The Wife Upstairs(21)

My house.

I make myself another cup of coffee, and carry it back upstairs to the massive en suite, my favorite part of the house so far.

Like nearly everything else here, the bathroom is oversized, but not overwhelming. Bea’s stamp is here, too, of course. Had Eddie designed this room, I think it would probably be sleeker, more modern. Glass and steel and subway tile. Instead, it’s marble and copper with a tile floor with a mosaic of—shocker—a magnolia in the center.

I scuff my bare toe against one of the dark green leaves before making my way to the tub.

We had a bathtub in the apartment, but I’d have to be high to actually take a bath in it. Not only is it cramped and stained with black mold in the corners, but the thought of my naked body sitting where John takes a shower? Too horrible to contemplate. No, I’ve always taken the world’s fastest showers, cringing every time the shower curtain touches me.

I fucking deserve this bathtub.

Sitting on the edge, I lean forward and turn on the hot tap, coffee cup still in one hand as I test the water with the fingers of the other.

I’ll get to take a bath in here every day now, forever. This is how I’ll spend my mornings. No more drive from Center Point.

No more dog-walking.

And once I’m done with today’s soak, I’ll get dressed and drive over to that dingy little apartment before putting it behind me and never looking back.



* * *



I take what Eddie calls “the sensible car,” a Mercedes SUV, and make my way from the shady enclaves of Mountain Brook to the strip malls and ugly apartment complexes of my old home.

It feels strange, parking such a nice car in the space where I used to park my beat-up Hyundai, and stranger still to walk up the concrete steps in my new leather sandals, the clack of my heels loud enough to make me flinch.

Number 234 looks even dingier somehow, and I dig my keys out of my purse.

But when I put the key in, I realize the door is unlocked, and I frown as I step inside. John’s a moron, but he’s not the type to be this careless.

And then I realize it’s me who’s the careless one because I should’ve called the church before I came here this morning, should’ve made sure John had actually gone into work and wouldn’t be doing what he is currently doing—namely, sitting on the couch with my afghan draped over him, watching boring morning television.

“She returns,” he says around a mouthful of cereal. He could eat cereal for every meal, I think, always the cheap, sugary shit they make for kids. Never brand names, so things like “Fruity Ohs” and “Sugar Flakes.” Whatever he’s shoveling into his mouth now has turned the milk a muddy gray, and I don’t even bother to hide my disgust as I ask, “Shouldn’t you be at the church?”

John shrugs, his eyes still on the TV. “Day off.”

Great.

He turns to say more then, and his eyes go a little wide when he sees me. “What are you wearing?”

I want to make some kind of joke about saving those lines for his internet girlfriends, but that would prolong this interaction and that’s the last thing I need, so I just wave him off and make for my room.

The door is open even though I distinctly remember closing it, and I press my lips together, irritated. But my bed is still made up, and when I open a drawer, all my underwear appears to be accounted for, so that’s a relief, at least.

Reaching under the bed, I pull out my battered duffel bag, and have already unzipped it before I stop and look around.

It’s not like I didn’t know my room was deeply sad. No matter what I did, it always looked grubby and just a little institutional, almost like a cell.

But now, after two weeks living in Eddie’s house?

There is not a single thing I want to take with me.

I want to leave all of this—the dullness, the cheap fabrics, the frayed edges—behind.

More than that, really.

I want to set it all on fucking fire.

When I walk out of the bedroom, I’m not carrying anything. Not the duffel, which I’d shoved back under the bed. Not my underwear, which John was now welcome to be as pervy as he liked with. Not even the little trinkets and treasures I’d taken from all the houses in Thornfield Estates.

John turned off the TV, and he now faces me on the couch, my afghan still on his upraised knees. He’s smirking at me, probably because he’s expecting me to ask for the blanket, and he’s ready to say something that just skirts the line, something that’s supposed to make me wonder if he’s being gross or not (he is).

He can keep that blanket, too.

“I’m moving out,” I say without preamble, shoving my hands in my back pockets. “I should be all paid up on rent, so—”

“You can’t just leave.”

Anger sparks inside my chest, but, right on the heels of it, there’s something else.

Joy.

I am never going to look at this asshole’s face again. I’m never going to sleep in this depressing apartment or take a sad shower under trickling, lukewarm water. I’m never going to dig money out of my pocket to hand over to John Rivers ever again.

“And yet I am leaving. Wild.”

John’s eyes narrow. “You owe me two weeks’ notice,” he says, and now I laugh, tipping my head back.

“You’re not my landlord, John,” I say. “You’re just some sad little boy who thought I’d sleep with you if you let me stay here. And you overcharged me for rent.”