by Britney King
Although, it’s not food that I need. I followed a man on Instalook who has gone two years without eating a single thing. He travels the world and survives on coconut water. I didn’t even know they had coconuts in all the places he visits. I wrote him about it, and he says he has them shipped in. This gave me hope. There really are people out there willing to go the extra mile. People like Josh. That’s what I need, more than food. I need hope.
I plop down on the couch and open my laptop, click on the browser and type in his name. Grant Dunn. I haven’t seen anything concrete in regard to the places they frequent, which is why I haven’t quite figured out our next meet-up.
But I tell myself not to give up.
I will see them in person again. Once can’t have been it for us. I breathe easier as their photos load on the screen. I have loved getting to know them, learning their likes and their dislikes. I may not yet know where she hangs out in real life, but I know everything else. I know what Josie Dunn reads, I know her favorite flower—antique roses. I know she hates cats, and that laundry is her nemesis, and that she’s allergic to shellfish. One can never be too careful. I know I won’t have a ‘chance encounter’ with her in a seafood restaurant. Still, it makes me so happy to see their faces. I keep looking. I keep checking Instalook for a sign. Tell me where to go. It only takes one post about the future, one shred of something concrete. I know if I’m diligent—if I’m careful enough— I’ll find what I’m looking for. Even though I knew the moment they walked into my shop, I already had.
Chapter Seven
Josie
I listen as Grant checks in on James. I can’t hear most of their exchange, but I overhear the last of it. We’re set to leave in an hour. I check the time, and then I go into the walk in closet and try to gauge what my husband might like me to wear. Eventually, he comes back into the room—I can tell by the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. They’ve done that since the first time I laid eyes on him. Of course, now it means something very different than it did back then.
“Well,” he says, his voice deep and smooth. In control. “Let’s see what you chose.”
I hold up the little black dress. These days I like safe bets.
“Hmmm,” he says, eyeing me up and down.
“What?” I ask, because I know it’s what he wants. Sometimes my husband wants to spell it out, and sometimes he likes to play.
He rubs his jaw and then pauses mid-rub. “I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength tonight, you and I…”
I lean back against the wall and study my husband. I feel that familiar pang in the pit of my stomach. Longing. Longing for what, I’m not sure. It’s complicated. Like my wardrobe selection. He wants to play. Fine. I place my hands on my hips and offer a sly smile. “What would you have me wear?”
“One of the upsides of being married to one of the top plastic surgeons in the country is having a large wardrobe, Mrs. Dunn. And this—” he says holding up the dress “is what you choose? ”
I take it from his hands. “Yes, because the downside is—you are constantly on display.”
I feel the back of his hand reverberate off my left cheek. I feel the sting, the weight of his hand as the blood pools to the surface. But I didn’t see it coming. Mostly, I don’t. Instinctively, my hand goes to my face. I feel the burn, and I cower.
When I’m able to look up, I see my husband wringing his hand. He thinks it hurts.
“I told you not to test me, Josie. You know how I feel about disrespect.” He swings his hands wildly, motioning around the large walk-in closet. It’s big, big enough to be a spare bedroom. Sometimes it is. “I give you all of this and for what? To have my life—our life—mocked?”
“I’m not mocking you,” I cry. I don’t mean to. Rarely can I help it.
“You’re telling me you didn’t know going in that there would be…certain expectations?”
“No, I knew.”
“So then what? It’s not okay to want my wife to look good when I take her out?”
“No,” I say staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean—.”
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.
He waits for me to exit the closet, and his eyes never leave mine as I walk across the room. I get into bed and eventually he climbs in on top of me. I swallow hard at the weight of his body on mine. He smooths my hair away from my face. “Do you love me?”
“Of course,” I tell him.
He stares into my eyes, and it’s like he can see right through me, to the depths of my soul. “I am so lucky,” he says, after a long, slow exhale. “To be going to dinner with you. To be married to you. To have you in my bed. This is what it’s all about, Josie. The sacrifice. This,” he says motioning to the small, ever-shrinking space between us. “This is what it’s all about.”
I nod and offer the most sincere smile I can muster.
He kisses the spot just between my eyes, and he’s so gentle. It kills me. “You will be the most beautiful woman there. Without a doubt. It pains me,” he says, wincing. “I will have to share you with everyone, which you know I hate doing. But when I look across the room and your eyes meet mine, I will know.”
I can see he wants me to ask. So I do. “You’ll know what?”
His lips trail lower and lower. I grip the sheets. “I will know the flush on your cheeks is because of me,” he says, and he pauses long enough to look up and smile from down below. “And that, my love, will be a gift to us both.”
I want to be angry, lying there, with his head between my legs. I want to hate him for asking me to do this here, now, after what just happened in the closet. But he doesn’t make it easy. “You are so beautiful when you give in,” he tells me as he moves inside of me.
A moan escapes my lips because he knows all the right places to touch, all the right things to say. He knows what to do to get the reaction he wants. That’s what he does. He sculpts things—people, faces, breasts, asses—he sculpts them to perfection. He’s perfected everything, even our lovemaking, down to an art, down to an exact science. That’s how he works. He’s learned how to get my body to respond every time, and without fail, it does. “Just let go, Jos—” he urges. He pushes on the edges of my instability. “You just have to let go.”
And so I do. I lie there, and I picture myself as a balloon tethered to something intangible. I watch myself come undone until I am floating free. Up, up, and away.
Chapter Eight
Izzy
I check Instalook for the hundredth time and this time there’s a new post from one-half of my favorite couple. Finally. It’s a picture of two dresses, and she wants me to choose. I like that she makes things interactive. I choose the green one but not just because it’ll look great on her. Smart people always choose green; I read that once. Plus, it would look amazing on me. I can see myself in that dress. I can feel the fabric on my skin. I close my eyes and imagine the way Grant Dunn will look at her from across the room in that dress. I imagine the way he would look at me. The way everyone would.
I stay there for a moment, letting my mind run wild. I follow Kelsey @liveyourbestlife224 on Instalook, and she says visualization is a key factor in getting what you want. I believe her; she should know—she’s practically posting in a different yoga pose on a different mountain top every other day. Not only is she flexible and fit, she makes them both look better by being high above the rest of us. Anyway, she seems good at getting what she wants. She doesn’t burn her fingertips raw making other people’s dreams come true. She doesn’t wipe countertops all day long and still break a sweat when the bills come due. Not her. She’s living her best life and mine too.
I start to feel the rage build, and I know it’s time to take a break. It takes a lot out of a person to imagine all the things they don’t have. I get up and go into the kitchen. Whiskers takes it as an invitation. He meows, rubs up on my legs and follows me around the tiny space. I don’t feed him. If I can’t have what I want, then neither can he. Cats don’t need to eat everyday, anyway. They’re natural hunters. I check the fridge. It’s pretty much empty, save for a carton of expired milk and a box of takeout that’s so old I can’t recall how long it’s been in there. I should just throw it away. But it seems like a lot of effort. And I have to save my energy. Focus on the things that matter. That’s what you do when you’re living your best life. I grab a can of Diet Coke. It’s all there is. I don’t even like Diet Coke. It was Josh’s, but he’s dead so he won’t mind.
I pop the tab, and Whiskers comes running. He jumps up on the couch next to me, and I shoo him away. He remembers that sound. “Fuck you, and your cat too,” I say into thin air. I don’t know if the dead can hear, but I hope so.
I need something to take my mind off of dead husbands, annoying cats, and empty apartments. I open Instalook again and read Josie’s comments. Most people chose the green dress. But that’s not what I’m looking for. I don’t care what they choose. I’m looking for something else. I see her and her enthusiastic responses. I see that she’s happy, abundant, living her best life. What I don’t see is where I might find her: where she’s wearing that perfect dress, with that perfect husband. This is irritating. I’m on edge. Now that I know more, but not what I want, I know too much. The dress she posted about is not only gorgeous and not at all my size, but also it came from Argentina, and the odds of me going there are pretty much slim to none.
It’s impulsive, but it comes to me. This grand idea. Within three seconds flat, I’m staring at photos of people cramming sea creatures down their throats. You can find pretty much anything on the internet. If you can imagine it, I bet you can find it. I know because there are hundreds, if not thousands, of people eating shellfish filling my screen. My head pounds, and nothing is clear. Well, one thing is clear: I have to do this. I should have been a little more brazen the last time, and I wouldn’t have lost. This time, I know better. And as @livingyourbestlife224 says: when you know better, you do better. Okay, maybe that was Maya Angelou. But still. I have to feel something. I spent all day waiting on people, whipping up their every whim (you wouldn’t believe the bullshit requests people come up with) and doing it with a smile. And what do I have to show for it? A meager, unlivable wage, and a guarantee that I get to do it all again tomorrow. I download the photos, ninety-eight of them to be exact, and then I consider my next move. I don’t have to send them. Sometimes it’s nice to know there’s a weapon to draw should you need it. What I need now is food. Creativity takes a lot out of a person. I set my laptop aside and go to the kitchen. This time I retrieve a can of tuna from the cabinet. I’m not supposed to eat it; it’s a part of Josh’s survival kit, reserved for the end of the world times, but what can I say? All of those happy people eating their seafood got to me.
Of course, Whiskers is all over it. Finally, just so I can eat my tuna and crackers in peace, I open the fridge and pour the expired milk into a bowl. “There,” I say, patting his head. I don’t think he’ll drink it. But he does.
After the tuna, I remember the bottle of champagne under the sink. Stacey gave it to me a few months ago when she went on one of those whole foods diets. Needless to say, she’s still overweight, and I still have the bottle. I don’t know why but this feels like something worth celebrating. If Grant and Josie Dunn get to have a good time, then so do I.
When I wake up in the morning, the bottle is empty, the cat has shit all over the apartment, and I’ve sent all ninety-eight very strange pictures of highly allergic people eating shellfish to Josie Dunn, posing as one of her followers, and the latter is the only reason I want to get off the couch. I have to make things right again.
Chapter Nine
Josie
The first thing I notice is how young she looks. Of course, she does. My breath catches as Tom scoots
from behind the door cautiously, and that’s when I see Winnie, her tail wagging. She’s ready to pounce. She’ll ruin the dress, I realize this, but in that moment, I’m just so surprised that I don’t immediately make a move to block her. Tom grabs the dog by the collar as his new bride looks on, adoration plastered across her face. I should be watching Winnie, but I’m not. She’s perfect, this girl. Perfect for Tom. Perfect all-around. “Grant…Josie,” Tom says, looking up, also panting, his face in full grin. “This is Mel.”
She extends her hand to me, and I take it in mine. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Her face lights up and her chest deflates. I can feel her relief through her fingertips. “It’s every bit as lovely as Tom told me it would be.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Grant offers, bringing her hand to his lips. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She giggles. She actually fucking giggles. Like a schoolgirl. I shouldn’t be surprised; it isn’t so much a stretch.
“Come in,” Tom motions, ushering us through the foyer. “Make yourself at home.”
And I do feel at home. Nothing has changed from the time June lived here, just weeks ago. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that everything would be the same.
“Josie.” I hear my name. I’d recognize that shrill voice anywhere. I turn to see Beth standing there, her hands on her hips. She’s displeased with me, as usual. “Thank God,” she says, taking the bottle of wine I’m holding. “You’re late. And we’re already out of white.”
Beth is my ‘sponsor,’ and has been from the time her husband initiated New Hope.
I smile and lean in to kiss both her cheeks. “It’s good to see you, too.”
