Stirred

by Nancy S Thompson

  But, in reality, I’d been too frightened to even consider handling it by myself—a baby, a full load of classes, some crappy minimum wage job. My mom was a proud woman. She’d tried to protect her kids from her harsh reality, always smiling in reassurance that everything was fine when it wasn’t. She thought she was protecting us, but instead, she’d coddled us, and when I got pregnant, I was ill-prepared to handle it on my own. So, with an easy out, right there, staring me in the face, I felt I didn’t have to, even though I knew damn well it came with strings.

  I was very young, but I wasn’t naïve; I knew exactly who Declan Ross was and why he’d married me, and it wasn’t just because he had some silly crush on me, like my friends thought. Nor was it some virtuous act to raise my baby as his own. He’d had ulterior motives, and I’d seized on those in the name of security. I was scared, but I knew what I was doing.

  And therein laid the rub. I made some very poor choices for all the wrong reasons, and now it was too late. I couldn’t unburden myself and hope to change my circumstances. Declan and I had a contract. So, accepting my fate as I had fashioned it, I dried off my face and took a deep breath.

  “There’s not much more to say, Dr. Baylor, not anymore.” I shook my head and shrugged. “I’ve made my bed, and now I have to lie in it.

  It was a number on the calendar, a day like any other. Except it wasn’t. It was the day, the same one I dreaded every year. Only this year was different, the anniversary a big, fat, round number. Twenty years to be exact. And not once during each of those years had I ever marked the calendar with a red X or black circle. I didn’t need a visual reminder. My heart was like a Geiger counter, pulsing with an electrostatic charge as the date drew nearer, the memories stronger, the pain of which was so inescapable, I had no choice but to deal with it, to let the sorrow flow then ebb so I could move on and live another day. But moving on doesn’t mean moving forward. That was beyond me. Sure, my body grew older, my mind sharper, my wisdom more prudent. But my heart—it simply grew harder. My punishment, I suppose, for making the wrong choice.

  Don’t get me wrong—it wasn’t all bad. I’d had many wonderful things happen to me in the years since Jacob and Ivy died. I had the career I wanted. Two of them, in fact, both fulfilling and better than I could have hoped for. My greatest joy, however, was Ian, my son, seventeen years old now and ready to take on the world. Or at least college anyway. He was the one good thing to come out of my marriage, so even though I had many regrets, staying in my marriage was not one of them, at least not in the beginning. I couldn’t imagine life without my son.

  I used to stare at him when he was a small child, curious if he would have shared any similarities with the half-sister he never met. But that was an indulgent thought, because Ian was Declan’s son, not Jacob’s. And I didn’t even know what Ivy looked like anyway. I never saw her before she was buried. At the time, Declan insisted I’d be too traumatized. So I conjured my own image of a vivacious little girl with dark, bouncy curls, kind, mahogany eyes, and a wide, toothy grin, much like Jacob. With Declan gone a lot in those early years, I couldn’t help but daydream about what it could have been like had Ian been Jacob’s child instead, had Jacob and Ivy survived so we could be the family I’d always dreamed of.

  “Jesus Christ, Eden, you’re not going to be all depressed and mopey today, are you?” Declan lamented as he walked into the room, his voice startling me from my memories. He set his briefcase down on the kitchen counter before pouring himself a cup of coffee, into which he dumped two full tablespoons of sugar and three more of cream. Even still, he winced when he took a sip. “Do you always have to brew it so damn strong? It’s like drinking jet fuel, for God’s sake.”

  With my elbow on the table and my chin in my hand, I disregarded his snide comment and offered him a hollow smile instead.

  “Are you coming with us today?” I asked, though I knew the answer would be the same as it had been for the last fourteen years.

  He grimaced, and it wasn’t from the coffee either. “Come on, Eden, we’ve been over this already.”

  “Just a half hour. We’ll lay some fresh flowers, chat a little then maybe—”

  “Chat? Really? To a gravestone?” He shook his head. “No, thanks. Too morose for me.”

  “It’s not just a gravestone, Declan. She’s my child.”

  “Yes, your child, Eden. Not mine. Besides, I don’t have the time,” he added with a glance at his Rolex. “I have back-to-back meetings all day. You and Ian go, have some fun or…whatever.”

  “Fun? You think commemorating the worst day of my life is fun?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know, babe. Whatever. Aren’t you having one of your ladies’ nights tonight?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So you can have some fun then. Talk this shit over with your sister.”

  It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Yeah, somewhere between her drinking and flirting,” I mumbled, knowing Declan wasn’t listening, nor did he care. So I whispered to myself, “Maybe Aurelia will have a little empathy.”

  Declan’s head snapped up. “I’m sure she will. You gals have fun. I gotta go.” He grabbed his briefcase and pecked a kiss atop my head as he passed by, more out of habit than any real emotion, not that I wasn’t used to it.

  While Declan went off to conquer the world of high-finance and corporate raiding, Ian escorted me to Seattle’s Lakeview Cemetery, where Ivy’s tiny casket was interred. It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, the sky clear enough to see from Lake Union, across Union Bay, and over to Lake Washington. We brought a fresh spray of tiger lilies to place upon her headstone, and Ian sat attentively as I babbled on about all the things that had happened since the last time we’d visited. He allowed me another photo of him next to her grave as a way of marking the years since I’d lost her. It was bittersweet, but necessary for me to carry on, and I was greatly comforted by Ian, who, unlike his father, never failed to soothe me through the difficult memories.

  I spent the rest of the day alone after Ian left for school, but it was hard to concentrate on much of anything. I didn’t go into work. The Montessori school I operated ran perfectly well without me most days, and the unfinished manuscript sitting open on my laptop held no interest for me whatsoever. So I puttered about the house instead, straightening up what was already neat, vacuuming away footprints from the already clean carpet, and loading the dishwasher before perusing my extensive dressing room for something to wear out later.

  Tonight was “Ladies’ Night,” a monthly gathering my best friend, Aurelia Wylde, and I regularly attended with our closest girlfriends and my little sister, Emmy. It was being held at Pulido, an upscale tequila bar and restaurant in Seattle’s Belltown neighborhood. I usually enjoyed time out with my friends, but this event landing on this particular day left me rather melancholy. But perhaps Declan was right. Maybe I did need to talk things over with someone. At the very least, I could use time away with a few of my friends.

  My sister Emmy was great on most occasions, but when partying out on the town, flirting became her number one priority. Aurelia could usually be counted on to listen, but she’d been uncharacteristically distracted of late. I knew she was seeing a new guy, and Reely—as we often called her—tended to over-immerse herself in every new relationship, sometimes to the point of losing herself. But, friends since high school, she knew me better than anyone, including what I’d been through with Jacob and Ivy, as well as Declan. There were no real secrets between Reely and I, nothing that mattered anyway.

  Early that evening, Ian left again to join an SAT study group at his high school. Declan had not yet returned home from work, as was usual for him. Most nights, he didn’t get home until after nine or ten. I wasn’t sure whether he simply enjoyed his work and the riches it brought, or if he was avoiding me. Not that I minded all that much. I often did the same.

  Attired in my favorite little black dress, a sexy Narcisco Rodriguez number I hoped would put me in a better mood,
I slipped on my tallest Louboutins and grabbed a sleek, black Hermes handbag, quickly dumping inside the contents from my everyday purse. A glance at the time on my cell told me I was already running late. It also told me I’d missed a text from Aurelia. I pulled it up and read.

  Sorry, Ede, gotta beg off tonight. Gotta sore throat, 1st sign of a nasty cold. Wouldn’t dream of exposing you all. Just wanna sleep the weekend away. Have a great time. Say hi to everyone Mwuah! XO

  Great. I really wanted to talk to her tonight.

  It was a purely selfish thought, one I felt instantly guilty for. Reely was sick, for goodness’ sake. And here I was feeling sorry for myself. With a disappointed sigh, I texted Aurelia back. Get some rest, feel better soon. But the message felt trite and hardly seemed enough. Regardless of how I was feeling, I wanted to be the friend she could depend on to help her feel better, so I thought a little care package was in order.

  Grabbing my car keys, I headed out from my Eastside home in Medina. I crossed the 520 Bridge into Seattle and stopped at a nearby drugstore for throat lozenges, Nyquil, Emergen-C, a trashy romance novel, and a cuddly little teddy bear, all of which I tucked into colorful tissue paper and stuffed inside a festive gift bag. Ten minutes later, I pulled up to Reely’s lakeside bungalow in the city’s Madrona section. I didn’t want to wake her if she was asleep, so I used the key she kept hidden just off her front porch. My plan was to leave the bag on her nightstand so she’d see it when she woke up.

  When I entered her house, I smelled incense burning and noticed the only lights were from flickering candles, one on the entry table and the rest upstairs. It was very quiet at first, until I heard what I thought was Aurelia’s high-pitched sneezing, again and again. Poor thing. I slipped off my heels and hurried up the narrow stairs barefoot, but paused just after stepping onto the second floor landing. That’s when I heard it again, but they weren’t sneezes, and Reely wasn’t alone.

  I giggled to myself, realizing my friend had lied her way out of Ladies’ Night so she could get busy with the delectable James, the latest in her long line of boyfriends. But any humor I felt quickly evaporated when I recognized the unmistakable voice of her companion, and, to my horror, it was not James.

  “Feel that, babe?” he asked in a guttural growl. “Mmm, I know you do. Listen to you squeal.” He laughed, deep and throaty.

  Declan. Goddamn cheating bastard!

  With a pounding heart that felt lodged high in my throat, I slinked through the darkness and approached her bedroom, peering through the gauzy sheers that lined her French doors. Reely was on her feet, bent over the ornate iron footboard of her bed, each hand tied to a corner post and an O-ring gag strapped across her face.

  Kinky. Not Declan’s typical style, but, obviously, I didn’t know him as well as I’d thought—or Aurelia either, for that matter, even though we’d grown up together, attending high school and college as if attached like Siamese twins. Over the years, I’d often thought we were too close, but I’d just remind myself, imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, and move on.

  Still, from day one, it had always felt like Reely was trying to step into my life, to live in my skin. At the University of Washington, she’d joined the same clubs, declared the same major, taken the same classes, and even applied to the same post-graduate jobs. She’d said it was because she admired me, that she wanted us to work closely together, that she loved me like a sister. Back then, I’d been insecure enough to believe every word, but not anymore.

  I was no longer the pudgy sidekick from back in the day. I was a late bloomer, true, but bloom I had, and, as the petals unfurled, the weight dropped off, my skin cleared up, and I learned how to tame my unruly hair, straightening the once-frizzy helmet into long, chestnut tresses that hung in gleaming waves halfway down my newly-svelte back. But not once in the twenty years we’d been married had Declan ever fisted my mane the way he currently was Aurelia’s, twisting her shoulder-length, white-blonde bob so fiercely, her head tipped back a full ninety degrees.

  I cringed at the awkwardness of her pose. No way could she be comfortable, but perhaps that’s what she found so satisfying. There was no doubt my husband found it so. I gathered by the three books scattered across Reely’s bed that they were acting out some secret Fifty Shades fantasy. One of the tomes was opened, yellow highlighter striped across the worn, white pages. And collected in the center crease laid a smattering of little blue pills that had fallen out of an amber prescription bottle.

  Well, that would explain Declan’s red face and the unexpected speed and ferocity with which he battered Aurelia’s lily-white ass. His sharp fingernails left angry, crescent-shaped lacerations on her hips, at least on the one I could see. But if Reely minded him marring her perfectly smooth skin, she didn’t let on.

  “Yes,” she ground out in pleasure, then, “Say it. Say it!”

  “For Christ’s sake, Reely…” Declan begged as he worked her from behind.

  “Say it now!” she ordered through the O-ring in her gag.

  With renewed force, Declan put exaggerated effort into each thrust. “‘I want you sore,’” he ground out, straight from the pages of E.L. James. “So every time you fucking move, you’ll think of me.”

  “Yes, yes! All of it!” she commanded.

  “‘Only me,’” Declan recited. “‘You are mine!’”

  Oh, for the love of God! Can they be any cheesier?

  Christ, if it wasn’t my own husband quoting that passage, I’d have bent over laughing. However, with circumstances such as they were, the whimsy of the moment was lost on me. It just felt too surreal, as if every planet had freakishly aligned, and not in a good way either. More a moment of blinding clarity, like a puzzle piece that—once slipped into place—allowed me to see the big picture for what it really was—a goddamn clusterfuck of astounding implications. But, like a freeway pile-up, I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away.

  Not the reaction I would’ve expected had I known what I was stepping into. Maybe I should’ve screamed or wailed or, at the very least, sucked in a sharp breath of disgust. But that would’ve required a deep level of affection I no longer possessed. So I just stood there, staring, as my husband plowed into my best friend. Strangely enough, I couldn’t help but think, Wow, he never tried that with me.

  Declan had always been a bit prudish in our bed—traditional, missionary, quiet for the most part, strictly dutiful, and, weirder still, never fully undressed. Yet, there he was, naked as a dancing African, pummeling Aurelia Wylde from behind, and I don’t mean doggy-style either. And Aurelia? Well…she appeared to be enjoying it. Remarkably so.

  I found that curious, as well, because Aurelia portrayed herself as the most puritanical among our group of ladies, a term not all that appropriate for her anymore. Not that she ever completely had me fooled. I’d caught glimpses of some shamefully dark corners in Aurelia’s otherwise spotless mind and had pulled away in response. I think, deep inside, I knew all along that something wasn’t right with Aurelia, that something had changed between us. But I’d ponder that some other time. I was too distracted by the scene playing out before me.

  Aurelia moaned in rapid pants with each of Declan’s driving thrusts, until finally, with a strident grunt, he shoved himself so deep and hard, he lifted her lithe five-foot-six-inch form clear off the floor as she screamed one last sob that tapered off to an animalistic mewling I found more than a little disturbing.

  Declan’s toned body shuddered as Aurelia’s weight pressed against his thighs, and her tiny wrists appeared ready to snap in two beneath the thin, silk cords leashing them to her bedposts. As his trembling eased, she relaxed and leaned back against his freshly manscaped chest. Her head lolled along the top of his well-hewed shoulder, and their lungs heaved in excited synchronicity, as did mine, oddly enough.

  Normal feelings would dictate an angry, visceral response. A lot of screeching, nails clawing, spit flying, and vile insults spewing from lips drawn over tightly clenched teeth. But so t
otally not my style. I was contained, had been for a while now, my feelings for Declan having long ago declined into little more than dutiful commitment. Regardless, I was still fuming inside, but I doubt it was for the same reasons or to the extent most wives would feel at the sight of their husbands sodomizing their so-called best friend. But that just wasn’t me, not anymore. And that, in itself, was the core of my resentment, not the betrayal, but the lack of emotion behind it—for either of them—that, over time, I’d been diminished, whittled down to a whisper of the wife, and friend, I used to be.

  After Declan lowered Reely back to the floor and eased out from between her thighs, he leaned forward and started grappling with the impossibly tight knot on his lover’s wrist restraint. That was my cue to vacate the premises, hopefully before they noticed me spying on them. I tiptoed backwards a few steps then turned and padded quickly out the way I’d come, not ten minutes ago. I jumped into my Beemer and took off.

  And to think I’d gone there on a mercy mission.

  I ground my teeth and stomped on the gas, speeding through the city on my way to Tequila Pulido. I was barely aware of stoplights or speed limits as the scene at Aurelia’s played over and over in my head like a skipping DVD. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling though. It wasn’t jealousy or betrayal; I knew that much. When I tried to put my finger on exactly what it was, all I could come up with was disappointment, not so much in Declan or Aurelia, but rather myself.

  I’d never deluded myself about my husband. Our marriage was one of convenience, for the both of us. At the time, I’d considered myself lucky. Declan had everything going for him—wealth, looks, brains, charm—but he was also controlling. Back then, I was just grateful to have a man’s name and protection. And I knew—with money not being an issue—that I wouldn’t need to work a regular nine-to-five. I could just write full-time if I wanted to. That was my dream, and Declan had been my conduit, and, in the beginning, I did write. Or at least I tried.