How long has she been sitting here drinking?I notice her small bare feet are pressed against the rungs of the stool, and I smile at the sight of them.
Saint doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even acknowledge my presence when I enter the kitchen. If I didn’t already have a gut feeling that something is wrong, this would be a glaring sign.
“Saint?” I say her name softly.
“Your mother stopped by earlier.” Her tone is tight, strained at the edges. “Gave me a nice little heads-up to what’s going to happen next.”
Fuck.Dread coils in my gut. I should’ve known my mother would come to visit.
“What did she tell you?”
Saint lifts her head, but only so she can take a drink, not to look at me. The whiskey slips past her lips slowly, and I’m mesmerized by the motion. “Everything.” A bitter laugh escapes her. “Well, not everything, but enough.”
“Okay, explain.”
“Explain? Are you kidding me? I’m not the one who needs to explain. You are.”
I sigh and skim my hands over my head. “I was going to tell you, explain the process before we got there.”
“For some reason, I don’t believe that.”
“What do you want me to say?” I glance around the kitchen and pause. Mostly just for something to change the topic.
She cooked.There’s chicken on the stove, golden and cooked perfectly. Biscuits cooling on a rack. Green beans in a pan. All of it untouched, growing colder by the second while she drinks herself numb at the counter.
“You didn’t have to cook.”
“Probably not, but I had to do something.” Her grip on the glass tightens. “I needed something to prove that I still have some type of control over the things that happen in my life. Evenif that control is whether the chicken’s dry or moist.” The way her voice cracks, with hollow exhaustion. It’s a sound I’ve never heard before, and I fucking hate it.
“My mother shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t,” she croaks, finally looking at me. Her eyes are rimmed red, but there aren’t any tears. Just this terrible emptiness reflecting at me, and somehow that’s worse than seeing her cry. “How dare you stand here with that sad look in your eyes and act like… like you give a crap about how I feel? I have no say in anything, not even what happens to my body apparently.”
I lean against the counter across from her, keeping distance between us even though what I really want to do is wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight to my chest and have her cry it out.
“That’s not true. Every decision that I’ve made has been for you. I was going to tell you, and that’s the fucking truth. I can’t make you believe me, but it’s true.”
If only she could understand that I have as little control over what happens as she does.
“Really? When? The night of? While they’re heating the iron? Right before they press it into my skin? Or maybe right before you fuck me in front of your family?” She shakes her head in disbelief. “All of this is so messed up, and I’m scared. Scared of what’s going to happen next, if I’m going to make it through the next Bishop event.”
“You’ll make it. You’re stronger than you think.”
With a scoff, she drains her glass and pours another with trembling hands.
“Fucking Christ. Give me a break. I’m doing my best here.” I’m close to pleading, and I hate it.
“Your best?” She shifts to face me, and I get a closer look at her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes glassy, with dilated pupils. “Are you insinuating that I’m not grateful? Or are yousaying this is part of being a Bishop wife, so I should get used to it?”
“Neither.”
“Then explain!” Her voice rises, sharp and cutting. “Because the only thing I know how to do is be afraid, and I don’t want to be afraid.”
What the fuck do I say to that? How do I make this okay for her?I can’t.There is no saving Saint from what has to happen. There is only preparing her and helping her afterward.
“If it were up to me, if I had a choice, Saint, none of this would happen. I don’t want to see you fucking hurt.”
“Stop. Just fucking stop! If I’d wanted to be with you,” Saint continues, words tumbling out faster now, “if I’d chosen this, then maybe I could handle it.” Lifting her hand she slams her glass down hard enough to make the whiskey inside slosh over the rim. “But that’s just the thing, I didn’t choose any of this.”
