“Well, yeah, but that’s because I thought I’d be taking you home,” he says. “Why am I here wasting my time with you if we’re not hooking up later?”
I shake my head and push my glass away in disgust. “What, so I’m not worth talking to if I won’t sleep with you? For all you know, I’m the most interesting person you’ve ever met.”
He snorts. “You’re not. And even if you were, it wouldn’t matter if you’re not giving it up. Trust me, there’s not a guy in this place who cares what you have to say. We just pretend to listen until we get to the good stuff.”
My mouth drops open in indignation. “You’re a pig.”
He shakes his head, pushes his glass away, and slides off the stool, disappearing into the crowd in moments. I sit there for a minute, confused by what just happened. I never go home with men, but they love buying me drinks and flirting.
It must be the ring on my finger.
Even when he’s not with me, King is ruining everything.
No one here knows me or wants to know me. I’m not even sure my own husband would care what I have to say, and I’m damn sure none of the guys here do. Why would they? They’re just here to make a connection, have a little fun and find someone to go home with.
Obviously I can do that. I’m not wild and free anymore. I’m tied down, married, for fuck’s sake. Maybe I’m not being fair. That guy had a point. This club is a meat market, and I’m off the market. Why am I here?
If I can’t assert my freedom this way anymore, though, what am I supposed to do? The point of freedom is to follow a passion. The point of life is passion. And if I don’t have a passion for anything, I have nothing to fight for, which means I’ve been fighting my husband for nothing all along.
But that’s not quite true. I’ve been fighting for freedom. For control of my life, my body. I’m terrified I’m already losing that battle. King does things to me that are beyond my control, things I crave even as I despise them, things that terrify and thrill me in equal measure. What terrifies me most, though, is that every day I come closer to forgetting why those things matter. Why I need freedom. Why I need control over myself. Why I need to keep my distance.
It’s better to turn him down first, so he can’t reject me. It’s better to let him hurt my body than to let him hurt the parts inside me that are already so broken they can never be healed. That part of me would die altogether if it were finally exposed, the truth laid bare, and he was incapable of loving me then. And he would be.
Somehow, it’s better to choose it for myself, to make sure he never loves me as I am now, without knowing. Because if he knew, he’d run screaming, demanding an annulment. And if there’s one thing worse than knowing I’ll never love someone because of what happened to me, it’s knowing that no one could ever love me if they knew.
thirteen
King
Since Uncle Al decided I should report to Anthony about our honeymoon, I accompany him toJean-Jeanin the early afternoon on Friday, as arranged. No one else is in the place, as it’s a sweet spot between lunch and dinner. A bored-looking college student stands behind the counter, waiting for customers. Uncle Al and I order and take our seats near the windows while two of his men take theirs outside at the table directly on the other side of the glass. They’ll see anyone coming in, but we’ll have privacy to talk to Anthony Pomponio, who chose the bistro as a meeting place.
We’re halfway through our paninis before Uncle Al speaks. “I’m glad we got here before them,” he says. “Gives us a minute to talk.”
I nod, my throat tightening. “Oh yeah?”
“How you liking things?” he asks. “You doin’ okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Job’s good.”
“How you liking your partnership with my grandson?”
“Good.”
Little Al is not my favorite person, but it could be a lot worse. I’m not going to complain to his grandfather, that’s for damn sure.
Uncle Al nods, taking a bite before speaking again. “I know he’s somethin’ else. You kids… This generation.” He breaks off and shakes his head, smiling ironically. “I sound like an old man now, don’t I?”
“Nah, he is something else,” I agree, and we both laugh.
I’m just starting to relax when he asks, “How’s things with the wife?”
“Fine.”
“Marriage is hard even for people already in love when they start out,” he says, his watchful gaze on my face. “It can take a while to figure out your places, your roles, how you fit together.”
I nod. I’m not used to talking about this kind of thing. The only time Dad talked to me about women was when he needed me to seduce one. But Uncle Al is the closest thing to a confidant I have now, and he’s asking me to open up. Truth is, I’ve never a long-term relationship, and I’m not sure how to handle one with a woman like Eliza. I could use some advice from someone who’s been successfully married.
“It’s been tough,” I admit. “Eliza stays up half the night and sleeps half the day, and I’m working all day. When I come home, she’s getting ready to go meet her friends or they’re all at our place when I just want to relax. Once we get used to each other’s schedule, it’ll be easier.”