Damsel in the Dust

1

My hands shake, sending the plate I am holding tumbling back into the soapy water in the sink. I take a deep breath, willing my fingers to steady themselves.

Eyes closed. Deep breaths. It will pass, I tell myself, it will pass, it will pass...

A pair of hands on my shoulders make me jump. I fight back the urge to scream, and am grateful I am no longer holding the plate. The pads of the fingers dig into my shoulders, thumbs pressing into my back.

My hands are no longer trembling, but I have to fight to keep from crying out. Pins and needles work down my spine and I fight against those too. If I shiver, I might invite his fingers to dig deeper into my skin. I'm certain I'll have bruises anyway. I must be still. I must be calm. If I flinch, there's no telling what he might do.

"Good morning. Up early today," he breathes into my ear.

That voice, those lips so close, his hands on me, those things used to send shivers of anticipation across my body. Now I feel nothing. Only dread, growing like a tumor in the pit of my stomach.

"I was making breakfast," I tell him hoping my tone is light and willing my voice to stay strong, "I thought you'd want a good meal before you go."

I can't mess up anything this morning. One crack, one wrong move or slip in my words, and I'll ruin everything. In truth though, I haven't been sleeping well for weeks. I get agitated as I lay in bed, my skin crawling, mind racing, like I'm not in the right bed and just want to go home. Sometimes the feeling that I just need to get home to my own bed and then everything will be fine is so overwhelming I can't stay under the covers a second longer. Except this is my home. I have nowhere else to go. So I get up early, sneaking out of that bed that doesn't feel like mine, and make up excuses for things I need to do around the house.

He releases me, and I remember not to breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thanks babe," he says.

I don't even flinch when he kisses my cheek. I just turn my attention back to the dishes while he makes his plate. I hear him sit at the hand-me-down table and then... silence. No fork scraping against ceramic, no crunch of bacon.

"Aren't you going to eat with me?" he asks. "You're going to miss having me around the next two weeks."

I turn and give him a small smile before making a tiny plate for myself. I've already eaten and had been hoping to be outside doing chores when he woke up. I should have known better. He wasn't going to let that slide today.

"That's it?" he says when he sees my plate, "You're going to wither away without me here. I'll ask Christian to stop in on you, make sure my girl is taken care of."

"You don't have to do that," I protest, nibbling a piece of bacon, "it's just that I already ate and -"

His face darkens, and I know my next words are crucial.

"I - I just wanted to get some of the outside work done so you could relax, focus on your trip this morning."

He considers me for a moment, those piercing blue eyes searching for the lie. I used to think he was peering into my soul with that gaze, seeing the true me. Now it feels like he's flaying me open, looking for the rotten parts of me. I'm afraid he'll find them every time.

He drops his eyes to his plate and shovels in a forkful of eggs. My answer was enough.

"You know all I want is to spend my last morning with my girl," he chides.

He reaches across the table for my hand and I know better than to pull away. He's staring at me again and it's taking every ounce of self-control I possess not to break eye contact. If I look away, he'll know.

"Maybe I should cancel," he says.

"No!" My answer is hasty, and I frantically try to cover it up. "No, babe, you can't. This opportunity might not come again. Do you really want to pass it up?"

"What about you though?" he asks. "What are you going to do without me for the next two weeks?"

I've spent the last month dreaming up things I could do with these two weeks to myself. Ever since Shawn came home and announced the warehouse was sending him to corporate for some sort of training, all I could picture was myself, blissfully alone for the first time in a year. I had an aunt in the city I thought I might visit, too. I hadn't seen her since before I'd moved in with Shawn, even though I used to spend long weekends sipping tea with her in her sunroom, watching her dogs romp in the yard, not a care in the world.

Of course, I can't say these things to him.

"I have our place to take care of. And my man to miss," I try a sweet smile. I've hit my stride, no longer choking on the lies that start rolling off my tongue. "Don't worry about me. This is huge for you. For us."

He squeezes my hand. "Show me how much you'll miss me."

He stands, tugging me up too, pulling me to him. His plate is clean, mine is forgotten. His lips are on mine and I respond mechanically. I wonder if there's still a spark anywhere, any trace at all of the feelings I used to have for him. If there are, I can't find any.

Shawn growls, pressing me against the table, where the edge digs deep into the backs of my legs. I push back, away from the pain, and he takes that as an insistence, picking me up and carrying me back to bed. I stare at the ceiling, tracing patterns in the nooks and crannies, trying to remember when they became so familiar. Probably the same time this bed became so foreign.

Later I hear him in the shower. I roll onto my side, watching the clock counting the minutes until he is gone and I am free.

He enters the room, hair wet, and steals a kiss. I fake another smile.

"Don't let any strangers in while I'm gone, alright? A bunch of the fields in the south dried up and there's a lot of beggars heading our way. You don't know what they'll take."

I nod, he continues.

"And don't go driving up to see your aunt. You know I don't like you making that drive alone."

I start to protest, but he silences me with a forceful, "I'm serious. We'll go when I get back if you really want."

I've heard this before. He always says things like that, 'if you really want', but we never do. He tells me it's because I don't actually want to. I don't know why he thinks that, but I know there is no use in arguing this point. Maybe I'll go visit and won't tell him.

I nod again.

"Chris will stop in a few times, make sure you're okay. If you need anything, just tell him."

I recognize this for what it really is: a threat, and insurance for him. Shawn knows I won't disobey if Chris will find out and rat on me. I am trapped, even without my captor. My silly daydreams about freedom start to fade and I have to fight back the trembling in my hands again.

"Did you hear me?" he demands.

"Yes. Yes. Chris will check in," I force the next words, "thank you."

He smiles, grabs his bag, and steals another kiss that lingers far too long before turning and heading toward the front door. I follow him to the kitchen, watching from the window as he climbs in his truck and backs down the driveway.

I stay there, frozen at the window, long past when I can no longer see the faded brown tailgate. Eventually, I make my way to the shower.

There isn't enough hot water. There never is.