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At first, marriage wasn’t so bad. I had school as an escape, as a place to pretend I was a normal teenager going through normal milestones. But then I graduated, and there was no escape. Don’t get me wrong, every second wasn’t bad.
Michael never physically hurt me, he never denied me things I wanted… as long as it wasn’t an inconvenience to him or something that could lead to the corruption of my soul.
Basically, I became who I am based on who he wanted me to be. I can cook, clean, organize charitable functions, and act as the perfect trophy wife, but I’ve never vegged out and binge-watched a show on Netflix, filled out a job application, or even gotten drunk with my best girlfriends on a bottle of wine after a boy broke my heart.
Come to think of it, I’ve never been drunk at all.
I don’t know what my favorite color is, or food or drink or movie. I know if someone asked me those things, I’d say green, lobster, iced tea, and anything starring Glenn Close, but that’s my late husband’s influence.
At least you know that much.
Forcing my melancholy aside, I turn the car off and push open the driver’s door. My phone rings, and before I can step out, I dig through my purse to find the cell. Without looking to see who it is, I answer.
“Hello.”
“Kennedy, it’s your father.”
I heave a sigh. “Hi.”
“I know you’re grieving, but your mother and I are hosting a dinner party tomorrow, and we’d like you to be there.”
Translation: your attendance is expected.
“I know you’d prefer to stay home and wallow,” he continues in a judgmental tone. “But you’re young, and life moves on.”
“Father, I—”
“Now, your mother has invited several eligible bachelors so be sure to dress appropriately. You want to make a good first impression.”
“Tomorrow isn—”
“The party starts at seven, with dinner being served at eight,” he goes on. “Be at the house no later than five, that way your mother can assist you with any last-minute wardrobe changes.”
Translation: your mother will be dressing you.
“I really don’t think thi—”
“Better yet, I’ll have our driver pick you up at your house at four-thirty. That way I know you’ll be on time.”
“Father, I won—”
“See you tomorrow.”
When he disconnects the call, I hold the phone in front of me and glare at the screen. At least when Michael was alive, my parents backed off and let me live my life, such as it was. Apparently, that’s also ended.
Rather than put my cell back into my purse, I throw it as hard as I can at the wall, and grin like a fool when it shatters. Getting to my feet, I swivel my head from side to side, searching for Michael’s golf clubs. I spot them in the corner and stomp over to yank one out of the bag.
Full of indescribable fury, I lift it over my head and bring it down on the hood of the BMW. I swing that club with all my might, denting and damaging the vehicle and breaking every window before moving onto the Lincoln Michael drove before he got sick.
The only car I leave untouched is the vintage cherry-red Corvette Michael bought me as a ten-year anniversary gift. That was less than a month ago, and no one other than the two of us and Michael’s assistant even knew about it. Michael was sick, and I took care of him, so there was never a reason to drive it, and I don’t have any friends to show it off to.
After wearing myself out, I toss the golf club to the floor and stride to the door that leads to the house. I snag my purse as I pass it, and head straight to the master bedroom once I’m inside.
I no longer have to live the rest of my days under someone else’s rule. I don’t have a husband to answer to, and I’m an adult so my parents go suck on a lemon.
“Suck on a lemon,” I mutter to myself. “Seriously, Kennedy?”
I stop in my tracks and tip my head back like a wolf getting ready to howl at the moon.
