Shallow River

by H. D. Carlton

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out,” he answers shortly. Very informative, asshole.

  “I need to know how to dress,” I push. His back is to me now, and his head is dipped as he takes off his tie and begins to unbutton his shirt. The frustration rolling off him is visible. He lifts his head and sighs with barely contained anger.

  “Something nice. A dress, River. One that doesn’t make you look like a fucking slut.”

  Before I can say anything, he rips off his pristine white shirt. A white shirt that has a smudge of red at the collar.

  My heart drops and my world spins. He throws the shirt in the hamper, away from my eyes. None the wiser, he disappears into our bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I hear the water turn on seconds later.

  Are you washing away the scent of her pussy, sweet Ryan?

  Robotically, I stand up and walk over to the hamper. I pick up the shirt and find the smudge. It’s damp, as if he tried to wash off the evidence, but you can’t get red lipstick out of a designer shirt with water and cheap hand soap.

  I press the soft fabric into my face and sniff.

  Perfume. Just a hint of it. But enough to know that Ryan is a liar. I bet he didn’t fire his secretary. Even if he did, he must’ve hired a pretty new thing quickly and charmed her onto his cock already.

  Oh, sweet Ryan, now you’ve really made me mad.

  You’ve made me really, really… mad.

  My knees drop to the ground, no longer capable of holding my weight. My chest heaves as something like panic seizes my heart in its cold, unforgiving claws. My face contorts as tears spring to my eyes. So hard—I try so hard to keep it in. A single sob breaks loose, destroying the fragile dam. More sobs follow suit as a sharp pain stabs at my chest.

  I’ve given him everything. All of me. Everything I had in me was handed over on a silver fucking platter. My heart in the middle of the tray, bleeding openly for him. And he took a knife and ripped it apart anyway.

  I press the shirt to my face, holding the unknown perfume to my nose, forcing myself to never forget what he’s just done to me. Refusing to allow myself to justify his actions, to forgive. I’ve done so much forgiving, and all for nothing. Fucking nothing.

  I allow myself a solid minute of gut-wrenching sobbing before I calm, slowly but surely. My tears dry, my hear slows and something settles deep into my chest. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s cold and hard and takes all of the feelings I had for Ryan and sucks them up like a fucking Dyson vacuum cleaner. It’s like they were never even there. Everything shifts, hardens and then numbs.

  Everything he’s done to me, everything I’ve forgiven him for are no longer forgivable. Not the hitting, the mental gymnastics, the living in fear and anxiety. All of it. No more.

  And most importantly, I forgive myself. Ever since the day in the library with Mako, I’ve been beating myself up. Agonizing because I’m a cheater and a whore just like Ryan has always accused me of being. I couldn’t eat or sleep for the last few days.

  And for no reason. Because Ryan has been cheating on me all along anyway. I don’t feel so bad for betraying someone who was betraying me far before fucking Mako was even a consideration. Ryan has never deserved my loyalty. I mean really, what has he done to deserve it?

  I can’t believe I actually stayed this long. I can’t believe I let him treat me this way. The physical and sexual aspect isn’t even the worst part, it’s the fucking mind games he played. It’s not just mental abuse, it’s mental warfare and can be more dangerous than a raised hand. The gaslighting and manipulation is what convinces victims to stay and endure. They train you to protect yourself, ultimately changing every part of you until you no longer recognize yourself. You’re a prisoner in your own home. There are limitations on where you can go, how long you stay out, who you’re allowed to see, and god forbid you hang out with anyone without their supervision. Too scared to look nice in fear of accusations of cheating. But you’re going to leave the house looking like that? God, you’re embarrassing, put some make-up on at least. But only wear it when I’m around, otherwise you’re trying to impress other men.

  You’re dressed up, who are you looking nice for?

  Do you want men to look at you like that? Do you want them to fuck you?

  Please, baby, I get so worried that someone better is going to come along and take you away from me.

  You’re too good for me. I don’t deserve you.

  You’re going to the store? Why, to cheat on me? Are you going there to flirt with other men?

  You’re out with your friend? I bet you’re talking about other guys. Why would you hang out with them without me, what are you hiding?

  A year ago, there wouldn’t be a goddamn person on this planet that could convince me I’d let myself get to this point. That I’d let a man hit me. That’s what everyone always says, right? I’d never let a man hit me. You don’t even realize that’s what has happened until it’s too late. You’ve already been pushed down the stairs and slapped across the face. There’s already hand and fingerprint bruises marring your arms and neck. And you’ve already told yourself he won’t ever do it again. That he’s sorry. He’s stressed. You were wrong. Bad, bad girl. Feel guilty for making him lay hands on you. You deserved that. Leave? He’ll kill himself. No one will ever love you the way he does, and you love him, too. You don’t want him die.

  Even if he wants you to.

  I drop the shirt back into the hamper. If he was smart, he would’ve had a spare shirt on him and tossed this one in a dumpster somewhere. Or maybe he just doesn’t give a fuck if I see it or not. So, what if I do? What will I do? Leave him?

  Don’t worry, baby, I won’t leave you.

  I strip off my clothes and throw them in the hamper on top of his dirty shirt. Opening the door quietly, I walk into the steam-filled room. Sweat immediately breaks out on the back my neck as I walk towards the walk-in shower. I see the distorted image of his naked body through the frosted glass. His arms are lifted as he rinses out his hair.

  Sliding open the door, I step in and close it behind me. He doesn’t bother looking at me yet. So confident. He doesn’t see me as a threat. I cock my head. How badly I want to change that. Make him fear my presence, tremble when I come near.

  His head is tilted back as suds of soap trail down his muscular body in a stream of hot water. Ryan’s body is beautiful. He takes care of himself, goes to the gym often and eats healthy for the most part. He’s lean with sinewy muscles and tanned skin.

  Though he possesses a work of art, it’s still nowhere near as beautiful as Mako’s. Where Ryan is lean, Mako is packed with muscle. I look over my boyfriend.

  I much prefer his brother.

  Ryan doesn’t deserve to possess such a beautiful body. Not his, and not mine.

  I step into him, shivering at the clash of hot water and the chill air.

  “Did I upset you?” I whisper, trailing my finger down his chest and to his abs. I stop just before I reach his dick, already at half-mast. I stare down at him. He’s not small, a little above average. Before I saw it as something I didn’t mind worshipping. Now, I want to wrap my mouth around it and bite until it’s detached from his body.

  There’s no pulling my eyes away from the tool he used to give another woman pleasure. He stuck it in another woman’s body today. His mouth has been kissing her lips and whispering sweet lies into her ear. His hands trailing across her skin, probably giving her goosebumps as he pumps into her. He probably looked her right in her eyes and made her believe he actually fucking wants her.

  In reality, all he really wants is me. And he hates that. He hates to want me so much. He hates to be so addicted to me that he feels the need to mold me into a tiny ball in his hands like putty. He squeezes too hard, and just like putty, I creep through the cracks of his fingers, slowly separating until I’m oozing onto the floor.

  He can’t contain me. And the harder he tries, the more he fails.

  My eyes lift the sam
e time his head comes down, those dull, ugly blue eyes meet mine. My world is finally shifting the way it needs to be. I don’t know why it took him cheating to wake me up. I don’t know why the physical abuse and rape wasn’t the catalyst. Maybe because I thought the pain is surface level. I can heal. But cheating is deep. It’s a pain that imprints like wolves mating and will last forever. Knowing that I wasn’t good enough to keep him wanting only me. Knowing that every time he leaves my bed, he’s walking into another woman’s legs.

  And that just won’t fucking do.

  “You did. But I forgive you,” he says simply, before turning away to grab the loofah.

  I never asked for forgiveness.

  I take it from him, squirt some of this body wash onto it, and begin to rub him down. I dote on him, just like he wanted. I crouch down and soap down his legs as the water sprays directly into my face. I keep my head down and eyes closed as I worship him at his feet.

  A hand wraps around my arm and lifts me up.

  Shower sex in the movies is fake. The water doesn’t just roll off the body and magically avoid your eyes. No, it goes right for the fucking eyes actually. I rub at them like a little kid and look up at him, my pupils now bloodshot and dry.

  He smiles down at me, like I’m a cute little child that thinks they’re actually going to grow up to be an astronaut.

  “You know I love you, right?” he asks. His face has melted into soft lines and sweet nothings.

  “I do,” I say. I really, really do.

  And I can’t wait to show you exactly what your love has turned me into.

  RYAN TOOK ME TO a classy restaurant called Deep Blue. It’s not as upscale as the last restaurant, but the bill is easily going to be over a hundred dollars between the two of us. I made sure to choose the most expensive meal on the menu. I’m just finishing up my food and enjoying my third glass of wine when his voice cuts through my buzz.

  “You graduate next May, right?” he asks, staring at me over the rim of his own wine.

  “Yes,” I answer, setting my glass down. The wine beckons me to pick it back up and finish it off. Alas, appearances, appearances. Can’t embarrass my successful boyfriend now, otherwise his reputation would be ruined over a glass of wine.

  “What are your plans after college?”

  My hand drifts over to the stem of the glass, spinning the dainty glass between my red painted fingernails. Does his secretary have red fingernails? I bet she does. Does Ryan look down at her hands and pretend they’re mine? Or does he close his eyes and pretend he’s fucking her when he’s balls deep inside of me because he can’t stand to look in the eyes of the woman he’s lying to. Then, he’d have to face the fact that he’s the one in the wrong.

  “I’ll start working on getting my PhD,” I answer. Or maybe I’ll run off to a farm and tame wild horses and fuck a real cowboy in the stalls. Who knows?

  “I’d rather you stay at home.”

  Just barely do I suppress the sigh building in the back of my throat.

  “And do what?”

  He looks at me like I’m stupid. “Raise our kids, obviously,” he answers slowly, speaking to me as if I suffer from the same condition as his tone.

  Nice to know abusive assholes and misogyny go hand-in-hand. Ryan and I have discussed kids before. I want them eventually but I’m not in a hurry; Ryan is adamant I have them anyways. He has a traditional outlook on life where the wife stays home and raises his little prodigies that will one day take over the law firm, while he goes off and works and fucks whoever he wants apparently.

  We’d be the perfect cliché. Raising little spoiled assholes that he only acknowledges when he’s teaching life lessons and molding them into mini Ryan’s, while I get drunk and high to deal with the pain of an abusive husband and settling for a miserable life. And the more I remember that I could’ve had a good life if I’d only left—with someone like Mako maybe—the more intoxicated I’d get until I can’t even remember my own name. Until I no longer remember his name.

  I don’t know where his outlook came from. Julie is an interior designer and highly successful at that. Ryan always use to say that his mother only stayed home with him for the standard maternity leave timeframe and then was back to work, leaving Ryan with an older nanny that he hated.

  Maybe he’s always resented Julie for leaving him with the nanny.

  As if reading my mind, he continues, “We’re never hiring a nanny for our kids. It’s no else’s job to raise them but yours.”

  Not yours, though?

  “The mother should always be the one to raise the kids. I’ll help, of course. I don’t want them to grow up as pussies.”

  It takes an extreme amount of effort to curb the urge to roll my eyes. It’s easier to agree with him right now than to argue while we’re in public. Whatever makes the fucker happy.

  I shrug a shoulder. “Okay,” I agree like a good bitch.

  He smiles, proud that I’m agreeing with his sexist views. I want to crack my knuckles into his nose, over and over, until I’m drenched in his blood. Even then, I wouldn’t be satisfied.

  Just as I’m finishing my glass of wine, he stands and adjusts his pants, his movements fidgety and stiff. My brow pulls into a deep V when he walks around the table and grabs my hand. I nearly recoil when I feel how sweaty his hand is.

  Why are you so nervous, sweet Ryan?

  The entire restaurant gasps, and a hush falls across the room as Ryan gets down on one knee and produces a black box from his pocket.

  My eyes widen, shock stealing my breath. This is the only moment Ryan wouldn’t mind me looking a fish out of water.

  “River McAllister, you are the love of my life. My heart beats inside of your chest, and I can’t live without that. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

  After his corny one-liner, he opens the box, showcasing a massive, gaudy ring. It’s a band of diamonds with one large circular diamond in the middle, encrusted by a ring of yellow stones. I hate circular diamonds. I also hate colored diamonds. Especially yellow. Who wants a yellow diamond?

  I make a show of covering my mouth, which curls into a snarl beneath the hand that still has a cast on my pointer finger. A cast caused by him. I widen my eyes dramatically and think about how much time I wasted on this piece of shit. He’s proposing to me the same day he fucked another woman.

  How poetic of you, sweet Ryan.

  Tears prick at my eyes, except in mirth instead of pure elation.

  It’s not smart to say no to him here. He’ll be embarrassed. Absolutely mortified. And he’ll kill me before I have the chance to escape. The bastard already knows I’ll say yes.

  It takes an extreme amount of discipline that I didn’t know I possessed not to laugh in his face. There’s only one way I can think of to get through this shitshow. Shamefully, I picture Mako. Mako on his knee before me, grinning at me with that cocky smirk and grass green eyes glistening with love.

  Mako—the incredibly infuriating man whose done nothing but stick his neck out for me and try to help me. And though most times I want to wring his neck, I can’t deny the underlying, intense connection to him. Especially not after the library, where I bared myself to Mako, and fingerfucked myself while he watched and got off.

  That reminder brings a genuine smile to my face. It’s all I need to say what I need to say next.

  “Yes!” I exclaim, casting a mask of happiness on my face. In reality, it only took me a few seconds to reply. His shoulder drops in relief and his face breaks out into a blinding smile, showing off his perfect white teeth. Teeth I’d love nothing more than to see decorating our pristine floors.

  He slips the ugly ring on my finger, the ring complimenting my white cast mockingly. I spread my hand out wide, smiling on the outside and raging on the inside. This is what my life has come to. An ugly engagement ring and a broken finger.

  At least he was considerate enough not to break my ring finger.

  We both stand, the metal contraption burning my
finger with a fiery vengeance. I want to rip it off, I hate the way it feels. His lips touch mine, quick and passionless. Ryan doesn’t do PDA well. I’d like to fuck someone in a dirty public restroom just to spite him.

  The restaurant cheers respectfully, phones flash, and a complimentary bottle of wine is sent to our table. I drink three-fourths of it while Ryan stares at my hand like he’s finally caught the exotic animal in his sadistic trap. I stare at him and wonder why he thought I would want to be proposed to in a goddamn restaurant.

  “FUCK, I LOVE YOU so much,” Ryan moans against my neck. We’re in the same position we were in after I met his parents for the first time. Except this time, I want him to get the fuck off me. I’m stiff and unresponsive, my face curling with discomfort.

  “I love you, too, but babe, I don’t want to do this right now,” I say, pushing his bare chest back a bit. He stops cold, dragging his soulless eyes up to mine.

  “Why wouldn’t you want to?” his voice is devoid of emotion. A spark of anxiety ignites inside me, like the first spark of fire on a cold, winter night.

  “I’ve been having cramps all day. I think my period is starting soon,” I lie. If he knew me at all, he’d know I don’t have a period with my birth control.

  “I don’t mind a little blood,” he says. My nose inadvertently curls in disgust. I’d probably fuck someone on my period if I wanted them badly enough, but that person will never be Ryan again. Not when he’s a cheating asshole.

  Yet I’m somehow the whore.

  “Babe, that’s gross,” I say, adding a smile he will hopefully find cute.

  “You think me wanting you is fucking gross?” he asks, rage creeping into his voice. His hands squeeze my arms as Ryan’s eyes darken into something dangerous. This conversation is quickly going downhill, and I think I’m strong enough to keep it rolling. I don’t want to have sex with him. I shouldn’t fucking have to.

  “No,” I say slowly. “The fact that I’m telling you no and you’re not accepting it is gross.”