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Bishop raises his eyebrows at me. “Are you hungry?” he asks. “You didn’t eat any cake. ” He unbuttons the cuff of his shirt and rolls the sleeve up, exposing a tan forearm. He has the kind of muscles you only get by using them, lean and strong. He goes to work on his other sleeve, waiting for me to answer.
I can’t imagine eating. Chewing and swallowing are beyond me. But fixing something to eat means a reprieve, at least, a few minutes where I don’t have to worry about what’s coming next.
“Maybe,” I say finally. “What is there?”
Bishop shrugs. “I have no idea. But I’m sure my mother had them stock the icebox. ” I trail behind him into the kitchen. It’s warmer and brighter in here, and he crosses to the windows, pushing one up so that a breeze ruffles the lace curtains. The icebox is fancier than the basic wooden box we had at home. This one looks like a piece of furniture, scrollwork carved into the wood. Refrigerators are just one more thing that didn’t survive the war. Even if we had enough electricity to power them continually, we ran out of Freon long ago. So we use handmade wooden iceboxes and ice blocks are delivered every few days, harvested in winter and kept in an ice house year round.
I pull open the icebox, just to have something to do with my hands. There is a block of cheese, meat of some kind wrapped in paper, a glass jug of milk and one of water on the top shelf. Below that are a dozen eggs, lettuce, and carrots in a bin at the bottom. A bowl of fresh berries. We never went hungry in my house, but there was never this much food, either. Always just enough and no more.
“There’s more fruit here,” Bishop says from the counter. “And bread. ” He flips the dial on the stovetop. “Electricity is out, so nothing we have to cook. ” Electricity was one of the first things my grandfather and the other survivors worked to restore. But it still runs intermittently and we are prone to outages, sometimes short, sometimes lasting for days. Only government buildings, City Hall, the courthouse, are always guaranteed power. We are all encouraged to use our electric appliances sparingly—no lights unless it’s necessary, fans running only when it’s so hot we don’t have any choice.
“Sandwiches?” I suggest.
“Sure. ”
I pull out the meat—turkey, it turns out—and cheese and set them on the counter next to Bishop. He hands me a knife and I slice the bread while he does the same with a tomato. His fingers are long and he wields the knife easily, his movements deft.
We work in silence, assembling two sandwiches, one of which I know will go uneaten. “Do you like to cook?” Bishop asks. He pulls two yellow glass plates down from the cabinet. “There’s not a right answer,” he says when I don’t respond. He sounds amused. “It isn’t a test. ”
But he’s wrong. This is all a test. Every second, every interaction, has the potential to blow up in my face. I remember what my father told me: to be myself as much as I can. The truth, where it can be told, is always more effective than a lie.
“I don’t mind it,” I say. He’s probably picturing me in an apron, making him food all day long. “Why?”
Bishop looks at me, his eyes doing that appraising thing again. “I was just making conversation, Ivy. Trying to get to know you. ”
It’s the first time he’s said my name. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure he even knew what it was.
We eat without speaking. Well, he eats. I pick at the edges of my bread, rolling little balls of dough between my fingers. I keep my gaze mostly on my plate, but every time I look up, his eyes are on me, making the pit in my stomach expand. I wait for him to speak, demand something of me, but he seems content with the silence.
I don’t know how long we sit there, but shadows are starting to slide down the walls when he finally gets up and puts our plates in the sink. Through the open window, I hear someone calling a child in for the night, the slam of a trash can lid, the faint strains of music from a guitar. The normality of it only reminds me how alone I am.
“Do you want to unpack?” Bishop asks.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing my dress down as I stand, wishing I could glue it to my body. My legs feel cold and exposed, even in the mild evening air. I hear Callie’s voice in my head: Just get through it.
He carries my suitcase down the short hallway to the bedroom. I follow a few paces behind, my fingers trailing against the wall, like maybe I can find something to cling onto that will save me. There is a bathroom to the left and a single bedroom to the right. The fading daylight reveals a large bed with two matching nightstands and a dresser on the opposite wall.
“There are hangers in the closet,” he tells me. “And half the dresser is empty. ”
I nod, hovering in the doorway, fists clenched. He stands at the foot of the bed, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching me with careful eyes. I know what Callie would do. She would flirt and laugh. She would make the first move. She would seize the reins of a situation that is completely beyond her control and bend it to her will, happy to sacrifice herself for the good of the cause. But I am not like that. Despite what I’ve been taught, I know that if he tries to touch me, tries to take off my dress, I will fight him. Even though it won’t do any good, I will fight. I don’t know if that makes me weak or strong.
But he doesn’t touch me, doesn’t come any nearer. He opens a dresser drawer and pulls out a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, bunching them in his fist. “I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says.
I have been so tense, so prepared for a battle, that at first his words don’t register. “Wait… What… You don’t…” I’m not even sure what I’m asking.
He gives me a wry smile, his eyebrows raised. “You do?”
“No,” I say, and instantly regret how quickly I answered. I should be more worried about insulting him, but right now sheer relief overshadows my training.
He nods. “That’s what I thought. ”
We stare at each other. I’ve never heard of the groom sleeping on the couch on his wedding night. Maybe it happens all the time and I don’t know it. But I doubt it, remembering the other couples with their greedy lips and flushed cheeks at the reception today. If he is disappointed, though, or angry, he doesn’t show it.
I move out of the doorway so he can slide past me. He pauses briefly and tips his head down to me. “Good night, Ivy,” he says.
“Good night. ”
He closes the door behind him as he leaves. I walk to the bed and sit on the edge, press my fingers between my knees to stop their trembling. If there was a chair I could wedge under the doorknob to make sure he can’t come back, I would feel better. But deep down, I don’t believe he’ll come in. I don’t think he will hurt me and I don’t know what to make of that. It might be easier if he had.
