The spotlight of the upturned lamp casted behind him, like a fallen angel—dark, glowing with sweat, heaving, hungry, lustful.
This would not be long. This was a man establishing his territory. This was animal. This was primal.
He climbed on top of me, and guided himself into the warm clench of my entrance. We both let out careless groans as I tensed around his steely hardness.
Bobby thrust into me hard, almost angrily, as I held on, wailing as he impaled me over and over. But I welcomed the attack. I wanted him to let out the angst and confusion I knew lived in the pit of his belly. All the loss, the death, the guilt, the missed opportunities. Wounds he had a way of making look like they were nothing. But they were something. I knew Bobby felt every bite, every sting, maybe even more than most others could.
Bobby could be gentle, but he could also be firm. That's what I loved about him. He was fluid. He stepped up when he needed to. He did the things that hurt when he had to. But being the person who carries the burden takes its toll. And I wanted to be the one to take the pain away, even if it was just for a few minutes.
It felt too good, and it only took a few thrusts before Bobby was growling curses in my ear, his body going rigid in my arms as he grunted. As he claimed me once and for all.
We crammed into the dingy motel shower. Our spirits had lightened. The conflict still existed, but now we had a life to look forward to. One that wasn't an unending apology for feelings we couldn't help.
We stepped under the surprisingly strong stream of water together, washing away the blood and sweat.
“How's your head feeling?” Bobby asked.
“A lot better, thanks to your medicine,” I smirked.
“Tomorrow, on our way out, we should stop somewhere to check it out. Just in case.”
“If it'll make you stop asking me to, then fine.” I grabbed the teeny bar of motel soap and lathered it in my hands, tracing sweeping circles along his chest. “Are you going to turn Rory in tomorrow, or was that an empty threat?”
“I don't know, Lil,” he rued. “I don't know what's right anymore. I just hope he does it himself so I don't have to be in that position. Or you.”
“I know it's the right thing to do but . . . it's Rory.” Despite everything, Rory was still family. We were both raised to protect family at all costs.
“Yeah. I know,” Bobby said soberly. “How are you feeling about Barbie? I know what she did was terrible, but for all her faults . . . you were friends.”
I tried to go to that place inside of myself, to remember Barbie as a woman with children who like all of us, was sometimes good, sometimes bad. But my emotional energy had been exhausted and I couldn't summon her. Only the idea of her. I didn't think she did what she did to hurt me. Barbie was many things, but mean-spirited wasn't one of them. I think she was just looking for a way out of her perfect hell as so many of us were at the time. “It doesn't feel real. I don't know how I feel about her right now. But I never wanted her to die. And I know Rory didn't either.”
“Of course not. But he left her there. I've seen people die—a lot of people. It's hard to leave someone to die. I'm not sure it was as hard for him as it should have been. But, God, I hope it was.”
I carved a heart shape into the suds on Bobby's chest. “Could we not talk about this all for while? I just want to be here with you. Make this room is our bubble.”
He smiled. “Of course, beautiful.”
Bobby massaged shampoo onto my scalp as I swatted away the paper-thin curtain that insisted on clinging to us.
“That's what happens when you stay in these world-class accommodations,” he joked.
“And what in the hell is that?” I pointed to a burnt orange stain at the base of the curtain.
“Probably blood,” he offered casually.
“What?” I yelled, flicking my hands at the curtain to keep it away.
“I'm kidding! I'm kidding!” he shouted through laughter. “My guess is rust got on it somehow, probably from rubbing up on the drain. Or blood.”
“I think it's time for us to get out of this gorgeous bath,” I proclaimed, flinging the curtain to the side. We stepped out, dripping wet, and dried ourselves. I put on his shirt and he stayed naked, which I did not protest to one bit. We laid on the bed together.
“So what are we going to do next?” I asked.
“I still want to drive you out west. We can make stops along the way. Then . . . we'll go up and down the coast. Then wherever the wind takes us. Asia or South America maybe.”
“Wow, so much adventure,” I exclaimed. My stomach grumbled astonishingly loud. I gripped my torso and laughed out of embarrassment.
“I take it you're hungry?” Bobby asked sarcastically.
“Would you believe me at this point if I said I wasn't?”
“Good point.” He rose from the bed. “Well, you are in luck, Lil, because not only does this motel include accommodations such as violent shower curtains and possible murder scenes, but I have some bread and peanut butter.
I crawled over to the end of the bed where he stood. “Oh my god,” I heaved. “Please feed me!”
Bobby pulled out a nearly finished loaf of bread from his bag and a jar of peanut butter. He grabbed tissue paper and laid it on the table using it as a surface to prepare my sandwich.
“Here ya' go, ma' lady,” he said, bowing as he handed it to me. I snatched it out of his hand and took two huge bites. “Do you wan bite?” I cackled as crumbs spilled out of my mouth. “Ma mouf is stuck on da peanut butt-er.”
“No.” He winked. “You feast. I'll polish off the jar. And I'll get a Coke at the vending machine so you can swallow again.”
A minute later he returned with the drink, turned on the TV and smacked it on its side a few times until a decent picture came in. Then he plopped next to me onto the hard mattress.
I rested my head on his shoulder taking another bite. “Will it alway be like dis?” I asked through peanut butter mouth.
He turned to look at me. “If this doesn't make you happy. If you want to settle down at a—”
“No,” I smiled. “Dis is perfeck.”
I stirred when Bobby turned and wrapped his arms around me from behind. The shades were drawn in the room and I had no idea what time it was. I turned to face him and his eyes were shut, but then one popped open playfully.
“Morning, I think,” I groaned through a yawn. “Do you know what time it is?”
He reached behind him, feeling for the alarm clock. “It's uhhhh,” he squinted at it for a while as he brought it close to his face. “Eleven . . . seventeen . . . eighteen.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah. I haven't slept like that since I was a teenager.”
“Me neither. And it's a sauna in here.” I stretched out like a cat, inhaling the scent of Bobby from his shirt. I buried my nose in the collar to get more of it.
“Whatcha doing? He asked.
“Smelling you.”
He pointed to himself. “I'm right here, Lil.”
“I know, but I'm greedy.”
“Me too,” he said, rolling on top of me and burrowing his nose into my neck. It tickled like heck and I couldn't stop laughing. Bobby popped his head up. “So, what do you say? Breakfast?”
“I'm starving,” I lamented. “But I don't want to go into a restaurant around here and see anyone. I've got this bump on my head, and everyone knows everyone around here.”
“Makes sense. Why don't I just run to the little grocery around here? Get us some more bread and P.B.? We can find something further out for dinner.”
“That works for me,” I smiled.
“And whenever you want to hit the road, we can. I don't know what I want to do about Rory, but I don't even care anymore. I just want to get out of here with you.”
“Me too,” I agreed. “I hope he turns himself in. If not, we can decide from there, I guess.”
“I still want us to stop at a doctor though. That cut is ugly. Even on
a pretty face like yours.”
I rolled my eyes. “Ugh, yes, yes!” I reassured Bobby.
“Okay,” he sat up sharply, “off I go to feed my woman.”
“Yes, go hunt me some bread, you caveman. Oh do you need your shirt?” I asked.
“It looks too sexy on you to take away. I'll just throw on a t-shirt.”
I admired the view as Bobby slid on some jeans over his naked bottom and a white t-shirt over his long torso. He put on some beaten black oxfords.
Bobby glanced over and caught me staring at him. I didn't realize a smile was plastered across my face until he smiled back.
“Come here,” he said, reaching his hand out. I took it and he pulled me to my feet so that I landed against him. His other hand rested on the small of my back.
“You make me happy, Lil. And we are going to live a hundred lives together.” He smiled as he placed the words against my lips.
“A million,” I murmured back.
“Okay, a million,” he smiled, popping a quick kiss on my lips. “Alright, I need to feed you before you get vicious,” Bobby announced as he headed for the door. “Bread . . . peanut butter . . . anything else?”
“Something to drink? Maybe some fruit?”
“You got it, Lil,” he said with a wink.
The door shut behind him, and I sat back on the bed, a satisfied sigh escaping my chest. This is what it felt like. To be on the cusp of the life you dreamed of. To feel so full of possibility and potential. To look at someone and feel like your heart might stop beating because it couldn't handle the swell of joy. To want the best for someone else, who in turn wanted the best for you. For your heart to overflow with love for someone and know just by looking at that person, that theirs did too.
That's when I heard the shots.
We think we know what's happening in our world. That at any given moment, we have a pretty good idea of where we stand with the people we know. That we truly understand our story as if we could narrate it like some omniscient being. But even in our immediate world—the people we see daily, the places we go, the experiences we have—we only see what we want to see from what people choose to show us. And so we only see a fragment of a fragment. Just an angle of any given moment. And that moment is a prism, giving off so many different shadows and colors.
We only see the things we want to see.
I thought I was the only person with secrets: my secret hell, the secret lover who had died and then had come back to life. I was so involved in my own secrets, that I missed a crucial part of my story.
It all started when a handsome mysterious stranger driving a beat up pickup showed up at my doorstep. The neighbors silently wondered who he was. He didn't dress like everyone else, he didn't carry himself like anyone else. While Barbie had been cheating on Stan for a month already, Stan didn't really begin to become suspicious of her behavior until about a few weeks ago. He had been traveling quite a bit and made it a point to pay more attention to see if his gut was right.
That's about the time when Beth Anderson, my next door neighbor, peeked through the fence to find Bobby naked and wet, alone with Barbie. It had to be the most exciting thing to happen to Beth that day, because by that evening, when Bobby walked Barbie home, and the bored women peeked out their windows for the show, the rumor mill had already begun.
Barbie couldn't stop mentioning Bobby to Stan. How he was a war hero, and he had traveled the world. How fun he was and how excited Rory was to have him back. How he had taken Lilly out to Chicago to dance with the negroes. How the women spent their days watching him do yard work for his sister-in-law, admiring his firm, sweaty body while their husbands softened at the office.
Stan got a hold of their phone bill and noticed many calls to a number he didn't recognize. A lake house owned by the Lightlys. Stan got around to asking Rory if he had been up there recently because he was thinking of buying some property, and that's when Rory told him no, but his brother went up there for a couple of weeks recently to fix the place up.
Then Barbie disappeared from the crowd on the Fourth of July, and Stan went back to the house looking for her. He spotted Bobby emerging discretely through the back door, breathless and sweaty. Then he peeked into the empty house and saw his wife coming downstairs.
And yet, Stan wasn't ready to confront Barbie. Barbie was his world. His attractive, tall, blonde, younger wife. His prize. The mother of his children.
Then he got the call. Barbie had been in an accident. He needed to get home right away. It wasn't looking good for her.
He sped to the hospital. She never woke up.
The police told him a man was with her who fled the scene. They wouldn't comment on who. It was because they didn't know. But talk moves faster than sound and when he found out the Chesterfields' boys were the first people on the scene, he stopped at their house. He was golf buddies with their father who was happy to help the distraught man.
The boys told him what they told the police. They weren't sure, because it was so dark. But it was a male—tall, brown hair. They said it kind of looked like Rory, but it couldn't have been Rory. He wasn't in town. His car wasn't in his driveway. Rory was Stan's friend, he was one of them. It had to be the suave guy who had paraded into their town, who piqued everyone's interest and made a mockery out of their lives just by his presence. Whose arrival coincided with his wife's disinterest and distant behavior. The nigger lover. Now, that guy would be the type to swoop in and steal women. Besides, Rory and Lilly were the perfect couple. Two good-looking folk from good families. Rory was the responsible brother with the stable job. Bobby was the vagabond who dropped out of college. And why would any man step out on a woman as beautiful as Lilly?
When Stan asked more, they admitted it could have been Rory's brother. And when he kept asking, they became sure it was.
Stan went back to his house. The next morning, people had already begun to stop by with food and condolences. But not Lilly. What did she know? She knew her brother-in-law had done it. Her car was out front, but she remained holed up in that house. A few “helpful” neighbors mentioned they saw her helping Bobby pack his things in a hurry.
Stan saw how protective she was about Bobby at that dinner, when she snapped at him for the jabs he took at her brother in law. Of course she would help him get out of town.
So Stan got in his car and thought maybe he'd get lucky if he went looking for the son of a bitch. Because he was so afraid of losing Barbie that he didn't step up and protect her when he had the chance. But now he would make things right. So he drove and drove until he spotted Bobby's signature truck, parked at a lonely motel.
We see what we want to see.
And this . . . I never saw coming.
At first I thought it was leftover fireworks from the fourth. No. That's not true. I told myself that's what they were. Because I felt like the clock had finally stopped. The countdown had reached zero. I knew this was not innocent child's play.
I ran to the door and flung it open. And that's when I saw Bobby on his knees, clenching his abdomen, his white shirt growing red.
Stan stood behind him, holding the gun, but his eyes were glazed over.
“Stan!” I screamed in a blood-curdling voice. “What did you do? What did you do?” I cried, running to Bobby as he slumped to his side.
“Lilly?” Stan murmured, seemingly ripped out of his trance. The sound of footsteps and murmurs coming towards us scared Stan away. The gun slipped from his hand. He ran to his car and sped out of the lot.
I laid Bobby onto his back, cradling him in my arms.
This couldn't be our story. I finally had him. We wagered everything. We paid our dues. We suffered. We earned our chance.
“Call an ambulance!” I yelled to those who ran over. “You're gonna be okay, Bobby,” I wept, placing my hand over his, pressing down on a wound.
His eyes were open, and he was still coherent. “Lilly, listen . . . I need you to call Will.”
“Don't talk like th
at,” I rebelled against his tone of resignation.
“Lil . . .” his eyes were warm and comforting despite the obvious pain he was in. “I was supposed to die on the hill . . . but Curtis gave me the extra time to find you. To tell you I never left you.”
“Stop . . . you're gonna be fine . . .” But his face grew whiter, while white on his shirt had all but disappeared.
“I got so much more. These were the best weeks of my life. And I got to have all of you for a day. So I'm gonna be okay . . .” His voice dissipated. I patted his face frantically to keep him awake.
“No!” I shouted. “You don't get to leave. You are the best part of me, Bobby.” I sobbed into his neck. “I'll have nothing left.” I cradled him back and forth like a baby. Like I could nurse life back into his body.
His eyes opened again, as if he had used sheer will to stay a little longer.
“Promise me . . . you won't . . . stay. You won't get pulled back in. Live a . . . hundred . . . lives for us.” His words came out in staccato bursts as his chest quivered.
I didn't want to promise. Because that would be accepting that Bobby would be gone.
“No . . . you have to stay.”
“Promise,” he rasped.
I nodded. “A million.” Those words I had just uttered to him minutes before were full of promise. They were a vow to support each other in living our lives to the fullest. To making up for the years we lost. To sharing our lives with each other. Now, they were comfort to a dying man. Now they would become a responsibility I had to shoulder alone. They were a solemn oath.
“Will . . .”
I nodded, assuring him I would follow his instructions.
“You promised you wouldn't leave,” I cried into his ear.
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