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“Find pleasure in uprightness, Sydney,” she’d say over and over.
Most of the time I choked it down only to avoid a beating.
And the clothes? The ones my grandmother bought me could’ve come from an Amish fashion catalogue, if there was such a thing. White long-sleeve blouses and black pants. Wool for winter and cotton for summer. Calf-grazing dresses. I lived in a pretty remote town. My high school was relatively small and not at all on the cutting edge of pop culture. But even in a town where some guys routinely came to school dressed in deer hunting fatigues I stood out as “one of the weird ones.”
“Come take a closer look,” he urged.
“No…I…” I glanced over and met the patient gaze belonging to the man in the doorway. “It’s beautiful but I…I wouldn’t know what to do with it.” A pressing need to get away, to get back to the safety of routine, had my feet moving before I’d finished speaking.
By late afternoon I was back at the cabin and immediately started on dinner for the both of us. A peace offering of sorts, let’s call it. I was determined to show Scott that there were a few perks to this marriage.
So we didn’t get along. So he held a grudge. I’d dealt with worse. Much worse. How hard could this be? What were three years in the grand scheme of things?
As soon as I’d moved out of my grandparents’ house, I developed a rabid interest in all things food related. Having been denied the good stuff for so long, I made it my mission to learn how to cook, teaching myself how by watching YouTube videos and reading cookbooks. And since it had more to do with my palate and less my stomach, it resulted in piles and piles of food my roommates and neighbors were more than happy to take off my hands. By the time I was working full-time for Blackstone, cooking had become my happy place, a safe way to turn my brain off and act on impulse, my way of decompressing from all the stress of the corporate culture Frank fostered.
“People are at their best when pitted against each other, Sydney. They either excel or break.” Frank’s exact words. I didn’t agree, but I wasn’t about to argue with a man that had already built a global empire by the time he hit fifty.
Aside from my house being overrun with sweets and baked goods––baking was my favorite by far––there was very little downside.
Scott walked in around early evening already freshly showered. Which, frankly, at first got some serous freaking side-eye. Then I figured it would make sense for him to have a shower in the office, right? Thinking about the odors he would pick up working cattle on a hot summer day made me nearly gag.
His wet hair was swept back and as black as sin. His eyes a startling deep blue against a fresh spot of color on his strong cheekbones. His flat stare migrated to the small table pushed up against the wall. Over the two place settings of mismatched plates and cutlery. Sky blue asters I’d bought at the supermarket sprouted out of a glass Coke bottle in the center of the table. The snow had thawed enough for me to rummage out back and I’d found it amongst a pile of discards: a rusted red wheelbarrow, a weathered wood planter, shovels, and old chicken wire. I’d also discovered a relatively new four-wheeler in a small attached shed.
My make-believe husband frowned. This was not looking good.
“I made dinner. I hope you like risotto.” I’d taken special care to julienne the squash and zucchini angel hair thin. I’d even added a touch of nutmeg––something I’d freestyled. After all the years of following cookbooks, I’d finally started putting my own personal touches on my favorite recipes. What was inconsequential to most people was a big deal for someone as structured as this girl.
Before he could speak, or more specifically decline, I filled one of the bowls with a chipped rim and held it out for him. Scott took one look at the zucchini risotto I’d lovingly slow-cooked, stabbed it with his fork, stuck it in his mouth, and said, “It’s missing something.” After which he marched into his bedroom and emerged ten minutes later dressed in dark jeans that hugged his ass like they were custom made for him and a white dress shirt that played up his tan––no doubt meant to make all the women in the county fall back with their legs spread apart. All with the exception of his wife.
My stomach sank.
“I’m going out,” he announced, avoiding eye contact.
One day into the marriage and he was already ditching me. “Is that a good idea?” I asked, voice trained low in a desperate attempt to hide my rising anxiety. If the press caught wind of this, they would “out us” as frauds immediately. “I mean…technically we’re supposed to be in the honeymoon stage.”
