Page 7 of Dirty Husband

He needs me as his wife.

But why? He's been sober for a year. He's had every chance to approach me, apologize, ask me to dinner.

Why does he suddenly need to marry me?

* * *

The secondI'm finished with work, I take the subway to the hospital.

It's the tail end of visiting hours, but no one stops me from heading straight to my father's room.

He looks up at me with his usual weary smile. "Jasmine, sweetheart, don't worry about me." He calls me by my American name now. He has since I started dating Shep.

"I'm not worried," I lie.

He shakes his headof course, you are.

I set my bag on the scratchy green chair. Lay my raincoat over it. It's May now. The weather is getting warmer, but the sky is unpredictable. Sometimes, the grey clouds fade to sun. Other times, they break into heavy rain.

"You're working too hard," he says.

"Only as hard as you would."

"It's seven. Have you eaten dinner?"

"I'll eat at home."

"You're getting too thin." He motions toward the cafeteria. "You need to eat."

"Or I won't attract a good husband?"

He smiles softly. "Your mother would say that."

"She'd be delusional. Everyone in New York is thin."

"Men like a little something to hold on to."

"We are not discussing this." I appreciate the intent—I need to eat eventually—but I don't need anyone's opinion on my body. Especially not my father's. Ew.

He shifts tactics. "I understand. Your standards are high now. She was such a great cook." His eyes get fuzzy. Far away. Like he's lost in dreams of Mom. "Nothing compares to her food. But you have that in you too. You can learn. If you cook. And eat."

I choke back a memory. Thinking of Mom makes Dad happy. It's not the same for me. It hurts too much. "Do you have enough to read?"

I look over the sparse room. It's decorated as much as the hospital will allow—the gold Buddha Mom kept on her dresser, a single framed photo of our family, a stack of trashy historical thrillers—but it's still sterile.

Free of warmth.

"Too much." He motions to the book sitting on his tray. "Mariah brought this yesterday." He calls the nurse by her first name. "Her husband spoke highly of the author. Said he's the next Dan Brown." He shakes his headin his dreams.

"Nothing about Da Vinci?"

He laughs and goes into one of his speeches about the wit and majesty ofAngels and Demons.

It's as familiar as the taste of my morning tea. Funny, because I've heard it so many times. Because it's everything Dad believes.

I laugh along with him. Then we move into the great Dan Brown's next masterpiece.

For a while, I forget about the day, about Shepard's strange offer, the reason why we're having this conversation in the hospital.