The hangers clack as Bridget browses through the post–Valentine’s Day sale racks of corsets and garters at Victoria’s Secret. It’s not likely that anyone she knows will be here, but still it would be totally fucking embarrassing.
She chooses an all-black getup, extra small. Forget anything with bows, or the ones that resemble what a French maid might wear. Nor is she into any S and M games. Truth is, she’s not really into sex at all right now.
She doesn’t try anything on, and she doesn’t look at the cashier as she pays. Instead she glances at a mirror to her right. For a second she doesn’t recognize herself. About a week after she found out about all the shit Michael was into, she dyed her hair red and started wearing thick eyeliner and leather shoes that look like combat boots. The soft, innocent Bridget had disappeared.
At their two-bedroom rented home in West Roxbury, she puts the groceries in the kitchen, then goes up to the bedroom. The corset pushes her small, pale breasts together, making it seem as if she actually has cleavage. She fumbles trying to press the hooks of the garter belt onto the stockings. It takes ten minutes. Finished, she glances at herself, spins around, and likes the way her butt looks. She pulls on a pair of jeans and a sweater, then heads downstairs to make dinner—steaks and potatoes, Michael’s favorite.
“Something smells good,” Michael says when he opens the front door. He walks into the kitchen, but stays a few feet from her.
“Just dinner.” She smiles and opens the oven, pretending she has to check on something, because if she looks at him for one more second, she’ll call him a fucking asshole.
“For us?” he asks. Even though he’s six four, with scruffy hair and broad shoulders, he seems timid.
“Yep. For us.” She closes the oven door.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Nothing special. Just thought we could have dinner together.”
“That’s nice.”
She watches him, her big, burly work-boot guy, the man she thought she knew.
“It will be ready in five minutes. There’s a bottle of Jack over there. Can you pour us each a glass?” she asks.
She brings out the food as Michael places their drinks on the table. His movements are halting, as if he’s overthinking his manners. Another whiskey will smooth out the discomfort.
“This is real nice.” He sits and begins to cut his steak.
“Figured we needed it.” She glances into his eyes, which used to make her think of beaches and warm summer days.
He finishes everything. She has two bites, her stomach feeling tight and small, her appetite gone. She refills their drinks and downs hers, hoping a buzz will give her more courage.
“Not hungry?” he asks, looking at her plate.
“I guess I have other things on my mind.” She does her best impression of sultry.
“God, I’ve missed you.” He reaches over and runs his fingers through her hair.
She takes a deep breath and leans toward him. They kiss. His mouth tastes salty, and despite it all, a part of her is coming alive.
She tries to pull away. “You go ahead upstairs. I’ll take care of the dishes and meet you in bed.”
He doesn’t let her go. He keeps kissing her. She has to push hard against his chest to free herself from his grip. “I’ll be up in a sec,” she tells him.
“I love you so fucking much,” he says.
“Go, or I might change my mind.”
She takes the dishes into the kitchen, then drinks another shot of Jack, giving him enough time to undress and get under the covers. She’s tipsier than she’d planned to be. In the bathroom, as she hangs her jeans and sweater on the door hook, she sways and bumps into one of the cabinet drawers. In it, there’s a brand-new container of lubricant. Michael brought it home over a year ago last Valentine’s Day. That, a pair of edible underpants, and a vibrator. They finished making love before any of the packages were touched. Now she opens the tube and puts in a dab.
It’s only three steps from the bathroom to the bedroom, yet it seems like a long trek across a hot-tar parking lot. She tells herself she can do this, then breathes deeply and walks into the room.
“Get over here,” he says.
“We’re going to take our time,” she tells him. “Roll over.”
He does as he’s told. She climbs on top of him, her knees pressing against his muscular upper body, as she massages his shoulders.
He tries to turn, to reach for her. She pushes his hand away. “No, not yet.”
“You’re wet,” he whispers. “Just let me look at you.”
“You’ll have plenty of time for that.”
She teases him, keeps him on the edge, does all the things he likes. Finally, he’s on top of her and she knows he can’t last much longer. She wraps her legs around his waist and holds him close. She didn’t need the lubricant. She hates that she’s still so attracted to him, that even now she wants him.
“Bridge, I love you. I fucking love you.”
She turns her head. If she looks into his eyes, she’ll be right back to square one, feeling hurt, in love, used, and betrayed.
He holds her. “You’re amazing,” he says.
She slips out of bed and stands in front of him, hand on her hip. “Take a long look, because that was the last time you’ll ever get to fuck me. Go after some of those sluts you chat with online. See if they’re half as good.”
“Is this a joke?” he asks.
“Absolutely not.” She feels strong, victorious.
He stares at her, baffled. Then sits up, reaches out to her. She backs up.
“I want you to remember what you took for granted,” she tells him.
“But I never took you for granted. It was never that.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought more before you did all that shit.” The victory is exhilarating.
He stands. “Bridge … please.”
“You never get to touch me again. Get out of my bedroom.” She picks up a gold chain on her bureau. It slips, like water, through her fingers, and she feels herself break. Just a little.
“Can we talk?” he asks.
“There’s nothing more to talk about.” The necklace drops. The victory fades. She breaks a little more. “Go.”
“If you didn’t want me, you wouldn’t have been so wet,” he says.
“I had help.”
His face turns hard. “You’re messed up.”
“Oh, really. That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” She keeps her head high.
“Bridge, if that was all an act, that’s a sick fucking thing to do.” He pulls the sheet from the bed and wraps it around his waist.
“You’re one to talk about sick fucking things to do.”
“I have an addiction. I’m working on it. I didn’t go out of my way to—”
“To what? Lie, deceive, and manipulate? Yes, actually, you did.”
He glares, then turns to leave.
After he’s gone, she rips off her corset and stockings and puts on sweat pants and a T-shirt. She tries to convince herself that this worked, that she won, that he’ll know what he’s missing every time he sees her. But she doesn’t feel victorious. She feels dirty and sad and, worst of all, lonely.