It’s going to be a long night.
Joel’s friends arrive one-by-one, a couple of them with their wives or girlfriends. They follow him into the kitchen, where he wraps a possessive arm around my shoulders and says, “You remember Brielle?” to which the men give me a nod or a wave. Thankfully, the two women present seemrather attached to their partners, so I’m not forced to make small talk while I finish preparing everything in the kitchen.
This house is a stage, one where I’m putting on a show of being the perfect housewife for all these people who don’t care enough to look behind the curtain. They’d rather see the image of a sweet, wholesome woman playing hostess and serving the men in charge than acknowledge the way I hide my bruises behind clothing and my pain behind empty smiles.
They’ve all been trained to recognize the signs, but it’s easier for them to turn a blind eye.
The men head outside to stand around the grill drinking beer while Joel cooks the steaks. The younger guy’s fiancee is kind enough to ask me if I’d like any help, but I insist she join the crowd outside.
Once the steaks are cooked, the men file into the house like a pack of coyotes—boisterous, ravenous, and emanating a predatory energy, though that last part might just be in my head. I’ve been on edge since the first ring of the doorbell, anxiety constricting my chest like snaking vines.
I know these men and all their secrets. I know how so many of them are just like Joel—charismatic and powerful on the outside, vile and volatile on the inside. I hear my husband’s conversations even when he thinks I’m not listening, and it’s nauseating to know what some of these men do when they think no one’s looking.
There’s Brett, Joel’s best friend inside and outside of work, who got off on rape charges of a woman half his age three years ago because of his long-standing career in the department. He’s dated a lot but never kept a woman around for more than a few months at a time, and it’s no wonder why. He’s not bad looking, and so many women love a manin uniform, but his charming personality is an act that falls away as soon as he gets comfortable.
Then there’s Nick, who’s taller than the rest of them with broad shoulders and a thick beard, and who always seems to have a sunburn peeling at the back of his neck. As far as I know, he hasn’t done anything too terribly noteworthy, but he talks about other people as if they’re animals, and that’s enough to make me hate him.
The other guy is a newer hire, a man named Chance who can’t be older than twenty-three or so. He’s quiet and looks vaguely uncomfortable but seems to be attempting to fit in. His fiancee walks beside him with her arm permanently looped through his, and she wears a genuine smile. Maybe he’s one of the good ones, someone who joined the force in hopes of making the world a better place. I wonder how long he’ll last.
My movements are measured and unhurried as I line up the bowls and platters of sides along the kitchen counter. I’ve learned to make myself small to avoid notice—particularly from Joel and Brett—in any way possible.
People file past, filling up their plates before taking their seats at the dining room table. Chance’s fiancee thanks me for working so hard on the meal, and I flash her a genuine smile. In another life, she’s someone I could have been friends with, I think.
I breathe a sigh of relief after everyone has shuffled through the kitchen, then slowly fill up my own plate before forcing myself to join them in the dining room.
The conversation starts easy enough with banal small talk of sports and gossip about coworkers over the sounds of clinking silverware, but it quickly devolves into the disgusting bullshit I’ve come to expect. It’s all so terribly predictable, and I do my best to tune it out. From their tight-lipped smiles and darting eyes, the other women seem to feel the same as me.
My eyes flick toward the clock, watching the hands crawl forward. Only a couple more hours and I can escape to my dreams, where my shadow always waits. I cut into my steak, watching the pink juices leak across the plate and swirl into the rest of the food. Across the table from me, Nick’s lips smack together with his open-mouthed chewing as he shovels massive bites of steak into his mouth, and it grates on my nerves almost more than voice does. I stare down at my plate and stab individual peas onto the tongs of my fork to keep myself distracted from the cacophony of noise in such a small space. If it were people I liked here, it would feel intimate, but with this group, it’s claustrophobic, as if the walls are pressing us too close together.
The clatter of glass on wood jolts me back to the room. My husband’s voice cuts through my daydreams, sharp yet sweetened for company.
“Brielle, honey, you’re awfully quiet tonight.”
I summon a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, though I know none of them care enough to notice.
“Just tired,” I murmur. “It’s been a long day.”
Joel holds my gaze a beat too long with unspoken warning flashing behind his eyes.
“A long day?” Brett chimes in. “You don’t even have a job, girl.”
More boisterous laughter.
Joel chuckles, “Hey, man, cut her some slack. Someone’s gotta cook dinner, bring me beer, and keep my house looking good.”
Fucking assholes.My fists clench in my lap.
I want to punch someone, or throw up, or scream at all of them to shut the fuck up. This is what I’ve been reduced to,an accessory that cooks and cleans and puts up with insults for fear of being hit by a man twice my size if I don’t.
I clench my teeth hard enough to make my jaw ache and fake a smile. “Speaking of, does anyone need another drink?” Anything to get me out of this room.
Brett raises his empty beer bottle, like I knew he would. So does Joel. Their empty bottles clink together in my hand as I make my way to the kitchen, where I toss them in the garbage before taking two fresh ones out of the fridge.
God, I really don’t want to go back in there. I pour myself another glass of wine and take a couple long sips, inhaling and exhaling deeply in attempts to calm the anger and resentment welling up inside of me.
Seriously, who the hell do they think they are?
A scene flashes in my mind of me storming back into the dining room, swiping everything off the table, and telling them to all get the fuck out of my house.
