by Selena
Sometimes, I have to stop myself from reaching out and touching her. I remind myself I can’t love her, that it’s a good thing she hates me. It makes everything easier. At night, I turn my back and stay on my side of the bed, feeling every tiny movement she makes through the expanse of mattress between us, the tension in her body as she lies there, stiff as a board, barely breathing until I fall asleep. Despite what Little Al said, I don’t think she was faking it on our wedding night. She’s scared. And even though I tell myself I don’t care about her, it fills me with rage to think of anyone hurting her.
We have dinner together each night, and each night, she wants to go to the bar afterwards. I go with her for the first few nights, though I have no interest in drinking. I sit and watch her make friends with other guests at the resort, and a dark feeling creeps between my ribs. Why is it that she can make friends with the bartenders, waitresses, and strangers she’s just met, but she can’t stand to even speak to me beyond the absolute necessities—asking me to hand over her toothbrush in the morning or pass the salt at dinner. A comment on the food is the extent of our casual conversation, but at the bar, she can throw her head back and laugh, swatting the arm of the waitress like they’re best friends already.
I’m relieved when, on our fourth night, she calls me a psycho stalker and insists I stay in the room while she goes down to the bar. I fall asleep easily for the first night since we’ve arrived, without the dark tendrils of resentment licking at my ribs or the cold, thick feeling crawling up my throat like it does every time I wonder why she’s so frigid.
The end can’t come soon enough. At last, it arrives. On the last evening, I start picking up random pieces of clothes and things left around the room, wanting my bag packed and ready to get out of here the moment I wake in the morning. I know being home won’t change much, but at least I won’t have to spend every day with a woman who despises me.
Eliza reclines on the couch in a silk robe that’s parted over her knee, revealing her bare leg as she watches a show about a boy band breaking up. Cute little freckles randomly scatter across her olive skin, from the beauty mark on her cheekbone to the spot on her ankle just above the gold bangle she wore on our boat outing. From her position, I see new ones on her inner thigh I haven’t seen before, and I wonder how many more I don’t know about. I’ve seen her in her underwear just once, the morning after our wedding, and in a bathing suit several times on our trip, but I can’t help but wonder if there are more under those garments. It seems like something a husband should know.
I push the thought away and snatch up some socks from under the bed. “Want to give me a hand with this?” I ask, tossing a pair of her sandals toward her suitcase.
Eliza tears her eyes away from the TV, some trashy gossip channel my sister used to watch on occasion, and scoffs. “I’m not your fucking maid,” she snaps. “If you think I’m going to clean up after you and cook you dinner like some sad little housewife, you can forget it.”
“What exactly are you going to do?” I ask, thinking of my mother at home drinking herself silly and gossiping on her phone all day.
“Two things,” Eliza says, counting them off on her fingers as she speaks. “One, whatever the fuck I want, and two, none of your goddam business.”
I grit my teeth and yank the zipper closed on my suitcase. “I get that you wouldn’t have chosen me for a husband, but remind me… Exactly why is it you hate me so much?”
“You’re a nobody,” she says, giving me a dirty look. “Why should I even bother explaining it?”
“That’s it?” I ask. “You think I’m not good enough for you because I’m not some bigshot like an underboss or heir to one of the families’ empires?”
“You really don’t know anything about the families, do you?” she asks, staring at me. “It’s not my job to fix that. You should have done your homework.”
Her judgmental tone makes me want to shake her, but I try to remind myself she has a reason for the way she is. She may look like she has it all, like a spoiled mafia princess who needs a firm hand to guide her, but her life hasn’t been easy. I’m the last person to believe the myth that money makes problems disappear. It only makes them disappear from the public eye.
“Then what is it?” I ask, bitterness creeping into my tone. “You had a boyfriend you wanted to marry? That asshole you were cuddling on the beach the morning after I fucking married you?”
Eliza just blinks at me a few times like she can’t believe I’m this stupid. “You really don’t know, do you?” she says. “King, you killed my brother.”
I open my mouth to argue, to tell her I haven’t killed anyone yet, but then I get it. I shut my mouth and turn away. So, that solves that. If I was hoping for a breakthrough with her, which I wasn’t, I can stop now. It doesn’t matter if I did it myself or if it was Little Al or Al Valenti himself or some random enforcer. My family killed her brother. It doesn’t matter which one pulled the trigger. It might as well have been me. It’s my family. We’re all the same to her.
And if I was going to argue, all I have to do is imagine how I’d feel about her if one of the Pomponios was responsible for Crystal’s death. Just thinking about it puts an empty pit behind my sternum that makes it hurt to breathe, and I know I can’t ask her forgiveness.
“Okay,” I say, thinking it would have been real fucking nice if someone had told me that before. Not that it matters. If anything, this makes my life easier. I don’t have to wonder or think I did something to piss her off. “Okay. That’s fair, then.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “Fair? Is that what you call it? Fair would be if I killed one of your brothers.”
“You’re right.”
She cocks her head to one side and studies me for a long minute. “Okay, your turn,” she says at last.
“For what?”
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you,” I say. “I just can’t love you.”
She looks like she might ask further, but then the commercial on TV ends and the show about the Wilder brothers comes back on, and she shrugs and goes back to that while I finish packing.
When I’m done, she stands up and flips off the TV before stretching her arms over her head, her tight little body draped in silk like a prize I can never touch.
“I think I’ll eat alone tonight,” she says. “I’d like to look over the beach one more time before we go.”
“Our flight leaves first thing,” I say. “Don’t stay out too late.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yeah, I’ll probably have a few drinks afterwards. You don’t have to wait up.”
She goes into the bedroom to get dressed, and I try not to dissect her words, but I can’t help it. We’re like two points on lines that look parallel but are actually moving infinitesimally closer, and one day, they’ll intersect. I want to keep going straight, to stop it from happening, but I can’t get off the line, can’t prevent the inevitable collision.
Eliza leaves looking like a girl who needs to get fucked, in a little black dress that barely covers her ass and looks like it’s made entirely of elastic with the way it clings to her body. I bite back a comment, bite back the urge to forbid her to go out in that. I’m not her father. I have my life, and she can have hers, separate from mine. That was the deal we made. If she wants to go get drunk with her new friends, that’s her business, not mine. I need to be sharp for a job as soon as I get home tomorrow.
But I can’t help but wonder, are we already following in my parents’ footsteps? Eliza is certainly no stranger to drinking too much, and she seems intent on doing only what she wants, on having fun and ignoring her obligations, just like my mother. And me, am I like my workaholic father who never had time for the family he created, so we had to fight each other for scraps of his approval? And not just by doing the regular things like being a football star or doing his job and looking out for the family, but by going to such extremes as colluding to fak
e our own kidnappings and fucking the wives of his enemies and rivals to ruin their families so we could pretend ours wasn’t already ruined.
Yeah, I’m probably more like him than I want to admit, and it’s not by accident. I made myself just like him because it was the only way to get a pat on the back. But I won’t be like that with my kids. I’d rather spoil them with all the love they could want, smother them with attention, than the opposite.
The thought brings back Mr. Pomponio’s words, and that brings me back to my suspicions, and the sick, churning, dirty slush forms in my stomach again.
I think about the man I beat on the floor of his apartment until I didn’t know what I was doing. It was like I went somewhere else, like it wasn’t me. I think about what Little Al said about Eliza. I think about her dress that clung to her ass like a fucking billboard advertising sex. Her words on the beach after our wedding. On the boat after that. How different she is with me and with other people. I don’t want to blame her for being a bitch to me. But I do.
twelve
Eliza
After a couple drinks, I know I should stop. I’m not looking to get wasted, and I’m too smart to get drunk by myself in a strange place. But, like, I know it will end. I know King won’t let me go on like this forever, so why not enjoy every minute I can before he takes it all away? Tomorrow we’re going back home, and he’ll want to play house. So, I might as well make the most of tonight.
Some guys want to buy me and the waitress shots, and it’s her night off, and we became fast friends my first day here, so why the hell not? No one knows who I am unless they read the gossip columns religiously. It’s not like I’m famous. I’m pretty well known in New York, but outside of the city, I’m practically anonymous. And as much as I enjoy the attention I get at home, it’s nice to be somewhere that no one will know me or judge me or take pics of my drunk ass and sell them to Your Celebrity Eyes.
So we take some more shots, and dance the night away, and it’s nice. It’s nice to lose myself, to not be myself. It’s nice to be free and young and wild and take shots with strangers on a tropical island with my new best friend whose name I’ll probably forget by my first anniversary. I don’t even care that I’m not with a guy. I’ve spent most of my adult life making sure I don’t get too wrapped up in a man and let it cloud my judgment and make me stupid. Marriage doesn’t change that.
Sometime after midnight, the luster wears off, though. If King’s not going to fight me on this, what’s the point? Why bother rebelling if there’s nothing to rebel against? I was having so much fun, but after hours of dancing, I just can’t seem to get into it anymore. I excuse myself, and a few minutes later, I find myself sitting at the bar, just tipsy enough to chat with the stranger beside me. He offered to buy me another drink, but I don’t even want one.
“The thing is, I think I’m done going out clubbing,” I say after rambling for a bit. “I just don’t know what to do instead. Like, this is boring. But what else is there?”
“So, let’s go somewhere else,” he says with a little smile.
I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. I want freedom, but what’s the point in it, if I’m just going to be free to go dancing? I want to do something big, something important, like my mom did.”
“What’d your mom do?” he asks.
“She’s an actress.”
“Really?” he asks, looking impressed. “Who is she? Would I know her?”
I shake my head and sip my water. I realize it sounds stupid when I say it like that. Why am I even trying to explain it to this stranger, anyway? He’s not going to understand. He doesn’t know what it’s like to sign his whole life away, giving it into someone else’s hands with a signature on a contract.
I could just go back to the room and crash. We have an early flight. And it’s not admitting defeat. It’s doing what I want. That’s the definition of freedom, isn’t it?
Much to my irritation, I know that I can’t go back so soon, though. To King, it will look like I want to be there with him, like I don’t want this freedom I’ve fought so hard for. I want him to think I have a glamourous life, this indominable spirit that he can’t touch, one worth fighting to maintain. But as I look around, it all feels empty.
“This scene really is tired,” the man says. “Want to go back to my room?”
“No,” I say, giving him a dirty look. “I’m married.”
He draws back and glances around. “Then why the fuck are you here?”
“Haven’t you been listening to anything I say?” I ask, straightening on my chair.
“Well, yeah, but that’s because I thought I’d be taking you home,” he says. “Why am I 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,” I snap.
But… Maybe he has a point. This club is a meat market, and I’m off the market. Why am I here? I’m not even sure my own husband would care what I have to say, but I know none of the guys here do. Why would they? They don’t know me. They’re just here to make a connection, have a little fun while they’re at the beach, and go home with a story about banging a chick in Bora Bora.
But if I can’t assert my freedom this way anymore, what am I supposed to do? What’s the point of freedom if it’s not to follow a passion? What’s the point of anything if I don’t have a passion? Have I been fighting for an illusion all along? Holding onto the notion of freedom because it’s the only one I can bear to look at, the only reason for my mother’s leaving that I can stomach? At least she had something to run to, something worth leaving her family for. I have nothing.
The guy shoves away from the bar and storms off to find someone he has a shot with. I slide off the barstool and turn to the nearest guy, determination giving me strength. This isn’t for nothing. It’s not. If I keep acting, keep pretending, maybe it will eventually be true. Maybe I’ll figure it out if I keep going. Meaning will emerge eventually, right?
A few songs later, the guy I’m dancing with is all over me, his hands groping my body until I have to push him off me. A minute later, he’s back at it. I’m about to push him away again when someone grabs him from behind, wrenching him away from me.
“What the—” the guy yells, reaching for me as he stumbles backwards.
Through the haze of smoke and pulsing lights, I make out my husband standing still in the crowd of writhing bodies, wearing low-slung sweatpants and a white T-shirt like he just got out of bed. The guy tries to shove him off, but King pulls back a fist and decks the guy. Several girls around me scream when the guy goes down like a ton of bricks, crumpling to the floor in a heap. King towers over me, his eyes flashing with rage, his jaw set tight.
For one drunken moment, pride snaps through my brain. My husband can throw a fucking punch. I smile before my brain catches up with my body, but King’s not having any of it. He grabs me by the arm and marches me off the dance floor like I’m a bad little girl who snuck in on a fake ID, and he’s my daddy coming to give me a lecture and haul me out of the bar. Not that my dad ever did that. I was partying from the time I turned thirteen, and he couldn’t do shit about it. He didn’t bother to, anyway. With his wife gone and his son dead and the families at war, he had enough on his plate. So he just let me do what I wanted.
“Eliza,” crows my waitress friend. “Where are you going?”
“My husband,” I say, gesturing wildly toward King with my free hand, since he still has my other arm in a death grip.
“Oh,” the waitress says, frowning from me to King. “Okay, then. Have fun!” She
waves and disappears into the crowd of writhing bodies and pulsing music while King drags me out of the bar and back to our room, walking so fast I nearly lose my balance on my heels as I half-run to keep up with him.
He strides into our room and slams the door so hard the pictures of sunsets on the wall tremble. Only then does he release me, his eyes blazing with fury as he faces me.
“I told you at the wedding, you will come back to me,” he says, his voice low and deadly.
“I don’t think it counts when you fucking drag me,” I snap, rubbing my arm where he grabbed me. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have come back eventually.”
He just stares at me, breathing hard, his chiseled jaw clenched tight. He may not say much, but there’s plenty going on in there. Maybe it’s the alcohol making me brave, but suddenly I want to poke him until he explodes, until he shows his hand, lets me know what he’s really thinking.
“What’s your problem, anyway?” I ask.
“You have no sexual feelings, but you can rub your ass all over some strangers dick in a club?” he demands.
“So what?” I ask, raising my chin and glaring back at him. “It has nothing to do with you.”
“Except it does,” he says, his voice a dangerous growl. Suddenly, I realize how stupid it was for me to tempt fate, to push his limits when we’re in another country where I have no real protection. “The deal was that I would let you do your thing in private, but you would respect me as your husband in public. I take my word seriously. If you want to survive this marriage, you’d better learn to do the same.”
“That—that was for the families,” I say, swallowing the tremor in my voice.