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I don’t know if I believe he’s had a “parade of women”, and I don’t know why that thought tweaks me. He’s been obsessed with me for years, but here he is running through a train of women? Is he going to cheat on me when we’re married? Is he one of those kinds of men who needs Novelty Pussy? A man who can’t be faithful? Not that I want all his attention focused on me forever. Maybe it would be better if he got bored with me and turned his attentions elsewhere. It’s not like I want to fuck him. I shudder again thinking about what he must have grown into.
Maybe once he’s had me, he’ll get bored, like the kid who demands a new toy for months then plays with it for half a day. I cringe at this entire line of thinking. As though I want to be trapped in a forced marriage where the guy doesn’t even want me. Is this what my life has come to? Only hoping for a future in which my husband leaves me alone?
And again, assuming he’s even telling the truth about any of this. If he’s as awkward as he was when we were kids, there’s no way he’s had some easy time getting laid—more likely he’s been holed up in his basement with porn. He’s just trying to rile me up.
But part of me believes him, and I’m even more unsettled by the idea of a very sexually experienced Aidan up next to my complete lack of experience. I try to ignore the potential number of women he may have bedded and how much I do not want to be compared to them by a man I hate and instead focus on the rest of his text, the part about his feelings not being returned.
Then why? I finally reply. Why do this if you know I don’t feel the same way?
The three blinking dots drive me mad as I wait for the reply.
Because you will. In time.
He’s just as delusional as he ever was, but I’m wise enough this time not to actually type that.
I don’t text him back, and he leaves it there as well, but the lingering thought in my mind is… and if I don’t? If I can’t make myself feel anything for you, what happens to me then?
“Are you all right in there?” Stella asks from the other side of the door.
“Yes. I’m sorry I was on the phone. I’ll be right out.”
I carefully put on the Dior dress. There’s a zipper down the back and then silk-covered buttons that cover the zipper line. But they are decorative only, and don’t affect the fit.
It’s even more perfect on than it looked on the hanger. I pick this moment to start crying. The cake is so perfect. The dress is so perfect. I don’t know about the flowers yet, but judging from the floral shop my house has turned into, Aidan has that on lock, too. Why is all of this so perfect, except for the groom? Why can’t it be someone I want to marry? Someone I love? Instead of this awful man who won’t let me go, even though he’s never had and never can have my heart.
I hurriedly wipe my eyes, careful not to touch the dress again with my tear soaked hands.
“That’s the one,” Erica says as soon as I step out into the main part of the shop.
“Yes,” my mother agrees, the other dresses she insisted I try on clearly forgotten in the shadow of this one perfect dress.
Everyone just stares at me. My guards, the shop workers, Stella, my mother, and Erica.
Finally Stella breaks the spell. “It’s just about perfect.” She walks around me looking for anything she can tweak. “But you must come in for a fitting three weeks before the wedding just to be sure. And try not to gain or lose any weight between now and then. No stress eating,” she admonishes, and I can tell just by her tone that she’s had more than one bridal emergency from that situation.
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Well, then. If you’re sure you don’t want to try anything else on, I’ll get this all sorted for you and will give you a call when it’s time for the final fitting. If you gain or lose any weight between now and then, call me immediately.”
I change back into my street clothes, and Stella gives me my boxed-up cake leftovers on my way out the door. And now I am one step closer to the fate I’ve given up on escaping.
Six
Maddie
April 15th.
* * *
Tax day. It’s like a death anniversary now. That one day of the year when something was taken away, your life irrevocably changed. It wasn’t April 15th specifically that we lost everything, but it’s the day that represents my father’s endless fuckups. He didn’t tell me just how much money he owed Aidan’s family, but if not for us losing everything, surely he could have paid. Or he could have sold something and paid. He at least could have made us less vulnerable to those who would take advantage of our weakened state.
Aidan swooped in at the point of our most extreme destitution, when not even the roof over our heads was secure anymore. But I know he was always coming for me, one way or another, and my father’s financial situation didn’t have a thing to do with it. I was crazy back when we were kids if I’d thought him being expelled would somehow magically end his sick obsession with me.
In the past two weeks I’ve been included in other wedding details. I thought I just had to get the dress, but our wedding guest list has been demanded. I have no one I want to invite, so I passed that task on to my parents. There’s no way I’m compiling a list of people to watch me being officially sold to Aidan. It’s bad enough it’s happening at all, but in front of an audience of people I’ve known for years? No. Am I supposed to invite all my sorority sisters?
The answer to this question is… yes, apparently.
My mother insisted we had to invite them. It would look weird if we didn’t. And the supreme thing at the top of my parents’ minds as they sell their daughter off to a local crime lord is that nothing can look “weird”. Because we wouldn’t want that. It’s only my entire life that’s over. I only have to sleep in the same bed as the creep who stalked me since we were six for the rest of my life. No big deal. Why would we care about anything other than what “looks weird” to the people from the country club?