I find Barb in the foyer. Clearly, she didn’t wait for anyone to answer before barging in. She must have a spare key. Maybe I can steal that from her purse when she’s not looking.
She greets me, offers me another of those bony-armed hugs. “Is that the style in San Diego—wearing so much makeup?” she asks as she releases me.
Is it the style in Atlanta to be such an icy-veined bitch?“Well, Botox and fillers can only do so much.” I smile at her sweetly. “As I’m sure you understand.”
Barb’s face goes stony for a moment, a little slip of her mask that makes me want to cheer in victory. Instead, I lead her to the kitchen, where she unloads the grocery bag she’s carrying—low-calorie bread; low-sugar yogurt sweetened with artificial sugar that makes it taste like body lotion. Along with a book titled “TheSubmissive Wife.”Subtle, Barb.I’m sure I’ll find the book very useful…for balancing a table with a wobbly leg.
“Gosh, it was so thoughtful of you to bring breakfast,” I say.
“Well, I was sure Brayden didn’t have a crumb in the house.” Barb smiles and shoves one of those yogurts toward me. “And wasn’t sure you’d have time to go shopping, given how you seem to have other priorities.”
I get spoons and plates from the cabinets, along with a cup of coffee. I offer one to Barb, along with the options of sugar and milk.
“Oh, I take mine unadulterated,” Barb says. She sniffs in disapproval at the spoonful of sugar I stir into mine. “Now, I hope you don’t mind, but I added a few things to your social calendar.” She lays out an itinerary—wedding party, country club luncheons, Bible study. I’m to be a nice, church-going Southern wife whether I want to be or not. “Of course, this is a lot ofresponsibility. I understand if this isn’t what you signed up for.”
I’d agreed to doing just that: I’m supposed to be a perfectwifefor the cameras and Barb’s sharp-eyed stare. “It is.”
“Even with your studies?” Barb presses.
She’s trying to scare you off.I’ve seen that tactic before, usually businessmen who would bring up all sorts of details and contingencies to attempt to dissuade my father from buying their properties right out from under them. This is no different, except the property in this case is herson. Her son who came home at two a.m. and who left the house at eight after having barely said good morning to me. Marriage, in technicality only.
“No, it’s not too much. I’m capable of handling all this myself.” And I hope like hell I’m telling the truth.
Over the next few days,Barb picks me up in the mornings. We go to the grocery where she frowns as I put actual food in my cart: fruits, vegetables, snacks, pasta, chocolate.Maybe you should be frowning because your son lives off whiskey and microwave meals.
All the while she asks for my various opinions aboutourparty, but really, she mostly just wants to tell me she’s already decided. Despite what I told Brayden, we’re not doing anything Frozen-themed or anything else with real personality.
“We’re going to keep things elegant,” Barb says, when I tell her I might want bright pink roses. Blush peonies it is.
She takes me shopping for wall décor.Why bother decorating a place you know you’re going to leave?I’m ready to select the blandest art possible when I realize Barb’s notion of wall hangings all involve Bible verses. Yeah, I’m not putting Ephesians 5:22—how wives should submit to their husbands, as to the Lord—up in my living room.
But I want to fill the house with art, with souvenirs from travel, with photos, even if the only snapshot I have from the wedding is one Pastor Tim took. In it, I was so focused on smiling for the camera that I didn’t notice Brayden watching me. He isn’t smiling, but there’s something in his expression like he’s expecting me to vanish if he looks away.
Mostly, though, it’s him who vanishes each morning. Brayden works out, goes to the ballpark, goes out, stumbles home late. Rinse, repeat. Sometimes, he’ll send agoing outmessage from the ballpark if he’s going directly from there toa bar versus coming back to the house first. Which would be considerate, if I didn’t feel like a princess stuck up in a tower.
This is what you wanted.Safety. Security. I just didn’t know those would feel so…lonely. Things will change once I start school, I promise myself. That’s why I’m here. I am going to get a degree. I am going to pursue my dreams.
Two nights later, I’m on the couch in the living room, idly flipping through channels, when I land on a Peaches game. I’ve never seen Brayden play, save a few YouTube highlights of him hitting.
Now, he’s in right field, directly behind where Asher is playing at first base. I knew they were teammates, of course, but hadn’t put together that they’d actually be near one another during the game. The opposing batter hits a ball in the air that arcs up and hangs before descending. Brayden races toward it just as Asher is running back to catch it, and the two of them collide—bouncing off one another and both landing in the grass—before the ball drops into the infield dirt.
Neither of them goes after it, mostly because they’re too busy yelling at each other while another player—his jersey says McDonald—digs the ball up and actually completes the play. The camera zooms in. “Looks like Forsyth and Adler are having a little bit of a dust-up,” the commentators say.
More like a fight. Brayden is yelling something, and Asher is yelling right back.
McDonald comes in to break it up, standing between them and looking slightly bored by their antics, along with the umpire and the Peaches manager. Brayden’s face is red. He pokes at Asher’s chest and Asher grabs his hand as if he’s going to twist it away, before he pulls back from Brayden like he’s been burned, flexing his fingers as if he’s trying not to form a fist. The on-field mics aren’t good enough to pick up what each of them is saying, but one catches the shape of a word.Savannah.
Oh no.
Their manager gets between them. Instantly, both men separate, Brayden looking around like he just realized he’s in a ballpark, Asher looking cockily smug.Of course they hate each other.
I watch the rest of the game in a blur, trying to absorb as much as I can about a sport I’ve never spent much time on before. But mostly I’m distracted by one thing: for some reason, Brayden and Asher were arguing aboutme.
Chapter Eleven
Savannah
Saturday.Party day.I’m at the party venue—a country club about half an hour from Brayden’s house, which I can’t quite bring myself to callourhouse—getting ready in one of the bridal rooms. Better that than having my dress get crushed in the car, Barb said.
