twelve
Eliza
King is quiet on the way back, as usual. I haven’t cared up until now. I haven’t wanted to talk to him, either. I didn’t want to risk getting close. But that’s all gone now. There’s no way to go back, to keep from freaking out when he touched me, to keep from spilling my dirty secrets to him. And there’s no way to feel distant from someone after telling them something like that, something you’ve spent your life hiding, and compensating for, and ignoring. Something you’ve never told anyone. I bared my soul, my shame, my brokenness. I don’t even know why I told him. Maybe some part of me recognized a brokenness inside him, and it called out to me that we are the same, that he could be trusted with this, that he could bear it.
I glance at him every few minutes on the plane. I’m quiet, too, but I’m brimming with questions, worries. I don’t want him to go digging, to unearth the past. I don’t want him thinking he can be some kind of hero, save me from myself. I want him to leave it alone, to pretend it never happened, just like I do. But for the first time, I wish I knew him better, that I hadn’t spent the last few months keeping as much distance from him as possible, locking him out, telling him I hated him, that I didn’t want to know him.
Because now I don’t know him, and I want to. I want to know what he’s thinking, planning, feeling. I want to know what is down in the depths of those deep, brooding eyes, what pain was reflected back when I shared mine. And on a more selfish note, I want to know if he sees me differently, if he can’t help but be repulsed by me and my fucked up trauma. Even more fucked up, now that I know he won’t see me as his sexy little wife anymore, that’s all I want. I want him to want me, to still think I’m desirable and fuckable instead of delicate and broken.
Which is ridiculous, since I didn’t want him to see me as sexy or fuckable before he knew.
I want to go back to that, though, back to what we had before. That wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t scary like this. I’m vulnerable now. I’ve let him see too much, know too much. I need to know his secrets, balance the scales.
But he doesn’t talk. We’re polite to each other on the flights. Things have definitely shifted, and not in a good way. I can tell he no longer thinks of me as just a bratty, spoiled princess. I’d rather be that than damaged and sad, though. How do I undo what I did, unsay what I said? How do I do damage control when the damage is so deep and irreversible I don’t even know where to start?
I can’t.
When we reach New York, I’m relieved. All I want is to go back to the way things were. Instead, King gets my bags and we head for his car in the same heavy silence that’s hung between us all day.
“I like your car,” I try as he loads the suitcases into the Lotus.
“Thanks,” he says, sliding around to open the door for me. “You drive?”
“I know how.” I don’t have a car—most people in the city don’t—but I have a license and I’ve driven Dad’s car. He wanted to make sure I was capable in case our house was ever ambushed, and I needed to make a getaway.
We leave the parking garage before I decide I’ve had enough of this weirdness. I’d rather just talk about it and clear the air instead of pretending last night never happened.
I turn to King as he pulls out into the stream of taxis and other traffic. “Listen,” I say. “About last night… I know it’s not fair to ask you to wait for me to be ready. Even I don’t know how long it’ll take, or if I’ll ever want to. So, I think you should find acumare.”
He shoots me a scowl. “I don’t want a mistress, Eliza.”
“I know,” I say. “You want a wife who isn’t a frigid bitch, as you put it. But unfortunately, neither of us got to choose that.”
“I didn’t call you a bitch,” he says. “I called you a brat. And that was wrong of me. If I’d known…”
I close my eyes and thunk my head back against the headrest in frustration. “See, that’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” I say. “I want you to think of me just the way you did. As a frigid brat who’s not sleeping with you because I hate you and I want to hold out on you and drive you crazy.”
“Then why are you telling me to take a girl on the side?”
“Because I know you need that,” I say. “And maybe I don’t hate you anymore. So, if I can’t give you what you need, then I have to be okay with you finding it somewhere else.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” he says. “I want you, Eliza.”
His words hang between us, heavier than the silence. The honeymoon was only a week, but it seems all that time alone together made this happen faster than either of us wanted.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly, guilt burning a hole in my heart.
This time, he sighs, adjusting his grip on the wheel and reaching over to lay a hand on my knee. “No, I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said that. I said I wouldn’t put pressure on you. And I don’t want to. I just mean, I only want my wife. No one else. So if I have to wait a month, or a year, or ten years, until you’re comfortable with me, then that’s what I’ll do.”
“But… I don’t want you to have to do that,” I say. “I want you to have all your needs met. It’s just like… Like I don’t want to clean, so we’ll hire a maid. I don’t want to have sex, so you can hire someone for that. There’s nothing wrong with sex workers, King. Dad has a club where a bunch of them work. They’re really nice. I’m sure you can find one you like.”
He gives me an incredulous look. “Are you fucking serious right now?”
“Well… Yeah,” I say. “I know you think I’m setting you up or something, but I’m not. I may be inexperienced, but I know men. It’s in your biology. My father might have gotten me a human chastity belt, but he didn’t shield me from much. I’ve been sitting in on poker games since I was five. I’ve heard the talk. I’ve met the kinds of guys who do this job, and you need a way to relieve stress.”
“Stop telling me what I need,” he grits out.
“Sorry. I just mean, ifyou need sex… I’m fine with you getting it. Just don’t tell me all the details. I’ll look the other way.”