Chapter 10 – Juliette
TEN
JULIETTE
“So who was the letter from? And who writes letters these days, anyway?”
We were back at the farm, standing next to each other in the kitchen while unpacking the groceries. Creed had splurged on two jars of Hellman’s. For back up, he’d said. Like there was a possibility of encountering a mayonnaise shortage.
“People who don’t have my phone number. It’s a…former colleague,” he said, putting away the stuff on the higher shelves.
“Like a Navy buddy?”
“Something like that. He wants to come for a visit.”
That gave me pause. “Like here? At the farm? To stay in the house?”
“Yeah, Jules,” he snapped. “A fucking visit. Didn’t you just say we should try and be more normal? This is normal. An old friend says he wants to come see me. Check out my situation, why not say yes?”
“Does he know you’re married?”
He snorted and looked over at me. “Do you know you’re married?”
His subtle, not so subtle, reminder that I was not performing my wifely duties.
Fuck. That.
“I’m saying, does he understand the situation? That you bought your wife at an auction for 50K and stole her house and her farm in the process. Because if not, he might pick up on the tension between us.”
He snapped his teeth shut and I could see the muscle in the back of his jaw working overtime.
Then he turned his head toward me and pinned me with his don’t fuck with me expression.
I was becoming very familiar with that expression. There were times I took it seriously and there were times I pushed him just to see what he would do.
This was not a time to push.
He took a step in my direction and did that thing where he towered over me. I felt every single inch of our height difference in my neck as I looked up to meet his gaze.
“You know this sad, little, Disney princess act is only going to play for so long before it gets old.”
“It’s not an act. I’m Cinderfuckingrella over here. And in case you missed it, you’re the evil stepmom.”
“What were you going to do without me?”
“What do you mean?”
“What was the plan?” he asked. “Your dad was dead four months after I met him. I don’t meet him, he’s still dead in four months. What was your plan? Were you going to marry Pimplefuckingface from the hardware store?”
“No,” I said, sullenly. “Geesh, we only had one coffee date.”
“Then what? I’ve seen the accounting books. You didn’t have enough cash on hand to hire labor. Were you going to try and do it all yourself?”
“I was going to sell it!” I shouted, spreading my arms out wide. “Okay? All of it. The farming operation, all the equipment in the barn, the house. Everything.”
“And do what?” he pressed.
“I don’t know,” I said, truthfully. “Start my life. Go to school. Become a teacher or a nurse or something. A fucking social media influencer. The point is, it would have been my choice. Mine.”
“So do it,” he said, his finger in my face.
“You want to go to school, enroll in some classes online. See if you even like it. I’m not stopping you from doing anything you want to do.
Get that through your head, Jules. But I did help you plant a crop.
I am going to help you pull it out of the ground.
Nothing you would have been able to do on your own.
I’m saving your goddamn legacy. For my own reasons, yes, but also for you.
Because as much as you imagine how great life would be away from everything you’ve ever known, I’m here to tell you that’s the real fairy tale.
You have no idea what you want from life because your father kept you smothered.
So stop sulking and start doing something about it.
But I’m done listening to your little pity parties. ”
He stormed out then and my jaw dropped.
Pity parties? Pity parties!
The usurper was calling me out for being angry at what had been taken from me?
Although, he had a point. I wasn’t even sure if I would be good at school.
Lost in that thought, I didn’t realize he’d turned around and was still in the doorway.
“I’m writing Hank back. Telling him to come,” he said, stiffly. “You will be introduced as my wife and you will behave as such.”
“Or else, what?”
“Fuck around and find out.” Then he left.
I couldn’t help but wonder if I did fuck around if I might be punished with more orgasms.
Then I pushed that ridiculous thought aside and started to pull dinner together.
It was my turn to cook.
Later that night, I was sitting in the recliner and he was on the old couch that was too small for him while we watched some documentary on the finding and killing of Osama Bin Laden. He loved the non-fiction stuff and I could tolerate it, so it was a common pick of ours.
We hadn’t spoken over dinner. It wasn’t exactly intentional. I couldn’t tell if I was mad at him, or maybe a little disappointed with myself, that I hadn’t used these months after Herb had died to start really thinking about what came next for me. Planning for something. Anything.
Because the truest thing he might have ever said to me was that he wasn’t stopping me from doing anything. Yes, I was married, but I wasn’t exactly the prisoner I liked to refer to myself as.
“Hey,” he said, looking over at me. “Dinner was good tonight.”
It was good. I tried this new recipe I’d found online.
I was about to reply that anything was better than spaghetti every other night, but maybe, just maybe, I could put the sword down for a while.
“Thanks,” I said. “I saw it online and thought it might taste good. It was just a mustard sauce with chicken, but it turned out well.”
“Hmm,” he said, his one arm behind his head, the other on his chest, his legs stretched out. His feet dangled over the armrest of the couch. When he fell asleep, he usually had to curl up his knees.
“You know, now that I think about it, I’m not all that attached to the couch,” I said. “If you wanted to replace it.”
His eyes pinned me where I sat. “You said it was the only thing your father cared about.”
I winced. “Yeah, but I didn’t care about him at all, really, so…”
“You were fucking with me.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged.
He sighed but didn’t say anything. Then he swung his legs off the couch and motioned like he was going to his room. But he paused the show, which meant he wasn’t done watching it. So he wasn’t going to bed. Instead he left the living room and a few seconds later came back with a brown bag.
“I was going to give you this earlier, but you pissed me off.”
“Yeah, me?” I was putting down the sword. I wasn’t putting it back in its sheath.
He pushed the bag in my direction and I took it. Reaching inside, I had zero thoughts on what it was going to be, but when I pulled it out of the bag, I immediately recognized the packaging.
Sleek. Whitish, rectangular box. Two halves that slid apart like a dream.
“Are you shitting me?” I whispered.
“You might be the last person in America to have one.”
It was a phone. An iPhone. It felt like he was handing me the world. Unlimited access to the internet was one thing, but to have it in my hand. Wherever I went? Whenever I wanted.
It was already on and fully charged. Programmed with my name on the display.
Except my name was Jules.
“How?”
“What do you mean how? I ordered it and added you to my plan. I was going to surprise you with it, but then, like I said, you pissed me off. Only now I realize this might help…expose you to shit. See what captures your interest. The motherfucker is addictive so you’re limited to sixty minutes of screen time a day.
That’s not me controlling you, that’s me saving you.
I’ve got the same restriction. Trust me. ”
I looked up at him with his ugly face and dark, black eyes. Only I didn’t understand how I was feeling in this moment.
My chest was heaving, though. I bit down on my lip hard so I wouldn’t cry.
“Can I have any app I want?” Shit. My voice cracked.
“Yeah. Whatever.”
“Cool. What are the best dating apps?”
He looked at me then, so freaking aggravated…I couldn’t help it.
My straight face folded and I started to laugh and laugh until I was holding my sides together.
Until I didn’t know if I would ever stop.
“You think you’re funny?” he asked me in his stern voice.
“Yes,” I said, still laughing. “You should have seen your face.”
“I’m going to bed. Don’t finish that without me,” he said, pointing to the TV.
“I hear they get him,” I said. Yes, I’d been isolated by Herb. But I’d always found ways to learn things.
Things like dating apps.
He looked at the TV and his expression changed again. Serious, but not mean.
“Yeah. They got him.”
“What if you just tell him I have sleep apnea and you can’t stand the sound of my snoring?” I told Creed.
It had been a few days since he’d told me that his friend Hank was coming to visit, and now it was confirmed, (still by letter, which I found to be strange), that he’d be here in a few days.
We were walking down the rows of our neatly planted beets checking for any sprouts.
After planting, it was sort of like watching paint dry. There was nothing to do until the sprouts popped up, when at least then, you could actively be checking for insect infestation. I’d told Creed this, but like any nervous farmer, especially in his first season, he wanted to see for himself.
So we walked beside the rows, picked up the occasional rock that might interfere with our harvesting later, and at least he felt like he was actively contributing toward the beets’ continued success.
He glared at me.
“What?” I asked. “Snoring is a thing. Some people can’t sleep with their partners because of it and we have a whole extra room.”
It was the room I’d stayed in when Herb was dying but had refused to stay in since, because I’d wanted as much distance from Creed as I could manage. But now I was very grateful for the fact that we had a three bedroom house.
“We talked about this, Jules.”
“You talked about it, Creed,” I reminded him. “Look, I will agree to pretend to be your wife-”
“You are my wife.”
“Whatever,” I blew that off. “What I’m saying is, I’ll smile, I’ll make sure the house looks nice. I’ll even fucking hold your hand or whatever real married couples do-”
“Married couples sleep in the same bed,” he said. “We don’t share a room and it’s going to look like we’re not serious.”
“We’re not.”
“We are. I got a marriage certificate with your name and my name on it.”
“Yeah, but no rings,” I pointed out.
He stopped bending over to hand pull weeds and glanced at me. “You want a ring?”
“No,” I huffed.
I didn’t.
Want a ring.
That would be ridiculous. Because we weren’t staying married. And we were farmers. Farmers didn’t wear jewelry. Although, he hadn’t gotten the memo because he never took off his chain.
So that’s what I said.
“Farmers don’t wear jewelry. No rings.”
He shrugged like he accepted that rule. “Fine. Then we’re agreed. For a few days, you stay with me in my room as my wife. We’ll put Tank in your room upstairs.”
“Why not in the guest room next to ours?”
“He’ll have his own space and bathroom upstairs. Plus, a little distance.”
“Fine. As long as you understand I’m sleeping on the floor.”
“Baby, I don’t care if you sleep on the window sill. He doesn’t need to know what happens behind closed doors, but you need to get all of your shit out of your bedroom and make it look like you live in my room.”
“Do you have room for my stuff in your closet?”
He pointed to his day in and day out uniform of jeans and t-shirts. When it was cold, the t-shirts were long. When it was warmer, they were shorter. That was his only variation.
“Do you even own a coat?”
“I’m good,” he said, in that way that ended most lines of inquiry.
But just because I liked to get the last word in when I could, I said, “What if we just tell him I have my period? No dude probably wants to sleep with his girl when she’s on the rag.”
He didn’t answer. Just shook his head and continued his path up and down the rows.
A few days later Tank showed up, and I started to understand that my husband…well, he wasn’t just some guy in the Navy.