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“Too tired. Needs to be alone.” He ticked off each excuse on his fingers. “Absolutely never in the mood.”
“Eli,” I started.
“Wife of the year award right here, folks.” He pointed at me as though we had an audience he was performing for. “And on top of all that, claims to want kids but hasn’t gotten pregnant in five years, despite nothing being wrong with her! Incredible how all those doctors say you’re perfectly fine, yet you still can’t conceive. Must be the only woman in America who literally can’t make a kid. Easiest thing in the fucking world.”
I cast my gaze down to the table, suddenly so tired I could have collapsed. Kids had been on the table since the beginning of our relationship. I’d admitted, stupidly, that I wanted them. But the truth was, I never wanted them withhim. I’d taken great pains to make sure I never had his children.
I’d been quietly taking birth control since about year two of our marriage. In the beginning, I’d naively thought that a kid might actually help our arrangement feel more like a family and less a business arrangement with the occasional romantic interlude.
Our arrangement had been born from a very real desire of two families to produce more power and capitalize on two different industries, and now both Eli and I were trapped between the stark expectations of a business deal and the soft caresses of a romantic relationship. I never would have chosen Eli for myself, but since he’d been thrust upon me, I’d made a valiant attempt to cultivate some of those soft and sweet feelings for him in the beginning.
Eight years later, I could say those attempts failed. I harbored nothing soft and sweet for him. But his expectations and goals for our marriage existed beyond the regular dimensions of marital normalcy. He wanted the picture-perfect family. He wanted the business-shark wife and sexy-time lover—on his terms. He wanted me to be everything to him while giving nothing of himself. Eli would freak out if he knew I was on birth control; he was gung-ho about having kids to carry on the empire. But I couldn’t stomach the possibility of being tethered to him forever like that. I wanted kids, just nothis.
There was only one man I’d ever consider having children with, and he’d forbidden me from setting foot on his properties ever again.
“Though maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, right? Not sure how you think you’d ever be a good mother when you aaaalways want to be alone,” Eli went on.
My phone alarm went off from the living room, bringing me back to the present. When Eli went on his diatribes, it was easy for me to sink into a dissociative space. But I knew what that alarm meant. It meant I had real work to do.
“You’d make such a great father, with the way you support your spouse,” I muttered, brushing past him as I headed for my phone. “Can only imagine the sweet things you’d say to our children.”
“You’re a real winner,” he went on from the kitchen as I hurried to turn off my alarm.
Suicide Hotline in 30 minutes.I swiped the reminder off my screen and turned the alarm off. My weekly volunteer hours on the suicide hotline was the one thing I never missed. And another thing I’d never tell Eli about.
“Listen, you better go,” I said, forcing the waver out of my voice. “I have an appointment coming up and—”
“And you need to be alone,” he said snidely. “Got it. Guess I’ll see you at the office, then, huh?” He strode toward the front door, his footsteps loud and purposeful. A moment later, the front door opened and closed.
Silence.
A shaky breath escaped me, and I sank onto the floor next to the couch.Thank God he’s gone.I buried my face in my hands for a moment, basking in the warm sunlight entering the wall of windows.
Roses showing up almost always meant something was about to be knocked off-kilter. In the same way headaches preceded a storm. I hated how my anxieties always proved themselves right. I remembered the email Eli had mentioned and scrambled to standing, heading for my laptop in the bedroom.
I had a half hour until my hourlong shift on the hotline began. It was a commitment I’d never wavered on, not since I made the decision to do anything possible to honor my brother. It was one way I could live in the memory of losing my older brother Chris to suicide. He’d taken his life my senior year of high school, when he was a sophomore in college and on track to become the personI’dbecome instead.
I’d partly chosen this path—Margulis Realty, Eli, and all—because he’d wanted me to. Because he knew I’d fulfill the duties that had been expected of him.
My family had forbidden me from acknowledging his suicide publicly. Nobody could. The official announcement had called it a kitchen accident. I’d watched firsthand as Chris strangled certain parts of himself in an attempt to conform to what our father, our world, demanded of him. Chris had forsaken his true love, theater performance, after my father found out Chris was slated to headline a small, artsy play in Chelsea. It wasn’t long after that that Chris’s mental health started to go downhill. The closer he got to assuming the role my father had groomed him for, the faster he spiraled into the abyss of his depression. And I just watched it all happen as a seventeen-year-old, too confused to figure out how to help my brother escape.
And now here I was, equally trapped and groping for an escape hatch.
But I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. If the real reason behind Chris’s death came out, it would result in total exile and financial ruin. And what was I if not a compliant little doll?
I might have Margulis blood running through me, but I didn’t have the legal team necessary to face down my father.
The master bedroom of the condo was decorated plainly, a mass-appeal catch-all room for whoever might be using the space. Eli and I had bought the condo as a place to put up guests. Emergency lodging for family. It had never been intended to becomemyhome.
While the spartan decorations and neutral tones weren’t my favorite, I had no plans to improve the place. My escape plan wasn’t solid yet, but I knew I couldn’t continue onhere.
After all, Eli had keys, and he loved to just waltz in whenever the mood struck him.
I couldn’t live with that type of access. I could barely stand seeing him in the board room at scheduled meetings.
I booted up my laptop, which rested on the tan comforter of the king bed, then navigated quickly to my email, seeing a whole slew of new messages. I skipped past all the Margulis correspondence and headed straight for the most recent arrival, an email from Fairchild Wealth Management.
“We are extremely disappointed to hear of the board’s decision to pass on our offer. The 10thAvenue building in Chelsea is truly a unique fit for our needs, and we are committed to sharing our vision with you, so that you will better understand the intended use. Please see the attached invitation, so that your company might learn more about our vision and our mission. Signed, The Fairchild Brothers.”
