Chapter Seventeen

I didn’t go to Baron for nearly a week. He didn’t ask for me. It wasn’t purposeful or anything, or even really that unusual. It was nice to have a break, honestly. I didn’t really see Zevi either. Oh, I saw him on my way to and from work. But neither one of us did more than smile and wave. I hoped I hadn’t hurt him too badly, or weirded him out. 

On Friday, Baron called me while I was still at work. 

“I miss you,” he said.

“You miss your secretary and cook,” I said.

Instantly, I bit my tongue. Luckily, he just laughed. I didn’t mean it… Not really. It just popped out. 

“I miss the total package,” he said.

“Are you looking for an invitation?” I asked, clicking around on my screen.

“I guess I won’t be terribly entertaining or fun,” he said. “I have some catch up to do.”

Don’t you always? Are you ever fun?

“I miss you too,” I said. It was true– the quietude of both of us sitting at the dining room table. How heavy and warm his hands were. How he stirred the sugar in my coffee for me. How he kissed my cheek goodbye. “You don’t need to be fun or entertaining. Just come over and do some work. I’ll make dinner.”

“Can you make meatloaf for me again?” he asked, with an interestingly wheedling tone he’d never used before.

“Sure,” I said. 

I had two thoughts in a row that I hated myself for. First– he’ll want mashed potatoes to go with that, what can I eat? And right afterward; I’ll have to lose weight for the wedding. 

“I’ll see you later,” he said, hanging up. 

I heard his car in the drive and went to the door for him because I knew he liked that. Wiping my hands on the towel flung over my shoulder. 

“Good evening, Elsbetta,” he said, kissing my cheek and detouring toward the table. 

“Not long until dinner,” I said. 

He glanced up at me as he was unpacking his briefcase.

“Oh?”

“Mhmm,” I said. 

“Huh,” he grunted. 

I brought out dinner not too long afterward. He lit the candle between us, cleaning up his work and snapped open his napkin, smiling at me. 

“Watching your weight?” he asked, eyebrow cocked at my plate. I just hadn’t put any of the mashed potatoes on mine. Half the meat, double the green beans. I hated how tired I felt after making ‘Baron’ meals instead of ‘Betta’ meals.

“No, I–” I started to say.

“Good,” he said, cutting meatloaf and sliding it into the potatoes. “You’re almost a little thin. Especially once you’re my wife, I’d hate for anyone to say I wasn’t taking good care of you.” 

I could tell that the last line was joking. 

“Were you married before?” I asked, eating a forkful of green beans right afterward.

He laughed, wiped his mouth, looking at me.

“Still no contempt for you, Elsbetta,” he said, still chuckling. “This is just like you to not bother to do any background research on me.”

“Well?” I asked.

“Nearly,” he said, shrugging and taking another bite. 

“What does ‘nearly’ mean?” I asked.

“It means quite literally that it was a near thing. It didn’t happen. No, I wasn’t married previously, but had been wending my way there,” he said. Pushing my plate toward me. 

“Mm,” I said. 

“I have always been attracted to the wrong kind of women,” he said thoughtfully.

“Including me?” I asked.

“No,” he said, putting down his fork and brushing his fingertips across the back of my hand. I immediately let my fork drop with a clatter and grabbed his hand back. “You’re a good decision. You’re the right one.”

“Are you sure?” I asked breathlessly.

“What in life is sure?” he asked, shrugging and handing me back my fork. “Finish your dinner.” 

“Did you always go for crazy girls? Party girls? Freaks?” I asked, jokingly. 

I wasn’t jealous per se. But imagining the woman he almost married made me sickly curious. Wondering if it was her who left him. How remarkable she must have been for him to pay attention to her– especially when he was a younger man. Who could make him pause? 

“Do I seem like that would have ever enticed me?” he asked. I was glad to see he was playing along. 

“No,” I said. “But that would certainly be the ‘wrong kind of woman’ for you, at least.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, eyes rolling to the ceiling as he swallowed a bite and organized his thoughts. “I would say… Aggressive, demanding… Difficult women.”

“Is that what was wrong with her?” I asked.

“She simply had her own ambitions,” he said, shrugging. 

“So I’m not any of that?” I asked. Realizing he was just saying I was unambitious. Submissive. Facile. 

“No,” he said. “You’re a good woman. And we do good work together.”

“We” don’t do work together at all. There is no “together” about it. I do things for you, I thought uncomfortably. Bit my tongue, even though I hadn’t said it out loud. How dare I even have the thought? Wasn’t that the point? I believed in his work, so of course I did work for him. But why didn’t he see that it wasn’t ours?

“I don’t have to worry about you, Elsbetta,” he said, patting my hand again. “I never have to worry about you going astray. I never have to worry about where your focus is, where your priorities are. Don’t worry about being a good wife. I already know you will be. I wouldn’t waste my time on anything else.” 

I smiled at him. Internally begging for him to call me dear again. Say you love me! Oh god, say you’re sure! Because if you are, I can be! I can’t be sure for both of us, I can’t even be sure for me! Oh, please!

We finished dinner. I got up, did the dishes, and made coffee. Sliced him a piece of cake. Joined him back at the table. We worked for an hour. I stood up. He glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m tired, Baron,” I said. 

“All right,” he smiled, sighing. “Good evening, Elsbetta.” 

The weekend was surprisingly peaceful. I didn’t leave the house. I didn’t see anyone, I didn’t talk to anyone– not really. Zevi and I traded some silly texts back and forth. But I just spent the two days treating myself right. A bubble bath. Giving myself a pedicure. Baking cherry-orange scones. Some of which I set aside to bring to Zevi for breakfast on Monday. Catching up on chores. Barely opening my computer.

Mostly just lying around, drinking tea, eating fruit, reading novels. It felt good. I felt rested. Glad to be doing nothing much at all. 

On Monday, I was practically skipping to work. Plenty early. I’d have time to clean up after the weekend. Get Rachel organized. 

I went knocking on Zevi’s side door. Even though it was early, his truck was there. Once more, he leaned out of the second story window. I shook the little paper bag I had put his breakfast in at him. He held up a one moment finger at me. I listened to the thudthudthud of his falling steps down the stairs. 

“Goo-od morning,” he called. “Did you bring me breakfast?”

“You bettah believe it,” I said. 

“Oh-ho,” he said, doing finger-guns at me and grinning. “She’s finally in on the joke.”

“I am a big joke,” I said. 

“Ah, correction,” he said. “Beautiful piece of art.”

I rolled my eyes and handed him over the bag. He stuck his nose in and breathed deep. 

“Thanks,” he said. 

“You’re welcome,” I said, waving and about to move off.

“Did you do my favors?” he asked.

“Mostly,” I said sheepishly.

“Do it soon,” he said. 

It felt good to sort of pump the brakes on Baron. When he suggested dinner or lunch, I claimed busyness. Which was true. I was busy resetting myself. I wasn’t having anxiety dreams. Nor was I feeling that weepy self-hatred. 

Baron came to pick me up on Thursday for that christening. Once more, I was looking forward to that public appearance with him– it helped me feel solid. He opened the passenger door for me. He plucked at the bodice of my dress before letting his hand rest on my knee. 

“Pretty,” he said, backing out of the driveway.

I slid into the sensation– his hand on me. Of being unsure where, exactly, we were going. Of his simple, “pretty.” I kept glancing at him sideways. He looked so handsome. Black suit, white shirt. Knowing he’d wear something similar when we got married. As soon as he finished parking and we were out of the car, I reached for him. Left hand wrapped around his right forearm. Smiling up at him. He smiled back down at me. 

“Just right,” he said, leading us in. 

Again, getting the vague sensation that I was caught up in a tornado and thrown about. I recognized a few neighbors, of course. But this was his invitation– I was just a plus one. The parents were nobody I knew. He was invited because the father had played football on the team Baron captained back in high school. Once more getting that giggling panic that seemingly the rest of that season-winning team was here too.

Usually, I liked how I felt in the neighborhood. Like in a hammock– supported on all sides. Gently swaying, contained. Sometimes though… sometimes when I was out with Baron it felt more like being surrounded. Sort of that same prairie feeling. No human sounds, just cold stars. But right outside my door, a circle of wolves. Of course, I knew that absolutely wasn’t the case. No one wanted to devour me. There was no coordinated attack with him at the head of it. Sometimes, the weirdest things occurred to me. 

We sat in nearly the same pew we had the last time we were in this church. Not too long ago, for a wedding. The bride had invited Baron after he helped her when her little brother was about to go to prison. Running a reference letter campaign, getting her in contact with a good defense lawyer. It had helped, though he’d still gone to prison. I knew Baron was still in contact with him– and making sure he was doing his schooling while he was away. 

The bride had been very beautiful and kind. And actually seemed to be having a good time– no tantrums or stress from her. When Baron had leaned forward to kiss her cheek, she clung to his hand for a moment. I could just imagine what it was like, having him work for you when you were trying to save your brother. I wondered if the thought of romance had ever crossed either of their minds. To me, she seemed ‘right’ for him. Definitely wanting to be a wife. Apparently she worked, but planned to quit as soon as she got pregnant, which she, giggling, said she hoped was ‘real soon.’ Then I understood, glancing at the large gold cross on her neck. She might have been close to ‘right.’ Little, wifely, “unambitious” but not right enough. I wondered if she too had been vetted. 

He nudged me with his shoulder. When we were at things like this, he would lean into me, and then tuck his jaw against my ear to whisper to me. Usually just quick information or spotting. Like, “that guy used to be district judge,” “there’s Ted.” 

“Do you want all of this?” he whispered, mouth barely moving against my face. The closeness made me think of sitting on him and facing him in his lap, and I shivered. I watched his eye-rolling indication of the church. 

It was a lovely old place, certainly one of the older buildings in our neighborhood. It was particularly frothy and built up today. The baby looked like a confection. A great poof of lace around her face, in combination with the trailing gown, made her look like an overblown wedding cake. The lace theme continued in stiff wired swag all along the pews. Great sprays of fake white flowers were at the heads and bases of each of the pews. So big as to be an obstruction, I thought. 

In combination, all the pomp and circumstance, and the costuming of the priest, for such a little human, struck a chord of the absurd. I hadn’t been raised with this. 

“No,” I whispered back, grinning. “Just you and me.” 

He reached out, taking my folded hand from my lap and held it. Hiding my hand in his for the rest of the ceremony. 

When it ended, we made our way back to the car. The christening had been in the early afternoon, and the sun hadn’t even set yet. It was warmer than it had been in days and felt good. Sunshine on my shoulders easing the ache. If I stood outside for too long in this dress, I’d probably get sweaty, but now, it felt good.

He opened the door for me and then slung his jacket off his shoulders like a magic trick, handing it to me. I carefully folded it on my lap. Watching him walking around the hood of the car. Both tender feeling and aroused to see the spots of sweat on his shirt. Realizing that I associated sweat seen through his white button-ups with us having sex. He so rarely got entirely undressed. 

“Am I just bringing you home, dear?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” I agreed. I could go into work for a few hours, but Rachel had already effectively left for the day. She had a meeting somewhere and wasn’t expecting me back. 

“Will you stay?” I asked him.

“For a while, certainly,” he said, pulling out.

“Yes, just coffee,” I said. 

We drove in silence. He cranked the air conditioner, I ended up covering myself up in his jacket, cold in short-sleeves. Wondering how many yards of fabric I had wrapped around me. If I curled my feet under my thighs, I’d be totally covered. Getting that ditzy fright of feeling like Thumbelina.

He pulled up and followed me into the house, turning on the fan in the front room and sitting on my couch. I went and made coffee. Leaning on the counter in the kitchen while I waited for it to finish. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” I said, as I handed him his cup. 

He took a sip, nodding. Not in reaction to my statement, just in how I’d sugared his coffee. 

“In the future, when we have sex, we should only have sex when we know we have enough time to relax afterward. No rushing out right after hands are washed,” I said. 

Still standing but I could feel myself swaying, so I sat beside him. 

“I haven’t changed my mind about sleepovers,” he said, sipping again. “If you’re trying to move up the timeline for getting married, I wouldn’t say I’m unamenable.” 

“That’s not what I’m asking for, or what I meant,” I said. “I mean no more just fucking, and while I’m still dripping jizzum, you walking out the door.” 

“Elsbetta,” he said, blinking and putting down his cup. 

He stared at me. No doubt shocked by the language. There was a pretty good chance I never had said ‘jizzum’ aloud. But it felt right at the moment. And my voice hadn’t wavered. After he blinked twice more his face went that smooth way it did. I could tell he was going to try and silence me out. See what I’d say next. But I stayed quiet, too. 

“If this is about the other night,” he said softly, hand sliding across the cushion to rest in my lap. “You knew I had a meeting. You were aware and willing to indulge, knowing there was a time limit.”

“And now I’m saying I don’t want that again, so don’t suggest it,” I said. 

“I don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said.

“Some of your time,” I said. 

“You get more of me than anyone else in my life,” he said. 

“And it’s not enough,” I said. “Especially if we do something new sexually. I want to be able to talk about it. I want physical affection afterward. And so we should only have sex if we also have time afterward to talk and–”

“Sex is physical affection,” he said, cutting me off and picking up his glass again.

“Not for me,” I said. “I needed you the other night.”

“No, you didn’t. You were just needy. I won’t be interrupted because of a passing–”

“You could drop things for me, once,” I said. “I’ve dropped for you.”

“Believing in the cause is a good reason to drop things,” he said. 

I tucked my bottom lip between my teeth but released it. Took a breath through my nose.

“There’s a difference between ‘the cause’ and you. And there’s a difference between ‘the cause’ and me. And I think those things may have to be compartmentalized.”

“Grow up,” he said.

“My friends drop things when I need them–” I began to say.

“Rachel?” he asked sharply. 

I shrugged, palms toward the ceiling. He stirred his coffee by rolling the cup in his hands. 

“Is somebody pumping you with touchy-feely talk about after care or drops or something?” he suddenly asked. And there was definite scorn in his voice.

“I don’t know what that is,” I said impatiently. 

We fell silent. He finished his coffee. I was sort of impressed he hadn’t taken his hand from my lap. I hadn’t felt a twitch or shiver in his fingers. 

“I’m sorry that my high expectations have upset you,” he said softly. “You’re a good woman for me. I forget that some of the things I admire and appreciate about you are in direct contradiction to other things I would enjoy. For example, I favor you because you’re soft, you’re feminine, you’re tender, you’re quiet. I like those things sexually, too. I pushed you too hard to be what I want beyond that though. It’s all right, though. We’ll have plenty of time to practice.” 

I shifted. Wondering how he meant that. His “nasty little girl at home,” I guess. No matter how we experimented, what we found we liked together, I doubted that the basics would change. I’d never want to feel like a used thing again. I had compromised not sleeping together. I couldn’t compromise not having an embrace. I couldn’t compromise wanting to be wanted, not just… There. 

“All right,” he sighed, somewhat impatiently after the silence spread out and I hadn’t given him a response. I wondered if we’d always have these non-communication stand-offs. “We’ll make sure there’s buffer time. Or we have sex only when I’m coming over for dinner and to work. That’s a built-in buffer. But you understand that necessarily means we’ll be having less sex.” 

I bit my cheek briefly. That last line didn’t feel like him being practical, or that he was particularly disappointed. It felt like a punishment being handed down.

“That’s fine,” I said coolly. “‘I like to enjoy my sex’ so I’d rather have no sex than bad sex.” 

He chuckled, also sounding a little chilled.

“I’ll talk to you soon, Elsbetta,” he said. 

“Evenin’,” I said, walking him back to the door.