“Right,” he says curtly. “It’s already on Instagram.” He reaches for the front-door handle.
“Do you want me to speak to Dad?” she calls after him as he steps out the door. “Do you want me to call him? See if he can sort this out?”
Her husband mutters something under his breath and bangs the door shut behind him. Daisy stares at the door. She hears Jon’s Audi starting up in the driveway.
Tears slide down her cheeks.
Sun flints off the glass tower, and Daisy is suddenly sparked back to the present. She realizes her eyes are filled with tears again. She swipesthem quickly away and checks her watch. Relief floods her. It’s almost time to meet Vanessa at their favorite little bistro in Point Grey. Daisy begins walking back to her car. She drove to the park for some exercise by the sea, and to get out of the house while the maid came. She often meets with Vanessa on maid day.
As she crosses a lawn, she tells herself Jon didn’t mean to wound her. He spoke from his own place of hurt. A place of damaged pride, defensiveness. A visceral concern over their now-uncertain future. She knows her husband well. Too well. She’s intimately acquainted with the dark, angry corners of his warrior psyche. They’re the same attributes that helped him win at a competitive and dangerous sport against fierce and dedicated athletes from around the world. One didn’t come without the other. And right now Jon doesn’t have a physical outlet. She will speak to her father. Surely he’ll be able to do something. She won’t tell Jon. It’ll just humiliate him further. A wife needs to keep some secrets from her husband.
As she beeps the lock on her little BMW, a more sinister thought snakes into her mind.
Could Jon have been overplaying his anger this morning to distract her from the fact he’d been with a woman last night?
Again, Daisy shoves the twisted thought from her mind. She climbs into her car, pulls the seat belt across her round tummy, and starts the engine. But before pulling out, she quickly scrolls through the fresh batch of selfies on her photo roll.
She selects one and uploads it. She types in her hashtags and smiles to herself as she notices how she captured the sunlight sparking off the diamond pendant that hangs just below the hollow of her throat. A gift from Jon to celebrate their pregnancy. She sets her phone on the passenger seat and engages the gears.
We’re going to be fine, Little Baby Bean. We all are. This is just a blip. Challenges make life worthwhile. The only consistent thing is change.
As she is about to reverse out of her parking space, her phone pings. And again. And again. Responses to her Instagram post. Daisy cannot resist taking a quick peek. She craves the dopamine hit. Those little hearts of approval, the validation. She needs it. She grabs her phone, does a fast scroll through the comments:
OMG how do you look so good?
What’s your secret? Spill, girl!
Love that jacket!
Awesome photo.
Love love love Vancouver.
A month and a half to go! We’re counting down with you.
A contented, connected feeling swells through Daisy’s body. Her followers adore her photo. They approve of her life. Of her. She feels less alone. Less overweight. Less unattractive.
Can’t wait to see more preggers pics.
Another comment pops through. It stops Daisy in her tracks.
You’re nothing but the wife of the once-famous, washed-up JonJon Rittenberg.
Then another.
I SEE you @JustDaisyDaily. I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. Ticktock watch the clock.It’s followed by two googly eyes oscillating back and forth, followed by an exploding bomb.
Another pings through.
Hope your baby dies. DIEDIEDIEDIE little Rittenberg boy.
Her hand covers her mouth. She blinks. Then before she can even think, she deletes the awful comments. She notices a direct message has come through. She’s scared to look. Her hands tremble as she opens it.
It’s a GIF of a Chucky doll. Chucky clutches a knife. Chucky is covered in scars and blood. Chucky makes repeated stabbing motions with the blade—up down up down up down. The GIF is followed by text.
Chucky knows who Bad Mommy iz.
Chucky knows what Bad Mommy didz.
