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He takes my chin and lifts it so my eyes align with his. My teeth dig into my tongue. He won’t want to cancel. Which means he won’t leave a mark.
“Then what did you mean?”
I shake my head. Not much because it’s in his hands. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do know. Don’t take me for a fool, Josie. And I won’t take you for one. Lest you forget what’s at stake here. If you can’t be what I want you to be then just say the words—if this is not what you want— you know where the door is. You’ve always known.”
He’s right; I do know what’s at stake. Everything. My husband isn’t a fool. We both know that.
“Is this what you want? Us? This family?”
“Of course.”
“Because, you know how easy it would be to let it all go, don’t you? I’ve always told you…I’ll set you up in a little apartment—you know the kind—and we’ll call it a day.”
“And the kids? What about the kids?” He likes it when I bring this up. It hammers me into place.
“They’ll stay here, of course. Where they’re comfortable.”
I know what he means. He doesn’t have to say it. He controls everything. The money he off-shores, or ties up in his business—and the house is in the church’s name—so, in the end, he’s right. I’ll come out with very little.
“Anyway. Let me remind you. You like appearances, no?” He glances at my phone. “What kind of job do you think you’ll get? Money guarantees beauty. My profession is a testament to that. But it doesn’t always work the other way around, now does it? You’ll need a skill set to land you a job.” He scoffs. I look at the floor. “What do you think that might be? At your age? Lunching? Carpool? Gardening? Reading? I’m glad you have your hobbies. Don’t get me wrong; that’s why I work so hard. But let’s face it, what you have are hardly employable skills, darling. ”
He shifts my chin forcing me to look at him. I’ve heard this all before. “It was just an off the cuff remark,” I say. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
He touches my face. “And I didn’t mean to put my hands on you.”
I nod like I understand, and I do. I understand that he chooses his words carefully. He doesn’t say, I didn’t mean to hit you. Slapping you was an accident, I meant nothing by it. No, not my husband. He’s precise. Careful.
This makes me realize I should be too.
I run my fingers over the dresses. I collect myself, get my emotions in check. I select a green silk A-line dress Grant bought for me during his last trip to Argentina. I’m guessing he’ll like this one. It holds memories.
I snap a photo of it next to a sheer blue wraparound and post it to Instalook with the caption: Decisions. Decisions. What say you?
Almost instantly, I have ninety-two responses, and I realize I was right to go with the A-line.
“I’d like to lie with you before we go,” Grant calls out from the bedroom. It catches me off-guard given our argument. That’s not to say I’m surprised. I know him.
“Just a sec—” I hold the dress up to my frame and wonder if I hurry to throw it on whether it’d make any difference. Probably not. I’d just have to find something else to wear. He steps into the closet. When I don’t answer, because there isn’t one, he repeats himself. “I said I want to lie with you before we go.”
I know what this means, and I meet his eye accordingly.
“I have to get ready,” I say, glancing at the clock.
“Being late is fashionable, Mrs. Dunn.” He’s standing just behind me, running his hands over my hips. He’s lying. He doesn’t like to be late.
I watch his hands in the mirror. They’re cold. “What do you think about this dress?” I ask, a considerate distraction.
“I think— I like what is underneath the dress better.”
His response tells me what I need to know. I won’t be getting out of it tonig
ht. Not that I’ve ever really been that successful. We have an agreement. It’s one every couple at New Hope shares: one is never to refuse their spouse. It’s written in scripture.
“Josie,” he repeats, his tone stern. “I said, I want to lie with you.”
This time I do as he asks, without hesitation. I hang the dress over the door, and I turn to him.
