1. #2
Because today isn't a door slam. Today isn't an apology bouquet.
Today my husband became President of the United States.
And I feel nothing but dread.
The water streams down my face, mixing with mascara I swore was waterproof. My hands press against my mouth, not to stop the crying-just to keep it from getting loud, out of habit, even though the house is empty.
My knees buckle and I sit on the built-in bench beneath the showerhead, hugging myself like I'm holding something together. The steam thickens.
And my mind, like it always does when the water gets hot enough, starts slipping backward.
Back to a different kind of quiet.
Back to being small.
Back to when Rodney was still just a name said in my mother's office voice.
My mother worked for his father for years. Decades, really. Personal assistant, gatekeeper, fixer-whatever title made her sound less like what she actually was: a woman who held another family's life together while her own sat waiting in the background.
When I was little, I used to sit in the car outside their house with my knees pressed to my chest and watch through the iron gate as people moved around like they lived in a movie. Their driveway alone was bigger than the entire street we lived on.
We weren't poor. Not even close. Three-bedroom home, good schools, vacations here and there. My mom was paid well.
But they lived like money had never scared them a day in their lives.
And Rodney-
Rodney lived in that house like it belonged to him before he even understood what he was inheriting.
I remember him at eighteen like he was carved out of sunlight. Tall. Broad shoulders. Always laughing with a group of boys and girls near the pool like he'd never had to take anything seriously. Like the world was something that happened for him, not to him.
One day I was eight, wandering farther than I was supposed to, and I caught him outside near the side gate with a cigarette between his fingers.
He looked up-startled for half a second-then put a finger to his lips.
"Shh," he whispered, like we were co-conspirators.
Then he winked at me.
Just a stupid little wink.
But my chest lit up like a sparkler.
I thought about it for days.
I felt important. Like I had a secret with him.Like he had seen me.
The water hisses against the tile. The memory dissolves in steam.
Because that's the part that makes me feel sick now-not that I had a crush on him, not that I thought he was cool.
It's that I built an entire fantasy out of a boy who shushed me and winked.
I didn't know what power looked like then.
I only knew it felt like attention.
And attention felt like love.
By the time I was seventeen, I'd already graduated high school. Fifteen and done, because I didn't know how to be average. Because my mother raised me on the idea that I needed to be impressive if I wanted to survive in rooms that weren't built for me.
I was at Columbia by then. A kid pretending she wasn't a kid.
His father's retirement party was the first time Rodney spoke to me like a person.
Not like the kid in the corner. Not like the daughter of staff.
His mother was pulling friends aside, his father was making speeches, my mother was scanning the room like she was mentally arranging everyone into categories of usefulness.
And I was at the bar putting fruit onto a plate, trying to be helpful because I didn't know what else to do with my hands.
Rodney appeared beside me like he belonged anywhere.
He leaned in and said something stupid about the fruit-something like, "I've never seen someone be so meticulous when it comes to picking up fruit."
I laughed like it was the funniest thing in the world.
It was awkward. I was awkward. I couldn't look at him directly. I could feel the weight of ten years between us like a wall I wasn't supposed to climb.
But he stayed.
He stayed with me for most of the party. Like I was interesting. Like I wasn't just background noise.
When my mom was ready to leave, Rodney walked me to the door and asked for my number as casually as if he asked girls for their number every day.
I gave it to him with fingers that didn't shake.
And the eight-year-old inside me-stupid, starry-eyed, so sure this meant something-came alive again.
My throat tightens in the shower.
Because the truth is... it did mean something.
Not in the romantic way I believed then. Not in the fairytale way I told myself as I stared at my phone waiting for him to text.
It meant he had chosen me.
And when a man like Rodney chooses you, it feels like winning.
Until you realize you were never playing the same game.
I press my palms to my eyes, wiping away tears, trying to breathe.
In.
Out.
I date him privately for months. That part comes back in flashes-late-night dinners, secret entrances, the way he'd hold my hand in the car but drop it the second we stepped out in public. The way he always decided where we went, what I wore, how I spoke.
He proposed fast. Too fast. Like he was locking something down.
By the time I was married, the world had already started calling me lucky.
By the time I was twenty-one, I understood that luck doesn't bruise your skin.
I sit up abruptly as if the thought itself burns.
The first time he put his hands on me, I didn't even understand what was happening until it was over.
I'd gone out with Reese. Halloween. I'd just turned twenty-one and I wanted-just once-to be in a bar full of people my age without feeling like I was someone's property on display.
Rodney said it was fine.
Then he showed up anyway, eyes dark, jaw tight, wearing that calm expression he wears when he's about to do something cruel.
The shove happened so fast my drink sloshed onto my wrist. The shock was worse than the pain. I remember staring at him like I was waiting for someone to tell me it was a prank.
It wasn't.
He apologized later. Of course he did.
He promised it would never happen again.
A year went by.
Then four months.
Then a month.
Then a week.
Then a day.
Each time, the apology got smoother. Each time, the violence got easier.
And each time, I got better at hiding it.
Better at smiling.
Better at wearing long sleeves.
Better at being President-Elect Housner's poised, supportive wife.
The water starts to cool but I don't move to adjust it. I don't move at all.
Because the part that seals my throat shut isn't even Rodney.
It's my mother.
Her diagnosis had been a sentence. Not for her-she fought like hell-but for me. Because the day she got sick, my options shrank into something ugly and practical.
Chemo. Rent. Caregivers. Bills that didn't care how badly I wanted freedom.
My mother had no savings. She'd spent her whole life taking care of other people's worlds and never building her own safety net. She'd been proud of it too, like being indispensable was the same thing as being secure.
When I tried to leave Rodney for real, I lasted three days.
Three days of breathing like a human again.
Three days of silence.
Then he showed up crying, begging, promising, swearing he'd change.
And I looked at my mother's medical statements.
And I stayed.
I made a vow I didn't say out loud.
As long as my mother still had breath in her body, I would take whatever life threw at me.
The minute she took her last breath-
I would be gone.
The shower water turns lukewarm. My skin is goosebumped.
I force myself to stand. I force my legs to work. I grab a towel and press it to my face, blotting gently like I'm erasing evidence. I wrap it around my body and step out, dripping onto the mat.
I look in the mirror.
My eyes are red, but my face is already settling back into neutral. My mouth relaxes into its usual calm line.
Poker face.
I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I do the things that make me look like a woman who isn't breaking.
Then I put on a matching pajama set-soft fabric, pretty enough to feel like I'm taking care of myself, structured enough to feel like armor. I pull my hair into a low bun.
By the time I leave the bathroom, I look like myself again.
Or at least the version of myself the world I wanted to see.
I walk downstairs, through the silent house, and step out into the backyard where the night air is cool and real.
I inhale.
And my phone starts ringing.
FaceTime from Bianca.
I answer and Bianca's face fills the screen before I can even fully lift the phone.
She's in bed. California is three hours behind, and Bianca runs on a schedule that makes sense for someone who actually sleeps. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun, glasses on, cheeks flushed like she's been crying or holding her breath. The glow from her laptop casts a soft light over her skin.
The second she sees me, her lips part.
And her eyes fill.
"Naomi..." she whispers like my name is fragile.
I angle the camera higher so she can't see the way my hands are gripping the phone. I keep my expression calm, my voice lighter than it feels.
"Hey, Bee."
Her face crumples instantly. Bianca Price has never known how to hide anything-not her joy, not her fear, not her love. It's why people cling to her. It's why I do.