ARROGANT BASTARD

by Winter Renshaw

  “No, I don’t. Care to enlighten me?” I run my fingers through my warm curls, breaking them into loose waves.

  Bellamy, normally a vision of coolness, is shaking like a poodle.

  “No, I’m asking,” she says. “You know what’s going on?”

  “Of course not,” I huff.

  “Something’s up.” She clicks her blush compact open and grabs a brush, taking her sweet time as if she’s trying to prolong the inevitable.

  “Obviously.”

  “Last-minute dinner guest. Us being told to look good.”

  “Maybe it’s someone from the UAB? Dad’s always trying to get on their good side. They don’t like that he left the old community and moved us all out here.”

  Mom always said he didn’t like being financially dependent on the UAB back in Scottsbluff, and when he found a pharmacy for sale here, he jumped at the opportunity. They didn’t like that, and he’s been trying to redeem himself ever since.

  “Could be a friend from work?” I suggest. “Maybe he’s just being sociable? I heard there are secret poly families all over Whispering Hills.”

  Bellamy clicks her compact shut and turns to me. “Stop being so naïve, Waverly. He’s trying to marry us off.”

  I resent her tone. “You don’t know that.”

  “It’s the only logical explanation.”

  “Dad wouldn’t do that. I just got into Utah. I’m going to college in a couple months.” My heart breaks for my sister. If she is right, she’s way more likely to be married off than me.

  She turns to her reflection, her shoulders tensing as she grips the ledge of the counter.

  “I thought you wanted to get married soon?” I say. “You’re almost twenty-two. You’re done with school. Aren’t you just waiting for—”

  “No.” Without any further explanation, she exits the bathroom.

  As the oldest of the family, Bellamy carries a great burden. She’s to set an example, be a shining image of perfection in our father’s eyes. She’s supposed to set the precedence and we’re all supposed to follow it.

  The hard knot in my stomach tells me life as we know it is about to change.

  Several slow, intentional steps carry me downstairs to where my mothers are preparing a feast fit for Christ’s second coming. That, coupled with the fact that Bellamy and I were excused from kitchen duty so we could get dressed up, tells me my sister’s suspicions might be founded.

  Dad leads the younger kids in from the family room, and Jensen struts down the steps a moment later. I take my usual seat, twirling the stem of the iced tea glass between my thumb and forefinger.

  Stiff silence fills the air. No one dares to speak.

  There’s an extra chair between where my mother and father usually sit. A cool sweat glazes over me. I try to tell myself that Bellamy got me all worked up. That this could be nothing. It all might be in our heads. I’m ninety-nine percent sure that if my father was going to marry one of us off, it’d be Bellamy. She’s ready. She’s smart and pretty and she can cook and sew. She’s great with kids.

  I continue listing off all the reasons Bellamy would make a better wife than me, but then I remember her face in the bathroom. She doesn’t want to be married.

  But neither do I.

  I’m not ready.

  The doorbell rings, sending my heart galloping like a runaway horse. Dad rises from the table and heads to the foyer. A second later I hear voices—both male. I watch, breath suspended, for them to emerge from around the corner.

  And when they do, I know.

  CHAPTER 19

  Mark grins from ear to ear, his hand on the shoulder of a man with gray around his temples. The man smiles and gives a friendly wave before Mark points for him to take a seat at the head of the table next to him.

  Bellamy stares at her plate. Waverly watches, still as a statue.

  “Everyone, I’d like you to meet Mr. Waterman.” Mark seems proud of his buddy, and judging by their matching Polo sweaters, I’d say they’re two of a kind. Mark gives another quick wave, the glint of his gold wedding band catching my eye.

  “Oh, you can all call me Bruce.” Mr. Waterman—Bruce—flashes a crooked smile, his two front teeth overlapping just enough to be noticeable from a safe distance. He lowers himself into his chair and proceeds to make small talk with Mark as food is passed around.

  A moment later, Mark goes around the table, calling out the names of his litter of children and three wives, and tells us all Bruce is a new colleague of his at the pharmacy who just so happens to be one of the seventy quorum members of the priesthood.

  Whatever the fuck that means.

  Our end of the table is alarmingly silent, like someone hit the mute button and sucked all the sound from the room. Mark doesn’t notice, though. He’s too busy bragging about his perfect AUB family to his buddy, and by the end of dinner, he suggests we head into the family room for some socializing. He even tells his wives cleanup can wait.

  “Waverly, why don’t you show Bruce here that lovely hymn you play on the piano.” Mark motions toward an old oak upright in the corner of the room. “You know the one. Father Is My Favorite Friend.”

  “Aw, I was hoping for Take Me to Church,” I dig.

  Mark’s eyes snap to me for a mere second and then dart to Waverly, who takes a seat on the bench and lifts the lid to the piano, spreading her fingers across the black and white keys. He slips his hands into his pockets and stands next to Bruce, a big smile on his face like he can hardly wait to watch Waverly’s performance vicariously through his buddy.

  She’s like a monkey on a leash, performing because Mark told her to. This really is a fucking circus.

  “Jensen?” Gideon comes out of nowhere and tugs on my hand. “Will you help me with my puzzle?”

  A thousand-piece puzzle is scattered all over the coffee table with a few rogue pieces littering the ground beneath. It’s way above his skill level, but I’m not about to rain on his parade. Little dude’s life is already hard enough, even if he doesn’t know it yet. I’ll help him with his puzzle.

  “Sure thing, buddy.” We take a seat on the sofa. He tries to force random pieces together and I search for the edges, simultaneously keeping an eye on what’s going on in the far corner of the room.

  I snap three edge pieces together, glancing up as the sound of some boring ass hymnal I’ve never heard before fills the confines of the crowded family room. The wives are perched on edges of furniture, still as mannequins, and the younger children play quietly.

  Bellamy is seated on a big armchair to my left, away from the rest of the group. It’s almost as if she’s trying to blend in. She sits politely, her legs crossed at her ankles and her hands folded in her lap, like she’s sitting in a church pew.

  “Bellamy,” Mark turns around and calls at her. “Come. You can sing while Waverly plays. Waverly, can you two do Thy Servants Are Prepared for our guest here?”

  She groans just enough that I hear it and peels herself up from the chair.

  Mark flashes a huge smile at her. “Bruce, I don’t think you’ve been formally introduced yet to my eldest. Bruce, this is Bellamy, my firstborn daughter. She’s twenty-two.”

  I don’t know what the fuck her age has to do with anything. Most people stop broadcasting their kids’ ages once they’re past, oh, I don’t know, elementary school.

  Bruce’s smile widens. Mark doesn’t notice when his narrow eyes wash over her from head to toe. She squirms and focuses on the floor. I can imagine his gaze must feel disgustingly invasive to her. He’s easily twice her age, and he’s wears the same delusional confidence as Mark.

  “All right, Waverly,” Mark says. “We’re ready.”

  The sisters perform with stoic faces and tight postures. Waverly knows her way around a piano keyboard and Bellamy doesn’t miss a single note. Mark stands proud, observing Bruce as he watches the girls perform.

  “Jensen, you’re not helping!” Gideon nudges my arm.

  “Sorry, bu
d.” I work on my edge pieces until the song is over. No one applauds, which is appropriate. Church hymns aren’t meant to be entertainment, regardless of the fact that Mark seems to think they are tonight.

  Waverly shuts the piano lid and stands up from the creaky wooden bench. She stands next to Bellamy as if they’re about to be auctioned off, their gazes submissive and low. It physically pains me to see her that way. I’ve gotten to know her a little more over the past several weeks, and I know she’s got some fight in her. She’s a tiger, caged and subdued, behaving exactly the way she was raised to behave.

  “Waverly, you’re a beautiful pianist.” Bruce’s compliment is meant to sound sincere, but his mouth-watering delivery lends creepy undertones. He’s salivating, and I don’t understand how Mark doesn’t pick up on any of this. I’m pretty sure if I checked out his pants—which I’m not going to do—I’d see the early formation of a raging boner.

  Bruce steps in closer to Waverly, and as of that moment, Bellamy may as well be chopped liver. He takes her hand in his. “Your father tells me you’re a virtuous, yet spirited girl.”

  Waverly nods, like she’s afraid to speak. I get that this jackass is in the priesthood or whatever, and Mark acts like the guy is a damn prophet, but I seem to be the only one noticing the way her hands shake and her eyes dart around. Her full lips part as she swallows, her face void of color. She’s fucking terrified.

  I’ve seen a lot of shit in my day, and I’ve done a lot of questionable shit, but this fucking takes the cake. I’m not sure how much longer I can stand here and watch Mark pimp out his daughters to what is clearly a fellow polygamist shopping for a new wife to add to his collection.

  I don’t care what anyone says. Waverly and Bellamy are victims, and as far as I can tell, I have a couple different options. I can speak up now, make shit super awkward and risk getting kicked out of Mark’s house, and spend the next two months homeless.

  Or…

  I can take matters into my own hands, in my own special way.

  Either way, I refuse to allow this. From here on out, no one gets to use religion as a weapon to control another human being.

  Not while I’m around.

  CHAPTER 20

  His touch knots my belly, and the way his gaze crawls all over me makes me feel dirty, inanimate. I feel Jensen watching, taking it all in quietly from the other side of the room, and my cheeks warm. I am an item on an auction block, and for the first time, I am less than human.

  Bruce pays extra attention to me, his beady eyes locked on mine. He’s a member of the quorum, which means we are to show him the utmost respect, especially as a guest in our house, but I’m finding it exceptionally challenging to do so when he’s practically undressing me with his eyes.

  “Waverly, can you quote Article Thirteen of the Articles of Faith?” Bruce asks.

  “Yes,” I say, my voice a forced whisper. My throat is dry and tight, as if I’m being choked. His presence suffocates me. Or maybe it’s fear of the unknown. “We believe in being honest, true, chaste, and in doing good for all men.”

  “Good, good.” Bruce’s thin lips coil up at the corners, his voice snakes and slithers into the air between us. “And you, Bellamy?” He addresses her, but he still looks at me. “Are you chaste and true?”

  “I am,” she says.

  “Excellent.” Bruce comes closer and places his palm on my shoulder, his eyes drifting back and forth between us. “You young ladies are the future of our faith. It’s up to you to set good examples for your younger sisters, to follow out on the path that has been lain before you by your mothers and grandmothers. It’s up to you to remain true to your Heavenly Father and the doctrines by which we are governed.”

  I’m not sure what he’s getting at. Sure, we may not go to church regularly since the nearest AUB temple is a two hour drive from here, but my father has always raised us with the teachings of the Holy Bible, Book of Mormon, United Order, and the Articles of Faith.

  “Someday soon, you will be married,” Bruce says, releasing my shoulder from his grasp. “These are trying times we live in. Temptation is everywhere.”

  I glance up at my dad, hoping for at least a sign of what this might be all about, but I get nothing. My fingers twitch against my sides. Deep down, I know what this is about. I just don’t want to believe it.

  Bruce clears his throat. “The priesthood typically does not promote marital arrangements, however, the option to choose your partner is one that must be earned by staying pure and true.”

  He smiles as if to soften his message, though his eyes penetrate mine, like he’s trying to invade my soul. The room shrinks around us. I may as well be in a prison from which I can’t escape.

  I’m being threatened with an arranged marriage.

  Jensen rises from the sofa, plodding across the room and pushing past my father and Bruce without so much as an, “Excuse me.”

  Must be nice to be able to walk away.

  I turn to my father, who for the first time in my life is a stranger to me. I don’t know this passive aggressive coward. “I’m not feeling well. I think I need to go lie down.”

  The expectation to continue on in the tradition of plural marriage has been embedded into my psyche for as far back as I remember. In this moment, here and now, I’m finally realizing that those opinions in my head were never really mine to begin with. They were planted there, sowed and reaped and fertilized over the years.

  I’m too young to get married, and I certainly deserve the right to choose whom I marry.

  And I don’t want to have a plural marriage. I’ve never told anyone that before, but I know with every fiber of my being it’s not what I want. Not anymore, not since I realized I have a choice.

  “Waverly.” My father peers down his nose at me, like he’s disappointed, like I should tough it out. “I think you’ll be fine.”

  I blink away hot tears that fill my eyes. The one man who was supposed to love me and take care of me is perfectly fine placing my future in the hands of a church elder, like his job here is done.

  My mother stares ahead, blank-faced and refusing to meet my pleading gaze. There’s a powerless kind of sadness in her eyes.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, ambling out of the family room. My legs wobble, barely supporting me, and I’m quite certain I’ll barely make it upstairs before I collapse. I grip the railing and then the walls, desperate for something to hold onto because in this moment, I have nothing.

  No one.

  I am alone.

  Powerless.

  The choice of whom and when to marry has been swept out from under me without warning.

  I have no control, and right now, it’s the one thing I need more than anything else in the entire world.

  No one chases after me. They wouldn’t dare. They all know better than to make a scene in front of a church elder. I’m sure I’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow, but for now, I’m thankful to be away from that creep.

  I need to breathe.

  I need to think.

  I need to wait out the storm until I can find dry ground again.

  Standing outside my bedroom door, I catch a glimpse of Jensen’s door. It’s half open. The light is on. I pull in a long, cleansing breath, wipe my tears on the back of my sleeves, and show myself in. I really don’t want to be alone right now.

  He’s seated on the floor, his back against his bed and his knees bent. He’s sketching, zoned out.

  “Hey,” I say. I tuck my curled hair behind my ears and shut the door behind me.

  He sets his sketchpad down and shakes his head. “Fuck, Waverly. What the hell just happened downstairs?”

  I bite my lip and blink away foggy tears. I can’t say it. If I say it, it becomes real, and if it becomes real, there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. I battle my wars in complete silence, the way I’ve been taught to do.

  Jensen reaches for my hand, pulling me down to the floor with him. “You know you don’t have to worry about a damn th
ing, right? He can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.”

  I want to believe his words hold weight, but he doesn’t understand. He has no idea how things work with the AUB and my father’s expectations. It’s not that simple.

  “You’re going to tell me I have a choice,” I say.

  His lips inch up at the sides, soft and strangely inviting. I realize just how close we’re sitting now. I breathe him in, closing my eyes and getting lost in his world for just a split second. I’d give anything to be anywhere but in my own reality.

  “You know me well,” he says, his voice pulling me nearer. Or maybe it’s him. His hand slips around my shoulders and he brings me into a side embrace. I laugh to myself because he’s not a touchy-feely person. He’s tough and unreadable at times, rarely showing an ounce of emotion that isn’t provocative or inciting. If a side hug is all he can offer me, I’ll take it.

  We’re friends now, and that’s kind of important because I haven’t been allowed to have close friends for a long time—not since Claire Fahnlander almost outed us back in middle school.

  I sit up and open my eyes, immediately losing them in his dark, brooding gaze. My desire to taste his lips and sense his touch never subsided despite my best efforts. His fingertips graze my arm, igniting a wave of impulsivity. My lips part, our faces only a dangerous few inches apart. My heart quickens, and I’m struggling to breathe. I could kiss him if I wanted to, but I won’t. I need his friendship, and I don’t want to make things complicated.

  The moment passes and my reckless, wild notion goes right along with it. I’m sure it would’ve been amazing. I’m sure it would’ve set my world on fire. It probably would’ve felt all kinds of wrong and delicious, but now I’ll never know.

  Jensen cups my cheek, his thumb pressing against my bottom lip, mocking the pressure of a soft kiss. I sigh. He could own me with one kiss, and I wouldn’t even fight it.

  I need to rebel.

  I need to feel.

  I need to know that my life still belongs to me.

  I close my eyes while I focus on the sensation of his thumb against my mouth until it disappears, fading away only to be replaced with the real thing.