25.
Becca
I wake up feeling pretty good. Of course, this feeling only lasts a few seconds before the program loads and everything comes rushing back, memories of yesterday crashing over me like I’m down on the beach lying at the edge of the surf. Remembering the articles Sophia sent, my heart immediately begins to race, and it’s all I can do to draw in a deep, shaky breath.
Don’t cry, girl. Not yet. You might cry later, but don’t start the day with tears.
My exhortations are no good. As soon as I push myself up onto an elbow and see his shirt on the ground next to the bed, the tears start to fall. I sit there, arms clasped about my knees, rocking back and forth as wave after wave of sadness washes over me. Too good to be true. Too good to be true. Such is the refrain circling through my mind.
When the tears have finally exhausted themselves some twenty minutes after starting, I get up for a hot shower. Though I’m doing all I can to keep the memories at bay, no matter how I try it’s impossible. As the scalding water flows over me, image after image of our time together seems to come down with it—our walks on the beach; our moonlit dinner in the middle of the ocean; the hours spent in my bed or his, wrapped in each other’s arms; that last wonderful morning (had it really only been yesterday?) before it all came tumbling down. Well, at least I didn’t feel so gross anymore. Now there was only sadness.
Too weak to resist, when I get out of the shower, I grab my computer and settle back into bed. Before I know it, I have the articles from the day before pulled up and am scanning over them. They’re like knives scraping off thin scabs that have barely had time to form over deep wounds; each one makes the blood flow anew.
Just as I’ve started in on the fourth article, my screen begins to blink. An incoming call. From Sophia, no less. Hesitant, after the third or fourth ring, I accept the call. As much as I didn’t feel like talking, a friend was exactly what I needed right now.
“Hi!” my best friend exclaims the moment her face materializes on my screen. She looks as well-kept as ever, her auburn hair arranged meticulously atop her head, her makeup immaculate, her eyes burning with passion and energy.
“Hey, girl.”
My voice sounds so ragged and meek that the smile on Sophia’s face vanishes instantly.
“Aww, baby,” she says, leaning towards the computer as if doing so will bring her closer to me. “Not doing so well, huh?”
“No,” I whimper. “I’m sad.”
“I know, baby. I’ll take that to mean you saw the links I sent you, then. So you really liked him, huh?”
“I did.”
“I’m so sorry, honey. And I know it must be extra hard considering all that just happened with Rob.”
“I hate men.”
“I know. They’re pretty damn awful…”
“Hey!” a voice calls from somewhere behind Sophia. It’s Grant, my best friend’s fiancé. “We’re not all bad.”
“Yes you are, dear!” Sophia shouts back over her shoulder, her tone lilting and bright. “Every single last one of you.” Turning back to the camera, she rolls her eyes. Though I don’t feel at all like smiling, I just can’t help it.
“See, there you go, baby,” she coos. “I’m glad you can still find something funny.”
“I guess…”
Our conversation, like most conversations we’ve had since meeting, lasts well over two hours, our talk venturing across a wide range of subjects, from the weather to current fashion trends to the newest Portland restaurants to celebrity feuds neither one of us actually gives a rat’s ass about. As tactful as ever, not once during these first hours does my best friend broach the subject on both of our minds. Despite only a week having passed since last being together, it’s clear we both miss one another dearly.
“And your mom?” Sophia interjects. We’ve been discussing for some time my plans upon my return and the fact that I still haven’t come to any conclusions. “How are you dealing with that?”
“I really miss her, Soph.”
“Naturally. You know she’d be so proud of you.”
“Would she? I can’t imagine why. I’ve got nothing but a failed love life and a failed career to show for all the years I’ve been alive.”
“Oh, please. I love you, Becks, but the last thing I’m going to let you to do is feel sorry for yourself. First off, you’re an absolute catch. You’re one of the most beautiful people I know—“
“Stop it.”
“I’m serious. Sometimes I think Grant wishes he had met you first.”
“No…”
“It’s true!” Grant calls again, his voice echoing from a different spot in their house. “If only you’d been at that party instead of Soph—ow!” he yelps as Sophia throws a spoon over the top of the computer. “I love you too dear,” I hear him mutter a second later.
“And secondly,” Sophia continues, “you’re one of the most talented artists I know. I personally think it’s a blessing that that crapshoot of a company fired you. They didn’t appreciate what they had on their hands. You were way underpaid for the talent you were bringing. As I’ve said before, I think you should work for yourself. I have a friend—Caroline Husk. You know Caroline. Blonde, tall, sort of looks like you. Anyway, she runs her own art gallery and I know she’d love to feature some of your work. I can send her a few of your paintings if—“
“Thanks,” I cut Sophia off. “But I’m not sure if I’m ready for that.”
“Of course. I totally understand. Just wanted you to know that the option is open. All you have to do is let me know.”
Silence descends upon the conversation, though there’s nothing awkward about it. This was one of my favorite things about Sophia—her ability to just be present—and was, in fact, one of the first things that had attracted me to her back during our first semester of our freshman year of college. This feeling of comfort was something I hadn’t experienced with too many other people. Actually, besides my mother and Sophia, the only other person I could recall having ever been so relaxed around was—
“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
As best friends tend to be able to do, Sophia can read me like an open book. With a guilty, tight-lipped smile, I nod.
“Have you considered talking to him?”
“About what?” I croak.
“You know. About all that…stuff. I was reading up on it and as far as I could tell, it hasn’t been confirmed yet. And some of the allegations are obviously just downright outrageous. Maybe it would be best if you heard his side before—“
I raise a hand to stop her.
“It doesn’t really matter if it’s true or not. What matters is that he didn’t tell me who he was. If all the stories weren’t true, what reason to hide? It’s not like I would have told anyone who he really was.”
“I see your point, definitely. But maybe he was scared. Some of the allegations are pretty heavy. I imagine you’d be scared too to confess to a woman you had just met and really liked that you were actually famous and were currently in the news for supposedly doing a whole bunch of awful things.”
“Still, he should have told me.”
Sophia must be able to feel my resolve on the matter because she doesn’t push it any further. Instead, she merely lets out a sigh as she picks a piece of lint off of her shirt.
“Listen, babe,” I go on, feeling guilty now for how harshly I’ve shut her down. “I’m getting pretty hungry. I think I’m going to go find some food. Gotta say, not really sure what to do with myself today, especially since he’s right next door. I don’t really feel like going out, but staying here seems like such a waste of a vacation day when paradise is literally right outside my door.”
“Well, I think you should get a nice tropical cocktail and go down to the beach. You know, get some sun, read a terrible book, get a little drunk.”
“Yeah, maybe that’s what I’ll do. Anyways, I’ll talk to you soon. Okay, love?”
“Of course, babe. Let me know if you need anything. Grant and I are here for you.”
“Thanks. I love you, Soph.”
“I love you too, Becks.”
I sit there for several minutes after our phone call ends contemplating my next move. As I’d told Sophia, I just didn’t feel like going anywhere. Anywhere I went there was a good chance I’d run into Rich. But maybe she was right. Maybe I should go talk to him. Maybe—
No. He should have told you who he was. There’s no excuse. Stop making excuses for other people’s actions.
I sigh. It was a fair point, though not the easiest one to accept. Another day by myself it would be then. Rising wearily from the bed, I toss on my last clean bikini.
I can’t muster the energy to leave the villa. For some minutes, I go back and forth from the bed to the door. Finally, giving in, I call room service and order myself a nice breakfast spread. On a whim, I request a bottle of wine and a piña colada to go along with it.
The food and drinks arrive within a quarter of an hour. Thankfully, it’s not Cal this time who delivers my refreshments. This time, it’s a young man who can’t be older than eighteen, a callow innocence still glowing behind his eyes. I’ve ordered so much food that he has to wheel it in on a double-decker cart; by the time he’s done unloading everything, my room looks like I’m preparing for a dinner party. Thanking him by slipping him a nice tip, I guide him back to the front door to see him off.
I don’t set to eating right away but instead start with my piña colada. Like every drink here, one is more than enough to make my head buzz. As I dive into the food, beginning with a plate of fresh tropical fruit, I call the front lobby and order another colada. Not five minutes later, the same waiter drops off two.
The morning and afternoon pass slowly, the hours like a wide river meandering through the flat plains of Middle America. Even so, before I know it, dusk is upon me. Another day gone without me once having stepped foot outside the villa.
When night comes, I decide I can’t take it anymore. Somewhere north of my seventh piña colada (the same waiter has dropped off each one), I push myself up unsteadily from the bed and slip on my sandals. With my untouched bottle of wine in hand, I amble out the back door and down the path to the beach. Of course, I can’t help glancing over at Rich’s villa as I go. The curtain is pulled tight, though the light is on inside. Terrified of being spotted, I scurry out of sight as fast as my drunken legs can carry me.
I walk a ways down the beach, the sun just now preparing itself for its nightly dip, until the resort has disappeared and I’m the only person I can see. Plopping down into the sand, I uncork the wine and take a pull.
The sunset is one of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. A thin line of clouds hovers just above the western horizon, scattering the sun’s dying, orange light in every direction. The ocean itself looks as if it is on fire. Overhead, birds wheel and whorl, calling to one another in their ancient bird language. The air smells strongly of salt and soil, the fertile essence of the tropics.
My mind is rather empty, the alcohol having finally done the trick and dulled my thoughts. Though the sadness is still there, pulsing inside of me like a weakly beating heart, a calmness, conceived by the stunning spectacle before me, has risen up over it. How easy it was to forget the miracle of being alive! Sometimes we humans were too quick to turn into ourselves, too quick to make our problems bigger than they actually needed to be. So what if my love life was in shambles and I had no idea what I was going to do with myself? Did it really matter in the end? The focus should be on moments like these, moments where the full splendor of existence was spread out before you. It was exactly as some pastor I once heard in Texas had said: life did not happen to you, but for you. There was a reason things had turned out as they did. One day I would climb out of this valley and the mountain I’d find myself on would be bigger than any I had yet ascended.
As the sun completes its descent into the water, I lie back with one arm folded behind my head. Every so often, without really moving, I awkwardly pour some wine into my mouth. The bottle is just about empty.
I end up falling asleep not long after this, and sleep until I’m awoken by the incoming tide tickling my feet. Yawning, my limbs stiff, I push myself up onto an elbow. The moon is like a streetlamp above me. My head is aching, the alcohol, having done its job, its workday complete, moved on. I lift the wine bottle still clutched in my hand to my lips, only remembering as I suck out air that it’s long been finished. Looked like it was time to go back then.
I shuffle back up the beach, my eyes heavy with sleep. I have no idea what time it is nor do I even really care.
Rich’s light is still on when I return. As before, I sprint up the path lest he see me. Inside my villa, the back door bolted and the curtain pulled tight, I flop onto the bed. Barely enough time there is to kick off my shoes and turn out the bedside table lamp before sleep whisks me away.
***
The next two days are carbon copies of the first. I awaken feeling good, soon enough the crash coming. Morning and afternoon are then spent wallowing, and by early evening, I’m so stir crazy that I have to get out of the villa. Down to the beach I go, usually with drink in hand, only to stumble home hours later to fall into a deep, exhausted slumber.
But then the morning of the fourth day arrives. When I awaken this time, I can tell immediately that something is different. There’s a spark inside of me, some energy that’s been absent for some time.
I lie in bed for a good hour, trying to track down just what is it that’s changed. Only after I stop trying to figure it out do I finally realize what it is. Hope. There was hope inside of me, the hope that things would get better, that they had no choice but to do so. As my grandmother had once said, thunderstorms weren’t meant to last forever. There would be sunshine and laughter and love once again.
Recognizing this hope, I’m left with no choice but to spring out of bed. Yep!, I laugh to the empty villa. Things might be bad now, but they’ll be better soon enough!
I take a speedy shower and am dressed just as quickly. It’s the first morning since finding out about Rich that I haven’t spent the first six hours in bed. Before leaving the villa, I take a few minutes to clean. Not once since arriving have I allowed the cleaning people to come in and tidy up. Dirty plates of half-eaten food are scattered everywhere: old pizza as stiff as cardboard; bowls of melted ice cream, half-eaten steak and potato dinners; deflated fruit—oranges and mangos and slices of pineapple—now host to a formidable colony of fruit flies. A strange odor permeates the room; crumpled-up, tear-soaked tissues are piled in every corner of the room.
“Ugh, disgusting.” Gathering all the trash and rotten food, I toss it into a plastic laundry bag I find in the closet. This I set outside the door next to a stack of dirty plates. Whoever picked this up was going to think a four-hundred-pound man was staying here.
Satisfied with the somewhat-returned respectability of my abode, I step into my sandals and glide out the back door. This time on my way down to the beach, I don’t even glance over at Rich’s villa. I had no idea if he was still there, and for the first time I was finding I didn’t really care. Now that I had this hope, this belief that things were going to get better, all I’m thinking about is the one person I should have been thinking about all along: me. What was it that Becca wanted? What kind of life did Becca want to lead?
When I hit the sand, I set off south at a brisk march. It’s still early enough that the shore is entirely empty.
With the pace I’m moving at, it’s not long before it’s just me, the beach, the ocean and the forest. On and on I walk, the sun rising higher and higher in the eastern sky. Soon morning has said its farewells. Still I keep going. The entire time I’m walking along, my mind is running over the possibilities of the life that now seemed to stretch endlessly before me. In a way, everything that had happened had been a blessing (except my mother, of course). I was completely free now, free as I hadn’t been since…well, ever, actually. How often was someone given the chance to start completely over, to rebuild their life from scratch in exactly the way they wanted? Technically, I could pack my things and move wherever the hell I felt like. Why stay in Portland? What about California? Or New York? I had always wanted to live in New York City, the center of the world. 5th Avenue, the Empire State Building, Central Park, the Brooklyn Bridge.
Then too, why was I limiting myself to the United States? With nothing holding me anywhere, the world truly was my oyster now. Tokyo, Paris, London, Cape Town, Rio de Janeiro, Beijing, Sydney—I could go anywhere I wanted!
And work! What about work? As much as I enjoyed designing, I had a feeling that it wasn’t designing itself, but the creativity designing afforded, that I truly loved. What if I were to try something else? I had more than enough savings to survive for a good while; I could try my hand at whatever I very well pleased. As I had told Rich, and had in fact mentioned to my mother and Sophia any number of times, I had always dreamed of working for myself. My eyes closed, my shoulders squared to the ocean, my hands down by my sides, palm facing the water, I take a moment to project myself into this future. There I was, Becca Warren, pantsuit-ed, briefcase in one hand, espresso in the other. I was standing in a corner office, facing a giant bay window that looked out upon some great, sprawling city. Elsewhere, a hundred lackeys waited upon my every beck and call.
An office though? Did I really want to be in an office? Who wanted that? I had had more than enough lukewarm coffee and awkward watercooler conversations for one lifetime. No, what I wanted was to be free, to be as free as I felt right this moment with the breeze whipping around me and the ocean crashing at my feet.
I continue down the beach. I’m much further now than I’ve ever been, at least on foot. The soles of my feet are aching from walking in the sand; my legs are heavy with the exhaustion of exertion. There’s not a single other human, or even a hint of a human, in sight.
Stopping beneath a palm tree at the top edge of the beach where sand meets forest, I stretch out in the shade. Man did it feel nice to be out of the hot sun! No doubt I was going to be quite pink upon my return. Too bad too I hadn’t thought to bring sunscreen. Or food for that matter. My stomach was beginning to eat itself.
Leaning my head back against the trunk of the palm tree, my eyes lazily scan the ocean as my fingers dig into the cool sand.
And this is when I see it, sitting out there on the water all by its lonesome: the floating pier where Rich and I had shared our romantic dinner. Of course! How had I not realized that this was the direction I’d been heading?
Surprisingly enough, no feeling of sadness grips me when my eyes fall upon it. If anything, there is merely a sort of pleasant nostalgia. Even if everything had been a lie, that night would remain one of the most memorable of my life. No matter what it would stay with me, to be remembered until I was too old to remember anything at all. For how many women could say they’d shared such a dinner in the middle of the ocean with a man who had made them feel better than they’d ever felt? It didn’t matter what had happened after. For that moment, at least, it had all been real.
It could still be real.
A thousand times in the last three days I’ve had this same thought, my mind wondering, perhaps, if it were best to talk to Rich, to get his side of things before writing the two of us off. Only now though did there seem to be anything substantial in the suggestion, this undoubtedly driven by the fact that the first searing sting of revelation had finally subsided.
Or maybe, I counter, I finally understand the power I have over my own life. What harm could others do to me if I refused to harm myself?
Starting with my first encounter with Rich on the plane, I begin to work through our week together, dismantling each moment brick-by-brick, searching for the truth of what had been, of who Rich really was. All the while, something nags at the back of my mind. Did I truly believe all of those terrible things I had read? Or was it as Sophia had said—that most of the stories were surely fabricated. How many though? All of them? Some of them? I certainly couldn’t envision Rich snorting cocaine off of hookers nor engaging in drunken orgies. Though I (obviously) didn’t know him that well, he just didn’t strike me as the type.
In fact, the more I thought about it, and the more I compared what I’d read to the man I’d spent every waking moment of the last week with, the less believable it began to look. That wasn’t the Rich I had known. The Rich I had known had been kind, and compassionate, and goofy, and playful, and giving, and gentle. A far cry from the monster in the newspapers. And while he very well could be a sociopath who excelled at hiding his true self, I was still left with the feeling that there had been something utterly genuine about him, utterly genuine about the way he had looked at me, talked to me, held me, made love to me.
Had I messed up by not talking to him? After all, what did I have to lose? Sophia, then, had been right. There was absolutely no harm in hearing him out. Even if all of the stories did turn out to be true, talking to him could hardly make things worse than they already were.
Guilt is brimming over now, as is shame. Here I was, an adult nearing thirty, and yet I couldn’t even communicate with a man I cared about. I had acted just like a thirteen-year-old girl, running away and cutting him off without a word of explanation! What was wrong with me? I was like some histrionic character in a Jane Austen novel. That wasn’t the woman I wanted to be. Not even close.
So what do I do, then?
Talk to him. Duh.
You think?
I don’t see why not. Start by apologizing for disappearing on him.
What if he doesn’t want to see me?
Then he doesn’t want to see you and you’ve lost nothing. But you can’t leave it like this. If you do, you’ll have to live with the guilt of acting like a complete ass, not to mention the regret.
Do you think he’s still next door?
Maybe. Only one way to find out…
When should I talk to him?
As soon as possible. Tonight if you can. Don’t you think?
Sighing, I push myself up from the sand. Well, tonight it would be then. Best to just go ahead and get it over with.
The sun well into its long descent from the top of the sky, I kick off my sandals, do a few stretches, and start the long journey home.
***
I don’t know what time I arrive back at the resort, though judging by how tired my legs are, how empty my belly feels and how dark it is, no less than ten years have passed. I’m so weary with hunger that rather than go straight to Rich’s villa as planned, I first stop by the dining area. Dinner is wrapping up, only a few diners still scattered amongst the tables. I grab a plate and fill it with food from the buffet. Not wanting to chance losing my resolve, I don’t even bother to sit while I eat, instead shoveling the food into my mouth as fast as I can swallow it as I cross the garden.
Tossing my half-empty plate onto an empty table, I set off down the path to the villas. The resort is quiet tonight, the silence beyond the dining garden punctuated every so often only by tinkles of laughter and echoes of conversation wafting from the other villas.
I’m so nervous by the time I reach Rich’s villa, the sweat pouring out of my armpits, that I don’t let myself stop to ponder what I’m doing but instead walk straight up to the door. I can’t hesitate or I’ll end up right back in bed, the covers pulled over my head. I needed to do this now, or I never would.
I knock. A minute passes; no answer comes. I knock again, placing my ear against the door as I do. There is only silence within.
I knock one last time before giving up. When still no answer comes, I shuffle back over to my villa and crawl into my bed.
Well, that hadn’t gone quite as I’d planned. Looked like I had no choice but to wait. Which really wasn’t that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things. If Rich were indeed still staying next door, there was very little chance he was going to disappear between now and morning. I would try again after breakfast.
Without getting up, I strip off my bikini and slip beneath the covers. As predicted, my shoulders and back are red hot from so many hours in the sun. Even so, I’m much too tired, both physically and emotionally, to bother retrieving my lotion from the bathroom. Instead, I set an early alarm and click off the bedside table lamp.
Closing my eyes, I settle into the darkness. As the gears of my mind begin to slow, I use what momentum is left to run through tomorrow’s plan several more times. Would he accept my apology? Would he even hear me out? And if he did, what truth might I learn about him?
“What matter?” I murmur, the walls absorbing my whisper. What mattered what happened? I was going to be just fine regardless. As I’d already pointed out a million times, there was nothing left to lose. Nothing that I hadn’t already lost.