Conflicting Hearts (7 page)

“Thanks for today. I had a lovely time.”

“Yeah, me too. Let me walk you up to your apartment.”

He jumps out of the car, opens my door, and grabs my hand.
We walk together up the stairs, and he stops. The usual question looms in my
brain, do I invite him in or not? I don’t want to, because I need a break
to process our time together and prepare for tomorrow. 

“Mind if I kiss you?” His blues eyes beg.

“No,” I sheepishly reply.

He puts his arms around me and draws me close into his firm
torso. My body responds to his touch, and suddenly I’m mush. It’s been too long
since I’ve felt the embrace of a man. I literally want to sob in his arms
because I’m being held, but I control myself. After another sweet and tender
kiss, he looks at me adoringly.

“So glad you ran into me. See you tomorrow.”

With that, he turns and trots down the steps and out of
sight. Suddenly, the absence of his presence is painful. The tears I held in a
moment ago, sting my eyes. I insert the key into the lock and disappear into my
solitary cave to be the lonely, pathetic Rachel once again.

Chapter 5

A Time to Snoop

Whiskers wanders out of the bedroom, meows and flashes me an
about-time-you-got-home look of disdain. I pick him up and cradle him in my
arms, rub his belly until he purrs, and then give him a kiss on his black nose.
He’s my rescued cat, who rescued me—for the most part.

The taste of Ian’s kiss lingers on my lips, and I remember
his warm arms around me. It’s been so long since I’ve received a tender touch,
I still cannot process the act with clarity. I love the feel of a man’s
embrace, yet at the same time my alter ego wants to push him away. He’s
invading my space. It’s a carefully planned and well-built line of defense that
follows me like a protective bubble wherever I go. When breached, I feel
uncomfortable, threatened, and unnerved. There is so much I want out of life,
but I possess so little courage that I cannot make myself believe that anything
worthy awaits me in this relationship long-term.

After spending a few minutes sulking around the house, I
turn on my computer and sit down. Windows comes to life. I connect to the
Internet, and click on my page to see if I have any pseudo-friend comments. I
look at my four hundred and eighty-two friends, most of whom I’ve never met
face-to-face. I think only twenty-five people I actually know. The others are
pictures of smiling faces or false identities. My own consists of some
nineteenth century painter’s portrait of some beautiful woman. I hate my photo,
and this makes me feel better about myself.

The first thing I notice is a new friend request, so I click
on it. Ian Richards wants to be friends. My heart skips a beat, and I stare at
the
confirm
or
ignore
button. I could ignore it, but
then I’m dying of curiosity about his locked-down domain. Surely, it will
reveal more about this interesting man. There will be pictures of him, family,
and friends I can peruse, quirky statements, and who knows what else. With
trepidation, I hit
confirm
.

The picture he uses as his header is a scene of the ocean.
It looks so peaceful. I hope to God his pictures aren’t locked down, but before
I get a chance to peek around, I see the red notice of “1” on the top of my
page. Dang! He’s posted on my wall already.

“Had a terrific time today. Looking forward to seeing you
tomorrow. Now go ahead and snoop all you want, while I snoop over you!”

I chuckle at his
snoop
comment. He knows darn well
I’m going to read every entry and check out every picture. Before I do, I write
a comment underneath his.

“I’m looking forward to the snoop.”

Suddenly, it dawns on me that he’s probably reading all of
my entries and looking at my pictures. I close my eyes and cringe. Like a
computer doing a check disk, my brain tries to remember what I’ve been posting
on my timeline for the last year.

Of course, there have been a few off-colored comments. I’ve
posted a few pictures of hot models with six-pack abs. Moaned about a doctor or
dentist appointment. Most of my friends do the same. Then I remember a few
photos of myself, and I wince. There are some seriously lousy ones of me in
years past where I was overweight and more depressed than I am now. He’s going
to die when he sees those goodies.

Since it’s too late to start deleting pictures left and
right, I leave it and pop on over to his page. I hit the picture album link,
and suddenly my tongue hangs out of my mouth. There’s a couple of him on the
beach, without a shirt, and damn does he look hot. He’s tan, toned, buffed, and
scrubbed, and everything else a woman could want. I open the picture, right
click, and save it on my computer.
Me bad
, I think to myself, but I
don’t care. I need visuals.

His other pictures appear to be with friends or family, and
I can’t tell who is who. His page is as neat as his wallet. His friends are
kept at a minimum of one hundred and twenty-three. Nothing uncouth is written
in any of his comments, which are few and far between. Everything is perky and
upbeat. I hate him already.

I check out all his friends, but don’t see any marked as
family. They’re probably too sophisticated to be on a social media site. The
perfect life, perfect family, and perfect past—he possesses everything I don’t.
The whole comparison stings me, and the usual loser feeling is back with a
vengeance. I know when he finds out everything about me, my heart is going to
be broken into a thousand pieces. Suddenly, I want to pick up the phone and
call tomorrow off.

After a few more torturous minutes, I leave my computer and
walk into the bedroom and lie down on my bed. I curl my knees up to my chest
and bring my arms across my breasts. My head lowers to the pillow and my eyes
close. The feelings of dread and fear push me into the mattress like heavy
weights upon my body. My chest constricts, and the familiar sense as if I’m suffocating
takes over. I’m a mess again as I struggle with self-doubt, and my eyes well
with tears.

“Why am I doing this?” I scold myself aloud. I know why.
It’s because I want to believe someone can love me, but I can’t believe. I’ve
never known unconditional love from a man. Frankly, I don’t even know if such a
thing exists.

Do men genuinely love? No, I’ve convinced myself that they
don’t. They just want sex and have no emotions. The male race consists of
lust-driven robots that want to screw. All I know is that I’m never good
enough, and when Ian discovers my secrets, he’ll leave me after he’s gotten
what he wants. There’s no way around it.

My head sinks deeper into the pillow. I want to sleep, so I
don’t have to think. When I sleep there’s no pain, no thinking, no chiding
myself for being a failure, no memory, and no voices in my head to haunt me,
unless nightmares return. It’s a place where I can retreat and cease to exist,
as long as I don’t dream about the man with no face. I take a deep breath and
wait for darkness to arrive.

* * * *

The telephone rings and awakens me out of a sound sleep. I
sit up in bed startled and try to clear my fuzzy thoughts. It continues to
ring, so I get up and run to the kitchen to answer it. The caller ID shows it’s
my brother, and I wonder what he wants.

“Hello?”

“Hey, sis!”

His voice sounds like I’m his loving sister that he talks to
every day. Usually, he calls when he’s drunk to tell me how much he loves me.
Other than that, I never hear from him.

“Yeah, Bob, what’s up?” I sound annoyed.

“Did I wake you or something? You sound groggy.”

“As a matter of fact, you did.”

“Oh, sorry. I wanted to let you know I was coming out to
Oregon this fall for a conference, and I was wondering if I could stay at your
place.”

The idea of having my brother here suddenly gives me shivers
down my spine.

“If the conference is downtown, you’d be better off staying
at a hotel. The commute from where I live is a killer.” There, I’ve warned him
off, so now maybe he’ll bug off.

“Well, I just thought…”

“Bob, I haven’t seen you since dad died, and now you want to
stay with me?”

“Okay, I get it,” he says, annoyed. “I thought I’d make the
effort.”

“Well, it’s a bit late for that!” The anger explodes inside
of me, and I slam down the telephone receiver.

“Damn you!” I scream at the telephone as if he can hear me.
Tomorrow, I’ll probably be sorry that I was so mean to him, but we’ve never
been close.

I’m feeling cranky, so I go back to my computer to see if
maybe Ian has visited my page again. I open it and have email.
Let it be him
,
I think to myself. I click the mouse and it is.

“Hey, you got a home phone number? I forgot to ask.”

I smile, type the number, and hit send. As soon as I get up,
the phone rings again. I run back to the kitchen, look at the caller ID, and
see that it’s blocked. “Shit,”
I mumble, staring at it. I’m afraid it
might be Bob again, but then it could be Ian. The phone keeps ringing, and I
know my voice mail is going to pick it up, or they’re going to hang up.

Swiftly, I pick up the receiver and answer with a hesitant,
“Hello?”

“Hey, Rachel, it’s Ian.”

“Oh, God, I’m glad it’s you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, but I almost didn’t pick up because the number was
blocked.”

“Oh, crap,” he says apologetically. “I didn’t mean to do
that; just forgot to undo the block. Sorry.”

“No, that’s okay. A few minutes ago, I hung up from an
unpleasant call, and I didn’t want a repeat performance.”

“Someone bugging you?” I hear concern in his voice.

“Well, not really. Just family stuff.”

“Oh, okay.”

“So what’s up?” I’m immensely curious as to why he’s called.

“I was thinking about you.”

My mind squeals like a teenager. “Me too. Uh, I mean me
thinking about you.”

“Listen, I saw the weather report tonight. It might rain
tomorrow afternoon at the coast. Still want to go?”

“Hey, we’re Oregonians. We can do rain.”

He laughs. “Okay, I just wanted to check.”

“I’ll pack a jacket and whatever, but I have to hear the
waves and walk the beach.”

“Well, we should be there early enough. The rain isn’t expected
until afternoon.”

“Okay, thanks, Ian.”

“Hey, no problem. See you in the morning. Bye.”

“Bye.” I hang up and beam like a light bulb. Gosh, he’s so
nice. I want to dream that this will work, but I don’t know if I have it in me.

I glance at the clock, and it’s time for my purple pill
again. Thank God for feigned happiness in a drug. Otherwise, I’d probably be
six feet under pushing up daisies.

Chapter 6

Pasts Revealed

My night turns out to be a fitful one. I wake up several times
through the evening, tossing and turning. Dreams for the most part are
unmemorable, which I know means I didn’t get enough REM sleep worth a darn.
When I wake up, the dark circles under my eyes prove it. I look like death.

After a shower, I carefully put on makeup and dry my hair.
When all is done, I look at myself and sigh. It’s not what I want to see. My
ex-husband’s demeaning voice from the past runs through my mind like a ticker
tape.

Look at you, you’re pathetic. Who would want you?

My facial expression confirms to me that I still believe
every word he uttered during our married life. It’s time to suppress the pain
and insecurities before Ian arrives at my door.

I walk over to my bedroom window and pull up the blinds. The
sky is gray, and it’s overcast but dry. It appears the weather report was
right, but I don’t mind if I get drenched from head to toe. I need the ocean,
and a kind man is going to take me there.

My backpack is laying on the kitchen table, and I recheck
the items I gathered the night before.

Lipstick – check

Hairbrush – check

Breath mints – check

Wallet – check

Cell phone – check

Small throw – check

The throw is probably never going to be used; but in case we
decide to sit on the beach, we won’t be plopping down in sand. I’m conjuring up
visions of us embracing and smooching under the gray skies. It will be
wonderful to lounge on the beach and listen to the waves together.

According to my outdoor thermometer stuck to my window, the
morning temperature is about sixty-five. It will be at least ten degrees cooler
by the ocean, so I grab my heavy jacket. Before Ian arrives, I run into the
bathroom and put my pink baseball cap on, and pull my ponytail through the hole
in the back. I turn my head from left to right and check out how I look. Not
much can be done. The damage is already there.

I hear the faint knock at my door, so I dive over and open
it. “Come on in,” I invite him with a smile on my face. “I’m just gathering a
few last items.”

He walks in, and Whiskers wanders out of the bedroom. The
cat takes one look at his long legs and decides to coil himself around his
calves like a snake.

“Ian, meet Whiskers. Whiskers, meet Ian.”

“Hey, Whisk.”

He bends over and picks up the cat. I’m flabbergasted. Ian
holds the fuzz ball upside down in his arms and starts stroking his belly, like
I do. Why am I not surprised my cat is a traitor?

“He prefers men,” I tell Ian. “He tolerates me.” I can hear
my cat purring in high gear. His eyes look like he’s drugged.

“Do you have a cat?” Since Ian is so adept at tummy petting,
I can’t help but wonder.

“No. Wish I had a pet, but it wouldn’t be fair. Work too
many hours to take care of one.”

“I think you’ve had enough,” he tells Whiskers, lowering him
to the floor.

My jacket is draped over my arm, and my backpack is hanging
from my right shoulder. “Ready,” I announce, grinning from ear to ear.

“Here, let me carry that for you,” he offers, taking my
pack.

I want to protest with, “no I can handle it,” but he melts
me with his nonchalant, gallant behavior. It’s engrained in him, and I wonder
if there’s a mean bone in the man’s body.

With my protest stifled in the back of my throat, we head on
out. The SUV makes for a smooth ride down Sunset Highway westward toward the coast,
and I feel like a giddy little girl. The first few miles we are both silent.
Ian is driving with a pensive look upon his face, and I’m looking out the
window at the passing scenery. To break the awkward silence, I ask him an
off-the-wall question.

 “Is Cannon Beach your favorite spot along the Oregon
coast?”

“Yeah, you could say that,” he replies, with a sly grin that
I wonder about. “What about you?”

“Yeah, I like it. I enjoy it anywhere the waves crash
against the rocky shoreline.”

“I’m a sand man, myself.”

“That sounds funny.” I chuckle. “The rocks are what I love,
especially on a rough day. I can stand and watch the ocean for hours on end.”

“Well, if you want, we can drive up Ecola Park, and you can
peer over the edge.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

 For the next mile, we revert to silence. He looks as
if he’s deep in thought, and I’m calculating how far we are into the hour and a
half trip. As we start climbing the coastal range and make it on the other side
of the tunnel that cuts through the mountain, he decides to take the lid off of
things.

“Do you mind me asking what happened with you and your ex?”
He pauses for a moment and rearranges his question. “I mean why did the
marriage end?”

Ian turns his head and gives me a quick glance, no doubt to
determine if I’m reacting to his intrusion into my private life. I ponder for a
moment how to respond.

“Tell you what, I’ll tell you why my marriage ended, if you
share why about yours.”

He cocks his head to the right and rubs the back of his neck
with his right hand. It’s obvious that he’s uncomfortable. “Fair enough,” he
half-heartedly responds. “You go first.”

“Oh, thanks,” I sarcastically reply, while noting the
relieved look on his face. I don’t belabor my response and get right to the
point. “I got married at twenty. My ex was seven years my senior. He swept me
off my feet, and three months later, like an idiot, I became his wife.”

“Whoa, that was quick,” he blurts out in surprise.

“Unfortunately, I quickly discovered that I wed a man with a
violent temper. For the next four years of my life, I struggled to find the
courage to leave, while he systematically abused me.” As my confession reaches
his ears, I notice Ian’s grip on the steering wheel tighten. His swift reaction
to my words surprises me.

“Rachel, did he hit you?” He takes his eyes off the road and
glances at me with an appalled look. Shamefully, I tell him the truth.

“Once, early in our marriage, because he said I mouthed off
at him. He punched me in the arm and left a bruise.” I wring my hands together
remembering the hurtful moment. Poor Ian’s face cringes.

“There’s no excuse for men who hit women,” he growls with a
sneer.

“Afterward, it escalated to verbal abuse, which I think is
more painful than the other. Although, when he got mad, he threatened me with a
raised, clenched fist.”

“Why did you stay with the creep?” Ian’s voice is deep and
angry, as he glances over at me with a quizzical look.

I begin to feel he’s climbing my walls of protection.
Desperately, I try to find the right answer that won’t make me sound like an
idiotic loser for staying. Should I tell him the real truth?
Gee, Ian,
there’s this thing about me, and I can’t say no to abuse.
As an
alternative, I wonder whether I should skirt the fact and blame it on another
issue. I project the blame elsewhere.

“I was going to church at the time, and the denomination I
was in was pretty strict about divorce. In the pastor’s eyes, it was akin to
blasphemy. So I stayed in the marriage, lest I be ostracized for leaving him
and not submitting to my husband, like I was taught.”

“Did the pastor advocate that you were obligated to remain
in that kind of abusive situation?”

“Well, not in so many words,” I say. My ignorance is about to
flash like a neon light. “I was afraid to expose my husband for what he was
behind closed doors. Frankly, I didn’t know if anyone would believe me, let
alone side with me.”

Ian shakes his head. “Gosh, Rachel, I’m sorry that you went
through that.” His voice is more sympathetic than it is angry.

“Live and learn, but it did turn me against the church,
unfortunately. I think my theology got all screwed up because of it.”

It’s hard to admit I’m a backslidden divorcee. The guilt
from religious teaching adds to my sense of sinfulness over my dark desires.
Every day I’m afraid of God’s punishment. I never feel good enough, even for
God’s love. My eyes water when Ian continues the questioning.

“So what happened that you finally did leave?”

My mouth blows out a puff of air before continuing the tale
of woe. “A counselor helped me to do it. I didn’t have the courage, and she
helped me find the strength to walk away.”

“Good for her or him,” he says, sighing in relief.

“Her.”

“Did you file or he?”

“I did, and he didn’t contest it.”

“Well, at least that part of your life is over and buried.”

My head turns, and I gaze at Ian with profound sadness. His
conclusion is far from the truth. Every insult, every belittlement, and every
time my husband yelled at me, felt as if he picked up a hammer and drove a
sharp, painful nail into my soul. By the time I left, my self-esteem had been
damaged beyond repair. I wanted to die.

My counselor helped me to remove the nails one by one, but
all it did was leave gaping holes in the fabric of my heart. I can remember her
advice. “Even though he said those things about you, doesn’t make them true.”

Her pie-in-the-sky statement did nothing to help me, because
by that time my brain had accepted every word as fact. How can you change what
you believe, when there is no one in your life to tell you that you have value?
When I divorced him, I was emotionally bankrupt. The account had been
overdrawn, and no deposits of kindness were being made by anyone else to fill
the void in my soul.

Ian returns my sad gaze, and I see a curious look upon his
face as if he’s wondering about my sanity. I swiftly avert my eyes and look out
the windshield at the road. Then I throw the ball back into his court.

“So, you next. What happened in your marriage?” I hear him
draw in a breath and look to see that his mouth has turned into a hard line.
It’s obvious that his revelation will not be an easy one either.

“I met Susan at Harvard. We dated while in college and
before graduation from law school, we married.”

“Sounds like you took longer than I did to make that
decision.”

“A couple of years, yes.”

Wise man
, I think to myself. “Then what?”

“After we wed, we wanted to relocate out west. Portland felt
more attractive than Seattle, so we both found jobs in firms out here,
purchased a house, and then spent the next few years drifting apart.”

It’s hard for me to imagine why any woman would not stay
close to Ian. I try to wrap my head around his ex-wife, but can’t. I press for
more. “Why did you drift apart? Was it you or her?”

“Susan is extremely career-minded, more so than I am. With
our crazy schedules and overtime, we rarely saw each other. The marriage grew
stale pretty fast.”

“Sorry,” I say, void of any comforting words.

“That’s life, I guess. One day I came home, and she shoved
divorce papers in my face telling me that it was over.”

“Was there another guy or something?”

“Yeah,” he answers with a frown. “Apparently, I had become a
bore, and her new male companion was more outgoing and adventurous.” Ian
clenches his jaw as he continues. “It was devastating to learn of her
unfaithfulness. She confessed she had been seeing him for three months behind
my back.”

“Damn,” I reply. “Did she have…” My words trail off, afraid
to ask if she had screwed his competition.

Ian affirms my assumption with a nod of his head. I am
dismayed. How could she do that to him? His face is filled with painful
memories. It’s difficult not to wonder if he still loves her, even though
yesterday he said he didn’t. He could have lied. While I’m thinking about it,
my mouth blurts out my pondering thought.

“Do you still love her?” I try to sound concerned, rather
than accusatory.

He’s quiet for nearly a minute and then turns his head and
looks at me. I’m aghast over the smoldering gaze he throws my way. It
practically melts me into the leather seat. His gorgeous blue eyes communicate
something totally unexpected. Timidly, I squirm and my breath hitches in my
throat.

“What do you think?” he drawls in that deep velvet voice of
his.

What a loaded question! This man definitely wants in my
pants. He pulls his eyes back to the road. Thank God he did. If I had been
driving, we would have been wrapped around a tree.

“Um, probably not.” I gulp.

“Definitely not,” he quickly replies. “Susan has moved on,
and that’s exactly what I’m doing now.”

Ian reaches over and grabs my clammy hand, which is resting
in my lap. He gives it a gentle squeeze, and then pats me on the leg. A moment
later, his attention is back on the road.

“Wish I could kiss you.” He wickedly smirks.

“Me too.”

I look out the window and see the mileage sign alongside the
road—twenty-six miles to Cannon Beach. God, I can’t wait to get this guy in the
sand and attack his mouth.