Inner Secrets Read online

  Inner Secrets

  By Suzie Carr

  Second Edition Copyright 2014, Suzie Carr. All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Also by Suzie Carr:

  The Fiche Room

  Two Feet off the Ground

  Tangerine Twist

  A New Leash on Life

  The Muse

  Staying True

  Snowflakes

  Keep up with Suzie’s latest projects:

  www.curveswelcome.com

  Trish McDermott – Thank you for your wise and thoughtful guidance.

  Chapter One

  December 1

  Dear Journal,

  Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Hope Steele. I turned twenty-eight yesterday and I’ve got something to confess.

  I am gay.

  Just seeing these three words scrawled out on my page jolts me. I am charged tossing my truth out and seeing it stand on its own, strong, confident, fearless. I’ve told two people in my life to date, my best friend, PJ, and her girlfriend, Rachel. I’ve lived the better part of my life with this secret, and might just lose it if I have to live another moment hidden. So, here I am, confessing my truth on paper, hoping I can get to know the real me through this journaling.

  So what’s the big deal that I’m gay?

  Well, you see, I’m married. I’ve been married to my husband Ryan for two years, ten months, four days, ten hours and thirty-one minutes.

  January 27

  Dear Journal,

  I've got something to confess again.

  A pretty, new girl named Lucy started at work two weeks ago. I’ve been a lustful fool ever since.

  On her first day, I volunteered to show her around, introduce her to her new colleagues, to the coffee machine, to the copier, to the storage room. I treated her to a skinny latte at the office building’s café. We sat across from each other, sipping our sweet treats and sharing smiles. We chatted about office lingo and company history. She asked intelligent, pointed questions about expectations and what I liked most about the firm. And for the love of God, I couldn’t focus on anything but her pouty, glossed lips and the feathery angle of her eyes.

  I dreamt about her last night. I dreamt we had stayed late to work on a project. She followed me to the storage closet to help gather some envelopes. A soft glow from the office lights illuminated her face, glistened on her lips, danced in her eyes. I reached around her for a box. She smelled bluesy, soulful. Well, one spark fed the other and before I could blink, she backed me up against the shelves and started making out with me. Her passion, soft lips, intensity left me breathless, spinning. I woke with a desperate hunger, one that only this girl could feed.

  I stared at the back of my husband’s head for several minutes, watching as he breathed in and out peacefully, unknowing that his faithful wife was not who he believed her to be—a woman who was physically attracted to him and a woman who was dying to start a family with him. I was no more this woman than I was the Queen of England.

  I then cried into my blankets.

  I'm going over to PJ’s now. I pray she can set me straight.

  I left a note for Ryan that chicken dumplings were sitting by the milk on the top shelf of the fridge when he got home. I told him not to wait up for me.

  January 28

  Dear Journal, I am a mess!

  Okay, so I’m still feeling gay this morning, despite my wish that PJ would help set me straight last night. I’m such a rambling idiot, though. I should’ve sat on her couch, admitted my crush on Lucy, and let her and Rachel talk some sense into me. After all, Rachel is Ryan’s cousin. Who better to set me straight?

  Instead, they listened as I droned on and on about Lucy’s glistening skin, the way her hair flirts with her collarbone, the way her hips sway in perfect pendulum fashion each time she passes me by. I couldn’t stop.

  They must’ve thought I was nothing more than a babbling, horny girl trying to get her lesbian side on. I’m still not sure what I expected the girls to do when I told them about my crush on Lucy. I guess a trio of screams and leaps? We weren’t thirteen giggling over our first kisses. These are two put-together women in love, in perfect love, who dine on gourmet tuna and relax on vacations to exotic places.

  They have careers with real future and value. They play intelligent games like chess and belong to a Shakespearian book club. I wanted them to revel in girl talk alongside me. Was this too much to ask from two girls who love talking about girls?

  If only PJ would’ve smiled more, crossed her arms over her chest a little less, sprinkled out a speck of interest, and definitely not brought up Ryan. Couldn’t she tell I needed to unleash about Lucy? How else would we get down to the bottom of my life, my future?

  February 1

  Dear Journal, I'm addicted to euphoria.

  I think I’m an addict; a euphoria one, that is.

  You see, I’m thinking this because without any euphoria, I’m blah. I don’t mean just any blah. I mean can’t-wrap-my-brain-around-work blah; need-three-cups-of-coffee- blah; want-to-eat-everything-on-the-planet-that-is-fried-or-covered-in-chocolate blah. Okay, so maybe I’m making this sound a bit more serious than it actually is. In all honesty, two days ago, I focused just fine, drank one cup of coffee, and was perfectly content eating carrot sticks, hummus, apples, and brown rice. Then again, two days ago, my beautiful co-worker, Lucy, was not calling out sick to work.

  Do you see where I’m going with this? Ever since she started at the firm, I’ve been jolted to life. Then, when she called out sick two days in a row, I was ready to collapse from the lack of euphoric nutrition. I kept looking over at her desk, seeking a jolt to get me through the next mailing list spreadsheet. When I saw the black leather chair where her lovely body should be, my spirit fizzled, the light snuffed out. One month prior, I didn’t even know she existed. Now, she crosses my mind when I breathe, blink, sleep.

  I crave her smile, her nod, her invite to the café for a mid-morning and mid-afternoon cup of coffee.

  I’m addicted to euphoria.

  This is a major problem because this addiction is causing me to partake in stalker-type behavior. I mean, just today, when I was sure no one noticed, I snuck by her cubicle just to catch a glimpse of a picture of her and her niece. Who does this? Next, I’ll be stuffing myself under her desk, sniffing her sweater or something creepy like that.

  This all has me wondering if I’m normal. Maybe I’m just a simple adrenaline junky. This can be easy to solve if this is really my issue. All I have to do is shake things up in life to get a shot of nirvana. I can take up skydiving. Yes, that ought to do the trick. I’ll quench my thirst for bliss by jumping out of an airplane.

  Who the hell am I trying to fool? I want to pull her into my arms and kiss her like a couple in a Hollywood love story, a gay couple, of course.

  February 19

  Dear Journal, fantastical fool, Hope, here.

  I remember reading an article in a nature magazine once that educated me on the sad statistic of how only three percent of mammals mate for life. Of this three percent, only some remain monogamous. One that does is the black vulture. They discourage infidelity. You know what a vulture would do if he caught another vulture cheating? He’d gather all of his other vulture friends and coordinate revenge. Together, this swarm of vigilante vultures would seek out the naughty, philandering vulture and attack him. I imagine that this keeps fidelity pretty high on their priority list. Fidelity out of fear.

  PJ confessed to me that several years ago she kissed another woman when she first hooked u
p with Rachel. Not just once, but on many occasions. She still carries around the guilt.

  How do I feel about this?

  Relieved.

  I am so relieved that PJ and I are just a couple of screwed up friends—friends who will always stick together and protect each other from such vicious attacks, even if we are dead wrong. We’re both imperfect. She’s a kissing fool, and I’m a fantastical fool, dreaming up these naughty scenarios where I’m tickling erogenous zones that I shouldn’t be tickling.

  PJ threw a lot at me tonight. She said my lustful confessions are bringing up this guilt she had long ago repressed. She said she keeps playing back the sneaky kisses in her mind, and with each revised clip, a mountain of guilt is blocking her path.

  She thinks she cheated. I don’t.

  She sat across from me, a pepperoni pizza and pitcher of Blue Moon beer crowding between us, and squirmed against the checkered seat. I asked her what was going on. Then, just like that, she tossed out every truth she’d hidden over the past several years, leaving nothing for me to imagine. I heard all about this girl named Tiffany and her husky voice, her smoldering eyes, her size four jeans that hugged her hips just right, even the butterfly tattoo on her left shoulder blade. She spoke about her as if she’d just hooked up with her the night before instead of years prior. She rambled on, highlighting this stranger’s best assets.

  PJ needed me tonight. She wanted me to advise her, tell her what to do. Should she confess all of this to Rachel and hope enough time has passed to lessen the blow? She looked to me for this answer.

  Me. Can you imagine? What a joke, huh? What was I supposed to tell her that she didn’t already know? She didn’t outright cheat on Rachel. Although, some might argue a kiss weighs heavier than sex. She admitted if Tiffany appeared before her again, she’d be defenseless to her beauty, to her smoldering eyes, to her sexy ways.

  How can I judge?

  If Lucy, or some other hot babe, tossed me against a stack of shelves and started to make out with me, I’m not so sure I could stop it either. This turns me on. How pathetic of a counsel am I?

  So you know what I did? I told her, “PJ, you need to come clean to Rachel. But,” I said, praying for guidance that I'd dole her advice she could really use. “You need to fess up carefully. You need to whitewash the truth.” I pictured Rachel, staring at PJ with her innocent doe-like eyes, reaching out to her with her forever-faithful heart, urging her to unleash her troubles. I swallowed, and added, “You need to whitewash it like you were sandblasting it. As a matter of fact, you need to bleach the damn truth, double process it. Fry the crap out of it so it’s unrecognizable.” I latched onto my best friend's hands, saddled her in, and kicked my idea of a plan into high gear. “Oh the heck with it, PJ. Why bother? Does she really need to know? Can’t you just deal with the guilt by eating a bowl of vanilla bean ice cream?”

  She shrugged. I shrugged. We drank another pitcher of beer.

  An hour later, the stress lines stretching across her forehead finally recoiled. By the time we said goodbye, her shoulders even lowered back down to their normal position.

  March 23

  Dear Journal, I got caught.

  9:20 a.m.

  Something’s definitely wrong with Ryan and me. I have never left the house without saying goodbye to him. This morning I did. I didn’t even realize this until I got to work. Even worse than that, he never called me to tell me, ‘Hey you forgot to say goodbye to me.’

  So, I’m trying to figure out what this means. Is this the beginning of the end? Is this the part when the marital seam rips open and nothing, no superglue, no super-strength thread, no master tailor in the world can sew us back to our original shape? Is this the pinnacle moment that I’ll look back on ten years from now and say, ‘Yup, that’s when I knew we were over’?

  5:40 p.m.

  I basked in a warm, delicious bath an hour ago, soaking up the lavender and chamomile, enjoying soft jazz when Ryan knocked. He poked his head in and asked permission to enter. “Of course, honey. Why are you even asking?”

  He entered. His arms remained latched behind him as if roped into place. A question rested on his lips, I could tell this much even through the steamy, candlelit haze. “I found something this morning and I’m a little confused by it.” He flicked his arm straight out and in his hand he cradled my latest copy of a lesbian romance novel. The cover, sporting two sets of curvy lips in a kiss, revealed the erotic nature of its contents.

  Bubbles rippled around me, victims of my galloping heart. Oh how I wanted to sink under them and find refuge to think of an answer other than, “Oh, that silly thing. That was a gag gift from your dear cousin Rachel.” I giggled. He didn’t.

  He bit his lower lip, cocked his head slightly, and then walked out, closing the door with a whisper, leaving me to wade in my deflated bubbles.

  I take back what I wrote earlier. Maybe this is that pinnacle moment that I will look back on and say, ‘Yup, that’s when I knew we were over.’

  April 22

  Dear Journal, I’m selfish.

  Ryan came home in a frenzy, caught up in some strange whirlwind, citing that things were going to change big time for us now. He was offered a transfer to the Dallas office and he was getting a ten thousand dollar raise.

  I begged him not to take it.

  I couldn’t leave PJ and my job, not now while in the midst of my confusion.

  I couldn’t leave Lucy.

  He loves me so much. He said he would decline it if Maryland was where I wanted to call home and raise our kids. I hugged him so hard; I feared I cracked a few ribs.

  Then he asked me again when we were going to start having kids.

  “Soon,” I told him.

  May 15

  Dear Journal, my head is spinning.

  I’m extremely aggravated with my best friend at the moment. We just met for drinks at the Asian Bistro, and well into our second round I started to tell her about how attracted I still am to Lucy. I went into painstaking detail about how adorable she looked today; about how her hair hung in big, teasing curls, how her pencil skirt lengthened her legs, and how her lips shimmied with crimson lip gloss. Then, I told her about the incredible moment when she treated me to a flirty smile as we both reached for the same coffee mug, and PJ shot up from the table with such force, as though fire erupted in the restaurant’s kitchen. She said that she’d heard enough and needed to leave. She barreled out of the restaurant, leaving me alone with half a Mojito and the unpaid check.

  I called her as soon as my head stopped spinning, and you know what she did? She actually had the nerve to tell me I was acting like a self-absorbed, ungrateful person who, at the moment, didn’t deserve someone as great as Ryan.

  So, I hung up on her. Guess who tried calling me back five minutes later? Yeah, and then every twenty seconds thereafter.

  I’m still pissed, and way too hurt to hear her voice. How dare she judge me? How dare she criticize me? How dare she tell me I don’t deserve Ryan? Even though maybe I don’t deserve him, a best friend is never to shed light on something so painfully obvious. Best friends are supposed to cover these ugly truths up with nuance, smooth over our rough edges with a fine chamois, and color our stains with rosy, balanced hues. Not tear us into shreds and then throw us in the fire.

  So now what? I’m not allowed to tell her what’s happening in my life? This is no longer permitted? What kind of bullshit is that? I have to go back to bottling up my real feelings? So, it’s okay for her to go around kissing every hot girl that throws herself at her, but me, I’m a rotten, no-good wife for checking out a pretty girl’s legs, hair and glossy lips?

  I obviously hit a nerve with her. Sometimes I wish my confession hadn’t stirred the soil of her own guilt. Maybe then she’d look at me with sympathetic eyes.

  Great. I think Ryan just walked through the front door. Time for me to go pretend I’m the happy-go-freaking-lucky wife now.

  May 16

  Dear Journal, I teete
red over the line.

  So, I did it. I did what I said I’d never do. I walked up to that thin line, climbed on top of it, and flirted with its dares, its lure, and its insane concoction that blurred right from wrong. There I stood, one foot dangerously close to nirvana and the other one clinging to reality, toying between indulging or walking away. Guess which one I chose?

  Here's how it all went down: PJ came by work today and we made up over a couple of Panera sandwiches. She even wanted to meet Lucy. Of course, Lucy was offsite today. Anyway, she explained how she’s confused over how best to counsel me, and I told her I didn’t need any counseling. I just needed my best friend back. So, she invited me to go out to dinner with her and Rachel. We had just finished eating Cobb salads and sour dough bread when we drove by the parking lot to Club X. Men directed a flow of steady traffic into the parking lot with flashlights. Intrigued, I nonchalantly suggested we go in and see where all the girls were flocking. PJ didn’t even flinch, despite Rachel’s tug at her arm. She turned her wheel like I asked her to drive thru McDonalds for a hamburger. My heart flipped. This would be my first ladies night.

  The scene radiated more heat than an Arizona summer day. Everything from the soft lights, the heart-pumping music, and the sweet smell of sweat and perfume set my heart racing. After meeting up with several of their friends and downing a drink, we all ventured to the dance floor. Then, a cutie with trendy dreads and the sweetest smile caught my eye. I couldn’t stop looking at her. Her free spirit, her sexy vibe, her soft features lured me in. The club was dark, it was hot, and it was sexy. But not as sexy as this girl. Before long, she took my hand and guided me to the beat. I’ve never danced so dangerously close to a girl before. Our bodies melded, and before long everyone around me blurred. Her hands hugged my hips, her legs brushed against mine, her breath nestled against the back of my neck. I’d never felt so free, so natural, so desperate to erase that line that has kept me from experiencing anything this sexy before.