Fighting for Arielle Read online

  “Positive.” She smiles her beautiful, full smile saying, “I better get going before someone thinks I fell into the toilet or something crazy. Thanks again for coming to the show. It was really awesome to meet you. Good luck with all that.” She waves her hands toward the shit show that I’m about to have to go wrangle in.

  “Mick,” I spit out.

  “Pardon?”

  “I go by Mick.”

  “I see…” She eyes me knowingly. “Already showing your true colors, eh? It was absolutely smashing to chat with you, Mick. Maybe I’ll see you at another show.”

  With that, she wanders away into a large crowd of people who I hadn’t really noticed until now. And my world suddenly and inexplicably feels a little bit darker.

  Chapter 3

  Arielle

  I pull into the driveway of my apartment and take in my surroundings as I do every night. I think I tend to take longer than necessary to go inside because it’s as if I’m taking in my last few seconds of freedom. Muffled music from someone’s party plays in the background as cars whiz by on the street. Dogs bark, telling others the news of the day or that there’s another dog barking. I don’t know, but I like to think they’re communicating the secrets of the universe.

  Brody must be out since his car is not here. Exiting the car, I breathe into my lungs the crisp night air, appreciating its smells and tastes. I always find taking in deep, full breaths refreshing, and it helps me to appreciate the environment around me. Aside from a hint of car exhaust, I mostly smell the ocean, plumerias in bloom, smoke from a charcoal grill, and a smell that only palm trees swaying in the island winds can create.

  I lean against my car door and look up to the night sky. It is unusually dark in the housing complex, giving me the ability to see stars as far as my eyes can see. I wonder if there is someone else as broken and feeling as worthless as me looking down, or up, on me in the same manner, bracing themselves for entering their own version of self-inflicted pain and misery as I currently am.

  I ask myself how someone who reportedly has the world at her fingertips always seems to never quite grasp it. Although, I’ve always wondered why it is only at my fingertips. Why couldn’t it at least be in a place where I would have a chance of gripping it? Whatever cosmos run this world should know that I’ve never been good at catching or even holding things, much less spherical objects just outside of my reach.

  I grab my costumes and fans out of the rear of my SUV, moving without haste. When I enter my apartment, I am greeted by my large Sulcata Tortoise, Señor Swankypants. I hear his feet on the tile before I can see him, but with him being almost 100 pounds, he’s hard to miss.

  “Hey Swanks,” I greet him warmly. He lifts his head and looks at me, allowing me to pet him. “Did anyone try to cause any trouble while you were on watch?”

  I don’t wait for a response as I know one will never come. “I had a good show tonight. People seem to really like my style, and I’m really enjoying being a featured soloist,” I say aloud to the dark and empty house.

  Flipping on the light to the living room, I grab a remote, point it at the stereo and turn it on.

  “What shall we listen to tonight, mister?”

  Swanks walks over to his plastic kiddie pool full of sand and settles in.

  “How about some Spamalot? I think I’m in the mood for something funny and some Sara Ramirez,” I say cheerfully to no one in particular.

  I start up my iPod and hear words, or at least how I choose to hear the lyrics, beautifully sung in the background.

  If you trust in your soul

  Keep your eyes on the goal

  Counting my costume pieces in my bedroom, I am missing one. I am reminded that I gave that guy my bra. Poor thing… He seemed a little frazzled trying to get it back to me. It was really as a favor to me because I was rambling and beginning to lose my poise, so in order to get myself to shut up, I had to exit, stage left. Although, if I were to choose to leave my bra with someone, I couldn’t have picked a hotter guy. Even with a baseball cap on, I could see he had a gorgeous face with strong, yet kind features, and his black t-shirt hugged his biceps just enough for me to know that if he were selling tickets to that gun show, I would be first in line.

  I roll my eyes at myself. Even I think I’m too much of a dork sometimes.

  As I hang my costumes, I am baffled by what happened when our hands met. At first, I thought maybe I wore tights with my Uggs again and shocked myself like I do every time I touch a car door in that same getup, but this wasn’t the case at all. It seemed electric for certain, but it wasn’t painful by any means. In fact, when our hands made contact, it was exhilarating. There was a rush of excitement tingling all throughout my body, which culminated in long-lasting butterflies in my stomach. It was an experience, a charge, an awakening, like no other. Just thinking about it makes my fingers tingle and my stomach rumble. Of course, not eating all day could also be the cause of that, but this is very different from my usual hunger pains. I try to make the moment last longer by replaying it over and over in my head. I felt like something was missing almost immediately after I moved my hand away from his, but it was beginning to get a little awkward, so I knew I had to pull it away quickly.

  I add to my mental To-Do List: figure out how to make fingers tingle and butterflies flutter erratically in stomach.

  Just then, I hear the front door to the apartment open, and I can hear Brody speaking to someone loudly as he enters.

  “Come on. I don’t care if she’s here; she won’t care. No, I don’t have to run it by her. It’s not like she has any other friends anyway.”

  Immediately, I feel a heaviness loom over my shoulders and they sink toward the floor. I can tell Brody is drunk by his slurred speech and volume, and he’s inviting people over so he can drink even more.

  This has become the story of my life: day after day, page after depressing page. It’s not enough that he ignores me, unless he deems that it’s time to have sex, but he says some hurtful things to me about my looks, intelligence, and talents. Being a dancer all of my life, I’m no stranger to others scrutinizing your looks and weight; I can handle brushing off the opinions of those who are not close to you. But, there is no dagger twisted enough, even plunged deeply and directly into your heart, that can replicate the pain you feel when the person who vowed to love you unconditionally tells you that you aren’t good enough: tells you that you’re lucky they even stick around since no one else would ever want you.

  “What are you doing?” Brody asks sharply as he comes into the bedroom, tearing me out of my thoughts.

  Startled, I hastily reply, “Not much. Just got home. How was your day?”

  “Shitty as always,” he says as his eyes blatantly stare at my chest.

  Suddenly feeling self-conscious, I hug myself to try and hide my curves.

  “Are you having people over tonight?”

  “Yeah,” he huffs. “What’s it to you?”

  He takes a half step toward me as I try to make the same movement backward, keeping space between us.

  “I was just curious. I thought I overheard you talking to someone about them coming ov-”

  I jump back as I hear his fist make contact with the wall.

  “You were listening to my conversation?”

  Brody begins stalking toward me.

  Trying to recover and lighten the mood, I spit out in one breath, “No, of course not. I was just walking toward you to see if you wanted me to go to the store to pick up anything and heard you were on the phone, so naturally I came back in here. You usually have people over on the weekends, don’t you? So, I just wanted to be prepared for when they get here.”

  Brody halts and places his hands behind his head, as if he were lying down. “Oh. Yeah, go to the store and pick up a twelve-pack of Miller Light.”

  I feel a small degree of relief, but the heaviness on my shoulders remains and has moved to my chest.

  “Of course.” I try to sound chipper an
d keep down the sobs that are forming in my throat.

  As he exits the doorway to the bedroom, Brody says dryly, “Thanks, Ari.” He looks back at me and points to my face. “And by the way, you may as well wipe off that stupid-looking makeup. It’s not doing you any favors.”

  ***

  After I return from the store, our apartment is flooded with people. Dropping off the beer in the kitchen, Brody grabs my shoulder and pulls me close to him as if to hug me. I try to keep some air between our bodies.

  “BEER!!!! Hey everybody, the beer wench is back!”

  I hear collective salutations and fist pumps.

  I can never decide which version of Brody I like better: the angry, explosive Brody, or the loud, obnoxious one who likes to embarrass me in front of his friends. Regardless, I would much prefer not to have either.

  “Now, give your lord a kiss,” he says, only half joking.

  The thought of touching him, especially kissing him, makes my stomach churn. Any physical contact we make is a callous reminder of the mistakes and poor decisions I have made in my life and further drives home the fact that I feel isolated and alone. I just want to be anywhere but here.

  As I lean in to give him a dry, distant, and stiff kiss, I hear cheers and excitement circulate through the oversized crowd for our small apartment. Some faces I’ve seen before. Others are strange to me. One thing is the same; I am miserable, just like every weekend and weekday.

  I nod warily to the party goers as I pass through the house to my bedroom. I hear the usual comments from others like, “Dude, she’s hot!” and “Man, how’d you score that?”

  The rebuttal from Brody is always the same.

  “You wouldn’t think that if you had to put up with her bitchy ass day in and day out. Spend one week with her, and you’ll change your tune.”

  Some simply ignore him. Some say they don’t believe him. Others say they would be willing to take the challenge, which makes me cringe the most.

  Thoroughly embarrassed and completely stripped of even the slightest smidgen of self-respect, I saunter to my room where I lie in the darkness alone, just like every weekend. I turn on some Mumford and Sons in preparation to sob myself to sleep.

  Just like every weekend.

  Chapter 4

  Arielle

  A new bra, another show, and several beer runs later, my long and exhausting weekend has come to an end. It’s Monday morning and I am lacing up my tennis shoes for my 5:30am workout.

  Macy walks in, chipper as always, putting her gorgeous blonde locks into a sleek ponytail. I am secretly jealous of how even after running, jumping, and sweating, her hair remains in a perfect coif.

  Today, we are sending the guys on a long run, which is usually good for us because we just monitor their progress and walk along the ocean on Hickam Air Force Base.

  “How was your weekend?” Macy asks as we walk in step with one another along the shore.

  “Same old,” I say passively. Giving her a look that lets her know I remember that her husband was in port for a few hours, I turn toward her and ask suggestively, “How was yours?”

  Macy’s face brightens, and she looks off into the distance. “Wonderful,” she says in an exhale.

  Not trying to completely live vicariously through her, but really needing to, I ask, “Oh yeah? And what does ‘wonderful’ mean?” I say, mimicking her smitten response.

  “Oh, come on Ari. You know what it’s like to be married.” Macy looks off into the distance at nothing in particular. “Ross is just so wonderful. And hot. And...I just wish he didn’t have to leave so soon.”

  Still coming down from her thoughts of her weekend-in-the-sheets high, she asks, “How about you? Did you get any?” She playfully sings the well-known bow chicka bow wow play on old 70’s porn music as she lowers her chin and raises both eyebrows up and down rapidly.

  Stopping when she sees my saddened expression, she attempts to recover the mood by saying, “But, you know, it was only that good because I haven’t seen him in three months, and we only had about two hours to get everything in.”

  “It’s okay, Macy,” I say, as I look toward the ground.

  I don’t want her to feel bad about bringing up a sensitive subject, nor do I want her to see how much I am bothered by it.

  “Brody was just busy most of the weekend, so I didn’t interact much with him,” I tell her, attempting to make her feel better, as well as myself.

  “Working a lot, huh?”

  Mistaking my silence as an affirmative answer, Macy smiles and continues, “That’s one of the really obnoxious things about Navy life. Even when they’re on shore duty, they may as well be deployed.”

  When Brody and I first got married, he was stationed in Charleston, South Carolina. Despite going to school all day, there was still time on evenings and weekends to spend together. Instead of coming home to see me and spend time with me, he opted to hang out with friends and stay out, sometimes days at a time. Hell, he didn’t even check out of the barracks for single sailors, so there were weeknights that he slept away. Not having the luxury of another car, I spent my days alone, with Señor Swankypants of course, dreaming of a time when things might be better after we move and Brody is not so stressed with school.

  We moved to Hawaii rather suddenly as Brody did not finish school in Charleston, so that time of which I dreamed, where things would be better, never came. In fact, since we’ve moved to Hawaii, our relationship has taken a turn for the worse.

  I look out onto the crystal blue waters of the harbor and wonder what it must be like to have someone in your life who cares to spend time with you so much that they rush home to you every chance they get, even if it’s only for two hours. And then they make the most of those two hours by spending every second loving, adoring, and worshipping you. I wonder how you get to be a person lucky enough to deserve that kind of love.

  During our fourth and final PT of the day, following the same path along the water as we have already three times today, Macy asks, “How was your show?”

  I feel as if I fall a little off-kilter from the question. It is a simple question, yet seems loaded with possibility and much more depth than those four small words outwardly display. I think back to Friday night’s show when I met Mick and our electrically charged touch. It seems that within the smallest snippet of time, my world was completely changed. I have no idea how it has changed exactly, but something about Mick made me feel safe and alive.

  I want to shout out to Macy that I met someone who filled me with the wonder of youth but also the comfort of age. I want to say that within the blink of an eye, this man- Mick -lifted my soul into the stratosphere. Maybe it was for only a second, but that second may as well have been ten lifetimes, because that’s how powerful it was to me.

  My cheeks warm, but I try to remain stoic. “I had a blast. I’m really enjoying the audiences here. Sometimes, you get cornered by pervy guys, but everyone here has been respectful, for the most part.”

  Macy wrinkles her nose and purses her lips. “Ewww. If a nasty creeper wouldn’t leave me alone, I would have to punch him in the throat.” She punches the air to emphasize her point. “Of course, if he were good-looking, I wouldn’t mind a little flirtation. You know...gotta keep the engine warm and all for when Ross gets back.”

  She comes up with the most outlandish analogies. Then again, if I’m supposed to be keeping my engine warm, I’ve failed miserably because it’s beyond ice cold. It’s also a plus if you have someone for whom to keep it warm.

  Macy looks over to me as the breeze picks up. “How did you get into burlesque, anyway?”

  “I started ballet at the age of three and just can’t stop dancing. While I was completing undergrad, I had some friends who decided to start a burlesque troupe. I knew I was going to be graduating soon and wasn’t sure how Brody felt about marriage, so it was a good way to continue to dance and make a little extra money,” I explain as I look back at her, trying to gauge her reaction.
>
  Macy eyes me suspiciously. “Extra money, as in lots of crumpled up dollar bills?”

  I smile at her and gently roll my eyes. That’s always the inevitable question people ask me. “No, actually... It’s not stripping; it’s an art form. There’s no nudity, and if you do it right, you don’t actually show that much skin at one time,” I explain.

  Macy seems to accept the explanation. “Really? It sounds like you’re just a big tease.”

  “Pretty much, yeah,” I laugh. “But I do it with finesse.”

  Macy throws her head back and laughs with me until she pauses and gives me a suggestive grin. “Do you ever meet any really hot guys?”

  “Sometimes... I mean, I’m not one who just swoons over people and finds guys irresistible because of their looks.” I look away, trying to dismiss her question.

  Macy crosses her arms over her chest, and she stops walking while I continue moving ahead. “Except Mr. Yummy,” she teases.

  I whip my head back to her. “I did not swoon over Mr. Yummy,” I say, even though I know I did.

  “You SO did!” She laughs and points to me with her index finger.

  I shake my head resolutely. “Nope.”

  “Then why are you glowing today? You didn’t get laid. You’re not excited about Mr. Yummy…”

  She runs her hand through her ponytail as I try not to make eye contact with her.

  “You met a hot guy, didn’t you?”

  “Nooo... Wait, I’m glowing?” I ask, distracted by her comment.

  She throws her hands up in frustration. “Duh. Why do you think I assumed you got nasty this weekend? The last week I’ve known you, you’ve been all sullen and sad looking. Today is the first day I’ve seen a little sparkle in your eyes. Now, fess up!”

  I purse my lips and then smile, knowing that I’m not going to be able to argue my way out of telling her. “After the show I met a guy who was very hot. He actually reminded me of Mr. Yummy, so I guess I have a type. Who knew?”