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“You were taught this?”
“Of course. Submission is very important.”
“You were taught to submit to every man?”
“Goodness, no! Only to my husband. Everyone else is my subject.”
“I’m not your husband, Paigelynn. Does that make me your subject?” I drop to one knee and bow before her, unable to hold in my laughter.
“I,” she says pointedly, “am going to focus on my lasagna, Cam, while you mock me. At least the food does not judge.”
I stand and start eating again. “Much better use of our time,” I agree.
Companionship is underrated.
So is Paigelynn. For someone who has been so curated, she’s remarkably fresh and interesting. I’m not just deprogramming her.
I’m revealing her. Not only to me, but to herself.
The process is enjoyable.
If I’m not careful, a little too enjoyable.
My eyes dart to the upper corner of the room, the rising curve of the ceiling a sweeping display of beauty. But buried covertly within the wood, there are cameras.
The same kind used to watch Paigelynn while she sleeps are watching us now.
I can’t do anything untoward. Holding her in my lap was pushing it.
The person helping us knows our every move.
And while that person thinks they know me well and can trust me, I know better than anyone that just when you assume you can lean on someone, they disappoint you.
Trust no one, the saying goes.
Least of all, yourself.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Paigelynn
The food is good.
Being with Cam like this is better.
Winnie found a little dog bed in the corner of the kitchen and is snoozing, her little snorting sounds making me smile every time I glance over at her. Cam and I finished our meal. I was careful not to eat too much. No one weighed or calculated the macronutrients, so I do not know if I ate to excess, but Cam says I am free from all of that now.
If I am no longer tied to those rules, why does that fill me with even more worry?
Anxiety gnaws at my stomach like a rat caught in a bucket. Rudy showed me a video once, a long time ago, about an ingenious trap for vermin. You place peanut butter on top of a flip door on a five-gallon bucket, then provide a ramp for the mice and rats to climb. They reach the top, smell the peanut butter, and bloop!
Fall in the bucket.
“If you put water in there, they die,” he said, smiling. “Even better, some anti-freeze.”
“What is anti-freeze?” I had asked.
“For cars. So the engine doesn’t lock up.”
