by Portia Moore
I hate, more than anything, feeling pitied.
“Maybe it’s okay for you,” I say, a touch sharply. “But I wouldn’t put up with it. If we’re getting married, then Vincent will be faithful to me. I would never cheat on him.”
“Well, I’m sure that he’ll respect that then,” Elyse says smoothly. “He loves you, after all. Mark says he speaks quite highly of you.”
That makes me relax a little. Vincent wouldn’t cheat on me. He must know how much that would hurt me, that it’s something I’d never stand for.
We chat about nonconsequential things for the rest of the lunch—Elyse tells me about her hairstylist and compliments my bracelet—but I can’t shake the anxious feeling that I’m left with from our earlier conversation. When my lunch comes I pick at it, despite the fact that it’s delicious—not the kind of burger I’m used to, but something with mushrooms and grilled onions and a sharp melty cheese and a tangy sauce—because I don’t have any appetite left. What I really want to do is order another drink, but instead, I wait for Elyse to look at her phone and say something about having an appointment. I know it’s just an excuse to end what’s become a fairly awkward lunch, and I wonder as I leave what Vincent will hear about it. Will he hear that it went well, that she liked me? She wouldn’t mention telling me about her husband’s mistresses; that doesn’t sound like the kind of conversation that Vincent would be wanting me to have.
I lean my head back against the seat of the car, suddenly exhausted. I wonder if he’ll be home on time tonight, or if his meetings will run late. And of course now, that makes me wonder if it’s really meetings keeping him overtime, or someone else.
I don’t have any real reason to think that, though. And just because Elyse’s husband sleeps around doesn’t mean that Vincent will do the same.
As if to allay my fears, Vincent comes home by seven and takes me out to dinner at one of our favorite Italian restaurants, just as promised. I’m quiet throughout the meal and drink a glass or two of wine more than normal. He doesn’t seem to notice or comment on it. He asks me how the lunch with Elyse went and I tell him how nice she was—and she definitely was—and then he tells me that he transferred funds to my mother and bought their flights to Seattle.
“Try not to worry, Poppy. I’m sure everything will be fine with your father. By the end of the weekend, he’ll be getting the best possible treatment.”
My fingers tighten on my napkin at the mention of his business trip, but I don’t say anything. I just nod and smile and sip at my wine. After all, what would I say? Do you have a girlfriend? Are you taking some other woman on vacation instead of actually going to meetings in some other city? Are you dressing some other girl up the way you do with me, and taking her to your club openings while I sit at home?
I can’t actually ask him any of those questions. After all, he hasn’t given me any reason to believe that he’s cheating, and I know Vincent. He’ll be furiously offended if I ask him that, and we’ll fight. He’ll be angry. And I just can’t deal with that, on top of worrying about my father.
Little things come back to me, though, as we drive home. That one time that he came home late and I thought I smelled perfume on his shirt, but it was enough like mine that I dismissed it. The phone call that he quickly ignored, and changed the subject when I asked who it was after I saw how much it annoyed him.
The nights where he seemed detached during sex or didn’t notice when I’d put on something sexier than usual for bed.
I tell myself that I’m just anxious, stressed, and tired. That there’s no reason for me to worry about all of these things. But after Vincent’s fallen asleep next to me, snoring lightly, I can’t keep myself from quietly swinging my legs out of bed and padding across the room.
Carefully, quietly, so that I won’t wake him up, I rummage through the pockets of his pants and suit jacket. All I find is his slim wallet, and I hesitate. If Vincent wakes up and finds me going through his things, he’s going to be pissed.
But I have to know.
At first, it just looks like credit cards and ID, nothing unusual. But then I slide a matte black card out. A key to a room? Across the top it says Avonwood in silver engraved letters, and at the bottom 403.
I take the card, my hands suddenly sweaty and shaky, as I put his wallet back in the pocket that I found it in. I know what Avonwood is—it’s one of Vincent’s apartment complexes that he owns. I’ve heard him mention it on the phone before.
It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. So what if he has a key to a room in a building that he owns? But I can’t shake the nervous feeling in my gut. So I slide the card into my pillowcase, where Vincent won’t find it before he leaves in the morning, and lay back down, my fingers still trembling. He’ll be gone on this business trip for the whole weekend.
And I’m going to find a way to go to Avonwood.
Vincent doesn’t wake me in the morning, as usual. It always makes me feel slightly sad—I’d rather he wake me up and give me a kiss goodbye, but I know his reasoning: that he wants me to get my rest.
This morning I’m glad for it because I’m not sure if I could have kept a poker face while he kissed me goodbye. I’m glad for the empty, quiet house while I get dressed and eat breakfast, the card securely in my pocket.
I’m going to have to get there without April hearing. It’s hard to get away from her—but even she has to pee at some point. It’s almost gotten to the point where, just like Vincent said, I hardly notice her presence. But sometime just before dinner, I see her turn the corner to go into the bathroom, and I bolt for the front door, purse in hand.
My hands are shaking as I make my way down to the corner, far enough away from our building that maybe April won’t see me while I wait for my Uber.
I climb into the silver sedan that appears as quickly as I can, taking a deep breath as I tell the driver to take me to Avonwood Apartments.
I tell myself over and over that I’m being ridiculous, that I’m overreacting. It’s going to be a model apartment that I walk into, or an office. Or maybe just an empty place that Vincent has if we ever want to use it. I remember when we went out to dinner with his friends, and I found out about his other properties, and how stupid I felt when he told me that he’d wanted to surprise me with the extent of his portfolio after we were married.
I’m going to feel silly about this afterward, too, I know it. But I have to be sure.
I take the elevator up to the fourth floor, the key clutched in my hand as I walk down the hall and slide it into the door. It beeps at me, the lock clicking open, and I open the door slowly, taking a deep breath as I tell myself that it’s going to be empty and pristine, a bare apartment with no signs of life.
I step out of the foyer and into the living room, and my heart sinks all the way to the fucking floor.
The apartment is clearly lived in. There’s no question about it. There’s a few dishes in the sink, a used coffeepot from the morning. In the living room, there’s a pair of heels by the couch, a jacket flung over the back of the chair, magazines on the coffee table.
My heart is pounding. Who lives here? What’s her relationship to Vincent? Because it’s definitely a girl. And while I desperately don’t want to believe the worst—I’m having a harder and harder time convincing myself of it.
I walk into the bathroom—there’s evidence everywhere of a woman living here. Makeup on the counter, a curling iron in the sink cabinet, tampons in the medicine cabinet. And worse—I see a man’s shaving kit, a bottle of cologne the same kind as what Vincent wears.
Tears fill my eyes as I stumble through the door into the bedroom. It’s done in soft pinks and creams, the bed covered in thick throw blankets and soft pillows. There are books on one nightstand. A man’s watch on the other. And when I open the closet, there’s a dress bag with a note attached to it.
For my beautiful Daisy, to wear to the restaurant opening.
--Vincent
I sink onto the edge of the bed. I f
eel sick—Daisy? The coincidence is too strange to not be real.
I remember him kissing me on the forehead at my mother’s house and whispering to me, “You’re my favorite little flower.”
I’m going to throw up. I race into the bathroom and fall to my knees, puking into the toilet as I try to hold back the shuddering sobs. Everything Elyse told me was true. She must have thought I was so stupid, sitting there and telling her how Vincent was faithful to me.
And as I pick up my head weakly, tearing off a strip of toilet paper to clean up my face, I see a condom wrapper in the wastebasket. No…several of them.
I rush into the bedroom, ripping the note off of the dress bag, and I grab the watch off of the dresser. I flip it over and see inscribed on the back: To my Gatsby. Love, your Daisy.
I’m in hell.
I have to get home. I have to get out of here before this girl, this “Daisy,” gets back and finds me in her apartment. No, Vincent’s apartment.
It feels as if everything is spiraling out of control. I stumble to the elevator, manage to call an Uber, and for the length of the ride home I sit in the back, tears slowly dripping down my cheeks as I try to think of what to say to Vincent when he comes home.
Maybe he’ll be sorry. I cling to that tiny bit of hope. Maybe he’ll say it was all a mistake, that he screwed up, that he’ll never do it again. Or maybe she’s someone else to him, and the watch and the condoms are from some other guy. Maybe she’s a friend that he was taking to the opening. A relative he hasn’t told me about.
But no amount of rationalizing can stop the twisting in my gut that tells me that she’s Vincent’s girlfriend. Now that I’m his fiancé, there’s an open spot that he’s clearly filled.
I’m an absolute wreck until the evening that Vincent is due home. I can’t eat, no matter how much April gently reminds me. I do drink—a lot.
After I shower, I put on the perfume he likes and blow my hair out until it’s sleek and silky. I put on jeans and a silk top, and then there’s nothing to do but wait anxiously until he gets home.
When he walks in the door, I’m sitting on the couch pretending to watch TV—in reality, I don’t have a single idea what’s happening on the screen. The note is in my pocket, the watch in my hand. And my heart feels like it’s going to leap out of my chest.
I get up and walk over to him like I always do, wrapping my arms around his neck and giving him a kiss. He smiles at me as I detach.
“Welcome home,” I say softly.
“It’s nice that you’re so glad to see me, Poppy.” He glances down at me. “What’s that in your hand?”
It’s now or never.
I open my hand and hold it out to him, my eyes accusing. He takes it and shoves it into his pocket, saying nothing, but I can see the expression on his face darkening.
My heart is pounding almost painfully in my chest. I dig into my pocket for the note and hold it out. “Do you have an explanation for this?” I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. I hear it crack, and I hate it. I don’t want to seem weak.
“What were you doing at Avonwood?” Vincent asks coolly, and my heart sinks. He shouldn’t be asking what I was doing there! He should be denying everything!
“I…I found a key,” I say, stammering a little. “And I wanted to know—”
“What I was doing? You know I have other apartments, Poppy. Why would it be so strange for me to have a key to one? And furthermore, what were you doing snooping in my things?”
He’s trying to distract me, derail me. I cross my arms over my chest. “It doesn’t matter! I found your cologne there, a note on clothes you gave to this girl, a men’s watch with ‘Love’ on it, and condom wrappers! What’s going on, Vincent?” I feel tears starting to threaten, and I try to choke them back. “I just spent a lunch swearing to Elyse that you’d never cheat on me. I thought you loved me! I’m such an idiot!”’
He pulls me into his arms and leans back for me to face him. With the most sincere look I’ve seen on him, he takes my hand. “ I do love you, Poppy,” he says, stroking my hair.
“But you wouldn’t look like an idiot if you’d just calm yourself and accept, as Elyse has, that this is how things are. Instead of snooping and accusing.” I pull away from him, astonished.
“You’re…you’re not going to try to deny it?” I stare at him. Of all the things I’d expected, this wasn’t it.
He laughs coldly. “Of course not. Why would I? Are you honestly telling me you didn’t know?”
“I…” I’m incredulous. I can’t even think of what to say. “No,” I say dully, feeling worse than ever. “No, I didn’t.”
“Then you’re stupider than I thought, Poppy,” he says with a laugh, and I can’t move.
He steps forward and puts a finger under my chin, lifting my face up so that my eyes meet his. “Listen carefully to me. I have other women, of course. I am a rich, powerful man. Women want me and I want them, and that’s my right. But you. I’ve raised you up over all of them. You’re going to be my wife.” He says all of this calmly, normally, as if what he’s saying isn’t ridiculous. As if he isn't’ breaking my heart, that we’re over after this.
“I thought you loved me.” It’s a whisper now, not an accusation. The paper and wrapper fall out of my hand. “We’re, we were getting married.” Tears are trailing down my face. He looks at me, perplexed.
“We’re still getting married,” he says matter-of-factly. I shake my head. He grabs me again and pulls me toward him, but he’s too strong for me to push away.
“I do love you, Poppy,” Vincent says, his voice exasperated. “The other women mean nothing to me. Daisy, Rose, Violet…they’re just fun. A diversion. But you…” He steps towards me again and strokes my hair, lifting my face again. “You’re my favorite,” he tells me, his voice dripping with sweetness. “Or at least you would be, if you would act accordingly.” He smiles. “A king has mistresses, after all. But his queen is above them. She’s spoiled and pampered and respected. The way you would be, if you would just be grateful for all that I’ve given you.”
He’s sick. A sick fucking asshole!
Who is this man, the one who I thought loved me, would protect me?
“I’m not marrying you. I don’t even know who you are!” I shout at him.
His face hardens. He takes a step towards me, the muscles in his jaw working angrily. “Do I need to remind you of everything that you’ll lose without me, Poppy?” He gestures around the room. “Your home, all of the money that you have access to, all of your possessions. All of that is mine! And not just that—the help that you’ve been giving your mother? Your father’s cancer treatments? All of it, gone. You won’t see another penny of it. I’ll cancel your cards the minute you step out of that door, and you’ll be on your own, back to shoplifting at stores to make your rent and put grocery store ramen in your mouth. Your father will go back to getting his shitty state-funded medical care.” He looks at me angrily. “But by all means, Poppy, if this life that I’ve given you is so terrible, walk out of that door. But this is your only chance to leave.” He takes another menacing step towards me. “If you stay, I expect this defiance to end. I expect you to stop snooping and arguing. I expect you to understand your place and stand at my side like the dutiful, spoiled, indulged fiancée that you are. I expect you to do as you’re told. Or there will be consequences.”
I burst into tears. I can’t help it. I can live without the money and the house. I’ve done it before, and I could do it again.
But my family.
It always comes back to that. I think of my father, on a flight right now to Seattle, of my mother’s relief knowing that in mere hours he’ll be receiving the best possible care. I think of my sister and the possibility of paying for her college. He holds everything—my entire life—in his hand.
I’m trapped, and from the glint in his eye, he knows it.
“Well?” Vincent looks at me coldly. “What will it be, Poppy?”
I close m
y eyes, seeing visions of my mom by my dad’s bedside as he flatlines, her being too depressed to work, her losing the house, Erin having to work minimum-wage jobs just to keep a roof over their head, and it all being because of me. Me making a choice that destroyed us all.
“I-I’ll stay,” I whisper, tears still sliding down my cheeks. His eyes narrow in on me, his brows crashing together.
“You’ll stay, as if you’re doing me a favor?” he says, annoyance and condescension lacing his tone. I blink away tears. Who the hell is this man?
“You’re not doing me a favor. I’m happy to stay. To be with you,” I tell him, wiping my tears. It takes everything in me to force a smile.
His face clears as if by magic. He steps towards me, slowly this time, and gathers me into his arms so that I’m crushed against his chest. “I’m so glad, Poppy,” he whispers into my hair. “I didn’t want to lose you.” He looks down at me, brushing hair away from my face. “Don’t you see? It will be so much easier this way. Now I don’t have to lie and keep secrets from you. Everything is out in the open, just as it should be. We can be honest with each other, the way a husband and wife should be. And you will be my favorite flower in my beautiful garden.”
I feel bile trying to come up my throat. I just nod, looking up at him with what I hope is a grateful expression.
“Now,” he says, letting go of me and stepping back, “I have some good news.”
I look at him, my mind foggy. I feel like I have emotional whiplash from his sudden change in mood, and I just stare at him, waiting for him to tell me whatever this news is.
“I have some excellent business opportunities in New York. We’re moving there next week. I have an apartment all set up for us. Don’t worry, it’s just as luxurious as this one—maybe even more so. You’ll be on my arm for all of the most important events, and we’ll be the talk of Manhattan. I’ll arrange for you to see your family from time to time, but this will get you away from the negative influences here, Poppy, and you’ll see what’s really important—our future together.” He smiles benevolently at me. “It’s time for you to start behaving like my wife. And a change of scenery will do just that.”