Chapter 10 #2
The drugstore fluorescent lights feel like an interrogation lamp, too bright, too exposing, like they're designed to catch criminals and desperate women in the same merciless glare.
My fingers hover over the shelf of pregnancy tests for a moment too long before I force myself to reach out and grab one—the expensive digital kind that spells everything out in words so there's no hiding behind the interpretation of faint lines or shadows or wishful thinking.
I bury it immediately under a box of tampons I definitely don't need, as if the feminine products might somehow camouflage what I'm really buying.
Make it look like routine monthly shopping instead of the potential confirmation of my worst nightmare.
The cashier doesn't even glance at my purchases as she scans them, her expression glazed with the particular boredom of someone who's seen everything and cares about none of it.
After I pay I take the test out and shove it deep into my purse where his searching hands won't find it if he goes looking through my things tonight.
The dress shop is next on my carefully planned route, but my mind isn't really in it.
Can't be. Not when that test sits in my purse like a ticking bomb.
I'm moving through motions I've performed a hundred times before—smile at the sales associate who looks at me with that particular brand of pity reserved for women shopping alone with dead eyes, decline help in a voice I force to sound pleasant and normal, find the section of black and navy dresses Daniel specified in this morning's instructions.
Conservative but flattering. Elegant but not attention-seeking.
Expensive enough to reflect well on him but not so expensive it looks like I'm spending his money carelessly.
My fingers flip through hangers on autopilot.
Silk slides under my touch. Chiffon whispers against my skin.
Lace catches on my wedding ring—too loose now, spinning around my finger when I move my hand.
I grab a few dresses that catch my attention without really seeing them, just colors and shapes that might meet his approval.
Beautiful expensive dresses for a beautiful expensive prison.
The dressing room mirror shows a woman I barely recognize anymore. When did I get so thin? The hollows under my cheekbones are too pronounced, my collarbones jut out sharply above the neckline of my blouse like architectural features instead of bones.
I try on the dresses one by one, each transformation feeling like putting on a costume for a play I never auditioned for but somehow got cast in anyway.
The first is too conservative—Daniel will say I look like a nun, or worse, like I'm trying to hide my body from him, which will trigger questions about why I don’t want to show myself to him.
The second is wrong somehow, the fit all off in ways I can't articulate but know instinctively will displease him.
Something about the waist or the shoulders or the way the fabric drapes.
But the third—
The third is perfect in all the ways that make my stomach turn.
Tight bodice, lacy and delicate, with straps that thin as they go up my shoulders like ribbons.
The neckline plunges in a deep V between my breasts—low enough to be interesting, Daniel would say, not so low I look desperate or cheap.
Tight around my waist where I've lost too much weight, the boning holding me in place like armor before the skirt flares out, flowing to the floor in waves of navy satin that catch the dressing room light.
I spin slowly, catching sight of the back in the three-way mirror—almost nonexistent, just thin straps crisscrossing bare skin down to the small of my back where bruises from weeks ago have faded.
Daniel will love it. Will love showing me off in it, his hand possessive on my exposed spine while he networks with judges and politicians and other corrupt men who think they're untouchable.
Will love the way other men's eyes linger on me while he holds me close enough to brand me as his property.
Will probably whisper threats in my ear all night about what happens if I talk to anyone too long or smile too much or give him any reason to question my absolute devotion to playing the perfect wife.
I take the dress off carefully, hang it on a separate hook from the rejects so I don't confuse them.
Get dressed again in my own clothes—conservative and covering and safe.
Bring the unwanted dresses back out to the racks, putting each one back exactly where I found it because even here, alone in a store where no one knows me, I can't stop following invisible rules about putting things back properly.
Walk to the front counter to pay for the one Daniel will approve of, the one that will make me look exactly like what he wants me to be.
The cashier compliments the dress as she slides it into a garment bag.
Says it'll look stunning on me, that I have great taste.
I smile and thank her and sign the credit card receipt with Daniel's last name that still doesn't feel like mine after three years of using it.
Reid. Mrs. Reid. The name of someone who died the moment she said "I do" to a man she didn't really know.
When I get home I hurry inside, mind fixed on the test still hidden in my purse like contraband. Daniel's car isn't in the driveway—still at the office, in meetings or doing whatever corrupt DAs do when they're not terrorizing their wives. I have time. Not much, but enough.
I hang the garment bag in my closet where Daniel expects to find it, arranging it carefully on the rod so the plastic doesn't wrinkle.
He'll want to see the dress later, will make me model it for him.
Will probably fuck me in it just to prove he can—that even dressed up for public consumption, I'm still his to use however he wants.