5. Audra
A few days later…
Mom assured me once again that she was feeling much better and that Maggie would stay with her.
Pete's sister, Maggie, is our one saving grace.
Mom likes her, trusts her. Not as much as she trusts me, of course—no one earns that level of scrutiny—but Maggie has a way of handling Mom's anxiety without feeding it.
We try not to ask too often. Lifelines shouldn't be overused.
But tonight Maggie is here, standing behind me in the bathroom with a curling iron, twisting sections of my hair while humming quietly.
"You're going to look incredible," she hums.
"I feel ridiculous," I laugh.
I'm sitting in a robe while my dress hangs from the bathroom door behind us. The dress!
Just thinking about it still feels unreal. The ballgown arrived carefully packaged like something meant for royalty, and it's still perfectly preserved beneath the clear protective cover. Midnight-blue silk that looks almost liquid when the light touches it.
The car came back from the shop running better than ever. And Pete got his promotion. Senior analyst. He was so happy and a little tipsy when he came home that night.
And I can't forget the purse. The ridiculous, beautiful purse. The one that started this whole strange streak of luck.
"Seriously." Maggie studies my reflection while adjusting a curl. "You're glowing."
"I'm jittery," I admit.
"Good jittery or panic jittery?"
"Good."
I've never worn a ballgown before. Never been invited to anything like this. My high school prom was the highlight of my social life. I've never stepped into a world where people host masked balls and send invitations on thick black paper with gold lettering. It feels like stepping into a movie.
Most of all, though, I hope this ball will be a chance for Pete and me to reconnect, to rekindle our marriage.
There has to be more to life than mortgage payments, the five o'clock news, and Netflix.
It doesn't have to be the danger or thrill I craved at fifteen.
Just a night out. A little spice in our sex life.
When he came home tipsy from celebrating his promotion, I really tried.
I showered, shaved everything smooth, slipped into the black lace teddy I'd bought two months ago and never worn.
I left my hair loose, put on just enough makeup to look like the woman he married, not some stranger.
I even turned on a porn clip on my phone—soft lighting, slow and sensual—so I'd be ready, wet and aching for him.
I don't think I'll ever forget the look on his face when he stepped into the bedroom.
"Au-Audra?" His voice cracked like I was some alien wearing his wife's skin.
"Pete," I purred, trying to sound sultry instead of desperate. I crawled up the bed on my knees and hooked a finger into his slightly crooked tie, pulling him closer. "I've been waiting for you."
I kissed him. He kissed me back, tentative at first, then with that familiar warmth. But when my hand slid down to the front of his slacks, I felt him… soft. Completely limp.
"Audra, I'm sorry." His cheeks flushed deep red. He gently caught my wrist, stopping me. "You know I can't… not like this."
His eyes darted to the phone still playing soft moans on the nightstand, then back to the lace barely covering my breasts, the way I was kneeling there like I was offering myself up for sale.
I saw it hit him, the same way it always does when I try to push us past the neat, orderly missionary sex we've had for six years.
He likes making love to me. He does. But anything that looks or feels like a hooker—lingerie, dirty talk, porn, me taking the lead—turns his stomach.
It's not me he's rejecting; it's the version of me that suddenly reminds him of the women he's always been quietly disgusted by.
The ones who do things like that. I knew that.
I know that. Still, that night I had hoped…
He took a shaky breath, trying to find the right words, and failed hard. "It's too much. You look… I don't know. It feels wrong. Cheap. I just… I want us, the way we've always been. Can we just… turn that off?"
The sting of that moment still blooms hot behind my eyes.
I'd forced a smile, reaching for my phone while my chest tightened.
I reminded myself he still wanted me. He still loved me.
He just didn't want that version of me. I hope against hope that maybe tonight will be different.
Maybe if we slip on clothes we don't ever wear, put on masks, Pete will lighten up a bit.
Maggie lowers the curling iron and grins at me through the mirror.
"Wait until Pete sees you." She frowns when she remembers that we still haven't heard him come home. "Speaking of the devil, where is he?"
I look at my phone to see the time. He's cutting it close. He called earlier to say that he was going to be late, again. But it's only thirty more minutes before the ball, and he still has to shower and change.
I pick up the phone and call him.
"Babe, I'm so sorry," he says in greeting.
My stomach drops. "You can't make it."
"I'm sorry. No, I can't. The big boss came in and wants to go over some numbers for a real estate deal."
I close my eyes to suppress the tears gathering in them. I've been looking forward to tonight. And he knows it. God damn him. He knows it. Why didn't he call you sooner to let you know? A faint voice in me accuses.
I feel a squeeze of my hand in commiseration. Maggie. She gets it.
"Look, I know you've been looking forward to this ball. I'll make it up to you. I promise."
I don't see how he can possibly make up for missing a ball. This is not like missing a movie at the theater. Not something we can do tomorrow. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Pete exhales into the silence, "I know this is not what you wanted, but why don't you go by yourself? Who knows, maybe I can come by later?"
By myself? To a ball? Is he being serious? He's challenging you. The voice whispers again. He doesn't think you'll do it. Where did that thought come from?
Maggie squeezes my hand once more, and I open my eyes. Yes. Go. She tells me with an eager nod, pointing at the dress.
"By myself?" I hear myself say.
Strangely, saying it out loud doesn't make it seem so outlandish a suggestion.
It is a masked ball. Nobody will recognize me—not that anybody would know me anyway.
From what I've read, it's a highly sought-after, invitation-only, high society thing that happens once a year.
And yes, every year there is a lottery for one lucky winner.
I pull my lower lip between my teeth and chew on it until Maggie swipes at me, shaking her head and tsking, holding up a lipstick, the same one she just applied moments ago.
"I promise I'll try to make it later. I'll rush home and get the suit, okay? This meeting shouldn't take more than a couple of hours." Pete assures me.
I sigh. I am disappointed, but at least I'll be going. Right?
"I don't know." Nervously, I look from the phone to Maggie, who nods wildly, moving her hand in encouragement.
Going alone to a ball? That's not me. I consider staying in. Taking the dress off and forgetting the ridiculous idea that I could pretend to be someone I'm not. I could watch a movie until Pete comes home. Surprise him. See the look of happiness on his face that I waited for him.
But then reality kicks in. Sure, Pete would be happy. Oh, hon, you're great. Hey, I'm beat, can you make me a sandwich? He'd lie in bed with his laptop and, yes, eat the sandwich I'd inevitably make for him. And I?
Where would I be?
Standing in the bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror, wondering why the hell I'm not at a ball.
Nervous energy floods me. Years ago, this wouldn't have daunted me at all. I'm the girl who stole an MC boss's motorcycle to get his attention and took it for a joyride. I can walk into a ball filled with high society people and pretend I belong.
A small flutter moves through me. Excitement. Just like I felt when the SWAT team burst into the party. I feel my skin tingle with the thought of going. Even alone. Especially alone. Why the hell not?
"Fine," I huff out. "But you owe me."
"Don't I know it?" There's so much relief in his voice, it makes me nearly forgive him. Nearly.
Because the truth of the matter is that we have a problem.
A big one. The things that have worked for us for the past six years aren't working for me any longer.
Pete is going to have to meet me halfway if this marriage is going to work long-term.
I startle. Where did that thought come from?
When did I start thinking of our marriage as not long-term?
"Oh, Audra. I'm so sorry, but you'll have fun," Maggie's excited voice rips me back. Makes me realize that Pete and I hung up without me having any recollection of saying goodbye.
Twenty minutes later, I feel like a princess.
The dress fits perfectly; the midnight-blue silk falls around me like water.
The fabric moves when I breathe, catching the light in soft waves that make it look almost alive.
For a moment, I just stand in front of the mirror, hardly recognizing the woman looking back.
My hair falls in loose copper curls over my shoulders.
The makeup Maggie helped me with is soft but dramatic enough to make my eyes glow.
I look… different. Like someone who belongs in a ballroom. Not a vet assistant from a tiny house on a quiet street.
"Hold still," Maggie demands, snapping pictures. "Pete is so going to regret this."
I hear a whoosh and grin when I realize she just sent him the picture of me. "The mask!" Maggie reminds me, darting into the bathroom where I left it, and returns holding the elegant box. "Can't go to a masquerade without this."