by A. R. Hadley
9
“Flowers,” Dr. Marsha said, fingering the petals of the red tulips. “Who are these from?”
In the corner of the reception area near the filing cabinet, Audrey stood flicking through the manila envelopes in the drawer, trying to ignore the nasally and nosy (how ironic) voice of Dr. Marsha Cassopolis.
Dr. Marsha — because no one wanted to pronounce her last name, not even Marsha — was perfect. Her jet-black hair was curled and sprayed in the style of a movie star from the forties. Her clothes were like that too. Pencil skirts, blouses. Katharine Hepburn pant suits. Nothing out of place. She looked like she never ate or fucked or shat. A catalogue on the move.
Audrey tried to ignore the dentist’s elegance and her nosy and nasally question, but when Diana had announced that she, Audrey — plain Jane Audrey Bianca Simone — was the recipient of two dozen tulips for the second time in six months … well, Audrey wasn’t sure Ms. Perfectly Groomed and Coifed could stand it.
“Those are Audrey’s,” Diana replied.
“Who are they from?”
“Mr. Stevens is in room three, Doctor,” Diana interjected, “and Stephanie is on hold. Says she has an emergency.”
After clearing her throat, the doctor went to her office, presumably to take the call from her daughter, Stephanie. Audrey mouthed a very grateful thank you to Diana the minute Dr. Marsha’s pencil skirt swooshed from the room.
“Again?” Diana sighed with a roll of her eyes.
Audrey shrugged.
“Honey, he could send me flowers anytime.”
What Diana failed to realize was Dell sent flowers because it was all he could do. He hadn’t known what Audrey actually needed during their marriage, never cared. He didn’t even remember flowers made her sneeze. Didn’t remember she hated dill pickles but loved sweet ones. Didn’t always remember to buy a card on her birthday or care to understand why she sometimes wanted a vacation — alone (although she’d never taken one).
No, he did flowers because flowers were easy. A man could buy them, present them like an offering, and then go to bed feeling good about himself while never really knowing what made a woman tick.
Besides, flowers lived only days, then died.
And they weren’t even her favorite color.
It didn’t matter.
“I’m trying, ABS,” Dell used to say. Trying meant taking her to his favorite restaurant, holding her wrists above her head while he fucked her for all of sixty seconds. Trying meant never asking the kids to brush their teeth or go to bed.
The flowers were only a reminder of the failure.
Hers and his.
Too bad he’d never understand that.
Maybe he needed a woman like Diana. A woman who seemed content with mediocre. A woman whose fantasies weren’t sick. Dell thought he was still in love with Audrey. That was why he sent flowers. But he loved a dream, and that dream had died soon after Rick had been born. Counseling, alcohol, nights on the town, communication, ideas — none of it had saved them or their marriage.
Audrey had to save herself.
She made her own misery now. Her own happiness. Every decision — hers. And that was why she’d decided to go to the dungeon. Because it was her choice, and because stepping outside society’s definition of “normal” gave her greater freedoms than several years of marriage had ever dared to achieve.
10
“Did you get my arrangement?”
The crack of the little league bat distracted Audrey from Dell’s question. Rising, she cheered along with the other thirty or so parents at the field watching their children play, and then she took a seat on the bench next to him again. It was a warm Monday afternoon in September. The fading sun still blanketed the field.
“Did you get the—?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I did. Thank you.” Audrey kept her gaze trained on the field, never making eye contact with Dell. The hurt in his eyes was more than she could bear.
“ABS…”
“Please. I don't want to—”
“Jesus, Audrey. They’re just fucking flowers.”
At first, she looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to his mouth, and then she finally met his cerulean eyes. The crinkles around the edges hurt almost as much as his stare. The lines were one of his trademarks. Cuter than dimples.
“I want you to move on. See other people.”
He pushed the soles of his sneakers across the concrete. “I see people.”
Facing forward, both of them stoically kept their eyes on the balls and bats and caps.
“You fuck people,” she said quietly after turning and putting her lips near his ear.
“Don't you?”
“I'm not doing this.” Her attention snapped back to the inning. What fucking number were they on now?
“Right.” He snickered. “You’re not doing this.”
He made that insidious noise again. Maybe his cute little Dell crinkles weren’t so cute anymore.
“Isn't that why our marriage hit the fan? Because you can't talk to me … or have a simple conversation without running from it?”
He’d been the runner. She’d tired of articulating her feelings to a man who lived by the motto of the French: c'est la vie. So, Audrey had eventually stopped initiating the act of “talking” — or fucking. Her ex called it running.
“This is what I don't have to do anymore. We don't need to have this conversation.”
The crowd hollered. Audrey stood, clapped, then sat again. They watched Rick finish his game in tolerable silence. The parents roared, but Dell and Audrey whispered things telepathically.
We can’t talk about the past.
I miss you.
You miss a wife.
I miss you.
She ignored his palpable need to have things right in his world — right meant winning back the affection of his wife, and then what? — even though the two of them together would be all wrong. Not a solution or an answer.
Body language did the speaking for them: arms taut at their sides, thighs rigid, fingers gripping the bench.
Several minutes later, people stood and whooped and clapped. Game over. Rick’s team had won. As they eyed their son on the field, celebrating with his mates, Dell inadvertently placed his hand on the small of his ex-wife’s back, causing her to flinch, then wince.
Gavin had painted quite a picture on the canvas of Audrey’s skin the other night. The bruises from his fingers and palms and his favorite paddle were still fresh, tender.
But of course, Dell thought her flinch had been because of him. And maybe it was — a little. She didn’t want to give him false hope or tease him. Because he seemed to think sending her flowers for forgotten anniversaries was enough to woo her back into his bed.
“Dad, do you want to get pizza with us?” Rick asked as he stepped into the backseat of the SUV.
“Not tonight, buddy,” Dell replied as he flicked a heated stare at Audrey, the conversation from the stands apparently not over.
Audrey bent forward to tie her shoe while Dell gave his son a kiss, and then he closed the door. The engine was on. AC blasting. All the doors were closed. The former husband and wife stood on the outside of the tinted windows. Rick was probably already viewing something on his phone.
“This is what you wanted? Why you left me?”
“What are you talking about?” Squinting toward the window, she ascertained Ricki had his face buried in an app, his earbuds tucked into his canals.
“Wearing a hoodie in this fucking heat.” Dell shook his head.
Her face must’ve flushed a million shades darker than those stupid two dozen tulips Dell had sent to the office, though she pretended not to know what his snarky words implied.
How had he figured it out?
When she’d tied her shoelace...
The flinching earlier too. The pain, not disgust, that had been on her face.
“You want some douchebag to beat the shit out of you?” He reached
for the hem of her sweater, but she swatted his hand away.
“I can't do this. Rick will see us fighting.”
“I'm not raising my voice,” he said, stepping a few feet from the vehicle. “Can I trust you anymore, Audrey?”
“What?”
“Maybe I should have full custody.”
“You don't want that.”
“I don't want this fucked-up shit.”
“It’s not your fucked-up shit. It’s not fucked up—”
“What if our kids see this?” He reached for the hem again.
“I'm careful.” She took two steps backward.
“I just saw it, ABS.” He swept a palm over his face. “Christ.”
“Please, Dell. I don't owe you an explanation. Please.”
“I love you, Audrey.”
Audrey worried he had said that too loud. Rick shouldn’t hear this conversation. She had to resist the urge to plug her own ears. Her son’s buds were looking pretty damn good right about now.
“You love an idea. The house. The fence. The dog. You love a picture on the wall.”
“No.” He stepped closer. “I miss you. Us.”
“Dell … I changed.”
“I know. And I still want you.”
And there was the downfall of their marriage in a nutshell. Still being his operative word. The vows for better or for worse meant he could continue to treat her like she had been afflicted with the worse — or a curse. It wasn’t acceptance. And his next words proved it.
“You should be seeing someone about this, ABS.”
Meeting him like an opponent in the ring, eyes fixated and narrowed, hands at her sides, fists balled, she said, “I am,” with no room for error in her tone.
Minutes later, after Dell left and before she pulled out of the parking lot, Audrey shot off a message to Kate.
Audrey: Dell knows. He threatened me.
Fuck … was the text a mistake?
The girls had spent a few nights in a hotel bed. They sometimes texted. But she’d never opened up much about her ex. Kate was her kinky friend, her accomplice in the world of fetish. Not her cry-on-my-shoulder-and-sleep-over-and-watch-a-movie friend. But Audrey didn’t have many friends. One who had her own list of adult things to keep her busy: five kids, a mortgage, a job, and a disabled husband. Needless to say, they didn’t talk much. Girls’ night out had become less of a ritual and more of an annual thing you did to catch up and not be forgotten. The hairdresser knew more about Audrey’s life than Kendall.
Too late. The message was out there now, in the ether.
Kate: Like physically? Where are you?
Audrey: No. With the kids. Rick just finished his baseball game. About to head home. About to burst into tears. It’s a toss-up.
Kate: Text me your address. I’m bringing a bottle of wine. See you in about thirty or forty-five.
Audrey put the car in reverse. “We won’t be getting pizza now, buddy. Mommy’s friend is coming over.”
Would texting Kate prove to be a mistake? Other than the fact that they’d already shared intimacies Audrey had never experienced with another human being on planet earth — not counting Gavin or Dell — what did they have in common?
Could what they’d shared be considered intimacies? Or only fantasies? Were they profound? Or only pornographic?
“Rick, did you hear me?” Audrey yelled, and he took out his buds.
Who put the labels on sex? Where did they come from? Would Dell really try to take the kids?
Repression: disallowing a desire to be expressed.
Suppression: conscious exclusion of feelings; discipline.
“We’re going home for dinner.”
Ten minutes to the house felt like an hour as the radio played right alongside the questions circling like birds of prey in her mind.
11
“God, it smells good in here.”
Audrey was making the boys’ favorite: fried chicken and macaroni and cheese. Bryson loved the chicken, Rick the mac n’ cheese.
But which one had opened the front door? And had they asked who it was first?
“You can cook too, huh?” Kate asked, a huge smile on her face, the black spaghetti straps of her cotton camisole barely containing her triple-Z tits. The color of the tank and tiny, under-the-ribcage cardigan matched her straight, just-past-the-shoulder-length hair. It looked good on her. Everything did.
Audrey returned the smile while tending to the tasks at hand.
“You seem in good spirits now.”
“Have to be,” she said, nodding toward the kids. “And food will do that to me.”
“You haven't eaten yet.”
“Fine. Cooking clears my mind.”
“And wine.” Kate held up the bottle in perfect alignment with her billowing cleavage. The woman was a plush pinup, two times the size of Monroe. All curves and a squishy middle and an ass resembling large globes.
“Mom, we’re gonna throw the football.” Bryson entered the room, tossing the ball from hand to hand.
“You didn’t meet Kate.”
“I did,” Rick yelled.
“I met Rick.” Kate grinned. “But not you,” she said, extending a hand to Bryson.
“Did you ask before you opened the door, Rick?”
“You told me your friend was—”
“Ricki, you have to ask.” Both boys neared the slider as Audrey nagged. “It's almost dark. Dinner is about ready.”
“Call us,” Bryson said, face through the opening, and then he closed the glass.
“Wine opener?” Kate asked.
“Second drawer.” Audrey nodded toward it, then she took out two glasses.
Kate poured. “Your kids are cute. The pictures you’ve shown me don’t lie. You and your husband made some good-looking kids.”
“Ex.” Audrey exhaled the early evening’s game and the unwanted conversation while staring at the coconut oil popping around the Rice Chex-plastered chicken.
“Mmm.”
Warm hands on her shoulders startled Audrey — soft hands, small and firm — but then they put her at ease as Kate massaged her aching muscles.
“God. You’re tense,” Kate said from behind Audrey, her breath hitting her shoulder blades.
“Dell saw the bruises.”
Kate’s magical fingers ceased tending to Audrey’s aches.
“Don't stop,” Audrey groaned, rolling her head side to side.
Kate gathered Audrey's dirty-blonde hair and started to braid it. Anytime someone played with Audrey’s hair — something Dell had rarely done — it felt amazing. Soothing.
“Gavin likes to do this.”
“What?”
“Braid my hair before we play.”
“I can do it too.” Kate put a band she grabbed from the counter at the end when she finished and then continued the massage. “Tell me what he said?”
Who? Audrey wasn’t conscious of chicken or noodles. Scalp tingly and muscles screaming thank you had her in a stupor, and she hadn't touched the wine.
“Come on”—Kate slid her fingers down Audrey's back, then slapped her ass—“tell me what he said.”
“Fuck you. My ass still hurts too.”
“That's what your husband said?” Kate grinned.
Audrey put the lid on the chicken, turned it down, then took a large sip of wine. “He accused me of leaving our marriage so that I could get the shit beat out of me by a douchebag.”
Kate grinned, appearing to fight a fit of laughter.
“It wasn't very funny at the time.” Audrey cracked a smile.
“We own that, babe.” Kate gulped wine. “That's why it's funny now. We own this shit. These bruises”—she pulled on her tank, exposing her multicolored tits and pink nipples—“belong to us. Not your husband.”
“Mommmm…”
“Jesus Christ. Put yourself away.”
Kate laughed. Audrey sighed, then swallowed more red wine.
“Bryson isn't being fair … again.”
“Wash your hands, Rick. You know what happ—”
“Mom, he changes the rules.”
“I don't want to hear it. Wash your hands.”
Bryson had come inside too, sweating and complaining. The noodles were almost finished. A second glass of wine was poured. Several minutes later, hands clean, blessing said, the four of them ate together, made jokes, and smiled. They discussed sports, electronic games, and school.
Being around Kate was easy, intimate — a friendship that reassured her all was right with the world. To Audrey, it seemed like she’d known Kate for much longer than just a few months. It was silly to have been worried about texting her.
Dishes washed, boys in bed, and the two women still seemed to have a lot to talk about. They’d been slumped on the couch in the front part of the house in the dark for a while — Kate’s head in Audrey’s lap, her breasts splitting to the sides but pointing up, wine in her gaze and breath.
“When did you meet Peyton?” Audrey asked, head against the cushion. The room tilted a little.
“He didn’t waste time asking me to be his submissive.” Kate fingered the lariat style necklace with the double-heart pendant resting between her breasts. “Do you want to hear about the night he collared me?”
Audrey’s breathing changed. Her eyes must’ve changed too because Kate took her silence and tells as signs to continue.
“The bastard wore shorts.” Kate laughed. “It was just the three of us. But he wore his stupid swim trunks. Thank God Gavin forbids them at the dungeon, or I swear Peyton would never change out of them. And when we first entered the main chamber at Bodhi, I thought Gavin was going to shit himself when he saw Peyton wearing his surf shorts and flip-flops.”
“And what did you wear?” Audrey paused, timing her joke perfectly. “Nothing?”
“You’re being naughty.” Kate squeezed Audrey’s waist.
She laughed and buckled. “Stop.”
“I wore a corset dress. It was black.” She smirked. “It pushed my boobs way up and out.” Kate cupped them, and Audrey had to fight the urge to stare at the swell.
