Furious

  Brad thrust deep and stopped. He scrunched his face and groaned, swelling inside me, filling me with warmth. He supported himself with his arms and his body bucked once, twice, three times, then he collapsed onto my chest. I wanted to tell him I was close too, but I did not know if having an orgasm was something I should allow myself to do. Not yet.

  Brad braced his hands against the cushion and lifted his weight off me. He stared into my eyes with a hazy, dreamy quality. The tart odor of wine hung on his breath.

  “Thanks, Dags. I needed that.”

  I smiled, unsure of my feelings.

  He rolled onto his knees and pulled out of me. He stood and slipped on his shorts, wobbling on unsteady legs.

  “I need to crash. I’m wiped out,” he said. “Will you take the helm for the first watch?”

  I nodded. Silent.

  Brad descended the stairs, leaving me alone to stare at the stars. He had been aggressive before I consented, another window into his violent tendencies, a glimpse into the beast within. Would he become more forceful?

  I sat up. If I had not agreed to have sex, would he have stopped, or would he have raped me? Now that I had consented, would he expect our sex life to resume as normal and want sex again tomorrow? What would he do if I declined?

  I shook my head. How could I even think like that? Brad was not capable of marital rape. He had his flaws, serious issues, but he would never violate my body. He would respect my decision, my right to refuse. I shrugged the thought away.

  In my heart, I remained unsure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The sea stilled, and the surface turned opaque as the horizon changed from cobalt to coal. The earth darkened, and the sky transformed into a brilliant canvas of sparkling light. The water lapped against the hull, the sheets groaned, and the halyard shackles clanged against the mast. The yacht became a music box, gliding across the earth’s surface.

  After having sex with Brad, I remained naked on deck, a part of nature. Human. The smallness of mankind—my very existence—on display beneath the infinite space of the universe. I connected to the earth, to Emma, to God. Emotion bubbled inside me, like lava inside a volcano. My body convulsed with sobs as my grief poured out. I cried for a long time, then something happened.

  I felt better.

  There, sliding across the surface of the Indian Ocean, beneath the stars, at one with Mother Earth and under the eyes of God—I found peace. Losing Emma had almost destroyed me, but I was alive, and as long as I drew breath, I would fight to survive. I wanted to live again, be happy, embrace the gift of life.

  The sails luffed and the black canvas flapped in the wind. I walked to the helm and turned on the instrument panel. I tightened the sheets until the boom swung close to the gunwale. The sails smoothed, and the boat heeled, almost imperceptibly, but I noticed. I had become one with the yacht, sensing its every movement. I was sailing. Me. The city girl from Boston—the woman with aquaphobia. I piloted a sailboat across the vast Indian Ocean, half a world away from home.

  Had I given myself to Brad because of my guilt from denying him for so long? It had been a primal act, physical, not emotional. We had never kissed. It may have been obligation, but it had also brought carnal pleasure. Fast, but stimulating. I had denied my body any release since before Emma—a form of self-flagellation—and I needed it. I missed the physical pleasure, but not Brad. He had become incidental to my needs.

  Had I ever loved him?

  I had recognized lust and envy in the eyes of the nurses on the surgical floor when I had visited Brad at New England General Hospital. I remembered a young auburn-haired nurse—all blue eyes, red lips, and big tits—staring at Brad as he walked past. She had whispered something to another nurse, and they had giggled. Brad always had women eating out of his hand. His stunning features, great body, and wealth were all aphrodisiacs. How many times had he acted on it? Had he cheated when we dated? Had he done so after we were married?

  How easy it was for men to have sex. They seemed willing to couple with almost anyone, simply for the physical release. Sex was probably better for men when it involved love, but emotion was not a prerequisite. Men and women differed in many ways, and Brad was the man every woman wanted. On paper.

  I had dated Brad for fun but married him for Emma. I did not believe in abortion and marrying my baby’s father had seemed natural and right. I had wanted her to have a father at home, and Brad had treated me with respect. And he wanted to be a father. How could I have resisted?

  There had been sacrifices. Brad bought the house in Newton and yanked me away from the only home I had ever known. I had always pictured myself sitting before a roaring fire with a golden retriever, but Brad hated dogs, and I had abandoned my dream. Marriage involved compromise.

  I had seen signs of trouble right away. Brad had made an offhand comment, saying New England General Hospital’s top surgeons were all married, and now that he was engaged, he hoped they would accept him. I had tried to ignore it, but it laid the seeds of doubt. Had Brad wanted to marry me to increase his social standing and please his parents by settling down? If that was his goal, he should have picked a rich socialite, because his parents had never warmed to me.

  My doubt had taken root the day Brad met me for lunch on Beacon Street. I had been enjoying our date until he pulled a document out of his briefcase and slapped it on the table. My memory of that moment remained crystal clear.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “It’s a prenup.”

  “Are you serious? You think I’m after your money?”

  “Of course not, but my parents think—”

  “What? That I got pregnant on purpose?”

  Brad looked like he had eaten a lemon. “No one is saying that. They’re just being protective.”

  “Of you?”

  “Of their business. Our family has run Coolidge Financial Services for generations. Jacob Coolidge founded it in 1898 and it was one of Boston’s largest banks in the early twentieth century. It’s—”

  “I get it. Your family has old money, and they want to protect it, but what does that have to do with us?”

  “I’m an only child and I’ll inherit all of it someday. They’re concerned. That’s all.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your money.”

  Brad’s wealth was nice, but I would never marry for money. Women who did acted exploitive, whorish. I enjoyed the money, the luxury car, expensive restaurants, jewelry on my birthday. Having financial freedom was not the most important thing, but it beat the alternative. I had been poor after my mother died, and I had milked the insurance money through my undergraduate and medical schools. I had finished the last of it when I started my general surgical residency, a job which paid little, but offered valuable experience. During that five-year period, the most I ever made was fifty thousand dollars—not much in Boston—but I scraped by, living frugally.

  “I know you’re not after my money, but they have to be cautious.”

  “What did your family do? Have me investigated?”

  Brad looked away.

  “Come on, Brad. Did they?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  “I’m a doctor, not a hobo, and my earning potential’s high. I know my salary as a fellow is meager, and I have almost three hundred thousand in school loans, but—”

  “They’re protective about their money.”

  “Their money or your money?”

  “It’s all the same. They’re worried.”

  “I make peanuts at Boston Pediatric, but after I become board certified, I’ll make over two hundred thousand as an attending pediatric surgeon. I’ve dev
eloped powerful human capital and my financial future is bright.”

  “I know all that, and I told my parents, but . . .” Brad stared into the distance.

  “But you can’t defy them,” I said.

  “They hold the purse strings. Dagny, please, I—”

  “Give it to me,” I said.

  I snatched the paper off the table and signed it. I did not need Brad’s money.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

  “What bothers me is that you want me to sign it. It shows a lack of commitment to our marriage, like you’re planning its dissolution, before it even begins.”

  “They require it.”

  “If that’s true, you don’t possess the independence a thirty-seven-year-old man should have.” I handed him the signed document and headed for the exit. “I’m going to my condo tonight. Alone.”

  I still remembered the look on his face. Another awful memory.

  I walked along the deck to the bow where the rise and fall of the boat increased, and my gut flopped.

  I grasped the halyard and leaned over the side. The ocean turned to ink at night, a curtain pulled over the world below. I did not observe the great white, but I had read somewhere that sharks were nocturnal feeders, and I sensed its presence. Somewhere close.

  I stared into the darkness, sorting through my history with Brad. Money had not been the only issue. Brad’s family had caused other problems. They had been in Boston for hundreds of years and were prominent figures in the community. Brad never missed an opportunity to comment about his blue-blooded ancestry. He wore his family’s history like a crown.

  Brad knew my mother had neglected me, and he acted like I had been an orphan he found on the street. He pushed me to take a genetic test and research my family’s ancestry. I did and discovered my family arrived in Massachusetts in the 1606, more than a hundred years before Brad’s ancestors. Learning my Steele family history interested me, but I judged myself based on my own accomplishments, unlike those who believed they could inherit success like the family silver. Brad had mentioned his own lineage far less after my discovery.

  That was when I first noticed Brad’s competition with me. It was a one-sided competition, because I believed couples should root for each other to succeed, not hope their spouses failed so they could feel superior. Brad seemed envious of my intellect and of my ability to make it on my own, without a family fortune. With his recent revelations about his botched surgeries, I understood why he was also jealous of my surgical skills. I was a rising star at Boston Pediatric Surgical Center—at least I was until my leave of absence—and Brad might lose his job.

  When I examined our relationship, through the lens of his jealousy and competition, everything seemed different. Had he moved me to a suburban house because he knew I thrived in the city? Had it been a way to flaunt his wealth? Had he chosen to escape on a boat because of my aquaphobia? Was everything designed to make him feel better about himself?

  I had an epiphany.

  I had become a doctor because of my childhood tragedy. I had specialized in pediatric surgery because of my mother’s neglect. I had married Brad because I wanted a secure home for my unborn child. I had always known these things, but thinking of them together, here at sea, with nothing to stand between my memories and my reason, led to one, inescapable fact.

  I had lived my life for others.

  Being a doctor made me happy, but I had to take charge of my life and follow my own path. Chart my destiny and find my happiness. And I had to do it without Brad.

  Brad was handsome, wealthy, and had moments of kindness, but he was also narcissistic, childish, and spoiled. It had taken me ten months to agree to date him for a reason. He was not smart enough. He was not compassionate enough. He was not my soulmate, and I did not love him. I had never loved him. Maybe it had been the hormones or my genetic need to protect Emma, but whatever it had been, it had vanished. Staying with Brad would be as unfair to him as it was to me. When he awakened, I would tell him.

  I wanted a divorce.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I felt reborn.

  The sun rose behind us, filling the world with color and light. I had stayed on deck all night, scared and excited, full of dread and hope. Today I would ask Brad for a divorce. Telling him while stuck on a boat was bad timing, but now that I had decided, hiding it would be dishonest. I had to tell him everything.

  Today was the first day of the rest of my life.

  I stood at the helm and fidgeted, too energized to sit. I sipped a coffee, more from habit than need. For the first time in many months, my mind cleared, and I knew what I had to do. I would return to Boston Pediatric Surgical Center and finish my fellowship. I would move back into my home in Boston and eventually my personal life—my love life—would right itself. I would continue to see the hospital psychiatrist and find a way to cope with my grief.

  Brad’s violence would only get worse the more comfortable he became with me. It was only a matter of time before he hit me. I had married Brad because of our baby and now our baby was gone. It was cliché to get divorced after losing a child, like so many couples unable to recover from the trauma, but my reasons for divorce were not about Emma. The marriage had been for Emma.

  The divorce was for me.

  I climbed below, tiptoed through the salon, and peeked into the stateroom. Brad lay sprawled on the bed with the sheets wrapped around him. He glistened with sweat, and his hair had matted into clumps. He looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes, and he snored like a grizzly bear. I backed away and closed the door behind me.

  I needed to talk to someone, and my thoughts turned to Jessica. I reached for the satellite phone and dialed. The connection hissed and clicked.

  Jessica answered, and I heard the clamor of the emergency room—monitors beeping, the murmur of voices, someone screaming. It sounded like home.

  “Dagny?”

  “Can you talk?”

  “I always have time for you. Give me a second to walk into the hallway.”

  “Sure.”

  The ambient noise disappeared. “That’s better. You okay, sweetie?”

  “I’m good. I mean really good.”

  “Oh?” Jessica asked, her voice rising. “Let’s hear the straight shit.”

  “I came to a decision, and I need you to tell me if I’m nuts.”

  “I’m listening,” she said, hungry for gossip.

  “I’m going to ask Brad for a divorce.”

  Static popped and crackled over the line.

  “Jessica? Are you there? Did you hear me?”

  “Oh, I’m here. I’ve been waiting for you to dump that asshole since the first day I met him.”

  “I’m not making a mistake?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?” Jessica asked.

  “Probably.”

  “I mean about important stuff,” she said.

  “No, you’re always brutally honest.”

  “Believe me when I tell you, divorcing Brad will be the best thing you’ve ever done.”

  “You don’t think I’m doing it, because of what Brad and I went through? It’s not PTSD, is it?”

  “Brad’s a narcissistic prick who only cares how good you look on his arm. You’re not dumping him because you experienced a tragedy. You only married him because you were pregnant.”

  I had never told Jessica that. I had always praised Brad in front of her. Anything else would have been disloyal. “It was that obvious?”

  “Everyone knew why you married him. He’s a goddamned sexy piece of ass, but he does not deserve yo
u. I mean, you’re gorgeous too, but he can’t possibly challenge you intellectually.”

  “Marrying him seemed like the right thing to do. It—”

  “Oops, they need me. Someone’s coding. I have to go. You’re doing the right thing.”

  “Thanks, I needed the reality check,” I said, but she had already disconnected.

  I tiptoed to the stateroom and listened to Brad’s snoring, thick and spasmodic. I would wait. I climbed back onto the deck.

  Divorcing Brad was the right call. We had never melded, and I had never become part of his family. Brad and I had visited his parents at their waterfront home in Rockport, on Massachusetts’s North Shore. I had sipped tea and shifted my weight on a stiff Victorian chair in their living room, while I stared through their floor-to-ceiling windows at the Atlantic Ocean. They had set the thermostat to seventy degrees, but it had seemed much cooler. I could still picture the expressions on their faces.

  “I think you’re making a mistake,” Mrs. Coolidge said. “You barely know each other.”

  “Dagny’s perfect for me,” Brad said. “I love her.”

  “She’s not our people, no offense dear, but we come from different worlds,” Mrs. Coolidge said.

  There it was—the elitism. I wanted to remind her my family had arrived in Boston first. Instead, I set my tea on the table and tried to make nice.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Coolidge, you make a valid point. I agree Brad and I have moved fast, but we’re thinking about the baby.”

  Mrs. Coolidge cast a frosty stare. “There are procedures to remove that problem.”

  I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I turned to Brad. “I’m done here. Take me home.”