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Maybe next.
If only I knew where my phone was, I could tell you for sure.
I meant to check to see if I’ve had any new appointments added earlier, but Matthew needed his snack and I got distracted. I promised myself and my son that I’d take the day off, but these things are not always in my control.
Speaking of control, while I’m at it, I should probably check Sean’s itinerary. He gets cranky if anyone other than me picks him up at the airport. I’ll admit his idea of what constitutes wifely duties is a bit skewed. It’s a shame; I have a feeling an airport run will mean missing Pilates. I really can’t afford not to go. Not again. Not after missing last week. Plus, with the holidays creeping up, I have to be careful. Routines are everything here. My husband reminds me often about the importance of keeping up appearances.
Keeps the questions at bay. Keeps my sanity.
Obviously, these
things only matter when they’re in his favor. Self-interest and all—no one’s immune. Certainly not a man like Sean.
My eyes scan the kitchen once more. Where could it be? I’ve checked in all the usual spots: the dining room table, the charger in the office. I gloss over the bar a third time just in case I missed it the last two times. I haven’t.
I do, however, spot my vitamin bottle on top of the fridge. Shit. My eyes dart to the clock on the oven. I should have known. I’m late for my dose. My mind always races when this happens. It’s prone to taking me places I don’t want to go.
Just the feel of the bottle in my hand eases my anxiety. I turn it over in my hands. What a godsend these capsules are. Helps with the high on life feeling, for sure. Twisting the cap, I shake a few into my hand.
It’s not like I need them. They’re just vitamins we get from the church. Performance enhancers, they call them.
All I know is—they work. It’s obvious now, even doing something as mundane as standing at my kitchen sink staring out into the yard. The leaves have started to fall; it looks magical. This town, this neighborhood…it’s all magical. This is exactly where I’m meant to be. There’s nothing quite like it: the inclusiveness, the incentives. There’s nowhere else I’d rather raise Matty.
I’m happy here. Or I will be soon.
There’s no denying it took a lot to get here—a lot on my part, and as my husband likes to remind me, a fair amount on his part too. Finally, though, things are beginning to settle. Proof that hard work pays off, Sean says.
Whatever the case, we did what anyone who wants a better life does: we did what we had to do. In turn, Sean moved up in rank significantly within the church and our lifestyle upgraded along with it. We traded our old town for Austin, which means we’re extra lucky, because we’re stationed at New Hope’s headquarters. My husband assures me this is the best place for us. Personally, I’d wanted to start a satellite location, especially with so many sister cities popping up. I did my best to convince him we should start fresh. He refused to budge, and I guess I’m glad.
Looking out at the houses that line our street, it’s obvious that he was right. Fitting in here should be a piece of cake.
I flip the handle on the faucet and fill an empty glass, making a mental note to drink more water. Half your body weight in ounces, the church says. Here everything is about improvement. Gains. I toss the pills toward the back of my throat and chase them down with the water. Not too much, though. Not before they’ve had a chance to work their magic.
Thankfully, it shouldn’t take long. My stomach is empty; I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I’m supposed to cut weight. This happens sometimes after a busy week. Another reason I can’t afford to miss Pilates.
I stare down the tree-lined street and consider a run. The weather is perfect for it. God, I love November. Particularly early November, before everyone starts focusing on Christmas and you can just exist. I bet Christmas will be lovely here, but I can’t think about that right now.
My eyes have landed on the Harris family, out for an evening stroll. They pass another neighbor and stop to chat. That’s what people do here.
This is the kind of place I imagined growing up in. The kind where bikes are piled in driveways, neighborhoods hold cookouts, and women are allowed to speak their minds. This is the life I always wanted. Security. Freedom. The chance to be different. Ease rushes over me as the effect of the vitamins begins to take hold. The feeling starts in the pit of my stomach, working its way up, the euphoria spreading outward like fingers.
I just hope it lasts.
Scheduled sex. It’s ironic, really. I always thought it was something old married couples did. That’s if I really thought about it at all. Where I come from, sex was only discussed in terms of producing as many offspring as one can bear in the name of serving God’s purpose. Thankfully, I knew a few things before walking down the aisle. I knew that a woman is forbidden to refuse her husband. I knew that even if she doesn’t enjoy the act, it’s a sin to suggest otherwise.
It’s too bad more women don’t think like that. I might be out of a job.
On average, I have twenty-one clients. Give or take. It’s hard to say because sometimes they’re on the wagon, meaning they are trying to be on their best behavior. They are trying to remain faithful. Mostly, though, they’re off.
Sometimes I get new ones, and sometimes the old ones die.
The reminder alarm chimes on my phone, letting me know my next appointment is in fifteen minutes. I disable it. I’m already here. Turns out, they did add a client to my schedule. I wasn’t happy about it. It meant breaking my promise to Matthew, but Sean says sometimes these things can’t be helped.
Yes, my husband is aware of my occupation. But that’s a rather long story. Anyway, here I am. Client number seventeen has suggested a drink before our appointment. He’s an out-of-towner. The notes on my schedule said he didn’t want to have dinner alone.
I wasn’t prepared for actual conversation, but sometimes this is a part of the act. This time, however, it sends up a red flag; he’s never requested this before. Not to mention the fact that it’s a Friday night. I have to be careful. It could signal that he’s looking for a date. I’m no stranger to the girlfriend experience—one does what one has to do—but I’m a minimalist, and it’s important we get this out of the way. Most people think men are void of emotion when it comes to sex, but that’s a false assumption. Their needs may be slightly different, but this doesn’t make them immune to wanting more.
Of course, it could be none of these things. It could simply be the church’s way of testing me, of seeing that I’m still in the business of recruitment. I’m not stupid.
