by Britney King
“Of course you can trust me.” She looks me up and down like she’s trying to determine whether I’m telling the truth. “Where are you going?”
“Another author canceled on Good Morning America. My publisher thinks it’s a good idea to send me in her place.”
She crosses my living room and takes a seat on my sofa. She places her head in her hands. “This time of year is very popular for self improvement. They’ve decided to send me on a seven-city tour following the show. They want me in several targeted territories. Basically, where the action is.”
“That’s great!” This is the worst thing that’s ever happened.
“It’s not great. In fact, it’s the last thing I need.”
“I see.”
“You don’t see, Sadie.” She crosses her legs. “This is the worst possible time. My kids need me here. Paul needs me here.”
I don’t know what to say to her. Sometimes there is nothing to say.
“I know things have been shaky between us. And I’m sorry for my part in that. But I wouldn't ask if it weren’t important. I need you to promise to keep an eye on things, Amelia in particular. She’s at such an impossible age. Promise me.”
“Okay, I promise.”
She bites her lip. “You’ll call or text me for anything?” she asks. I’ve never heard this much desperation in her voice.
“Of course.”
She exhales swiftly. I can see a weight is lifted in the way she almost smiles. “Oh, Sadie. You can’t know how much this means to me. I love you. I really love you.”
I say, “I know.” And then, because I know it matters, I ask. “What are you going to do? About Amelia?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. I just have to trust that it will take care of itself.”
IT’S lonely and quiet without Ann around. I watch her on Good Morning America. Sometimes we touch our own wounds to be punished. I know because the ticker scrolling across the bottom of the screen reads: “She’s like your best friend, but better. The toughest asset you’ll ever have. Meet Ann Banks: America’s newest guru.” Her stint goes so well there are other shows after that. Everywhere, she says, they are trying to book her. Her trip gets extended.
We keep up mostly through text. Although, even those are different. Her messages are short and clipped. I wake up angry and go to bed that way too. I don’t like sharing her with all those people, and all they print are lies.
Paul has to go out of town on business. Ann warned me this might happen. She says this is for the best, but I know it’s not, because the kids are basically raising themselves. The truth is, I’m pissed at her for choosing work over her marriage, over her children, over me.
To make matters worse, the hotline is busy. It never stops. Ann says I am doing a good job. She says you can only do what you can do. She says everything works out in the end.
But I know that’s wrong, because the vet called again this morning. The grocery store kitten is beyond ready to go to the shelter. I’ve been avoiding their calls for days and days—maybe even weeks now. I figure they’re still charging me to keep her, so, so what? Anyway, the latest voicemail was adamant. They can’t keep her there. Fueled by rage and a touch of loneliness, I don’t even have to pop an anti-anxiety pill to make the trip. I literally, aside from fielding endless calls from desperate and hopeless people, have nothing better to do.
Thankfully, this visit to the vet proves itself to be more pleasant than the last. Everyone is so nice. So nice. They were even kind enough to add a pet carrier to my bill. After I sign the bill authorizing the transaction for thousands of dollars, the technician brings her out. He says, “I’m sorry about before. When I treated you poorly.”
Just kidding. In my imagination, that’s what he says. In reality, he tells me, “We’ve been calling her Little Annie.”
Of course you have.
The girl behind the counter giggles. “You know, like Orphan Annie?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”
It’s amazing how things can shift in such a short time. Ann says in her book it’s important when we’re down that we move up the emotional scale. Rage is one step above anger, and that emotion is one I can access easily. Maybe longing isn’t so far off.
The technician hands me the carrier, and I peer in. The same small eyes, although they are bigger now, stare back. A paw reaches out and swipes at my finger. Her claws snag my skin, drawing blood. It’s a welcome feeling.
“She’s quite playful,” he tells me. “A real hunter.”
No doubt.
“Cats are great companions,” he says. “She’ll make someone a good pet.”
“Just not me,” I say. “My husband is allergic.”
“That’s too bad.”
It is. It really, really is.
Finally, he gives me directions to the shelter, although I’ve already looked them up. Little Annie cries nonstop all the way there. In the lot, I allow myself one last look. “I hope you’re grateful,” I tell her. “I hope you get a good home.”
She yawns big and wide and then she stands, like she’s ready to pounce, like she wants to play. Like I’m prey. She rubs the side of her body along the carrier door, begging to be petted, so I stick my finger through the metal grating. Her fur reminds me of Ethan’s hair.
My eyes water. And I don’t think it’s allergies.
“He’s not coming back,” I say.
She answers by swatting at my finger with her paw and then leans forward, biting at the tip playfully. Her teeth are small and sharp and they hurt. She draws blood. I don’t know what changes in that moment, except that I recall something Ann said the other night at the dinner party. If you’re going to suffer, it’s better not to do it alone.
So what if Ethan hates cats? That doesn’t mean I have to. He may be allergic. But I’m not. Maybe what you think you want isn’t what you need. And maybe what you need isn’t always what you want.
Like Chet. Like Ann. Like this cat. Maybe life is twisted and mixed up that way.
“It’s settled,” I say to Little Annie. “Looks like you’re coming home with me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SADIE
There comes a point in every person’s life where they can no longer lie to themselves. For me, this is that point.
It started out as a game, but it didn’t end that way. Early on, not long after we were married, not long after we’d moved to Penny Lane, I picked up the wrong toothpaste at the grocery store. It was the first and the last time. “What’s this?” Ethan asked, bringing me the box.
“Toothpaste.”
“I can see that. It’s not my brand.”
I squinted at the box and said, “You’ll live.”
“That’s the wrong thing to say.” He pressed me backward against the kitchen counter cornering me with his body. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay for this.”
I smiled and then wiggled away. I wasn’t in the mood for sex. At the same time, I was also aware that I couldn’t say no again. It would be the third consecutive refusal, and I was pretty sure my husband was counting. He usually did.
“Bend over,” he ordered. At first I thought he was joking. It wasn’t until he took me by the hair and used more force than I could resist that I realized he wasn’t. It wasn’t until he pushed my pajama bottoms to the floor and spanked me— once, twice, three times—that I realized it was downhill from there and not in a good way. Later that night, long after my husband had drifted off to sleep, as I surveyed the damage, the broken blood vessels in my back side, the tears in my vagina I didn’t have to see to know they were there, I realized there was no coming back from this. I could have sustained a lot of forms of humiliation. An affair, ridicule, the silent treatment. But this kind, I wasn’t sure about.
THE FOLLOWING morning he woke me by bringing breakfast to bed. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed what had happened. Ethan had never been abusive. We dated for a while before getting married, and so long
as I’d known him, our sex life had always been fairly conventional. “I can tell you liked our little game,” he said, kissing my cheek, and I realized denial wasn’t going to be an option.
“Actually—I didn’t like it.”
He searched my face. “Ah,” he laughed. “See, now I don’t know whether or not I can believe you.”
“You hurt me.” I showed him the bruises. “It’s not really my thing.”
“Huh…” he murmured, scratching his chin. “Because you seemed really into it.”
I pushed the tray away. “I wasn’t.”
He slid it back in my direction. “Relax. Geez…I was just trying to spice things up a little.”
“Like I said, it’s not me.”
“Exactly. And that’s the beauty of it. Sometimes,” he smiled. “When two people, are married, when you’ve been together as long as we have—well, sometimes you want something different.”
“I don’t think the something you want,” I said, “is me.”
He shook his head and stood abruptly, causing the tray to tip. “I think,” he replied. “I think in time you’ll find that it is.”
I cleaned up the mess, and I said nothing. I suppose I should have seen it coming. But I didn’t. I really didn’t.
THE GAME that didn’t feel like a game at all continued. Ethan assured me rape fantasies were normal. He said he’d spoken with a therapist, and that these fantasies helped to get out his aggression. He said that she explained that desire and love are not mutually exclusive, and that sometimes what turns you on intimately is very different than what you actually want or do in real life. He explained that fantasy was just that. He said acting them out would help our marriage. He hadn’t meant to hurt me. He was just excited, and he took it too far. He promised to be more careful in the future. He said marriage was accepting all of a person, not just the parts you liked.
But mostly, he didn’t talk about it. He just found new and unusual ways to surprise me. Our game, as he liked to call it, often started with any perceived infraction. Like a charge on the credit card he hadn’t approved of. Or a towel being folded improperly. Or my growing refusal to want to leave the house.
The final straw was the night he bailed me out of jail for the DUI. I knew what was coming. I knew he wanted to play his game, and that’s why I left. Perhaps subconsciously, I was looking for a reason not to go back. Maybe jail seemed like as good an alternative as any.
After we got home, he tried his usual tactics. He accused me of upping the ante. First, there was the cornering. Next, came the hand covering my mouth. Then, his belt wrapped around my throat. He liked to pull tight as he forced himself into me.
“I’m your husband,” he said when I pulled the knife on him.
“And if you ever touch me again,” I told him earnestly, “You’ll be my dead husband.”
Even still, he thought it was a part of the game. And maybe it was.
I stabbed him in the thigh anyway.
“You’re going to regret this,” he assured me as he packed his bags, his wound leaving a trail of blood along our creamy white carpet. I didn’t. I only regretted the choice in color. “You’re going to come to realize I am the only person who has ever really loved you.”
The unfortunate thing about that is he was right —my husband did love me. He does love me.
And I love him.
He has his flaws. A big one, to be sure. But time has a way of clouding even the worst of things. And, well, desperation has a way of seeking its own level, the same as water.
If only love had an on and off switch. It doesn’t, and it’s possible to love a person, even if they do terrible things to you.
Obviously, for my husband’s fantasy to work, I had to play the part. I couldn’t let him think I enjoyed what he was doing to me. An actor is never to let the mask slip, so long as the audience is watching. That’s a sure way to paper cut their attention. Real life and magic cannot coexist. At some point, we all have to make a choice.
I don’t know what he expected me to do with the knife that night. I only knew that the stakes had to go higher and higher, otherwise the fantasy could not continue. Like a fire without air, it would be extinguished.
I hadn’t thought that forcing him from our home would cause him to lose interest. I hadn’t yet realized that our marriage was like a scab he couldn’t help but pick. He’d already made up his mind about wanting out, and maybe he saw an opportunity, an easy out, and he took it. He didn’t stop there. Not my husband. Nope. He picked and he picked and he picked.
I only intended to up the ante. Make the game more exciting. For a little while, it almost did. Until it didn’t.
I hadn’t foreseen that he would seek easier prey, a.k.a. the neighbor girl. The neighbor girl.
That’s where he went with it. So, I did too. In a different sort of way. He needs something to punish me for? Fine. Because I’ve spoken with a therapist as well. We’ve become very close, and she assures me that marriage is about meeting the other person’s needs. Which is why, this round, I’ve gone all in.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
SADIE
One afternoon, as Chet and I are rebuilding my fence, Ann appears at the edge of my yard. “What on earth?” she asks surveying the mess.
“You’re back,” I say.
Her head cocks, and her brow furrows making it clear that she has worked out in her mind what is going on. If she has this reaction, I can’t imagine the one my husband will have. “This feels like a party I wasn’t invited to.”
I smile. The satisfaction of surprising her gives me great joy. Plus, smiling is easier than telling the truth: working alongside Chet was better than hanging out alone. Nailing boards into place seemed like it might be therapeutic. I’d filed for a divorce that morning, thereby initiating the final round of our game. If the vet bill hadn’t done the job, no doubt asking for half of his wealth would.
“IT FEELS like we haven’t had a proper conversation in forever…it looks like you’ve been busy while I was away,” she says to me the following morning over coffee.
“Not really.”
She glares at me over her mug. “You got a pet, remodeled half of your home, lost a bit of weight…”
I can’t help but smile at the fact that she noticed. She’s right. I have slimmed down, and I’m about to be nearly one hundred and sixty pounds lighter, a bit of information I intend on saving for the right time.
“But I asked you to keep an eye on things, Sadie.”
“I did.”
“That’s not entirely true though, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
She licks her lips, and it makes me think of the other pussy in my life. Cunning and calculated. “You broke a promise.”
“Everything was fine,” I assure her. “Amelia was home when she was supposed to be. I called the landline, like you said.”
“Did you watch her though? Really watch her?”
“Well—no—but—”
“It’s fine,” Ann says cutting me off. “Like I said, you were busy.”
I tear a piece off of the Danish she has shoved in my direction. She tells me to eat, so I do. The last thing I want is to further offend her.
“You have to be careful around your handyman,” she says, refilling my coffee, baring her teeth. “You’ll never win Ethan back if you get yourself tangled up in that mess.”
“He’s nice.”
“I can see that.” She sits down on the barstool next to me. Her eyes search mine. “I also saw the way he looks at you—the way you flirt with him. Seems a bit more than nice if you ask me.”
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just friendly banter.”
“Just friendly banter can be trouble, Sadie.” She hops off of the barstool and strides across the kitchen. “Which would be a shame. You’re doing so well, losing weight, getting on your feet. The last thing you need right now is a complication…”
“I—”
She shakes her he
ad. “Don’t argue. What you’re doing is trouble, and you know it. What you’re doing is—playing with fire. I just hope you don’t come crying to me when you get burned.”
“We’re just friends that’s all.”
“No, Sadie,” she hisses. “You aren’t friends. He’s your employee.”
“Well, technically he’s my husband’s employee.”
“Exactly—and don’t you think he might be feeding information back to his boss?”
“I don’t think—”
“That’s right, Sadie. You don’t think. That’s why you have me.”
I swallow hard. I force more coffee down to avoid saying the wrong thing again.
“Well, on the bright side,” she exclaims. “It’s not like Ethan’s filed for divorce yet. So he obviously doesn’t know.”
This makes me smile. Tightly. Smugly.
Her brow rises, a look of warning is offered. “Just be careful.”
I decide not to tell her about the divorce. If she still has hope—better to let her have it. I can’t bring myself to extinguish that.
IF ANN HAD her suspicions about why Ethan was having work done on the house before, she never said anything. I’d planned to tell her the truth. I just needed time to let it settle within myself. To say something out loud has a way of making it real. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to make the end of us real.
Had Ethan not shifted all of the money that was left in our joint account, I wouldn’t have. I fired a warning shot off the bow with the vet bill. He decided to go to war. He was angry—angry about the money—angry about me stabbing him. Angry about me changing the locks. Angry about a lot of things. Problem was, he couldn’t show up to show me just how angry, on account of the cat. Allergies are killer that way.
If he wanted to act out his fantasies, he’d have to level up.
More than anything, I realized, he was angry that he’d forgotten how to win at his own game. I was calling him to be more. Only he’d missed all the signs, and my more competitive side reveled in that.
