by Tory Jane
“Belle, stop.” He caresses my face. “No, I wouldn’t do that to you or any woman. There is no one else. Even when there was someone else, in my heart, you were always the only one. It has always been you.”
I peer up at him and try to stop myself from asking, but can’t stop the words, “Have there been a lot of others?”
“Really? Do you want to have this discussion? Because I could ask you the same thing.”
“No. You're right. I don't want to know, and I don't want you to know. As far as I'm concerned, neither of us has been with anyone else for five years.”
“Which would explain why you were so responsive.”
“Exactly. Under that theory, shouldn’t you also be naked?”
“I have tremendous self-restraint. You were always the horny girl, throwing herself at poor, innocent me.”
“That’s your story? I don’t think we ever went more than a day without an orgasm, given and received in some form or another.”
“I think you may be right. Can we make that a New Year’s resolution?”
I climb on top of him and rub myself against him. “Oh, hell yeah.”
He grabs my ass and grinds himself into me, and I want him so badly I could cry. I swivel my hips over him, trying to seduce him. I could come again in thirty seconds.
He looks into my eyes, and he knows it. “Come on, Bella. Give it to me. Give me another one. Two if you sit on my face.” At that, he thrusts, and I come again. He drags me up over him and buries his face in me.
“Are you kidding me? Your mouth must be one of the wonders of the world.”
He pulls me onto him, grinds me up against his chin, and then laps at me with his tongue. “I always wanted you to do this.”
I brace my arms on the floor above his head and start to move. I’m tentative at first. I don’t want to suffocate the man.
“Belle. Move that ass.” He grabs my hips and rubs me hard against his mouth, his tongue inside me. I relax and let him move me over him. He hums, his mouth vibrates against me, and I lose it once again. I try to pull away, but he holds me in place and keeps humming and sucking my clit while I have one of the best orgasms of my life.
I slide down and rest my head on his chest. I can feel him. Still hard against me. “I could help you with that? Please?”
“That was so fucking sexy. I've always wanted to do that for you. This was all for you. You've given me the greatest gift. The gift for which I prayed.”
“Four orgasms?”
He kisses me. “Trust.”
Tears spring to my eyes. I didn't expect that response and I don't know why it's making me cry, but I'm an emotional mess. “Thank you, Jack. I love you. Always.”
“And I love you. Always have always will. You’re mine.”
“Yes.” A tear falls on his cheek. “Yes, I am. Always have been, always will be.”
We lay entwined on the floor under the Christmas tree. I can feel his steady heartbeat. I could stay like this forever, but I can sense him start to pull away.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could stay longer, but I need to get back to the house.”
Why is he always leaving? Stupid question. I know why.
I scramble to find my clothes and cover myself up.
He pouts. “Now, why’d you have to go and do that?”
“You’ve seen me naked long enough. I can’t walk you to the door undressed. What kind of hostess would I be?”
“A sexy one.” He winks at me.
“I’m not sexy clothed?”
“Bella, you’re always sexy.” He picks me up and sets me down on the kitchen counter.
I wrap my legs around his waist, and we hold each other. It's been far too long since I've felt the loving touch of a man. I understand Julia's transformation now. There is good sex, but combining desire and love leads to phenomenal sex. I know I will want him all the time. I will want to recreate this feeling as often and for as long as possible. Despite my extracurricular activities, I've been lonely.
He pulls away and stretches out my legs. “In my adoration of you, I noticed something.” He points to the tattooed ankle bracelet.
I rest my foot in his hands for his examination.
“Hmmm…who is J? Jimmy, Jared, Jeremy?”
“Hush. You know who J is.”
“It’s beautiful. When did you get it?”
I look down. “Last year.” I cannot tell him the “J” memorializes the other “J” in my life. I let him believe what he wants to believe.
He hugs me tightly. “I knew it. I knew you didn’t give up on me. Bella Belle. I will fight for you. You will trust me again. I'll earn it, I promise. Please? Will you give us a chance? Give up Jimmy, Jared, and Jeremy and be with me?”
“I already have, silly.”
He turns to the side and lifts his shirt and sweater. I see his broad shoulders and muscular chest and abs. He may not be as tan and buff as he once was, but he is long, lean, beautiful muscle. Damn. I notice what he's trying to show me. Horizontally, inked along the side of his torso in his perfect penmanship is my name in tiny letters. The name he has called me since he twirled me in the moonlight, “Bella Belle.” I run my fingers over the lettering. Jack tattooed my name on his body. This shocks me. Jack is not a tattoo kind of man.
“When?”
“Last Christmas.”
“But you admitted that you gave up on me?”
“I may have lost faith for a while. I may have been selfish. I never gave up hope. I needed you by my side, near my heart.”
“Jack, I was always there. How could you forget that?”
“I promise I will never forget again. You can trust me, Annabelle. You will always be by my side.”
We walk to the door and hold each other again. He kisses me gently and lets himself out. Words I’ve wanted to hear for years echo in my head. Yet, he is still hiding things from me.
I have a secret of my own. What would be the point of telling him now? It happened. It devastated me. Does he need to know? It’s not as if I’m hiding a child.
It's only 10:00. Jack was here two and a half hours. I should be relaxed and happy after the attention he lavished on me. Instead, I feel restless and slightly anxious. It makes no sense. He's doing and saying everything I've wanted for years, yet I'm unsettled.
He admitted that in the years we were apart, he was happy. He lived his life. Explored, traveled, studied, became a more polished, experienced man. He obviously had lovers, and perhaps one great love. Why return? I wasn't entirely satisfied with his answer. He apparently still has ambitions to move on. He says it will be with me. Do I believe him? What if he makes another unilateral decision and moves on without me?
Then there is the whole idea of being a stepmother. I’ve been a monster. Do I want to be a stepmonster? I know nothing about children.
I convince myself that he is keeping me at arm’s distance, hiding things from me, because he doesn't trust me with a child. He doesn't see me as appropriate stepmom material. I'm fun, sexy Belle. The good time gal, not the woman you marry and with whom you have children.
He doesn’t know, though. When I discovered I was pregnant, I loved that little bean growing inside of me. My maternal instincts kicked into overdrive. I dreamt about our baby growing into a child, a teenager, an adult and I was overwhelmed with pride. My body had produced a miracle. Our love had created this gift.
Who was I kidding? Even the little nugget knew I’d make a terrible mother. He left me. Slipped away from me. He abandoned me, too. Left me more broken than I already was.
This Woman’s Work
After three days of sobbing in my childhood bed, my mother pushed me out of the nest. She bribed me. She helped me find the carriage house and took me out shopping to furnish it. After three weeks, I had a fully furnished and decorated home, a well-equipped kitchen, and a closet full of high-end, designer “boho chic” duds, similar to what I now offer in my boutique. My father contributed every electronic device I could
possibly need. Jack and I never watched television, and yet I now had a flat screen, surround sound, and every cable channel available. He also stocked my liquor cabinet.
Wallace and Julia stepped in to help me purchase new make-up and underwear. Gone was the patchouli oil and black kohl eyeliner I had favored. Instead, I looked and smelled expensive and wore lacy new bras and underwear. Julia, Miss Cotton Jockeys, encouraged thongs and boy shorts and sexy push-up bras (for my non-existent breasts) and lacy bralettes (which I preferred).
By week three, we were all exhausted. The hourly tears had become nightly, secret crying fests. By day, I was spit-shined and polished. I returned to my vintage shop and carried on as if my world hadn’t imploded.
The exhaustion didn't leave me, despite sleeping long hours. Neither did the tears. I was a crying, tired mess. When the morning sickness began, I knew. No more smoking, no more drinking. Healthy food and clean living became my new norm. By the time I saw my doctor, she informed me I was eight weeks pregnant.
Jack had been gone a month. I began to ask my mother about him. Did she know where he was? I begged and pleaded. How could I reach him? I didn't tell her why it was suddenly so urgent that I contact him. I refused to tell anyone about my secret until I told Jack. He had to know first.
For three months, I pestered her. I needed to find Jack. “Please, Mama,” I begged. She was resolute. She pointed out that I was too thin, too frail, and too fragile. She noticed I was tired all of the time. On these grounds, she decided it wasn’t healthy for me to find him.
Now that I know that he was writing to me during this time, I should be furious with her. Daddy told me it was a decision they all made, but I blame my mother the most. And myself. If only I’d told her the truth. If she’d known, she would have flown to Chicago and dragged him back herself. It’s my own fault.
I often wonder if Julia and Wallace suspected anything. I did not talk about Jack. I buried my grief, just as I hid my growing baby bump. I worked during the day and then spent the rest of the time by myself. I still showed up for Saturday brunches, but I declined any offers to go out or meet for dinner. My fancy new kitchen supplies remained unused. I stopped entertaining. I camped out on my sofa and channel surfed, alone.
I secretly reveled in my pregnancy. I took pictures in front of the mirror of my baby bump as it grew and my body changed. While resting on the couch, I massaged my stomach, rubbing in creams, loving the feel of my extended belly. We listened to music together, classical music, folk music, anything soothing. One earbud in my ear, the other resting in my belly button. I talked to him whenever I was alone. I wrote him letters filled with memories of his father and our time together at the cabin. I was head over heels in love with the little nugget growing inside of me.
At nineteen weeks, I felt him move for the first time. I'd heard women describe it as a flutter. Not my kid. He flipped, kicked me, and knocked the wind out of me. I also learned that he was, in fact, a boy. I’d known all along. Hearing it confirmed made my heart sing. A baby Jack. I needed to find him. He had to know.
Three weeks later, the spotting began. Then the cramping. I visited my doctor, and she searched in vain for what I already knew was lost. I had become accustomed to the feeling of him swimming around. I knew when he was sleeping; I knew when he was active. I was highly attuned to my baby Jack. When he stopped moving, I knew.
Too far along for a D&C, I checked into the hospital. My doctor induced labor and I delivered a dead baby. Alone. I was as dead inside as the baby that I pushed from my body. The nurse held my hand and cried the tears I wasn’t able to produce. They suggested that I hold my baby boy. It seemed like a gruesome, cruel thing to ask of me. He'd been dead for at least two days. I refused. It would help with the grieving process, they insisted. I should name him. Arrange a burial for him. I declined. They pushed.
I screamed and cursed. “Get the fuck out of here. Leave me alone. He’s gone! That is not my baby! Get it away from me.”
Once they left me alone, the tears came. Heaving sobs, gut-wrenching screams, until I was hysterical and hyperventilating. My doctor, a kind woman who appeared as grief-stricken as I was, administered a sedative, held me, and soothed me until I fell asleep in her arms.
The next morning, calmer, but more numb and broken than ever, I arranged to have him cremated and named him. I received his birth certificate in the mail. John Charles Tucker Cliff. When they returned him to me, a plastic bag of ashes inside a plastic box, I was disgusted. He deserved better.
I gave him a proper burial. I placed the ugly plastic bag inside a bright blue silk bag and then laid him in a beautiful, enamel box beside my bed, to sleep beside me until the day I died. I included the letters I wrote, the pictures of my growing belly and ultrasound photos. I laid his birth certificate on top and shut the lid.
I never held him. Other than the ultrasound, I never saw his little face. I was weak and I will regret it forever. I did not know how to cast my eyes on my dead baby. I did not have the strength or courage. I'll die with the shame of that branded on my soul. I’ve never admitted it to anyone.
After six months of grief and behaving myself, it was time to escape. Jack and Jack, Jr. both left me. Convinced I would never hear from him again, I had nothing left to lose.
Fueled by anger, bitterness, and self-hatred, I adopted a new role. I became the life of the party, a sexy party girl. I bought sparkly new dresses that showed off my legs and barely covered my ass. I wore sky-high heels and leaned against every bar in town.
Wallace was pregnant with her first baby. I could barely stand to be in the same room with her. Julia had just kicked out her douchebag husband after she caught him fucking another woman. I dragged her along with me everywhere I went. I knew she was grieving. I did not care. I used her and forced her to accompany me to every party, every night club in town. Then mocked her when she didn’t join me in my shenanigans. I was a complete bitch.
I drank with abandon, tried every drug offered to me. Snort cocaine off a toilet seat? Sure, why not. Julia would watch me from the corner as I disappeared into bathrooms with random men, getting high and blowing strangers in exchange for more drugs. Most nights, I was so high; I’d leave with some asshole, forgetting that Julia was there.
I hated myself.
I kept up this lifestyle for two long years until I barely recognized my face in the mirror. I had finally given Jack what he wanted. I lost my child-like wonder. I looked hard. The late nights, the drugs, were taking their toll and I did not care. I gave up the hard-core drugs, but not the random men, the alcohol or the weed.
My sense of humor became biting and sarcastic. I forgot what it felt like to laugh with genuine joy.
At Saturday brunches, I bragged about my conquests and made fun of Julia. I was having great sex, multiple orgasms, with gorgeous men who would do anything to please me. In reality, they were strangers who I let use me. I barely remember the encounters. I was a rag doll they tossed around for their own pleasure, leaving bruises on my fragile body. Consensual sex? Yeah, no. I believed I deserved it.
I was barely lucid as I screwed my way around town. I wasn't conscious enough to insist on condoms. I became a frequent patient at my gynecologist's office. They should have given me a punch card. My kind doctor who held me as I grieved, lectured me. She was concerned that I was putting myself at risk. She encouraged counseling. At the time, I didn't care. I made sure I underwent frequent testing and was religious about birth control. I’m lucky I didn't end up with an incurable disease.
In the meantime, I somehow managed to become a successful business owner. I sold my beloved vintage shop to a younger, more innocent, version of myself and purchased the boutique. Struggling with a name, I couldn't resist the name that Jack had always called me. Bella Boutique. Despite my reputation around town, or maybe because of it, the shop was a hit from the beginning. I have no idea how I accomplished such a feat.
Julia and Wallace knew the significance of the name but never s
aid a word. I noticed they became more and more careful with how they spoke to me and what they said. Of course, I used it to my advantage to be even more outré.
Julia never confronted me with the appalling way I treated her. Instead, she learned to come up with excuses to avoid me. I knew why, but I blamed her anyway and bit her head off at any opportunity. I rationalized that she deserved it. She was weak. If she were really my friend, she would have fought me, tried to intervene. Couldn't she see I needed saving? When she didn't, I paid her back with my wrath.
I knew better than to pull that shit with Wallace, but I still lied to her, manipulated her, and tested her. I played her against Julia. I was the grieving victim, alone in this world and Julia was callous and ignored me. Neither of them really loved me. The child-like wonder may have disappeared, but I was a child. A brat with an enormous chip on my shoulder and an equally vast sense of entitlement.
In early October, it all came crashing down. In one afternoon, I witnessed Julia falling in love, chatting with and kissing a gorgeous man; and moments later discovered Jack in the grocery store, talking with and cuddling a beautiful baby boy.
If anyone thought I was in bad shape before, I made it clear I could spiral out of control even further.
It took my two best friends, women who should have abandoned me years ago, to pull me out of the chaos and shake some sense into me. They know some of the stories, but not everything.
I’ve spent the last two months finding myself again. The true Annabelle. A loving, kind, free spirit with a girlish giggle, who also happens to be smart, successful, and ambitious. Liking myself again has been a struggle. The guilt, the shame still overwhelms me. I want to be a woman her friends can love and trust. I want to be a woman worthy of love, respect, and honesty.
Which means that it’s time to come clean.
I send a group text.
My beautiful friends, I am calling an emergency meeting. Can you meet me in the next day or so? Whenever it's convenient for you. It's time I shared some things with you. The most important thing is that I love you both.
