Love's Paradox

Chapter 2: Momma's Boy to the Core

Honestly, Ian deserved to be punched. Part of me is ripe with jealousy that I wasn't the one to reap that reward. Even though Ian wears asshole like cheap cologne, I can't fault him completely. His upbringing in a conservative, southern Baptist home with a father who verbally abuses his wife like she's scum on the floor is partially to blame. Mr. and Mrs. Stevenson were the epitome of the viciously stereotypical 1950s idea that women belong in the kitchen and that hey, wife, you should have a vacuum for Christmas. Even worse is the fact that Mrs. Stevenson is proud of being treated this way and uses it as an excuse to berate any young lady who dare question her place in the home. But in the end, it was Ian who quashed our relationship, not his family.

When I'd first met Ian, he was the older, mysterious guy all the other girls swooned after. But he'd picked me out of the bunch. I used to think his possessive, controlling attitude was cute. That his jealous nature meant he cared. It made me feel wanted and special and needed—all the things a young girl believes is "love." Even up to the months before we'd broken up, I'd pictured our perfect wedding and life.

Oh, how wrong I'd been.

I remember when my naivety started to wash away. It was a few months after Ian and I had moved in together at the end of October last year. For weeks I'd planned what I would cook for Thanksgiving. I'd invite both our families, we'd sit down to a lovely meal that I cooked and enjoy each other's company. It would be perfect.

"I'm going to make my dad's famous caramel pie," I told Mrs. Stevenson when I came by after work to tell her about my plans for Thanksgiving, nearly exploding with delight. I'd called Ian to tell him I'd be stopping by before I headed home, and he'd promised that his mom would be on board with the plan.

"Oh, no. You shouldn't worry about that," Mrs. Stevenson replied, shaking her head.

"Are you offering to making it for me? That's so sweet," I said, smiling. "That'll give me more time to work on the turkey. My mom taught me this way of cooking it that makes it juicy all the way to the center. She uses lime soda."

Mrs. Stevenson made a noise of disapproval as she brushed her hands over her skirt as if trying to iron out invisible wrinkles. She stared down her nose at me, and her judgmental expression wiped the smile from my face. She was doing that passive-aggressive thing she used on her son. She'd act upset or angry or say something condemning and then make Ian work to figure out why.

"What?" I asked. I didn't want to play any games.

"You know, dear, there's just not enough room in your tiny duplex kitchen to make an entire Thanksgiving meal," she said with a satisfied smirk.

"That's okay," I said, unperturbed. I was determined to make this dinner work, and no one—not even Momma Stevenson—would stop me. "I can take care of the baked beans, turkey, pumpkin pie, and green bean casserole. My parents can bring over the caramel pie and homemade mashed potatoes, which both are to die for."

"I bet," Mrs. Stevenson muttered.

I pretended not to hear. "What would you like to bring?"

"What I'm trying to say is that we're going to have Thanksgiving dinner here. At my house."

"Oh." My shoulders slumped in disappointment, but then I brightened. Two could play this game. "No biggie. I can make dinner here instead."

Mrs. Stevenson tried to hide the horror that spasmed across her face, but I saw it all the same. "You misunderstand, Rae. I will be cooking Thanksgiving dinner."

"But—" I spluttered.

"It was Ian's idea. Didn't he tell you?"

Resentment surged through me. He'd promised she'd be on board with this. He knew how much this dinner meant to me—how I'd been planning it for weeks. My mom had sent me all her famous recipes, excited about spending Thanksgiving at my new duplex. For years before I'd helped my mom cook for our family. It was our holiday—the one where we bonded and told each other how thankful we were for the other. Ian knew this, yet he was willing to snatch that all away without asking me? Without considering how hurtful it would be when I found out from his mother that he didn't want me to cook for him?

"Mrs. Stevenson," I protested, "this is mine and Ian's first holiday since we moved in together, and I want to cook for him."

Her lip curled in disgust. She'd wailed for a month after she'd found out we were moving in together pre-marriage, but Ian lived by his penis. She hated me twice as much after I'd won that battle, and her nose always crinkled whenever I mentioned the fact we were living in sin.

"If you're worried about my cooking skills, might I remind you that I studied culinary arts at WKU and catered to hundreds of faculty, staff, and student events my freshman and sophomore years."

She leered at my indignant objections and patted my knee like I was such a funny little girl playing with fake teapots and biscuits. "Catering isn't the same as cooking Thanksgiving dinner, dear."

"Every year I volunteer for the local Special Olympics by cooking a giant meal for all the families," I sputtered, forcing myself not to shake her. "I even won a full ride to one of the best culinary schools in France that I shot down to stay with your son, Mrs. Stevenson."

"Maybe you should discuss this with Ian. He's the one who asked me to cook Thanksgiving dinner," she said while gesturing to her ridiculously large kitchen with gleaming granite counters. I swear Mr. Clean's reflection winked at me from the fridge's spotless surface.

I stood and left the Stevenson's house without saying another word. Fury had taken root and propelled me out the door. Ian had always treated my independence as if it were a disease, even if he boasted about his own with self-indulgent pride. Just another thing he learned from his conservative family. When women are independent, they're just misguided souls. Of course, I was talking about the man who invited his parents to come along with us without ever asking my permission. His parents had tagged along on several dates over the years, even on one of the romantic getaways I'd planned. I'd handled it all with grace and dignity. But him trying to steal our first Thanksgiving dinner by asking his mom to cook instead? That was the last straw.

I squealed tires all the way back to our shiny new duplex. Ian's Jeep Wrangler was parked outside. I threw my car in park and slammed the door behind me, stomping all the way up the front steps.

Inside, Ian glanced up with his most enthralling smile on full display when I entered the living room, but it vanished the moment he saw my murderous glare. "You want to have Thanksgiving at your parents' house?" I snapped, throwing down my purse.

"Calm down," he said, not even bothered over the fact that I was bothered. "I just want a home-cooked meal."

"And you think I can't provide that?" My hands were balled into fists, and I was near my breaking point.

"You're just not my mom, Rae. Don't take offense. No one can replace her."

That was it. Something inside me shattered, and a scream of rage tore up my throat. "Your mom's been invading our lives for years. Years! And don't act like that isn't true," I shouted when he started shaking his head in denial. "You know it is. Remember that time she camped outside your dorm room when she discovered I could stay the night unsupervised? Or the time she booked a hotel room next to ours in Florida and forced me to sleep in her room? Or when she brought over twin beds when we first moved in so we'd have to sleep separately? Or the time—"

"I get it, Rae." Ian waved a hand at me. "Jeez. Stop being such a selfish little cunt."

My jaw dropped. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been surprised.

I stormed into our bedroom and locked myself in the master bathroom, and for the rest of the day I was in tears. Ian sat outside the door, bugging me to "get over it" and "to come out already" and "to quit acting like a child."

In the end, I spent Thanksgiving with my family, and he with his. Honestly, I preferred it that way. Ian always called my family—my parents in particular—ignorant hicks, even though both of them were professors at WKU.

Right before Christmas, things had taken an even worse, more dreadful turn, and I'd left with a bruised body and soul.