Hollis runs his nose along my cheek and chuckles. “Yeah, well. This place has character. It’s inspiring. The perfect fucking setting.”
The perfect setting? For what?
But before I can ask what he means, his prodding fingers find their way between my legs, and when I squeeze them together, he hooks his ankle around my calf and pries them apart.
And I just go with it, because this is Hollis, and isn’t this exactly what I wanted?
Him to want me?
My body responds even though my mind doesn’t, and Hollis growls in triumph when I reach down and grab him. Before we get very far, my stomach grumbles again, and this time a hint of nausea rises with it. The back of my throat tightens, and I swallow down bile. But Hollis is behind me now, bent over and panting in my ear, and the way he’s pushing into me tells me he’s past the point of return. So I do what I can to spur him on, using every filthy phrase I have in my repertoire to bring him over the edge.
And when he finally, finally finishes, and when the howling in my stomach reaches a crescendo, I skitter from the bed and into the bathroom, barley reaching the toilet before the bile that’s been burning the back of my throat surfaces. It’s not much, because my stomach is completely empty, and afterwards, as I’m bending over the sink to rinse my mouth, I find that I can’t stop shaking. Pressing a wet hand to my forehead, I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
It’s just all so much, too much, and it happened so quickly, so…effortlessly. I wasn’t expecting to win Hollis back like this, with barely a grovel and not any sort of a fight. He fell into my lap so easily, almost too easily: him reaching out to me, needing me, and not caring much if anything about the disengaged way I left him all those years ago.
If the situation was reversed, and the shoe was on the other foot, I don’t think I would have been so quick to forgive. As ready to open my arms as Hollis was when I saw him yesterday, face to face for the first time since our bitter, bitter breakup. But he didn’t care, not one bit, and even looked at all the crazy things (because yes, they were crazy) that I did this summer as signs of devotion. I mean, I stalked the guy, dressed up so he wouldn’t recognize me, snatched his daughter’s stuffed animal, and even befriended his wife under false pretenses just so I could poke holes in his marriage. And hell, he doesn’t even know about the damn dog I stole from some poor shmucks’ backyard just so I could have a prop to support my web of lies.
All of that just to get to him.
And he doesn’t find it…weird?
Possibly, he views my actions as a twisted form of approved penance rather than devotion. But even so, it’s…odd. Strange, but now that I think about it, I would have rather he put up a fight, even if only a little one.
Is it possible he wasn’t as hurt by my leaving as I thought he was? Have I been laboring under false pretenses all this time, melodramatic in my assumption that I had to prove myself, tear a hole in his life in order to worm my way back in?
Or is this just me being paranoid…looking a gift horse in the mouth?
By the time I leave the bathroom, Hollis is sitting up in bed, still naked, but writing madly. Another flicker of annoyance rises when I see this, but I push it away, instead weaving through the discarded clothes on the floor, searching for my shirt. I spot Hollis’s before mine, though I fling it aside without thought. Which is weird, considering how much I love slipping into one of Ford’s black tees after sex, oftentimes even wearing it home so I can hang onto the feeling of him for as long as I can.
Hollis still hasn’t said anything, hasn’t even asked if I’m okay, which is pretty infuriating considering he had to have heard the retching sounds coming from the bathroom just moments ago. So, in retaliation to his blatant obliviousness, I’m louder than I need to be as I tromp around the room, finding and dressing and rummaging in my purse for a brush. I sigh as I drag the bristles through my hair, and sigh again when I chuck it back in my bag.
“You okay?” he asks, not bothering to lift his attention from the computer screen.
I frown, because something tells me he’s not asking about what happened in the bathroom. He senses a moody woman, and the weariness in his tone bolsters my annoyance. Already we’re ping-ponging off each other, unpleasant responses to unsavory actions. Foreboding creeps through my stomach, a slithering resentment that stirs the acid already churning in my gut.
“My stomach is upset.” I muster fortitude gained from years of living with Nicholas, where I swallowed my feelings as easily as a glass of gin, and clamp my tongue between my teeth to keep from saying anything else. Inside, though, I’m seething.
I’m far angrier than I should be about this. I know it. I know it, but I can’t help it.
Hollis doesn’t stop typing. “There’s some leftover pizza in the fridge.”
I bite down harder, if only to keep my jaw from dropping. “Leftover pizza.” It’s not a question, merely parroted disbelief.
“Pepperoni. Extra cheese.” Hollis pauses, scrunches his brow, gnaws on his lip. Then, a corner of his mouth kicks up, and the typing resumes.
I watch him. I watch him and can’t believe it. Can’t believe what I’m seeing.
Taking a deep breath, I think of the water. Of Lake Superior’s deep waves and rocking surface and wild pulse. There’s tranquility in its aggression; there’s an order in its chaos. In its most primal state, it’s beautifully savage.
Like me.
So I stroll over to the fridge, open it, and eat the goddamn pizza.
The goddamn pizza.
Oily and greasy and with the consistency of damp cardboard, it now sits in my stomach like a foul lump of yuck, heavy and threatening to come right back up.
I lean against the headboard, press my lips together, and try to think of something, anything, to keep my mind off the queasiness. Hollis is in the shower, so running in and puking is the absolute last thing I want to do.
It’s barely ten in the morning, yet I feel like I’ve been up for hours and hours. My lids keep drooping, my body feels heavy, and all my movements seem thick and sluggish. And as much as I detest this used-and-abused bed, all I want to do is crawl under its covers and sleep for eternity. And then sleep some more.
So I do, sliding down and tucking the rank blankets under my chin. I figure I’ll rest for a minute, only a minute, and keep my ears trained on the sound of the water in the other room, promising myself I’ll get up when Hollis finishes his shower.
But when I peel my eyes open, the light seeping through the drapes has dimmed, and the shadows have shifted-wriggled from one spot in the room to another. There’s an empty air to the place, a dead weight to the silence sitting in my ears.
No longer do I hear water rushing in the bathroom, and no tell-tale signs of rustling indicate the presence of another person anywhere in the room.
It doesn’t take long to know I’m alone. Years of marriage have instilled in me the ability to feel into the emptiness of a room, to suss out the lack of another’s heartbeat, another’s breath. It’s the sort of hollow that rings loudly, so loudly that, sometimes, it feels as if the very absence of sound might rupture my eardrums, leaving me deaf.
But something tells me I’d still hear it, even then, that fucking void.