by Britney King
“I figured,” I tell her. “They’re great kids.”
“Well, yes. But they’re hardly children anymore.”
She’s right. They can’t be much younger than she is.
“Yes,” I laugh. “I guess you don’t realize other people’s children grow up.”
She presses her lips to one another and leaves it at that.
“And the Bible study?” I missed the last one, sadly. I skate just beneath the surface. “My daughter was cut from the dance team. It was a big deal.”
She nods like she understands. She doesn’t.
“How did you get on with the others?”
She lifts her cup from the table and sips her tea uncomfortably.
“That good?” I ask. Sometimes sarcasm works. Sometimes it doesn’t.
“I’m not sure they like me,” she replies earnestly, and in this case I made the right call. I can't help but get the feeling she thinks I’m one and the same.
“I’m sure you're wrong,” I tell her, sipping my tea. “They can be a tough bunch to crack. But they mean well.”
She leans in. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you think they know about the baby?”
“The baby?” I say raising my brow. Something lodges in my throat. Of course, the baby. The flowy dress, the shotgun wedding, it all makes perfect sense now.
“No,” I tell her. “I haven't heard anything.” This latter is the truth. It’s the best way to hide a lie.
She looks relieved. She visibly relaxes. I expect her to say more, but when she doesn’t, I realize I’m going to have to ask. I cross and uncross my legs. Then I fold my hands and place them in my lap. “How far along are you?”
She looks away. “Not very far. It’s just—we haven't told anyone…”
“How did you and Tom meet? I know you said on the street but—”
“Yes—about that,” she says, cutting me off. “I figured you’d want to know.”
“It's really not my business,” I say. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” Another truth hidden in a lie.
She glances away, and her eyes fix on something. I follow her gaze to a photo of Tom and his kids. June isn’t in the picture. “It wasn't easy,” she says. “Being that Tom was married.”
“I imagine not,” I tell her. I see June’s face where she does not. I remember when that photo was taken.
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she says, meeting my eye. “It was a hard decision, but in the end—” She pats her stomach. “I think the best one.”
I don’t respond. I look away, sip my tea, and stare at the floor.
“But there's something I have to know,” she adds, which catches me off guard and causes me to look up. She isn’t as green as she’s led me to believe. I realize then why she’s confiding in me—why she’s so nervous. She needs an ally against the others. Tom is a leader within New Hope. Like my husband, and Beth’s, he has a say in who comes and goes. They set the rules. The rest of us have to abide by them. But that doesn’t mean we have to like it.
“I know I shouldn't want to know— but I do—from your perspective, were Tom and June happy?”
“Oh,” I respond. Her question catches me by surprise. I take a deep breath in and settle myself. Hearing June’s name on her lips feels like a bigger betrayal than I was prepared for. “I don't know. I mean, who's to say what happiness really is?”
“Yes,” she answers. Her voice wavers. “But if you had to guess?”
I twist my lips. “No one really knows what goes on behind closed doors.”
“That's true,” she says. “But maybe if I had some sort of idea…maybe it would lessen the guilt.”
“I feel guilty,” I remember saying to Grant at the time. I can still picture the way we were back then, the two of us standing in our new home, waiting for the movers to arrive with our belongings. We were young and in love. And tired. Very tired. We didn’t bring much. We didn’t have to. The church leaders wanted us to have new furniture. It was a gift. To welcome us. Officially.
“There are other things to feel guilty about,” he assures me. “New furniture is not one of them.”
“I thought churches were supposed to be spiritual.”
“What’s not spiritual about receiving a gift?”
I cock my head, rub a chip in the paint on the wall. It makes it worse. Someday I’ll learn. Not today. “It’s the tithing I don’t get.”
“What’s not to get?”
I shrug. “I just thought we were meant to collect money from those of us who have been blessed to give to the needy.”
He pulls me in close and smiles. “No,” he tells me shaking his head. “That’s socialism.”
I smile and rest my head against his chest. He always has a different way of looking at things.
“You want to talk about guilt —” he says, taking me by the shoulders. He pulls me away so he can see my face. “I feel terrible about the decision they made. You shouldn’t be made to do extra chores.” He frowns. I see the remorse in his eyes. He looks away. “I give them enough money. There are other ways for them to get the point across.”
I notice that he doesn’t use the word punishment. That’s what it was, really. Scrubbing floors. Cleaning toilets. All for ordering takeout. Effort is everything. Intention is important.
“It’s okay. I survived.”
“No,” he says. “Maybe you’re right.” I see the light in his eyes shift. “Maybe we shouldn’t accept their gift.”
I laugh. “I’ve earned that furniture,” I tell him, thinking of all the bathroom stalls I knelt in last week.
“Oh, Josie. I know. The guilt eats at me every day.”
I do a double-take. “Why?”
“Because you’ve taken on all of this,” he motions around the empty space. “And all I do is work. If I’m not at the hospital, I’m at the office. I go to sleep thinking about charts, and they’re the first thing I see when I wake up.”
“Yes,” I say pulling him closer. “Your practice has grown significantly. Faster than you expected.” He reminds me of this whenever a new rule is handed down. Last week, it was hospitality committee. Every wife must take part. The leadership team decided it was no longer optional. That’s why I was punished. I’d been tasked with making a week’s worth of meals for a family in need, even though we are in the middle of a move ourselves. And by family in need, New Hope has defined this as any couple new to the congregation. Problem was, they cut our gas, and my stove wasn’t working. I ordered takeout delivery. It was apparently the wrong thing to do. Impersonal and tacky, Beth called it. I should have told her if I wasn’t able to keep my commitment. Communication is key. I complained to Grant. I shouldn’t have. He works so hard for us. I must never forget to be grateful. “But this is what we wanted.”
He gives me the side-eye. “Is it though?”
I lie there on the edges of sleep, staring at the ceiling. I’m counting the minutes I might get between now and James’s next feeding. Grant refuses to let me bring him to bed. He wants me to let him cry it out. We argued about that again last night. He hasn’t spoken to me since.
“I don’t want you taking the baby around those people,” he tells me in the darkness. I’m so thankful to finally hear his voice that I forget to be angry. Also, it takes me a moment to comprehend what he’s said.
“What people?”
“Any of them. Anyone who isn’t a part of the church. Anyone I can’t be sure of.”
“Grant—” I say. “They’re my friends.”
He rolls over. I stare at his back. It’s familiar and foreign all at once. Maybe this is the way this is supposed to be. I wouldn’t know. All I know is suddenly there’s an invisible wall between us, and it’s growing taller. It’s become one I can’t breach. “I don’t care,” he sighs. “He’s my son.”
I sit up in bed.
“I know you’re tired,” I say. “But I think you’re overrea
cting.”
“I think you’re forgetting the agreement.”
“Fuck the agreement.”
My knees hit the hardwood floor. I feel wetness drip from my nose, and when it lands on my top lip, I know I’m bleeding.
Grant flips on the lamp. “Jesus, Josie.”
I scoot away as he rounds the bed. He reaches me, leans down and takes me by the chin. He carefully inspects my face. I let him. I don’t know to do anything different. He’s never hit me before. I can’t breathe. My vision is blurred. Finally, he exhales. “Well, at least it’s not broken. Just a small cut where my ring got you.”
When I can manage, I stand and start to throw my clothes in a bag. Mentally, I run down a list of items I’ll need for James. I’ve reached my underwear drawer when he grabs me by the hair. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away,” I tell him through tears. I hadn’t realized I was crying. Anger buries emotion.
“You can’t leave,” he laughs. “Where would you go?”
I try to maneuver away. “Anywhere but here.”
“Look, Josie.” He holds his hands up. “I feel bad for grazing your nose. But it was dark. I couldn’t see.”
I cock my head.
His eyes plead with me. I see remorse where irritation once was. “I feel terrible,” he says, taking my hand in his. “But when you said that about the church— about everything I’ve worked so hard for—well, it was like you just obliterated everything we’ve built into nothing.”
I back away. Suddenly, distance seems like a good thing.
“Come to bed,” he says. “It’s late. If you still want to leave in the morning, go right ahead. But don’t drag our son out into the night just because you’re angry. Can’t you see I feel guilty enough already? Don’t use him to make me feel worse.”
“Josie,” Mel calls. “Perhaps you should lie down here instead.”
I wave her off. “I’m fine.”
“Well,” she says, handing me a bottle of water for the road. “If you’re sure.”
I wet my lips and focus on my breath. In and out. In and out. I inhale, stretching my arms out. They feel heavy. I roll my shoulders. She’s right. I should lie down. I feel sick.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I think the sushi I had last night may have been bad.”
She looks at me with concern. It’s mostly fake. She just wants me out of her house before she has a mess to clean up.
“You keep dozing off…”
I twist the cap off the water and take a sip. “Just dehydrated is all.”
Mel looks away. Her expression turns sad. “I used to get panic attacks too. They can be very scary.”
“Panic attacks?”
“You know, kind of like flashbacks.”
“No,” I shake my head, and then I pat my stomach. “Just bad food is all.”
I start toward the door. This isn’t good. Beth will be all over this. She’ll dissect my actions with a fine tooth comb. I’ll be shifted off to another job. Back to meal duty. At least this way all I have to do is talk. New Hope is big enough now that typically we leave the other hospitality stuff to the others. Unless we’re being punished.
“I hope you feel better,” she calls from the entryway.
“Me too,” I say over my shoulder. My stomach turns. Like the others, I came prepared to hate her.
I guess I half- expected that she would be some evil husband thief, but that isn't what she is at all.
She's just a young girl in over her head, with one big reason to stay. I know that reason. I know it well.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Izzy
I awake to the scent of bacon. Grant isn’t in bed beside me. I pull the sheet in tighter. I could get used to this. I get used to waking up with nowhere I have to be and nothing I have to do. I search the floor for my clothes. There’s a chill in the air that tells me better than to venture out unprotected. It makes me want to stay put. Bacon and Grant Dunn are sirens though, calling me, beckoning me toward them. Finally, I spot the lingerie from last night laid out at the end of the bed. I’d rather go naked than prance out wearing that in the daylight, looking like this. I don’t think Grant Dunn has seen me fully sans clothing in the daylight. It’s still too early for that. I stand, pull the sheet from the bed, and wrap it around me.
In the kitchen, Grant sits at the bar scrolling through his phone. “Good morning,” I say.
He nods in response. He’s immersed.
I scan the cabin. “Have you seen my suitcase?”
He looks up then. “Yes, but you won’t be needing it.”
“You might like me a little if I brush my teeth,” I snort.
He frowns. “I’m a physician, Isobel. We don’t do things willy-nilly. We don’t go without basic necessities…” He scoffs. “There’s an extra toothbrush on the counter.”
“Thanks,” I say. He motions for me to sit down and I take the seat opposite him at the table.
He searches my face. “Eat.”
Breakfast is all laid out. There’s a small portion of eggs, one slice of bacon and a tiny flute of orange juice. I laugh because it looks like one of those fancy restaurant meals where there’s nothing really on the plate. Like it’s been made just for looks.
His jaw tightens. “You don’t like eggs?”
“No, I love eggs.” I glance over at his empty plate wondering why he asks.
“I hope you don’t mind I’ve eaten.”
“Not at all,” I say. I search the cabin for a clock. “What time is it?”
“A quarter ‘til seven,” he tells me, moving his phone aside. “I let you sleep in. Wanted to assess your sleeping patterns.”
“Sounds very doctorly.”
He studies me for a moment. I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “I would like it if you put the corset back on, please.”
I take a stab at my eggs and then I shrug. “Okay.”
It isn’t exactly comfortable but the fabric is like nothing I’ve ever felt. I want to make him happy. There are worse things one can be asked to wear, that’s for sure. Like the apron that says I’m here to serve across the chest and proudly displays the Lucky’s logo. I’ll take pretty lingerie over that any day.
“The eggs are amazing,” I mention between bites. Most things are in small doses.
“This is your future,” he says. He stands, walks over to me, and takes the sheet. Every inch of me tenses. It’s freezing. “You just have to let me take care of you, Isobel.”
I smile. He kisses me hard. I forget about the cold.
The guy who manages things, comes and leaves our meals on the porch. He doesn’t ring the bell, he doesn’t have to. When I search the kitchen for a snack, Grant explains that meals are delivered at precisely seven a.m., noon and seven p.m. On the dot.
On our second day there, I search for my phone again. I don’t want to ask Grant for it. I don’t want him to think I’m not having a good time. Still, I want to check Instalook and also to make sure there are no messages from Stacey. I haven't taken an entire weekend off. Ever. Surely, there's something about the place she doesn't know. More than anything, it’s killing me that I don’t know what Josie is up to. I need to know what she does in her free time. Honestly, I’m so bored here I don’t know what to do with myself, and it would be nice to know the kind of thing Grant likes.
“Have you seen my phone?” I ask when I can’t stand it any longer. I’ve read the same Austin Home and Garden magazine three times. “It was here,” I say, pointing at the bar.
“You don't need your phone,” he tells me, staring at his own. “Let it be.”
“It's about the shop,” I say. “Work.” I figure he must know a thing or two about that.
He flicks his hand. “Let it be.”
“Stacey, the owner— she doesn't know how to run it.”
He gives me the side eye. “That's her business.”
“Yeah, but—” I watch as he massages his temples and I stop myself.
“You're going to have to learn, as well, whose business is whose.”
I adjust the corset.
His eyes scan my body. “Just relax,” he says. “That's what we're here for.”
I do relax, because he isn't wrong and it would be nice for Stacey to learn to manage things on her own.
Later that afternoon I'm reading the same magazine for the fourth time on the couch when he throws me a T-shirt, a pair of his boxers, and a hoodie. “Put that on. We’re going for a run.”
“A run?” I laugh. “I don't run…”
He gives me a tight-lipped smile. “You do now.”
I’m going to die. My chest is seizing up. I can’t breathe. I don’t know how far we’ve run into the woods, but I do know it wasn’t very far before my side cramped and I go from a run, to a jog, to a mere hobble. My legs feel like jelly. The pain in my ribs feels like someone’s jabbing at me with a fire poker. It’s hot, and it’s spreading. I have no idea why anyone would want to do this sort of thing for fun.
I stop and double over. “I haven't gotten this much exercise since junior high school, and maybe not even then.”
“This is really bad news,” Grant eyes me cautiously. I’m just glad he’s trained in CPR. I think I’m going to need it. I expect him to laugh at me. I expect him to crack a joke. But he doesn’t. When I push myself up and meet his eye, his expression is fixed. “Your health is poor.”
I cock my head. He’s serious. “I never get sick.”
“It's just a matter of time,” he counters. “And I should know, I'm a doctor.”
“I can't go on,” I tell him, panting. I sound like an asthmatic, when really he’s right. I’m very out of shape. But who cares? The way I see it, there are only a few reasons to run and pleasure isn’t one of them.
“I’ll meet you back at the cabin,” I say reaching for a tree. I need to ground myself. It feels like holding on will give me life. Oxygen. Balance. I grip it hard, like it’s a lifeline. My stomach turns. I’m suddenly glad breakfast was sparse. I feel it creeping up my throat. “Seriously,” I assure him. “Go. I’ll be fine.”