“The wedding dress.”
“I’ll call the fucking dress designer and have her make it bigger. Now eat the damn bread.” I stare at him, not sure if I should be mad or not. “Please.” I pick it up and take a bite, letting out a small moan. The bread is still warm, and the butter is melted just right. “Maybe you shouldn't eat the bread.”
“Are you always this bossy?” I ask after swallowing my bite of food.
“Yes.” He butters himself a roll next. The table grows silent, like it was in the car ride over. I have no idea how to act around Gerrit, which is crazy. I’ve never been more intimate with anyone in my life. He knows me in a way no one else does. Yet I can’t seem to have a continued conversation with him without my nerves getting the best of me.
“In the dressing room. I don’t normally do stuff like that,” I blurt out.
“That makes two of us.” I find that hard to believe. He walked right in and took what he wanted. At least that’s what I thought, but really what had he gotten out of it? It was me that got the orgasm.
“Really?”
“I don’t make a habit of showing up in women's dressing rooms. Not to mention if we got caught. The gossip would be endless.” That is true. “Not that I give a fuck, but I’m guessing you would.”
“I guess,” I supply. My first thought would have been about my mother. She would murder me. God forbid I end up in one of those gossip rags. She’d have a cow. I’d never hear the end of it from her.
“You guess?” He leans back in his chair with a smirk playing at his lips. My eyes drop there, wanting those lips back on me. What is happening here? Could I actually be falling for him?
“If we were married—”
“We will be married.”
“It would be less scandalous to get caught with your husband is all. It would actually be kind of sweet. Two married people who can’t keep their hands off each other. My parents can barely stand to be in the same room for a few hours at a time.”
“I don't think we’ll have that problem.”
“You don’t know that,” I respond as they begin setting some of our food on the table. I try not to roll my eyes as the server does everything in her power to get Gerrit’s attention. To his benefit, he doesn't seem to notice.
“We’ll have a good simple marriage. I work a lot. We’ll mainly only see each other in the late evening. I get home around eight.”
“And the weekends?”
“I typically work those too.” Now I’m really not understanding what he needs from a wife. He’s never home. He doesn’t seem as though he plans to change those ways, so I don’t understand what the big rush to get married is. Why not continue to be a bachelor if he wants to live that lifestyle? His answer only confuses me more. Gerrit is hard to get a feel for.
“Okay then.” I let out a small laugh.
“Why is this funny?”
“It’s odd to me that you want to get married is all. It sounds like you’re already married to your job.”
“My job is off limits and will always come first. Sometimes you’ll go to events with me and be in our bed each night.” Right. Of course that’s why he needs a wife. He doesn’t want to have to worry about having someone to warm his bed at night. It would probably take too much of his precious time to actually go out and meet someone. His reply gives me a slap right back to reality.
I hear him loud and clear about how our future together will be. What I don’t understand is why he doesn’t just get a hooker? Or is that what he considers me, but with a nicer title attached to it? I try not to let my emotions get the best of me and focus on the food, even though I no longer have an appetite.
The hunger I was feeling has now vanished. I still try to eat, not wanting to draw attention to myself. We eat in silence, with each second feeling painfully longer than the next. All I can think about is getting out of here. I need air. I’m suffocating on the thoughts of a loveless marriage and a future that looks very similar to the life my mother lives.
“How is it?” he asks.
“Good,” I answer. I don’t know why I’m getting so upset. I knew what this marriage was going to be, but for some reason it hurts. I flinch when Gerrit’s fingers brush along my cheek as he sticks a piece of my hair behind my ear.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing. The food is wonderful.” I can tell from the tick of his jaw he doesn't care for my response. He knows I’m lying, but he can’t make me say anything, and he knows it. I don’t think Gerrit is a man who is used to not getting what he wants. I’m the perfect example of that. He’d seen me and then wanted me. Now here I am with his ring on my finger and letting him do about anything he wants to my body, but now it feels cheap.