“Stay right here,” he says.
With a condescending pat on my shoulder, he walks past me and over to the cops. I watch as he goes over to one of them and steps in close like they were a couple of old friends.
After a few words are exchanged, the officer smiles, goes around to the back of the cruiser and pulls Christian from the seat. I want to rush over to him and throw my arms around his neck and smother him with kisses and tell him I love him. But I can’t do that. Not now. Not after the deal with the devil I just made.
I breathe a deep sigh of relief as his partner uncuffs him, but at the same time, feel a deep sense of dread enter my chest as I realize the inevitable conversation that is going to have to take place between us when I explain all this.
Christian looks up at me, and our eyes meet. I immediately feel a flood of emotion threaten to take over me. I’m going to cry if I stay here any longer, and not just cry, bawl like a baby.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I turn around and run.
I run back up to the house with both of my parents yelling after me. But I don’t care right now. I’ve had enough.
Enough of “family time,” enough of them not believing me despite being their daughter, and enough of their ridiculous expectations that don’t take into account what I want at all.
I couldn’t care less about Malcom right now; it’s my parents that have me feeling like I want to break down.
What is it about them that makes them so indifferent to what I want in life?
When I was little, I used to love rearranging my room and all the other rooms in the house, but my mom put an end to it saying there was “no need” and “once you have something settled, and it works, leave it alone.”
Mrs. Hendricks, my art teacher sophomore year, suggested I go to college for interior design, but my mother scoffed and shook her head, and my dad gave in to her as he always does. It’s pretty clear who wears the pants in their relationship. How I was ever even born is a complete mystery to me.
I race upstairs to my room and slam the door behind me. The tears immediately spill from my eyes as I dive under the blankets and start crying, imagining what my life will be like as Mrs. Harington and how I’ll ever be able to explain all this to Christian.
Will he forgive me?
Then I hear it. The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. I recognize them instantly.
Malcom.
I just cannot catch a break.
To my surprise, there’s actually a knock at the door. He didn’t just come barging in like I figured he would. For a second, I debate just telling him to fuck off and go away, but what good would that do at this point? He’s going to do what he wants anyway.
“Yes?” I answer, poking my head out from beneath the sheets and forcing back my tears.
Malcom enters like this is our room we’ve been sharing during a twenty-year-long marriage. He comes over to my side of the bed like my long-time husband with a smile on his face.
“I brought you something.”
“Oh?” I ask. “Is it in your pants?”
Malcom laughs. “Come on, now. I can be a nice guy when I want to. I saved your little boyfriend from going to jail there, didn’t I?”
Is he serious? Or just doing this to get my blood boiling?
He kneels down beside the bed, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a blue velvet jewelry box.
Oh, my God. Save me, Christian.
If only the bedroom door would open and a repeat of what happened in the boathouse would happen again. If only Christian, my love, would storm in here again and throw this madman Malcom out the window or something.
Not really, but that’s how I’m feeling as he opens the jewelry box to reveal an engagement ring, clearly very expensive, one large diamond in the center set with at least eight small stones around it.
Without hesitation, Malcom takes my hand and slides the ring onto my finger.
“I asked your mom for your ring size. Just been waiting for the right time to give it to you.”
Right, I think as my heart seems to shrivel up inside my chest. The “right time.”