I always try to play the part and look nice at these things for Brody. I’d been charmed with this life when I’d first married into their family, thinking I’d married into a wealthy family that had the means and motivation to make the world a better place. I first met them as a teenager, young and impressionable. After the childhood I had, the perfection of their family was intoxicating. They seemed so beautiful, so happy, everything I never had. I was charmed. It wasn’t until after I’d signed thepapers that I realized I’d been duped.
“Hi, Betty. The house looks lovely,” I say with as much sweetness as I can muster.
“Yes, well, we wanted to make sure we were truly celebrating the cause as is deserved tonight.”
“And what cause is that?” I ask, feigning interest.
Apparently, I’m not doing a very good job pretending to be interested. Brody’s hand tightens uncomfortably on my upper arm. If he squeezes much harder I’ll end up with a bruise. At least I’m wearing a sweater which will cover it.
My mother-in-law’s eyes narrow slightly in annoyance. “We’re funding efforts to limit commercial salmon fishing to allow only locals to fish in this area.”
“What a great cause, Mother!” Brody speaks before I can, holding firmly to my arm and squeezing. His grip is crushingly tight—a warning. “I’m off to join the men for a scotch but, dear,” he turns away from his mother to eye me, “why don’t you go with my mother to rub elbows with some of the wealthy donor’s wives.”
“Of course.” Anything to get his grip off my arm.
My husband finally releases me and makes his way toward the large, well-stocked bar. I let out a sigh of relief and rub at the tender flesh on my upper arm absentmindedly. I follow closely behind my mother-in-law, her Chanel heels clicking on the wood floors until we reach a gaggle of well-dressed middle-aged women.
The women are all the same—well off housewives who have their noses stuck very high up in the air. I stand diligently next to my mother-in-law, nodding occasionally, but mostly just sipping my wine. I don’t have much to contribute to the discussion, which mostly involves their social calendar, so my mind starts to wander. The memory of Gabriel’s touch on my chin and across my back pushes itself to the forefront of my consciousness. Iwonder what he’s doing tonight.
I bet it’s something fun, something wild.
“And will you be joining us at the regatta, Abigail?”
I realize they are all staring at me biting my lower lip and fantasizing about my coworker.Shit.
“It’s Allison,” I finally reply as I smile politely at the woman who appears to have spoken to me. The blonde woman looks taken aback.
“Oh. Sorry.Allison,” she emphasizes the name with unnecessary harshness. “Will you be joining us for the regatta?”
“No. I’ll be working.” I try to keep my tone light with a smile on my face. I just want to make it through this evening and go home.
“And what is it you do forwork?” one of the other women asks. This one is similarly clad in an expensive looking evening gown that makes me feel wildly underdressed in my sweet eyelet sundress and closed-toe wedges.
“I’m a high school teacher,” I respond to the gaggle of middle-aged women all staring down their noses at me.
“For now,” Betty adds before taking a sip of her cool white wine.
“Sorry?” I ask as I turn inquisitively toward my mother-in-law.
“For now, until you and my son finally decide to gift me with a grandson.” Betty’s smirk is met with matching smiles from the other women while my mind reels, trying to play catch up.
“Even if I do decide that I want to get pregnant,” I try my best to maintain an even temper and tone despite the heat of anger growing inside me, “I will continue teaching.”
The group of finely clothed women look concerned, furrowing their brows in dissatisfaction. Betty waves her hand dismissively and laughs it off, trying to set the other women at ease.
“Oh honey, that wouldn’t be necessary. We’d, of course, help out financially if needed.”
My head is spinning. My lungs feel tight and constricted as if I can’t get enough air. This conversation is going south quickly and I desperately want out.
Betty continues, “Brody has so been looking forward to having a real housewife, I know, so that would just tickle him to know you were at home all day, taking care of his home and son.”
This is the most backward conversation I have ever had in my life. But from the sound of it, it is a conversation my husband has apparently been having with his mother for quite some time.
What a fucking prince I married.
“Good to know my husband finds my wifely abilities lacking.” My tone is becoming clipped despite my best efforts to remain calm. I need some fresh air.
“Oh dear, don’t be over dramatic, that’s not what I said at all. You do this, you know? Over exaggerate and what not,” Betty drawls with a sanguine smile pointed at me.
