Page 4 of Somewhere Without You

Four

Now

Still, with a bit of wriggling and careful maneuvering, I managed to slip into it—strategically concealing the safety pins and the inch-wide gap where the zipper refused to close. One wrong move, and it would split. Embarrassing for the dress, but even more humiliating for me.

My honey-brown hair was swept into an elaborate updo.

Jackson had brought in a makeup artist named Anya to mask the bruises.

She didn’t flinch as she dabbed at the violet stains blooming over my eye and across my cheekbone, her brush moving with a quiet efficiency that made me wonder how many wives like me she’d painted over before.

You didn’t get hired for gigs like this unless you knew how to keep secrets.

I kept my face still, afraid that if I cracked the illusion Jackson had orchestrated, he wouldn’t hesitate to punish me later.

When Anya was done, I barely recognized myself. The foundation was thick, the eyeshadow garish. I couldn’t remember what I looked like anymore—barefaced or made up. Over time, my amber eyes had dimmed, and the freckles that once danced across my nose and cheeks had faded like stars at dawn.

Jackson used to love those freckles. Back when we were new, he’d name them like constellations, mapping them out with his fingers as we’d lie together in bed, our skin still hot from the fire we’d kindled out of passion and lust.

Now, he thought they made me look childish, and he no longer traced them like a galaxy he was once so eager to explore.

Outside, the driver laid on the horn as I made my way down the steps. I opened the car door, but the hem of my dress snagged on my heel. I stumbled, catching myself with a graceless sprawl against the pavement.

“Jesus Christ, Emily. We’re already late. Can you hurry the fuck up?”Jackson didn’t even look at me as I gathered myself and slid into the seat beside him.

“Sorry,”Imurmured, keeping my eyes forward while he sipped whatever dark poison swirled in his glass.

“I see you found my gift,”hesaid, tilting his head, letting the ice clink against his teeth.

“It’s beautiful.”I ran my fingers along the sequined fabric.“Thank you.”

He gave a tight nod.“And is it. . . comfortable?”

What he really meant was, Does it fit? Jackson was careful to never comment on my weight outright. He preferred veiled criticisms.

“Like a glove,”Isaid, forcing a polite smile and willing my makeup not to crack. But the truth was far from comfortable.

Since my mothers death, I couldn’t seem to keep my weight steady, but this was the heaviest I had ever been. When Jackson and I first met, I’d weighed around 160. These days, I hovered near 200, and he found a new way to remind me of it every day.

I’d tried everything to lose it—pills, workouts, starvation diets, kale for every meal. Even a desperate detox at a sketchy sauna that landed me in the hospital with severe dehydration. But nothing worked.

“Listen, about last night. . .”Jackson began.

I cut him off gently.“Nothing happened. I walked into the bathroom door.”

He nodded, slow and approving.“Yes. You did. Honestly, Em, you really should be more careful.”

My eyes flicked to the driver’s in the mirror as I turned to face Jackson.“It was an accident,”Isaidwith a bright, brittle smile.“I’ll be more careful next time.”

His hand found mine in my lap, giving it a soft squeeze.“You know I love you, right?”

I nodded, though the gesture felt hollow.“I love you too.”

The words were automatic now—reflexive. Like locking a door or checking the oven. I said them because I was supposed to. Because not saying them was dangerous.

The first time he hit me, I told myself it was a mistake. A flash of anger, a moment he couldn’t control. A misunderstanding.

The second time, I decided it was my fault. I’d pushed too hard, said the wrong thing, chosen the wrong moment.

By the third and fourth, my excuses began to fray. Each new bruise came wrapped in an apology and a vow to change—always tender, always temporary.

By the twentieth time, I’d stopped counting. I gave up the excuses and traded them in for acceptance instead. This was my life now. I just had to do better.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, broken only by the occasional clink of ice in Jackson’s glass and the low hum of the engine.

I kept my gaze on the road ahead, watching the streetlights blur past the tinted windows like ghosts.

My dress itched. The safety pins dug into my skin.

I was sweating, but I didn’t dare move too much.

Not now. Not with our carefully crafted illusion still intact.

The car eased to a stop, and Jackson reached over to tuck a curl behind my ear—one Anya had carefully arranged only hours ago.

Sometimes, I didn’t know which was worse—that I fell in love with someone who hurt me, or that I hated myself for it.