I sigh dreamily at the mention of food. “I’m starving. The only thing I ate today was a donut,” I say.
Ryan shoots me a weird look. “I hope you don’t eat that stuff all the time, River. You’re going to get fat.”
“I’m not going to get fat,” I protest, laughing and smacking his arm in an attempt at humor.
My laughter fades when he pins me with a dark look. “Why? Because you want men to lust after you? Don’t act like such a whore, River.”
I tighten my lips, my heart dropping into the pit of my stomach at his words. I hate when he says things like that to me. “Stop calling me a whore, Ryan. I’m dating you, aren’t I?” I snap, growing irritated at his name-calling.
He chuckles without humor. “Then stop acting like one. That’s why you’re dressed the way you are. To show off your hot little body like it’s your right.”
I feel myself sinking quickly, circling into a deep hole I’m digging myself. I don’t know what to say. When I try to stand up for myself, it only makes things worse. It never puts him in his place, nor does he bother apologizing. It seems it doesn’t matter anymore—they’ll never be the right words. Fighting with a lawyer has got to be the most frustrating thing I’ve ever experienced.
After a moment of silence, I question hesitantly, “Do you want me to get fat?”
It sounds like he’s almost bitter about my body. I have curves in the right places, an overly generous ass and perky tits—I know that and have used it to my advantage during my party days before Ryan. He could say yes and expect me to gain weight. The thought sends a shot of fear in my veins. My beauty used to be a curse, attracting men long before I was old enough, but now that I’m older and feel more in control of who’s allowed to touch me, I like who I am and how I look. I like myself and I don’t want to change for anyone.
He scoffs. “Don’t be stupid. I wouldn’t date you if you were above a size five.”
My mouth drops in shock. Five? That’s an obscenely low number. Does he not realize a woman can be any size and still have a flat stomach? And so what if they don’t? Why do men always chalk women’s worth up to the shape of their body, and how they look? It makes no fucking sense to me when our bodies are all going to go to hell when we get old anyways.
With effort, I snap my mouth shut and contemplate how the hell to approach this. I need to do it in a way that won’t cause a fight.
“What if I am a size six?” The snarky question slips out before I can stop it. I close my eyes in resignation. That’s probably going to stir him up.
He chuckles. “You’re not. I check your clothing.”
Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.
“Why?” I whisper.
“You affect my image, River. I can’t risk that when I’m trying to earn my way to the top.”
He’s already graduated law school and gaining a clientele at his father’s firm. Still, I’m not sure how a woman wearing above a size five has anything to do with that. If I get in an argument about the woman’s body, he’ll turn us around and won’t let me eat for the rest of the night. Desperately, I want to argue about how wrong it is to consider any woman above five fat and how obtuse he’s acting, but I don’t want to ruin our date before it’s even started.
Furthermore, I’m fucking hungry.
I clear my throat and force a smile. “I won’t gain any more weight, don’t worry. I’ve been a size five since I was seventeen.” Actually, I was a size zero because of malnourishment, but I don’t mention that.
I’m not in Shallow Hill anymore. I’ve risen above that, and at a healthy weight. I watch my diet for the most part and exercise weekly. My time in Shallow Hill isn’t something I’m willing to dwell on.
We arrive at a four Michelin star restaurant named Rosebud. I’d obviously never been, though I had heard the food here is absolutely divine. When we walk in, wonder seizes my entire being. The restaurant is decorated with shades of white and blue, with grand arches in each entryway and carefully styled plants and pricy art decorating the place. It’s quiet in here, the customers speaking in low tones and holding their knives and forks daintily. It’s a little posh for my taste, but I’m sure I could get used to it.
Hopefully.
A beautiful fountain the size of my house in Shallow Hill is in the entrance where the hostess awaits for guests. When she spots us, she immediately recognizes Ryan. A bright smile stretches across her face petite face, and a low heat simmers in her brown eyes. She’s pretty. And she’s looking at my boyfriend like she knows more about him than she should.
“Good evening Mr. Fitzgerald. Please follow me, your table is ready.”
The woman leads us back to a separate room that overlooks the lake. The sun is already beginning to set, its fingers stretching across the sparkling water. Reds, purples and pinks burst from the sun, painting the sky with cotton candy watercolors.
Ryan pulls my chair out for me, before sitting in his own. The woman walks away, shooting one last lustful glance at Ryan before our waiter approaches.
If it were the other way around, Ryan would have already called me a whore for attracting attention. Maybe I should do the same.
“Would you like a bottle of wine, Mr. Fitzgerald?” the waiter asks, his tone respectful.
“Bring the Chateau Petrus Pomerol,” he says. The waiter dips his head and rushes off to grab the bottle. I don’t know much about wine, but I can guess it’s damn expensive.
I look over the menu, the options limited but still overwhelming. Everything sounds good, and to my embarrassment, my stomach rumbles as I consider my options.
The waiter comes back, promptly pouring Ryan and I a glass of wine, before setting the bottle in a bucket of ice to chill. He then reads off the specials.
Ryan lets me order my food first, and then his own. When the waiter leaves with our order, I take a sip of the wine, and nearly fall out of my chair.
“This is delicious,” I rave, taking another sip. Ryan smiles, pleased by my reaction.
“I’m glad you like it, babe,” he says, studying me closely as I take another sip. I set the glass down before I start guzzling it. Somehow, I doubt Ryan would appreciate it.
Since I affect his image apparently.
“I have to make an appearance at a charity event in September. You’ll be my date, right, baby?”
My heart melts at his boyish tone.
“Of course. I’ll start looking for a dress now.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ll find you a dress,” he says, taking a sip of his own wine. I cover my frown with my glass.
“You don’t want me to pick out my own dress?”
He sighs with impatience, seemingly becoming fed up with me. I don’t know why. “Why do you always make me out to be the bad guy? Have you considered that maybe I just want to treat you? Take some stress off your shoulders so you don’t have to worry about it?”
I deflate, disappointed in myself.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to seem ungrateful. You know I appreciate you.”
His shoulders relax, but his eyes still glean with anger. My heart plummets and a sick feeling begins to swirl in my stomach.
I’m ruining this entire night. It seems since the moment I got in the car, I keep saying the wrong thing.
The waiter delivers our meals while Ryan and I attempt small talk. It smells absolutely divine, the different spices wafting from our dishes and intimately mingling in my nose. Ryan ordered a caramelized beef fillet with foie gras, parsley purée and madeira sauce, complimented by black pudding and baby beets. And I ordered crab-stuffed filet mignon with whiskey peppercorn sauce, grilled asparagus and a side of spinach strawberry salad. The meat is tender and falls apart in my mouth. I moan around my first bite, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.
Ryan’s freezes, his fork paused midair as his eyes bore into me, flaring with ire. His face reddens, but he doesn’t say anything, instead slowly bringing the fork the rest of the way to
his mouth and taking a bite of his food. He chews slowly, the flames in his eyes growing stronger.
“I’m sorry,” I apologize quietly, embarrassed by my reaction. “I’ve never had food like this before.” A quick glance around confirms that no one seemed to notice. The people I can see are too consumed in their own conversations.
He smiles, though it seems tight and doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Get used to it, baby. This is your life.”
Well, that sounded fucking ominous.
“YOU KNOW THAT I love you, right?” Ryan asks, his eyes trapping mine in an intense dance of willpower. He’s asserting his dominance, and I don’t want to let him have it.
I close my eyes tightly, desperate to block out the scene before me. I nod my head, though it’s stilted. Ryan’s hand is gripping my jaw too tightly, minimalizing my movements.
“Do you know that I’m the only one who does, River? I’m all you have. No one else will ever love you like I do. And you make me do these things, and I hate it,” he whispers. His hand tightens, and my jaw screams. I squeal, rising on my toes to abate the pain. He follows my movements. My cheeks are beginning to pinch in my teeth. Copper blooms in my mouth and I don’t have enough movement to swallow it.
He drops my jaw long enough to wrap his hands around my arms and shake me roughly.
“Why do you make me do this to you?” he shouts, tightening his hands around my arms.
“What did I do?” I cry, tears burning my eyes.
“You dress like a whore, moan in the restaurant like a whore. Do you want men to take you from me? How am I supposed to protect you if you invite men to fuck you?”
A tear slips out of my eye.
“I’m sor—” My apology is cut off from another brutal shake. He grits his teeth, bringing his demonic face close to mine.
“Sorry doesn’t keep men from wanting to fuck you!” he roars. I crumple in on myself. The only thing keeping me upright is Ryan’s unforgiving hands around my arms.
It hurts. It hurts so bad.
“Did you not see all those men staring at you? I bet you liked it, huh?”
I shake my head desperately.
“You did,” he accuses roughly. “Look at yourself—look at yourself now!”
My head drops as I look down at my form-fitting dress. It stops a few inches above my knees. My ample cleavage is peeking through the slouched neckline, and back of the dress plunges low, baring my skin completely save for a few strings crisscrossing my back.
He’s right, it is a sexy dress. And I did catch a few men’s interested eyes.
Tears blur my vision, distorting Ryan’s angry face. It only accomplishes in making him more terrifying. He growls and pushes me away with all his strength. I fall backwards and land awkwardly on my hip. My head smacks against the floor, causing stars to explode in my vision.
I lie there for a minute as he storms off, completely shocked by Ryan’s visceral reaction. He’s never laid his hands on me like that before. Sure, I fell that one time after I met his parents, but he didn’t aggressively throw me the way he just did. I breathe heavily, afraid to move and in shock by how quickly this date went downhill. After the conversation about the charity event, I thought we were having such a good time. He smiled at me and joked with me, complimented me a few more times with that ugly word—beautiful. I beamed at him like the word doesn’t make me feel like millions of ants are crawling under my skin and made sure to tell him how thankful I was for him taking me to such a gorgeous restaurant.
Then, we got in the car and he forced his cock into my throat again until I couldn’t breathe. I moaned and acted like I was enjoying, even though I wasn’t. Sometimes I think that’s the only thing that gets him off anymore.
Tears continue to flood my eyes until it feels like I’m drowning in them. I sob quietly and lift myself off the floor, feeling pretty fucking pathetic. I don’t know where Ryan disappeared off to in this large house, but I can only pray he’s not in our room.
My hip smarts when I pull myself off the ground. Limping the entire way, I drag myself up the stairs and down the long hallway. Pictures on the walls scrutinize my walk of shame, his parents taunting me with their smiling faces and stupid fucking façade of a perfect family.
With the help from the walls, I reach our bedroom and breathe a sigh of relief when Ryan is nowhere to be found. I lock myself in the bathroom, and slide down the door slowly, the weight on my hip becoming too much.
After a few moments of pitiful crying, I inspect my body. Handprint bruises are already forming around both biceps. A bruise blooms across my hip, too. Luckily, my head isn’t bleeding, though it does feel like a drum line is practicing inside my head.
I sniffle and pick myself up off the floor once more, and I tear my dress off my body aggressively, despite my sore body protesting. Angrily, I glare at the offending dress.
He’s right. This dress did make me look like a whore. Men were looking at me with hunger in their eyes. What did I expect wearing a dress like this? This is all my fault. I ruined a perfectly good night.
I tear at the dress in a fit of rage. The ripping noise echoes in the bathroom as I continue to shred it to pieces. Dark blue glints in the overhead light as pieces of satin fall to the stone tile like forgotten dreams. I’m only satisfied when the dress is nothing but shredded fabric.
I pick the pieces up, ignoring the flare in my hip—I deserve that pain—and toss the pieces into the trashcan next to the toilet.
I walk back to the mirror and view my tarnished body. Mascara runs down my face, making me look like the dirty whore that I am. I can still feel all of them men’s eyes that roved over my body at the restaurant. They’re perversions have tainted my skin, blemishing it darker than the phantom hands wrapped around my biceps.
My fist collides with the mirror, sending spiderwebs of cracks throughout the glass, distorting my face. An imprint of blood stains the mirror and drips down, getting lost in the fissures. I inspect my still curled fist, detecting tiny pieces of glass lodged into my flesh. Blood trails down my fingers and drips on the floor, joining the rest of the shattered glass.
I walk over the shower, ignoring the slices of sharp pain as glass sticks into the bottoms of my feet. I turn the water as hot as my skin can handle, and I scrub at my body, desperate to cleanse my body.
Stupid, stupid, stupid River. Fucking stupid whore.
You deserved that.
Six
river
I’M FAIRLY CERTAIN I’VE died and wandered into Hell. I don’t know what I was thinking—last time I checked I wasn’t starring in Dante’s fucking Inferno.
My psych class ends in five minutes, and all I can think about is how Ryan hasn’t answered any of my texts yet. He came to bed late last night after our fight. It didn’t matter that I rested a tentative hand on his shoulder, seeking his reassurance. He turned away and refused to touch me all night.
I cried myself asleep. I cried myself awake. I cried myself to class.
Now, I’ve reached the end of class and the sunglasses haven’t come off once. My puffy eyes will attract unwanted attention and the last thing I need is a bunch of petty bitches judging my relationship. Plenty of girls in my year knew Ryan and have even gotten a taste of him. Ryan’s reputation was large, which means now mine is, too.
They watch me, waiting for any opportunity to gossip and pick apart our relationship. Fuck giving any of those bitches the satisfaction. Even if wearing sunglasses inside a building is a red flag. I have no choice, hoping they’ll assume I’m hungover after partying all night or something.
Anything to avoid causing issues with Ryan. I’ve already done enough of that lately. If Ryan is worried about his image, surely a distraught girlfriend will tarnish that. I can’t do that to him. He’s worked too hard to get to where he is, despite his father’s reputation.
“Class dismissed,” Professor Trumbling announces. The body of students jumps up at once, rushing out of the room. I take my time, gatherin
g my books and slowly making my way down towards the door. My hip is still sore from last night, and it takes everything in me to keep the limp out of my gait.
“Ms. McAllister, can I speak to you for a moment?” Professor Trumbling says from behind me. I pause, and then sigh with resignation. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. You’d think keeping your head down would keep the attention away.
I force a smile and make my way over to him, already dreading this conversation.
“I just wanted to touch base with you. You seemed awfully distracted today. Need I remind you finals are coming up soon? Getting an A in this class is vital to your career.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save yourself the energy and keep the condescension to yourself, old man.
“I’m sorry, Professor Trumbling. It won’t happen again,” I respond robotically. I’m pleased by how steady my voice was, even if it did make me sound insincere.
He studies me closely, and I shift under his attention, making sure to tuck my cut-up knuckles behind my back. They’re superficial cuts and hardly noticeable. Unless someone goes looking for them. His stare doesn’t feel perverted, but it makes me uncomfortable anyway. Ryan would say he’s checking me out. I’d say that he can see something is clearly wrong.
What gave it away? The dark sunglasses in a dim room? This is the picture you see in any film. If he asks me to take my glasses off, he won’t find black eyes, though. Just red, puffy eyes from crying too much.
I’ll tell him my dog died. That should work.
“You may go, Ms. McAllister.”
Thanks for your permission, asshole.
Surely, I just made the strain in my hip worse with how fast I just rushed out of that classroom, but I find it worth it if it means escaping the professor’s probing gaze.
That was my last class of the week. Amelia’s been asking to grab coffee, but I don’t dare face her right now. She knows me too well and would sniff out my predicament in a heartbeat.
Shallow River Page 7