meet his parents the next day.
I drop off Gus on my way to meet Hollis.
His owners are frumpy forty-somethings, and oh-my-god they’re so beside themselves with emotion when they open the door and see us on their porch that I’m surprised the wife doesn’t melt into a puddle of fucking goo right then and there. Even the husband with the receding hairline and wire-rimmed glasses gets teary; his lenses keep smudging over as I explain my harrowing tale of recognizing Gus from his picture in the paper and chasing him down at the waterfront. I throw in some random creeper who was trying to lure him away, and how I had to use my mace to deter the guy so Gus and I could make our escape. And no, I tell them when they ask. No, I have no idea where he’s been these past several months. And then I shrug when they wonder out loud how he made his way all the way down to Canal Park.
“It’s a mystery,” I agree.
They’re not questioning me, though. Aren’t thinking that I had a hand in his disappearance. That maybe I lifted him right out of their yard and now, for whatever reasons, have decided to bring him back.
Even though that’s exactly what happened.
But today, I’m dressed like Rebecca Cabot Crane, and not Becca Cabot (aka Beautiful Savage). And people who dress like me – with my designer armor – couldn’t possibly be the type of person to steal a freaking dog.
I mean. Come on.
People, man. We always put way too much stock in appearance.
I turn down an offer to go inside for coffee, and flat out refuse the reward – “I just did what anyone would have done, really!” – and get the hell out of there.
And not because I’m worried that they’ll put the pieces together. I didn’t leave any lying around for them to puzzle through.
No. I’m in a hurry because I’m going to meet Hollis.
Hollis, Hollis, Hollis.
I grip the steering wheel so tightly while driving that my knuckles flare white. So many emotions are coursing through me right now; I feel like I could levitate. Fly the whole way to the restaurant of the hotel where he’s staying (because he moved out, he moved out!) and drop into my seat across from him without breaking stride. Or a nail. Or a fucking sweat.
Okay, so maybe that last one isn’t true; I’m a little sweaty. My feelings are rolling through me like one of those suicide sodas your friends dared you to drink when you were a kid. The ones where you filled your cup with every single flavor of pop the machine at fast food joint served, and then chugged, chugged, chugged. (I only did this once, mind you. A classmate’s mother forced her to invite me to her birthday; in retaliation, she and her friends threw down this dare: drink a twenty-ounce suicide soda in one minute. I got sick, of course, but my vomit landed on her new Doc Martins, so it was worth it.)
But I digress.
He didn’t tell me much on the phone. Except that, as I mentioned, he moved out of the apartment he shares with Marla, and that he needs me.
Me.
He also mentioned that he recognized me from a photo that Marla posted on Instagram.
The sneaky, sneaky bitch.
Apparently, she’s been posting photos with me in the background for weeks. In fact, I’m all over her feed. Not that I was aware of it; all the shots were taken without my knowledge. Turns out, when I thought she was taking simple photos of her meals, she was widening the screen, taking photos of everything else, too: random things that randomly drew her short-spanned attention. In one shot, she felt the need to photograph a sign that was right above my head that said Pasta is love, and love is pasta. I remember the restaurant, but not the sign. In the picture, I’m looking away and stuffing my mouth full of spaghetti carbonara.
Pasta is love, and love is pasta.
Fucking Marla.
I haven’t checked her Instagram account lately. Considering how close we’d become, I pretty much always knew what she was doing, so there was no need to scout her out, keep tabs on her.