“So cool.”
“I don’t know about that, but things happen for a reason. I’m lucky to do what I like and have a chance to keep doing it.”
“Thanks.” She tapped away at her phone, presumably entering my quotes.
I flipped the steaks. “Go wash up. We’re going to eat in a few.”
As I ran in to check on everything else, I wondered what dinnertime was like at the other houses Priscilla visited. Was it calm? Easy? Fun?
I was in the middle of tossing a small salad and was about to drizzle some olive oil over asparagus when the front door opened.
“Hey, I’m home.” Tommy greeted me in the kitchen, expecting me to look up at the sound of his commanding voice.
“Successful trip?” I asked out of habit.
“Very. I think I’ll have a cigar later to celebrate.”
“Nice,” I said evenly, but inside I shuddered. Cigar meant booze, and booze always resulted in increased anger.
There wasn’t time to dwell on it, though, because Priscilla walked in.
“I’m starving,” she said before noticing Tommy. “Hi, Dad,” she said, and then started setting the table.
“It’s all ready.” I forced a smile as I grabbed the tongs. “I’ll go get your steak while you clean up.”
“I’m not a little boy.” Tommy side-eyed me before glancing at Priscilla. “Did you wash your hands before doing that?”
“Of course,” she said, and for the first time in forever, I worried for her safety. A curt answer that could be misconstrued as flippant would never fly with Tommy.
“Let’s all sit down and eat,” I said quickly, trying to smooth things over before slipping out to the grill, mourning the firepit we’d never have and the friends who would never come over to enjoy it with us.
With his steak and sides in front of him, Tommy focused on eating while saying very little. When he did speak, it was mostly bragging about his deposition skills. He did take a moment to ask Priscilla if she was starting in her upcoming soccer game. She was, and he said he would think about coming.
“I love this soup,” Priscilla told me, wearing a smile just for me, and at the moment it felt like enough. Then she cleared her plates and went to her room to FaceTime friends and do whatever middle-school girls do.
“Work is really picking up, which is a good thing,” Tommy said, clipping his cigar and after pouring himself a Dewar’s. “We have some major expenses at the firm, and of course, Priscilla’s tuition and all the mandatory donations that come along with it.”
Finished cleaning up, I set aside the kitchen towel and wrung my idle hands.
Tommy came close, his alcohol-laden breath ghosting my cheek when he whispered in my ear, “Don’t look stunned, Margaret. This fancy little stay-at-home writer thing doesn’t come for free.”
“I work,” I managed to croak out.
“You don’t really work. You type out some drivel, and they fill space with it.”
Leaning back into the quartz counter, ignoring its bite into my back, I felt the need to stick up for myself. “I wanted to do more. I could do more.”
Tommy pulled back a little, narrowing his beady eyes on me. “You will not. Not my wife. I allow you this hobby, but that’s it.”
Of course, I wanted to argue more, but there was no point. How could I win an argument with a lawyer? Although he considered my writing a hobby, I thought of it as my lifeline.
“Don’t think too hard.” Tommy gripped my shoulder, his fingers digging painfully into my skin. “I pay for you to do this. Period. Make me look good. Got it?”
He leaned close and his teeth scraped my neck, making their way to my nape. There, he bit down just hard enough to cause pain but not hard enough to break the skin.
It was a sign of dominance he’d done before. The first time, I’d mistaken it for a sexual move until he explained he was letting me know who was boss.
As if I could forget.
