Thirty-Five
Amelia
He’s gone when I wake up. I knew he would be.
The side of his bed is still warm, and it smells faintly of him. I shift further over on my side, pulling the sheet up to my nose.
For the briefest moment, it almost stings that he didn’t even say goodbye, before I realize with distinct numbness that I don’t particularly care. At least now things can return to normal.
My normal captivity.
The door opens with a clunk. I look up with mild irritation; Linda usually knocks.
“I made breakfast,” Van Wyk says, walking in with a tray, then gives me a grin, dimples on full display. He’s dressed in a black shirt and slacks, and the sweet smell of syrup and pancakes fills the room. “I don’t think Linda likes me using her kitchen.”
He just grinned at me. He never used to smile, and now he’s grinning?
I used to be positive; now I’m not. He never used to be happy; now he is. Are we doomed to orbit each other in opposition all our lives? That would be tragically ironic.
“Did you clean up after yourself?” I ask absently, not particularly caring one way or the other.
“Uh… fair point. That might be why, I suppose.” He sets the tray down on the room’s table, pulls up a chair, and looks at me expectantly. “Hungry?”
Not really, no. I’m eating less of late.
“I’m fine.”
“Amelia,” he says, the word carrying warning in the way that only he can pull off, “you need to eat. Come here.”
Like I’m a puppy, or a slave.
Or someone who needs him to take care of her.
That’s not a welcome thought; I can take care of myself.
I grasp for the only excuse to stay in bed I can think of. “My robe’s in the bathroom.”
I expect him to lean back in his chair, watching with undisguised interest as I’m forced to get out of bed, naked, and fetch it. Or worse, eat breakfast with him without being allowed the luxury of covering myself.
What I don’t expect is what he does.
“I’ll get it.” He’s up out of his chair while I’m still blinking. He brings it to me, doesn’t hold it open, but simply hands it to me. Then walks back to his seat.
Huh.
I pull it on before I get out of the bed, wrapping it around myself and tying the sash as I walk over. He’s not looking.
“Orange juice?” he asks, lifting a jug with ice.
“Thank you.” It’s easier to go along with it, but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to eat.
He pours me a glass, setting it before me as I sit down. “Pancakes. They’re your favorite, right?”
“Not really, no.” It takes me a second to realize that sounds ungrateful. “They’re fine.” That sounds neutral, but it’ll do.
“Oh.” He pauses, a slight frown marring his features, his expression morphing into almost boyish confusion. Had I seen this look a few months ago, I might’ve found it endearing. Now, I just note it with clinical detachment. “Linda thought they were.”
Yes, that’s about right. We’re married, but neither of us knows what the other likes, so he asks someone else. My god, how could I have ever thought we would work?
“I think she assumed, because I said I liked them one time.”
“I see.” Another pause. “What is your favorite?”
And there it is: a significant step forward in our relationship. Basic communication. Expressing interest in each other’s likes and dislikes. One day soon, we’ll be going on our first date.
“For breakfast?” I ask, picking up my fork and cutting a small bite. The pancakes are fluffy. “Scrambled eggs and bacon is fine.”
“With mushrooms on the side?”
“If you like.”
“What do you like?”
“Mushrooms are fine.”
He sets his fork down and leans back in his chair. “Okay. The next time you tell me something is ‘fine’ I’m not going to hold back. I’m going to pin you over the side of the bed, pull your robe up, and spank your ass until your vocabulary improves.”
I blink at him. “Mushrooms would be nice.”
“Fantastic!” he says with exaggerated delight. “Tomorrow, we’ll do that.” He picks his fork back up and takes a mouthful. “Do you have plans for today?”
“Yes, my schedule is full.” I don’t want to eat any more, so I pick up my drink.
“First, I’m going to sit in the sunroom and read my Kindle.
Then I’ll take a walk, while Jorge ignores me.
I like to see if any holes have appeared in the fencing overnight.
After that, I’ll gaze at the pool for a while and try to muster enough enthusiasm for a swim, probably fail, and return to the sunroom until I have to choke down some dinner. ” I take a sip. “You?”
Van Wyk looks at his plate, jaw clenched. He sets his fork down, closes his eyes for a moment as if in pain, then leans back in his chair and props his elbows on the arms, linking his fingers. Watching me.
“I’m sorry I was gone for so long.”
“It’s fi—okay. You had work to do.”
“Yes, I did. And I’m not done with it, either.”
He said as much last night. “Will you be here long?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” He waves a hand. “Well, I am, but you’ll be coming with me. I’m not leaving you again.”
“Oh.” Perhaps he’s expecting me to ask where we’ll be going, but I don’t. I’m a captive wherever I am, so it makes little difference.
I take another sip of my orange juice, looking out the window. A sparrow dances free on the balcony railing.
“Amelia…” He leans forward, reaching for my hand. I pull mine away, and he lets his fall to the table. Then he makes a fist.
I stare at it, wondering if he’ll hit me. He hasn’t… spankings are different. I mean harm me. But he promised he never would. Then again, he’s broken promises before, however inadvertently.
“What do you need?” he asks, intensity in his steel-grey eyes. “Tell me what it is, and I’ll make it happen.”
He can’t mean that. He’s probably offering to get me a new book, or something.
Still, worth a try.
“My own car? I tried to buy one, but Tony said no.”
His fist loosens, and he leans back. “I’m sorry, that was my fault, not Tony’s. I still don’t want you going out. It’s not safe, not until this… work… is resolved.”
As expected. I nod in resignation. “Then I have everything I need.” Because he won’t give me my freedom.
A long, not particularly comfortable silence ensues. He stares at me; I force down sips of my juice, keeping my eyes on the bird outside. If only he hadn’t clipped my wings… perhaps I could somehow join it in flight.
“There’s a Company dance in the city at the end of March,” he says, giving ‘company’ a subtle emphasis. “I’d like you to come with me.”
Great, socializing. That won’t be awkward at all. “Sure.”
“And then we’ll be going to Montana, to stay with Bastien.”
“Okay.”
He shifts his weight, like he’s about to stand. “I… uh… have some calls to make. Some urgent matters to resolve.”
“Go ahead.”
His jaw clenches again. “Would you—” He cuts himself off and sighs. “How many times do you want me to say sorry?”
“None.”
“Damn it, Amelia!” His fist thumps into the edge of the table with a loud bang, making me flinch. I set my glass down quickly, folding my hands in my lap, lowering my eyes.
I’m aware he’s staring at me.
“I… I would never…” He goes still, but I keep my gaze down. “I’ll see you later,” he says wearily, then stands up and walks out.
The door clicks shut behind him.
I don’t see Van Wyk again for the rest of the day, and he doesn’t come to my room at night. I assume he sleeps in his own room.
Maybe he’s angry with me. If he is, no doubt I’ll find out sooner or later. But what more can he do to me that he hasn’t already?
And so it continues, day after day. We manage to avoid each other so well that I would think he’d left, if it wasn’t that I hear him about and catch the odd glimpse of him. When I do, he looks like he wants to talk, then his expression turns guilty and he hurries away.
Tony and Jorge resume their daily watch of me like nothing has changed, and I start swimming again, because it gives me another reason to not be in the house.
The upside is it works off the calories from the wine; the downside is that it makes me hungrier, but that’s solved by eating alone in the sunroom.
I’ve never seen Van Wyk in there, save for the rare times he comes looking for me.
A week after Van Wyk’s return, Tony’s waiting for me when I come out of the pool room from changing after my swim, hair still damp and a towel around my shoulders. His arms are crossed, lips pressed together thin.
I stop. “Something amiss?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
I flap the end of my towel at him. “Go ahead.”
“What’s the matter with you, Princess? These last few weeks you’ve been…” He stops and huffs a sigh. “…unreachable.”
“Unreachable?” I almost laugh. Of all the words to use. “Do you know what that means?”
“Of course I do—”
What starts as an echo of annoyance builds into something far more substantial. For the first time in the few weeks he’s referring to, I let loose on my feelings. But the only one I have left is anger, and I’ve been suppressing it too long.
I take a step forward, getting up in his face as the anger takes me over. “Unreachable is when my friends worry that I’ve disappeared off the face of the Earth.”
“I wasn’t talking about—”
“Unreachable is not being able to visit anyone I care about.” I jab him in the chest, anger growing into fury, a sizzle of electricity coursing up my spine. “Because you or him say no.”
He takes a pace back. “I get it, but that’s—”
“Unreachable is my fucking life, Tony!” I explode. “Where has it gone these past months? Have you seen it? Because I sure as hell haven’t!”
“Good,” he says bluntly.
I blink, stopped short by that curt response. “Good? What do you mean good?”
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you feel anything in… weeks.” He juts his chin forward. “So good.”
I glare at him, pushing past as I head back to the house.
Tony’s voice follows me. “He doesn’t deserve it, you know.”
Oh he didn’t just go there.
I swing back to face him. “What the hell would you know about what Van Wyk does or doesn’t deserve?”
“More than you, evidently. And his name is Lukas.”
“Yeah, everyone knows him better than I do,” I say bitterly. “I’m only his wife.”
“Then act like it.”