Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“Ada,” Tom’s hushed voice pulls me from my dream. “Ada, sweetheart, wake up.” I gasp, eyes wide and searching in the darkness. From the way the mattress is dipping, Tom is sitting on the bed with me, and I scoot away from him.
“You don’t need to make room for me, sweetheart,” he says. “I know you need your rest.”
Thank fuck he can’t see me almost vomit in the dark.
I’m still in his guest bedroom, where I fled last night after complaining about a headache from my concussion since he wouldn’t let me go home or shut up about his theories about how feminism has ruined society.
Every time I tried to leave, he would find another dumb ass offensive video for me to watch.
I don’t know that I actually have a concussion, but it was a good excuse when it got to the point where I just couldn’t take it anymore.
After three TV-dinners and about a million red-pill conspiracy videos, I was at my limit.
“You were having a nightmare.” Tom rubs his thumb across my shoulder where he shook me. I am so glad that for once I didn’t dare sleep naked.
Considering I was actively trying to have a nightmare, I think that is pretty good news. Well, I suppose I was actively trying to see my nightmare, not have one and—
“No.”
The word echoes through my mind, and the dream comes rushing back. It had felt so different from any other dream, more solid, and Seth had looked at me with such tenderness. Why, then, did he say no?
No, he wouldn’t come back… because he can’t?
No, because he doesn’t want to?
By the light barely peeking through the curtains, I slept all night, so I don’t know how long it’s been since I talked to Seth. It could have been minutes and he’s on his way, or hours and he’s not coming.
No.
It could mean so many things. Perhaps my subconscious is telling me that Seth isn’t real. That no one is coming. That I need to save myself. Eventually, I know, someone will come, when I stop responding to texts or calls. Surely my dad or my brothers will hop on a plane to figure out what is wrong.
If he’s real, though… what he said explains everything.
Red yarn tidily strings from one pin to another, and the picture it paints—of me especially—is not entirely flattering.
If what he said is true, I’ve tortured this poor man for years.
He’s had to do whatever my depraved sleeping mind came up with, and now I’ve trapped him in a monstrous form he so clearly despises.
If he’s truly my nightmare—my dream monster—then he knows me better than anyone.
He’s seen the absolute worst in me, my horrible thoughts and unflattering worries.
He was so desperate to stop being that monster that he made my lack of celebration his problem.
The wrapping paper, the book, the lights and music…
the cookies. All of it was to make me happy…
but why? Does he care about me? Or was he simply trying to stop being my nightmare? When we had—
Oh. God.
Have I been having sex with this man—monster—against his will? Jesus, I am as bad as Tom.
Speaking of, he must have said something, because now Tom is looking at me like he’s waiting for an answer.
“Sorry, what?”
There’s enough light now to see that he’s in a white tank top and boxers, smiling indulgently down at me.
“I asked how you were feeling, but there’s no need to answer.
You’re obviously not feeling well. You get some more rest and I’ll make us some breakfast.” He leans down, like he’s going to kiss me on the forehead, but I stop him with a hand on his chest.
“Tom, what is going on?”
“You’re sick, Ada. You know that. You have been for a while, and I’ve been trying to let you have your independence, but it’s just not safe anymore. I think we both know it’s time we stop dancing around this thing between us so I can take care of you properly.”
“Properly?” I shriek. “What thing, Tom?” I know what thing he means, but maybe saying it out loud will make him realize how ridiculous it sounds.
“Ada… come on now, you’ve been flirting with me for months, but you don’t have to be shy anymore. I know about your little anxiety problem, and I’m not bothered. It doesn’t need to come between us.”
Ew. Honestly, that’s worse than I expected. I’m not surprised Tom is trying to get into my pants, but since when is saying thank you when someone does something nice for you flirting? I know I live in New England, the land of the cold, but being friendly isn’t flirting. Period.
“I’m dealing with my anxiety, I don’t need your—”
“Shhhh,” he says, smushing his finger into my lips. It smells like sweat, which tells me that he hasn’t washed it in god knows how long. I clamp my lips together. Please, please don’t let me puke. He wouldn’t like me puking all over him.
Then again, he probably won’t like me protesting that there is anything between us. That pulls me back to reality, because as pissed as I am with him, and trust me, rage is roiling in my veins, pissing him off is going to do the exact opposite of keeping me safe.
“Like I said, I’ll go make us some breakfast. You can come out and we can talk about it then.”
Gross, dude.
Standing to leave, I hear him mutter, “This is why women shouldn’t work,” under his breath, and I want to launch myself at him and claw his eyes out. Instead, I wait for him to shut the door before running to the attached bathroom and using his cheap green soap to wash my lips until they are red.
No amount of scrubbing makes them feel clean, and I swear the sweaty scent of Tom has invaded my nostrils. Who has fingers that smell like sweat? Maybe it's just in the worn-out brown washcloth I’m using? Doesn’t he know that he needs to check his washer for mildew? Clearly not.
Before falling asleep last night, I’d checked the windows and door and found them all barred and locked.
I figured that since I’d seen him on the video, Seth might be my best bet.
I mean, he should be used to being my knight in shining armor by now, he’s played the part enough.
And for the past few weeks, in my recent dreams, I could have sworn he acted like he cared about me… really cared, not just pretended.
Judging by how locked down he has this room, Tom means to keep me for a while. I also checked the room for cameras, because you don’t build a prison room for abducting women unless you’re really sick. As far as I could tell, there weren't any… I guess he has them all pointed at my house instead.
Bastard.
If Seth isn’t coming—I blink back the tears that sting at the thought—I need to figure out how to get myself out of this situation. First though, I need some more information, which means I’m probably going to have to eat the horrible breakfast Tom’s making with his unwashed hands.
He obviously means to keep me here, but he also seems to be romanticizing it like he thinks I’m going to be his wife or something.
Normally, you don’t keep your wife locked up.
If I let him think I’m going along with it, will he let me out during the day?
If I asked to watch the video again, would he leave me alone with his computer?
He said today he’d go back for Henry, so I should be here alone when he does.
Maybe I can prepare some way of getting out or calling for help when he does.
After a day or two of no response, someone is going to wonder where I am. Fae said she’d call the national guard, and while maybe that was an exaggeration, she will figure out something is wrong. She has my address… perhaps she’ll call the cops?
Or maybe it’ll be my parents who realize that I must not be answering their twelve messages a day for a reason.
As soon as my parents figure something is amiss for real, my dad, my brothers, or all three will be on a plane to come find me.
If that happens, though, there’s no way they are letting me stay here alone.
Nope, they’ll pack my ass on a plane back home to Utah.
I scrunch my nose because in that context, are my dad and brothers really any different from Tom?
A lifetime of “men taking care of me” primed me to let Tom help me out, but now, it seems, he’s come to collect on what he deems “his due.”
This room tells me one thing for sure; I do not want to push Tom. I clearly have no real idea what he is capable of, nor do I mean to find out. I left Utah to get away from this “Provider Patriarchy” bullshit, but at least it’s a framework that I know how to navigate.
I have no idea if Seth is coming to get me, so I need to save myself—in the only way I know how.
Back in the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror and put on my armor.
For centuries of oppression, we women have had to wield whatever we could to stay safe, and that’s exactly what I mean to do today.
I may not have hair tools or makeup, but I calm my hair, splash some water on my face, and straighten my clothes.
“Alright, Ada,” I hype myself up in the mirror. “This is gonna feel gross. But this is what keeps us safe. Now, get out there and keep sweet.”
Standing by the bedroom door, I make my voice sound pitiful and call out to him. “Tom? Can I help with breakfast?”
His heavy footsteps come running down the hall, and he’s smiling when he opens the door. “Feeling better, sweetheart?”
“Yes, can I help you with breakfast?” I’m meek, timid, sweet and subordinate. I’m going to do everything you need me to and definitely not run away the first chance you give me.
I almost feel bad when he smiles even wider. “I’d love that, sweetheart!”
“Great!”