No Fear

by Darcia Helle

  It’s already day two. Five more to go. Then what? Return to the city and the smog and another year wished away in exchange for one week of vacation.

  “I hate my job.”

  I say the words aloud, though Brian doesn’t hear them. He’s still plugged into his phone, a collection of favorite Mp3s rotating through the earbuds.

  I spent four years in college, because everyone says that degrees are necessary if you expect to support yourself in the future. I graduated with a business degree, a lot of debt, and, thanks to the economic collapse, no job prospects. For the past three years I’ve worked as assistant manager at a Walmart, where both the employees and the customers rarely smile.

  Brian rolls onto his side, props up on his elbow, and grins at me. “Wanna get wet with me?”

  His voice is loud because he’s talking over the music in his ears. I pull out the earbuds, returning his grin despite my overall irritation. “I don’t think you intended that as a group invitation.”

  His face is flushed from the heat and the sun. He takes my hand and leads me into the ocean. The water is cool and his kisses are warm. I kiss him back, splash him, laugh. I make all the right moves while feeling all the wrong emotions.

  Back at our hotel that night, we have sex. The truth hits me hard. We’ve lived together nearly a year. We share meals and a bed. We have sex often. But we’ve never made love.

  What are we doing together?

  Something attracted us to one another. A physical thing. Chemistry. The right height. The right color hair. A perfectly placed dimple. Happy eyes. Full lips.

  What holds us together?

  Time. Convenience. Comfort.

  I like Brian, even love him. As he lies beside me, snoring softly, I realize for the first time that I am not in love with him.

  Or maybe I’m just cranky. Overtired. Expecting too much.

  Close my eyes.

  Sleep.

  Wake up.

  Do it all again.

  I’m in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when Brian comes in to pee. He doesn’t wait for me to finish, just stands there with his back to me while he splashes into the toilet bowl. This is how it is with couples, I think. I liked it better when we had a bit of mystery between us.

  He gently slaps my ass before reaching for his toothbrush. Vacations are supposed to be this way. Playful behavior. Enjoying each other’s company. He grins at me through a foamy mouth and I suppress a sigh as I spit out the last of the toothpaste.

  Breakfast is heart attack-inducing overindulgence in a crowded and noisy room full of vacationers. We all eat as if pancakes and pastries are a rite of passage. Gaining ten pounds is proof of the perfect getaway. Then we’ll go home and diet for two months in the hopes of losing the excess weight we’d been so proud of.

  Return to the beach.

  Apply sunscreen.

  Lie on my back.

  Roll over.

  Repeat.

  Brian is lying on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his phone in one hand. He’s posting photos on Facebook; the view from our hotel room balcony, me at breakfast, the ocean, the ubiquitous selfies. He assures his friends, who are actually strangers, that we’re having a great time. I’m sure they’re all relieved to hear this news. They ‘like’ his photos and he feels rewarded. I lie on my towel watching him interact with people who aren’t here, while the people around us go about their day as if we don’t exist.

  And maybe we don’t.

  Irritation scratches at my nerves.

  It’s almost noon when I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. I just need to move.”

  He shrugs, but it’s a good-natured movement.

  I’m leading the way. I don’t realize where my feet are taking me until Brian says, “What is it with you and this place?”

  We’re back near the mound. The breeze carries the scent of long-dead flowers and lost generations.

  “I don’t know,” I tell him. “It’s peaceful here.”

  He pulls me into his arms and whispers about things he’d like to do to my body up on that mound.

  He’s surprised when I snake my hand down his shorts, but the move shocks me even more. I’ve never had sex in a public place. Never even wanted to. But something about this spot makes me yearn for a connection I can feel.

  The sex is quick and frenzied, leaving us both breathless. Finished, we readjust our clothing, laughing all the while. I feel both lighter and more grounded. I wonder if he’ll share this tidbit on his Facebook status, and the thought, oddly, leaves me grinning.

  “I don’t know what it is about this place,” Brian says, “but we need to find a spot like this back home.”

  His voice holds the promise of forever. And maybe he’s right. Maybe our connections with each other, with the earth, with time and space and eternity, are meted out in moments of passion that can’t be planned or explained. Maybe it isn’t all pointless, after all.

  Chance Encounter

  Falling in love in the midst of chaos is both easy and complicated. Anxiety and fear bring a surge of adrenaline that tangles with emotions, elevating passion to ridiculous heights. This relative stranger lifts you above the madness, suspending you there, and you call it love. You know none of the little things about him that, taken together, can add up to a big mistake. But the kiss is electric, and you live only for that moment when you can rip each other’s clothes off.

  Eventually, the chaos subsides. Providing you live through it, you’re dropped into a state of normalcy that can feel mundane rather than comfortable. You know it is unreasonable to expect the intensity to last. Yet, you can’t help but wonder if love is supposed to be dull. Perhaps you have settled into what true love should be. Or perhaps what you mistook for love had been an anxiety attack.

  These thoughts drift by as I stand in the doorway observing my husband. Three years into wedded bliss and I want to stab him just to inject some excitement into our night. He’s wearing threadbare pajama bottoms. Nothing else. The rock-hard six-pack he’d had when we met is now a little paunch that wiggles like Jell-O. He’s still handsome, with his playful hazel eyes and quirky smile, but he’s traded the bad-boy edge for contented softness.

  I should appreciate that he loves me enough to be at ease with our life together.

  Or so I tell myself.

  He’s sitting on the sofa with his bare feet propped on the ottoman, scrolling through the romantic comedy movies list on Netflix. I’m supposed to be making us popcorn. I mean, seriously, how much more settled can a couple be?

  Anton and I met almost three-and-a-half years ago. A chance encounter within another chance encounter.

  Bank robberies are television cliché, I know. Typical people don’t expect to find themselves inside a bank when someone walks in with the intention of robbing the place. The average person doesn’t even walk into a bank these days, much less think about a robbery taking place while they’re inside. People do their banking online and at ATMs. The chances of making a connection with anyone inside a bank are slim, much less making that connection during a robbery.

  And who even robs banks nowadays?

  Yet that is exactly how Anton and I met.

  Standing here in my kitchen, three years, four months, and twenty-seven days after that chance encounter at the bank, I feel a sudden urge to throw all the pans through the window just to create a little chaos. Instead, I take the hot air popper out of the cabinet, set it on the counter, and go about making popcorn that Anton and I will eat while we watch a romantic comedy.

  Is this really my life?

  I get butter from the fridge. The least I can do is drown the popcorn in saturated fat. Risk high cholesterol. Live dangerously.

  I take the warm, buttery mass into the living room and set the bowl on the sofa beside Anton. He grins at me and says, “Thanks, Babe.”

  Once, not all that long ago, I’d have pushed the popcorn aside and straddled h
im. We’d have torn at each other’s clothes as if our skin was on fire. No way to get undressed fast enough.

  Not tonight.

  I sit beside him and stuff my mouth full of popcorn slick with butter while he starts a movie I don’t want to watch.

  Why am I so edgy tonight? I like movies. I even like romantic comedies. It’s not like Anton is forcing me to endure endless hours of self-help infomercials.

  That day in the bank, Anton had been wearing a tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and a black silk tie. He’d been carrying a briefcase; a black Balenciaga with a price tag well over two grand. I remember how my heart did a stutter-thud at the sight of him. He radiated confidence, and there was no denying his sex appeal. I used to tell him that his smile could turn a straight man gay.

  Today, his pajama bottoms are a muted plaid; pale blues and grays. The material is soft. I’ve worn them before. After sex, when pulling on his favorite pajama bottoms and snuggling by the fire felt like a warm afterglow.

  Anton laughs at something on the screen. I hadn’t been paying attention, but I smile anyway because I don’t want him to know that I’m a million miles away.

  That day in the bank, I’d been wearing torn jeans, sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt. Unlike Anton, I was not dressed for success. I wasn’t someone you’d remember. When I saw Anton, I suddenly wanted to be the kind of woman who wore Manalo Blahniks, form-fitting black cocktail dresses, and stood by his side, arm-in-arm. I wanted to be the kind of woman he’d remember.

  I first set eyes on him moments before the adrenaline surge within the bank. My pulse had already begun to race at the mere sight of him. My mind was bombarded with desire and self-doubt. He had me so undone that I’d almost backed out the door at that moment.

  I wasn’t the type to get weak-kneed, falling all over a man, and my reaction to Anton irritated me as much as it aroused me. The irritation drove me forward, into the bank, to take care of the business for which I’d gone inside. If I’d followed my initial inclination and backed out, I’d have never known the kind of white hot heat that can spontaneously erupt between two people. The anxiety and the adrenaline rush colliding in sexual attraction, smack in the middle of the unknown, during a time when passion and certainly sex should be the furthest thing from a person’s mind.

  We didn’t make eye contact. Not right away. Not until a hushed squeal came from the redheaded teller and the bank manager rushed toward her. Not until after the security guard by the door tried to play hero and shots were fired and there was blood on the floor. Not until the screaming sent a shiver up my spine and Anton sidestepped the growing puddle of blood. Then he looked at me.

  His touch brings me back to the present. He pulls me close and I rest my head on his shoulder. He still smells like danger, or what I now associate with danger. The same cologne he’d been wearing that day in the bank. The scent relaxes me.

  We live in a sprawling, ten-room home, on a small, private island, with the ocean stretching out behind us. We bought the place last year—or, I should say, Anton bought it. My name is also on the deed, but I didn’t contribute a dime. Anton likes to joke that he has more money than the Federal Reserve. Neither he nor I ever need to work a single day. We traveled and searched until we found this place. Our retirement retreat. I’m twenty-eight. Anton is thirty-two.

  We live in paradise.

  And I can’t stop this restlessness vibrating under my skin.

  I realize Anton has been watching me. He pauses the movie and says, “What’s wrong, Lyse?”

  My name is Elyse, but he has always dropped the E at the beginning. I give a little shake of my head, try on a smile, and say, “Nothing’s wrong.”

  He tosses the remote on the ottoman and turns to face me. “Tell me.”

  I see the concern in his eyes. The love. I melt a little, reminded of all we have together, all we are to each other. I’m being childish.

  This restless nature makes me impulsive. I need to grow up.

  I don’t know what made me rob the bank that day. The challenge, I suppose. I knew I wouldn’t walk out with a ton of money. That only happens in the movies. I could probably get more from a convenience store at the end of the day. Yes, I needed money. I always needed money back then. Money, though, was not the primary incentive. It never was. I thrived on danger.

  In the pocket of my hoodie, I’d been carrying a Kahr Arms P380, a small handgun that only weighs a little more than a half-pound but packs a serious punch. The redheaded teller had smiled at me and I’d pulled the gun from my pocket. Told her I wanted all the cash in the drawers. Should have been quick and simple, according to the scenario in my mind. Honestly, I hadn’t thought it through all that long. As I mentioned, I tend to be impulsive.

  Her squeal got the security guard’s attention, which set him in motion toward me. He’d apparently seen the gun in my hand, had pulled his own, was moving toward me with the thing pointed center mass. I’d have taken a gut shot, or maybe he’d have hit me dead center in my heart, taken me out right there and then.

  Except that didn’t happen.

  I heard commotion, turned, saw a woman with a horrified expression pulling her young daughter toward the exit. I saw the guard, heard him shout.

  And then the gunshot.

  Not my gun.

  But I was still standing.

  The security guard went down. Just sort of melted to the floor. Blood soaked through his uniform top, a crimson explosion on his chest.

  Anton caught my eye and grinned. He held a Kahr CM9, a small 9mm, weighs just under a pound. I’d fired the gun before, on a range. Loved the way it felt in my hands. I suppose I have a thing for Kahr weapons. And men who carry them.

  Anton bent down and scooped up the guard’s gun, a Ruger P85. Not a gun I’d waste my time with, but functional just the same. Regardless of my opinion, the thing would have killed me.

  He yelled at the mother trying to escape with her daughter. Told her to move away from the door and lie on the floor.

  The bank manager held his hands up in the air. The teller threw up on the desk, splattering the window separating us.

  I was ready to run. Adrenaline rushing through me. God, Anton looked so damn sexy standing there, so at ease, not even a bead of sweat on his forehead. I felt a surge of heat race through me, and that’s when I fell in love. Or lust. Something. All I know is I had a strong desire to straddle him right there on the floor, beside the dead guard.

  Reason took over, briefly, nudging me toward the door. He’d killed the guard. Someone would have heard the shot. The cops would be on their way.

  Anton stepped toward me. “Don’t you want to get the money you came here for?”

  His tone was playful, lightly mocking me.

  I said, “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  He shrugged. “He was going to shoot you. Would you have preferred that?”

  Despite all that was happening, I laughed. “No, I would not have preferred that.”

  “Okay, then. Go get your money so we can get out of here.”

  He touched my face with his fingertips. Heat sizzled through me. A rush of desire. Then he bent low and kissed me on the mouth; not a soft kiss, and not a particularly sweet kiss, but the kind that makes your toes curl and all the blood rush to your groin.

  I tasted lemon candy. I inhaled his cologne. I shuddered.

  He broke the kiss, but his lips lingered close. “Hurry,” he murmured.

  I grabbed cash from the terrified teller. $218.

  Anton pulled me toward a side exit I hadn’t known was there. Out in the alley, he had his hand down my jeans in a matter of seconds. I pushed into him, heard myself moaning. I had the most intense orgasm of my life right there in the alley while sirens wailed in the distance.

  And then we were in his car, a red Ferrari California T, and I was undoing his pants while he drove. I straddled him in that driver’s seat behind a shopping plaza about ten miles away. Afterward, he drove us straight to his priv
ate plane.

  Six continents in three years. Somewhere along the way, early in our adventure, we got married. A quiet ceremony on a mountaintop. We stayed in mansions and penthouses and log cabins. Once, we spent a week in a crumbling stone cave. Another time, two nights in a tent by a waterfall. We weren’t running from anything or anyone; we were simply living a wonderful, crazy life on the move.

  Five months ago, we decided it was time to find our permanent base. Put down roots. Create a home. Anton was tired of all the travel. I thought I might be, too, but turns out maybe I wasn’t. Maybe seeing Anton in plaid pajama bottoms on a sofa in the same living room night after night is more permanence than I can handle.

  Then he touches my face and electricity races through me. That simple. Just a touch. How could this not be enough?

  “You’re bored,” he says.

  I want to deny it, but he knows me too well. “A little,” I say.

  He smirks. “A little? Please. You’re coming unglued here.”

  “It’s not that I don’t love the house, Anton, I—”

  “No explanations necessary. I get it.”

  “You do?”

  “In fact, I have a surprise for you. I was going to wait until Friday, for your birthday, but it seems you might implode any minute. We’ll celebrate early.”

  He rose from the sofa and disappeared down the hall. I watched him go, wondering about this man I’d married and the danger I craved.

  A moment later, Anton reappears. He’s carrying a small box, wrapped in shiny red paper, tied with a crinkly ribbon. He hands me the box, grinning a wicked grin, and says, “Happy birthday.”

  I tug at the ribbon, rip the paper, pull open the box. Inside, nestled in red tissue paper, sits a box of ammo for my favorite gun. Anton would never give me ammo for no reason. And certainly not as a birthday present. I feel the smile tugging at my lips, a weight lifting from my shoulders.

  He sits beside me. “There’s a man in Israel,” he tells me, “who possesses a painting that a man in Egypt wants for himself. The man with the painting refuses to sell. The man who wants the painting is tired of asking.”