Other Side of Beautiful (A Beautifully Disturbed #1)

by Sarah Zolton Arthur

  My parents met at USC. Dad really loved Cricket but she never reciprocated his affections. Still, he stayed around as a friend hoping that one day she’d change her mind about him. But Cricket only cared about appearances. When the guy she’d been in love with broke her heart, she turned to my dad, I explain to Ben. He wouldn’t take advantage of her like that, but she needed to feel wanted and used my dad for a couple of weeks. But the joke was on her when she found out she was pregnant. She resented my dad for knocking her up and refused to talk to him even though by all accounts, he tried desperately to be there for her monetarily and emotionally.

  Ben moved the shifter back into drive, merging back onto the highway and continued driving. “I think you could use some cocoa,” he says through a tight smile. We drive only a few more miles when he turns down a dirt path not remotely visible unless you knew to look for it. The Jeep moves seamlessly along the bumpy terrain until we hit a small clearing where we stop alongside a—well—shanty? It looks far too small to be considered a cabin.

  “Where are we?” I ask. He doesn’t answer, getting out of the car and coming around to open the door for me. “You’re not going to kill me and dismember my body or anything?”

  “The place belonged to my grandfather. I come here a lot to think or write. It’s peaceful. I’ve never brought anyone here with me, not even Collin. C’mon, let’s go in.”

  We walk to the door of the corrugated metal hut, the place being so remote, he hadn’t even locked the door since the last time he’d been here. Without a glance back at me, Ben starts loading wood and kindling from a box on the floor into an old pot belly pipe stove. The pipe leads to a hole cut out of the wall where a chimney presumably would be on the outside. He strikes a long match from a stack sitting next to the wood box tossing it in. The kindling flames immediately, catching the wood underneath. He closes the door turning back to me.

  “There,” he says. “I’m going to start the cocoa now. Please—” He smacks his arms against an old sofa several times, the dust puffing up, dancing in the air. We both start coughing until it settles back down on the floor. “—have a seat.”

  Ben takes the kettle outside. I watch from my spot on the sofa as he, with a little spade grabbed from a hook hanging on the outside wall of the shanty, shovels snow into the kettle.

  Back inside, the potbellied stove heats the space at the same time melting the snow into a boiling liquid. Steam rises out of our mugs as he fills them three quarters of the way full then adds two heaping spoons of cocoa mix to each. Miniature marshmallows bob up and down like buoys in a chocolate sea spreading into the air already laden with the smell of heat and burning cedar.

  “Tell me something about your childhood,” he says. “Something happy.” He takes a seat next to me on the age-worn sofa.

  “That’s hard.”

  “Was it really that bad?”

  “You don’t know Cricket.”

  “I’m beginning to think I don’t want to.”

  “Beginning?” We’ve been friends since freshman year. He ought to be clear about his dislike for that woman, about never wanting to meet her. I never want him to.

  “What was that?” he asks. “That look?”

  I ignore him, turning back instead to his original statement. “My dad, he and my grandma took me up to the island when I was a girl. Only once. But I remember it as one of the happiest times of my life. We rode in a horse drawn carriage, toured the fort. We stayed right on the island. He took me on a haunted tour at night. My grandma freaked out, said that was nothing to expose a child to, but I wasn’t scared. He held my hand the whole time.”

  “Is that who your story was about? In group?”

  I nod. “My dad loved me, you know.” It’s another truth I can give him. As hard as it is to give. He should know how much I miss my dad. Only time has passed. “That was the last time someone loved me.”

  Ben’s normally oceanic-colored eyes dull with what comes across as a jumbled mixture of hurt, sadness, and confusion. “Don’t,” I say. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity.”

  “I told you before, I don’t pity you.”

  “Then what? What’s with that look?”

  “Shit, Elle—I want to be that man. I can’t say those words. But let me be that man you don’t feel you deserve.”

  Chapter 32

  Ben

  “Maybe I just don’t deserve.” That’s what she says to me. This beautiful woman who deserves so much more than I’m capable of giving her now. And I hate myself a little more. Why? Why can’t I give her what she needs to hear? Words and emotion, they’re who I am, they’re what I do. No matter how much I berate myself, they won’t come. But she does deserve. I have to make her see it, somehow.

  “Maybe it’s only your perception.”

  “Yeah well, we are what we want to see, don’t you think?”

  “Fair enough. Then the trick is choosing wisely, what we want to see.”

  “It’s hard. You have no idea. You’re the first—I want you to see me.”

  Someday I feel like I’ll look back on today as some major turning point for us, whether good or bad I haven’t decided yet. I hope good. I hope when we leave here she’ll really know what’s in my heart without me having to say it out loud. I have to touch her. Reaching over to brush a finger down her cheek, I stop to tuck a stay hair behind her ear. It’s my thing, one of them at least, a thing to show affection. And every time I do it, there’s that first time feeling about it. I take her and myself for that matter, completely by surprise. “Brontë, I’ve always seen you.”

  “No. You’ve seen the Elle I’ve shown you.”

  “I may not have gotten through all of you yet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see you.” Here’s where I sit in all earnestness, actually willing her to believe me. “I see the Elle who sings out loud in the courtyard at school when she thinks no one is around to hear. I see the Elle who bites her fingernails down to nubs when she’s concentrating. I see the Elle whose eyes retreat to some far off place when she’s feeling alone.”

  “How is it you see all that when no one else does?”

  “Because I choose to look.”

  “Because you choose to look?” she says to me. “Like it’s that easy or simple. Nothing in my life is easy or simple. But no matter how hard I fight to keep my defenses up, they crumble around you. They always crumble around you. I guess it’s why I end up saying inappropriate things.” Elle hangs her head. Inappropriate things? Nothing she’s said to me has ever been inappropriate. Just because I can’t say them back doesn’t make them fucking inappropriate. My thumb brushes tenderly along her cheek. And then I lean in, nudging the tip of my nose with hers until our mouths align and brush the softest kiss against her lips, placing her whole hand against my cheek, resting our foreheads together. Careful not to spill my cocoa sitting in my lap.

  “Do that again?” she asks.

  “You never have to ask twice.” And my mouth closes over hers, filling me with sensation and emotion—butterflies and raw nerve endings—once again. The kiss deepens, my tongue parting her lips, taking refuge in the companionship of hers. She tastes of chocolate and marshmallows.

  Never breaking the kiss, I move our cocoa mugs to the end table on the other side of me and lift her to straddle my lap. While one hand stays against her cheek, the other tickles up and down her spine, mixing between drawing tiny circles and stippling finger tracks, because I know how much it relaxes her. Another one of my things. A moan, a deep and throaty moan that I hadn’t expected leaks out slowly from the bottom of her chest. My hand stills then trembles.

  “God, Elle, please make that sound for me again.”

  “You…never have to ask twice.” She smiles against my lips at our little word turnaround. And where my hands and lips travel next, starting below her earlobe and tracing down the length of her jaw, erupts another round of noises which make me so glad it’s Elle I fell for.

  Tell her…Tell her she�
�s not the only who feels it, who feels…love. I start to do it, to tell her. But right as the words are about to leave my mouth she stills in my arms. I only flipped us so I could get her undivided attention. By flipping us around and lying her back on the sofa, she’s stopped responding, completely. I hold myself hovering over her. The words that come out aren’t the same words as before.

  “Babe, what’s wrong this time?”

  “I know what’s going to happen next.”

  She doesn’t trust me. How am I supposed to tell her how I feel if she doesn’t trust me yet? As I look down at the beautiful woman, her soulful eyes looking so scared I know I can’t tell her. She has all the power here, to not just break my heart but demolish it. Self-preservationist mode kicks in. I cannot say those words until she trusts me completely. She thinks she knows what is going on in my head, I’ll go with it.

  “If you don’t want to, just tell me. You know I’ll take all the time you need.”

  “That’s what you don’t understand. I do want to. But you’re going to want to look at me. And Ben, you can’t. You can’t look at me because then you’ll know.”

  “Know what?”

  “The truth.”

  “What truth? What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means the truth, about me.”

  “Does Kelly know the truth?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m careful.”

  “You know what? You say you trust me, but you don’t. Elle, you’re stalled. You can’t move forward with your future if you don’t actually move. Can you do me a favor?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

  “I said I’ll try.”

  “Let me see you—all of you.”

  “No.”

  “Not now. We’ll work up to it, one piece of clothing at a time.”

  “I know what you want from me, Ben.”

  “No. I don’t think you do.”

  “I hear you talking, the words you want me to believe. But there are things I want too. Like to be loved again. We don’t always get what we want. You know it. I know it.” Instead of starting the argument I’m sure will come from trying to get her to understand, I close my mouth. I mean, I brought her here. To a place I’ve never brought anyone else. I’m trying so hard to tell her in the only way I can.

  She stares out the window.

  “Hey. Hey.” I gently shake her. “Come back to me.” The words pull her to me again. “We’ll start slowly. How about your shirt? I’ll take mine off too so you don’t feel as vulnerable.” We both laugh softly because we’d already be naked if she wasn’t so vulnerable.

  Her hands shake with an 8.6 magnitude, but now is the time to be kind, patient. Folding my hands over hers we work the buttons together. Slowly. When we’ve finished the last button, I look at her. “Ready?” A slight head nod is all she manages.

  “I’m not a virgin, but I didn’t even take my clothes off. He just pushed my skirt high and felt me up under my blouse. No other human being has seen as much of me since I began bathing myself as a child. Not going to lie, I’m terrified of what you’ll see when you look at me.” It guts me to think how that prick messed with her head. She deserves to be worshipped like the goddess she is. Every inch of skin worshipped in reverie. And that’s exactly what I plan to do.

  The shirt slips from her shoulders with very little coaxing from me, letting the fabric puddle beneath her. I study every inch of exposed skin without a sign of disapproval because she’s soft, all peaches and cream. I know my eyes light up traveling the length of her body, how can they not? She’s exquisite. Her breasts are exquisite. I admit to spending a good amount of concentration on her chest, hugged tightly and plumped in that lacy black bra. What I see when I look at her—only the most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the privilege to know.

  “May I?” I ask, licking my lips. She nods again. It’s just a second, a split second before my lips rest against the swell of one breast and then moving slowly a trail of kisses to the other. My heartbeat quickens from the contact and never lets up. I have to make it last, moving my hands slowly, cupping and caressing her tender-most spots. This woman makes me feel so much. I’m high. No drug could do more for me than her. She gathers the hem of my shirt, sweeping it up over my head. She’s seen me shirtless before, but now is different. Now, is different.

  Not much in my life could compare with being here with her. I keep my word, not pushing for any more than I think she’s ready for. We’ll go slow or we’ll go fast. Whatever she needs. Tonight is about Elle, for Elle. To get her to trust in me, trust that I won’t let her down. The kisses move from her breasts back up the column of her neck, stopping to nibble at the pulse point, then continue the sensuous assault, contrasting between the deeply intense to barely touching her.

  These are the ones that I love the most—little air brushes against her skin—so soft, so delicate, the sounds she makes, happy, nervous tickles of air. Just like Elle, they mix uncertainty with seduction, floating over me in wisps of innocence. Her favorite spot, which has quickly become my favorite spot, behind her ear and along her jawline, mimics those same tickling sensations from my trailing lips and light stubble.

  She leans back, opening her neck to me again and on the back of a shallow breath whispers, “Tell me about your family.”

  “I already did.”

  “But there must have been some good times. Tell me something happy from your life.”

  “You sure you want to hear it?” Elle shakes her head yes, me absolutely wanting to share the memory with her.

  “Well.” I clear my throat. “There was this time when a girl I’d been absolutely crazy for finally let me kiss her.” At first she’s all ‘what the hell’ until she realizes what I’m talking about.

  “Did it happen in Chicago?”

  “It did.”

  “At a concert neither of us will ever admit to having seen?” she asks. I just smile innocently, flashing her my dimple. “I said something from your childhood that made you happy.”

  “No, what you said, and I quote, ‘tell me something happy from your life.’” Brontë tries to shove my shoulder but I dodge, grasping her hand midair. Dropping my forehead against hers, I whisper against her cheek. “That was the happiest I’d been up ‘til that moment. And Elle, it just keeps getting better.”

  “How can you say that?” My head is spinning as she pushes to sit up on her elbows. I hate that she can’t just let go. That she can’t believe me. The stubborn woman needs to look at me, she needs to see how serious I am, and I shift so she’s lying semi-spooned next to me so we can see each other’s faces. “You’ve gone backwards, given up the big show for what? A blowjob? I’m a neurotic woman who can’t take her clothes off in front of people. You do realize how many sane women you could’ve had by now? You’re going to sit here and tell me blue balls make you happy?”

  I laugh at her. She fucking makes me laugh at her. And I feel like an ass about it because I know she’s totally being serious. Elle looks like she wants to cry, the ugly, angry, frustrated kind of tears. Then slaps my chest. And I let her, but grab both her hands, affectively trapping her next to me.

  “First off, I don’t care if you can take your clothes off for people. I care about you and me. And if you look down, you’ll see you took your clothes off for you and me.” Of course she has to argue with me, but I switch to holding onto her wrists with one hand, putting the other over her mouth to silence the nonsense spewing out. “Secondly, no, blue balls specifically don’t make me happy, but there are ways to take care of that myself. Our progress, here, makes me happy. You have to know, those other ‘sane’ women,” I use those air quotes again, “With them, it was just sex. Just sex.”

  What she says next makes me want to beat the shit out of that point guard and then take down Cricket, and I don’t hit women. “I’m scared, Ben.”

  “I know. I know you are, baby.” There’s a long pause because what else c
an I say? She won’t believe it no matter how sincere I am. There has to be a way to start getting through to her. For real. For good. “C’mon.” An idea finally comes to me. “Get up for a sec.”

  The sofa pulls out into a bed that gets made with clean sheets, blankets, and pillows I’ve pulled from a vacuum bag, taking one corner while she takes the opposite. Then we both slide in, snuggled closely against one another in this safe space created for the both of us, in a place as private to me as my own mind, yet feels so absolutely right to let her in.

  “Will you tell me more of that story? About your dad?”

  “Sure. You know, I feel like you’re actually meeting him.”

  “I am.”

  There’s nothing more to say about that. I feel like I want to cry for her, not that I will. One of us has to keep the emotions in check. And honestly, I didn’t think I could dislike her mother more than I do until Elle tells me, “You know she wanted an abortion?” That’s it. Before she can continue, I need to feel her again, taste her again, show her how glad I am that she’s here, putting real power behind that kiss. When I pull back, she touches her lips, looking a little dumbfounded, but the corner of her mouth quirks up, and I motion for her to continue. “Cricket called my dad. He begged her not to. It had nothing to do with love for me, but in her one act of kindness for him, clearly she didn’t. The day I was born, she reminded me every day of my life, she never even held me. My dad stayed in the waiting room. She sent me with him. What kind of mother won’t even hold her child?”

  “Elle, you know that’s all on her, right? It’s not you?”

  “Yeah, well, Dad couldn’t be a single father and stay in California. It was too hard, so he left school and moved back here. My grandma helped him out, took care of me during the day. Long story longer, my dad and grandma died when I was six. We were on Lake Huron, big storm hit. Coast guard could only save me. A five hour flight later they dropped me on Cricket’s doorstep. She’d married and divorced the douchebag who’d broken her heart in college, leaving her with boatloads of cash from the settlement and child support, and the most beautiful three-year-old ever created, the most beautiful three-year-old created in her likeness.”