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We manage to make stilted small talk for a few minutes until Jacob and his wife, Stephanie, arrive. They are both small and dark-haired and could easily pass for siblings. Jacob is as friendly as Bishop predicted, giving me a wide smile as we’re introduced. Stephanie is pregnant, her belly so swollen she looks in danger of toppling forward at any moment. She sinks into a lawn chair with an audible sigh of relief. She flashes me an apologetic smile. “No one told me how exhausting this was going to be. ”
“I can imagine,” I murmur, although I really can’t.
She rubs her hand over her belly. “Only a few more weeks, thank goodness. We’re getting anxious to meet this little guy. Or girl. ”
Jacob takes the seat next to hers and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Do you need anything?” he asks.
She smiles up at him, her whole face glowing. “No, I’m fine. ” She seems happy, but I wonder how much of her joy is real and how much is tied up in the idea that she’s successfully fulfilled her role as a wife and soon-to-be mother.
Meredith joins us, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, a wistful expression on her face. “I can’t wait to have a baby,” she says.
I look down at the ground and tell myself to keep quiet. And for once I’m able to heed my own advice. I can’t believe she would want to have a child with Dylan. Has she been so brainwashed that she actually thinks it will improve her situation, that a boy like Dylan will ever change? And does she not understand how a child will trap her? No matter what happens to her relationship with Dylan, she will love their child, and that maternal bond will lock her in for the rest of her life. Babies at sixteen serve more than one purpose for a clever government.
It strikes me suddenly how ridiculous all of this is. The group of us still children in many ways, playing at being grown-ups. Throwing barbecues and talking about babies. Even at eighteen, Jacob and Stephanie seem young, too young to be embarking on parenthood, surely. My father told me that before the war, a lot of people didn’t marry or have children until they were in their thirties. Sometimes even their forties. It had been shocking to contemplate. Now, the younger you are when you reproduce, the better the chance your baby will be born with the right number of fingers and toes, the better the chance you’ll be able to have a child at all.
But I envy the women who came before me, the ones who had the option of waiting or of not having children at all. Nowadays, children are the most valuable currency there is, and if you’re able, you have them. It’s not a question of what you want, it’s only a question of how many and how healthy. I know that Bishop and I aren’t destined to raise a family together, but I wonder if he is envious of Stephanie’s growing belly, if he wishes he had his own child on the way. I catch his eye across the yard, and he gives me a small, secret smile. Something in his face tells me I’m not the only one who recognizes the ridiculousness of this life we’re living.
“Steaks are ready!” Dylan calls, and Meredith rushes over to his side with a platter. Her constant vigilance to his needs has to be exhausting, always trying to anticipate what he’ll want before he even wants it.
We line up for plates, Jacob urging Stephanie to stay seated while he gets her food. I sit at the edge of the picnic table with Dylan and Meredith across from me. Bishop sits in the same lawn chair he vacated earlier, Stephanie and Jacob to his left.
I’m halfway through my dinner when I notice the cozy way Stephanie and Jacob are sitting, their knees touching, laughing under their breath at some private joke. Even Dylan and Meredith are having a conflict-free evening. She is holding out a forkful of watermelon for him, smiling as he slides it into his mouth. I have to resist the urge to vomit. I’d be more tempted to stab him in the eye. But there’s no denying that the closeness of the other couples makes the distance between Bishop and me more awkward, noticeable to everyone. I can’t afford to have people speculating about our relationship, questioning my commitment to my husband. Especially after…when suspicion is sure to swirl around me.
I take a deep breath and push myself up, plate in hand. I walk to where Bishop is sitting. When he looks up at me, I smile. “Is there room for me?” I ask. I don’t give him a chance to answer. I lower myself to sit sideways across his lap, resting my weight gingerly on his thighs. I hope he can’t feel my body quaking.
He studies me for a long moment. “I won’t break,” he says finally. He puts a hand on my lower back, supporting me.
“I’m tall,” I say by way of apology as I let him take my full weight.
“I’ve noticed. ” Bishop’s voice is quiet. “I like it. ”
The heat in my chest threatens to engulf me, like a fire’s been set inside my rib cage and is raging out of control, tearing its way through my body, burning up all the available oxygen. Out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Stephanie and Jacob are watching us, but I can’t shift my gaze from Bishop’s.
“How’s…” I have to clear my throat. “How’s your steak?”
“Good. ” Bishop glances down at my plate. “Yours?”
“Same,” I say. I don’t trust myself to lift my fork.
A wisp of Bishop’s hair falls over his forehead, blown by the breeze. I don’t give myself time to think about it, just reach up and smooth it back, the strands so much softer than I thought they would be, thick and silky against my fingers. My head knows what a horrible idea this is, screaming at me to stop, that I’m taking things too far, but the rest of me has no such reservations. I have the fleeting thought that perhaps self-preservation isn’t my strongest character trait.
Bishop turns his head slightly as I ease my hand away so that I touch his cheek, his skin warm and stubble-rough under my palm. His hand remains on the small of my back. His thumb rubs in a slow up-and-down motion, my entire body centered right there at the point of contact.
“I thought you were making strawberry shortcake,” Dylan says behind me. “That’s what I said I wanted. ”
Bishop’s thumb stills on my back, and I turn my head, following his gaze to where Dylan and Meredith stand near their back door. She’s carrying a pie in her hands, her happy smile dying on her face as I watch.
“The strawberries at the market didn’t look good today. But they had fresh blueberries, and I thought—”
Dylan’s hand moves so fast I don’t even see it until it cracks across her cheek. The contact creates a sharp popping sound, and Meredith’s eyes widen, tears blossoming along her lids. Stephanie gives a quick, startled inhale before quiet descends again.
Meredith raises a hand to her cheek, her eyes on the pie. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Bishop’s whole body has gone rigid, his hand forming a fist in my shirt.
“Blueberry will be fine,” Dylan says, like he’s granting her an official pardon. “But next time, do what I say. ”
“All right,” Meredith says with a wobbly smile. She sets the pie on the table, and Dylan turns to all of us, clapping his hands. “Who’s ready for dessert?” he calls. He doesn’t appear to notice the awful tension in the yard, or maybe he doesn’t care—the casual violence he inflicted simply part of the everyday fabric of their lives.
