Chapter 4 – Wick
Chapter Four
WICK
Dear Wick,
Thank you for the very nice apartment. It’s really beautiful but it feels (and looks!
And smells!) very expensive. I wonder if I should be in some place smaller so it wouldn’t cost you so much.
When you said that I could have the apartment after the deal was over, I didn’t think it would be this kind of home.
I’m not doing enough to deserve this. Thanks for the cooking supplies.
I’ve made these scones for you. It’s nothing big but hope you like them.
Annabelle
Not even a closing salutation? Just her name. I squint at the computer and reread the email. Her “I didn’t think it would be this kind of home” kind of implies she hates it. I should have allowed her to decorate it herself. I make a notation.
I look at the pretty plate of scones sitting on my desk.
I’m not much of a pastry man. Give me a steak and a chocolate cake and I’m happy.
I’m not sure if I even know what a scone is.
It looks good, though. There’s a little container of butter and what looks like jam.
It’s some type of bread then. The scone is a little hard, but when I break it in half, the interior is soft.
My mouth starts watering. I slather on some of the butter and then the jam and stuff it into my mouth.
I sit back and blink in surprise. It’s not like a pastry but more like a biscuit with a slightly hard crust and a soft middle. I swallow and then shove the rest in my mouth. The plate is empty before I realize it. My stomach growls. How am I still hungry after I’ve eaten a plate of scones?
I try to ignore it and do some work, but it’s impossible.
I toss my pen aside and shove away from the desk.
In the kitchen, I rummage around for some food.
There’s some leftover Chinese from last night’s delivery, a case of beer, and two steaks.
I don’t feel like cooking, so I heat up the Chinese.
Once it’s done reheating, I start eating, but it doesn’t taste good.
The flavor of the scones that Annabelle made is buried under the ginger and soy.
I toss the Chinese leftovers and gulp down some water, cursing myself for not eating those scones more slowly. I’ll ask for more. Maybe give her some money for them. That sounds like a good plan. I hurry back to my desk. The cooking supplies were well received.
I try to reapply myself to the business deal I’m reviewing, but my attention keeps straying to my computer and the security program. I told myself that I can’t be watching her all the time.
But I can’t keep my hands from reaching toward the keyboard, from opening the security program, from pressing the play button.
Yesterday’s footage shows her going to a coffee shop nearby.
She returns home empty-handed. Her expression seems sad.
The cookware is set on the counter in the kitchen.
Rise entered while she was gone, which means she hasn’t changed the code yet.
I lift my pen to make a note, but before I do, she snaps her fingers and rushes to door.
Looking at the instructions I sent, she resets the digital password.
Unfortunately, her body is blocking the keypad, so I can’t see what her new code is.
That’s inconvenient, but at least Rise can’t enter.
Back in the kitchen, she unpacks everything. Her shoulders look higher and her expression less dejected. She must have had a bad experience at the coffee shop. I’ll have to find out who bothered her and ruin their lives.
After she unpacks everything, she stands in the kitchen with her hands on her hips surveying the space.
Then she gets to work. The making of scones is a fascinating process.
I get nothing done as I watch a one-person baking show.
She eats only two of them before setting five on a plate and covering it with plastic wrap.
Uncooked ones are laid on a baking sheet and placed in the freezer.
Four more are put under a glass-lidded stand.
I lick my lips. It would be weird to go over there and demand that she bake me more of them.
Once she’s done cleaning, she heads to her bedroom and closes the door.
I stare at that six-panel wooden door for far too long before forcing my attention back to the business report.
But the words and numbers swim in front of my face.
I need to see her face-to-face. The cameras are not enough.
I thought they would be, but I was wrong.
A year of seeing her only through surveillance footage will drive me crazy.
The next time she goes to the coffee shop, I’ll be there.
We can meet, get to know each other. Then what?
I don’t know. She’s not to know who I am, that I’m her husband.
That was the deal. She would never have to meet me, touch me, sleep with me.
It was an impersonal deal where she would play a role and be rewarded for it.
I told her it was because I needed to close a business deal.
In truth, it was because I saw her once from a distance, heard her speak, and…
then became obsessed with her. Is this love?
I don’t know. The only thing that makes sense to me is that I have to have her, and so I made up this scenario, saying I needed her for one year.
After that year, she would be free. That was the lie I told her. I don’t plan to let her go.