Blue-Eyed Devil (Travis Family #2)(18)

"It's hard even for grown-ups to understand." I pressed my sleeve over my wet eyes. "I don't know whether I'll drive or fly down. I'll call you after I talk to Nick .and figure things out."

"Okay, Haven. Bye."

Nick came into the apartment, setting down his briefcase. "What's up?" he asked, frowning as he came to me.

"My aunt Gretchen died," I said, and started to cry again.

Nick came to sit beside me on the sofa, and put his arm around me. I nestled against his shoulder.

After a few minutes of consolation, Nick stood and went to the kitchen. He got a beer from the fridge. "I'm sorry, baby. I know this is tough for you. But it's probably a good thing that you can't go to the funeral."

I blinked in surprise. "I can go. If we don't have the money for a plane ticket, I can — "

"We only have one car." His voice changed. "I guess I'm supposed to sit in the apartment all weekend while you're in Houston?"

"Why don't you come with me?"

"I should have known you'd forget. We've got something going on this weekend, Marie." He looked at me hard, and I gave him a blank stare. "The company's annual crawfish boil, at the owner's house. Since this is my first year, there's no way I can miss it."

My eyes widened. "I . . . I . . . you want me to go to a crawfish boil instead of my aunt's funeral?"

"There's no choice. Jesus, Marie, do you want to cost me any chance of a promotion? I'm going to that crawfish boil, and I'm damn well not going to go alone. I need to have a wife there, and I need yon to make a good impression."

"I can't," I said, more bewildered than angry. I couldn't believe my feelings about Gretchen would mean so little to him. "I need to be with my family. People will understand if you tell them — "

"I'm your family!" Nick threw the beer, the full can hitting the edge of the sink with an explosion of foam. "Just who is paying your bills, Marie? Who's keeping a roof over your head? Me. No one in your f**king family is helping us. I'm the breadwinner. You do what I say."

"I'm not your slave," I shot back. "I have the right to go to Gretchen's funeral, and I'm going to — "

"Try it." He sneered, reaching me in three angry strides. "Try it, Marie. You've got no money and no way to get there." He clenched my arms and shoved me hard, and I went stumbling back against the wall. "God knows how such an idiot managed to graduate from college," he said. "They don't give a shit about you, Marie. Try to get that through your thick head."

I sent Liberty an e-mail telling her I couldn't go to the funeral. I didn't explain why, and there was no reply from her. Since there were no calls from the rest of my family, I was pretty sure I knew what they thought of me for not going. Whatever they thought, however, it wasn't nearly as bad as the things I was thinking about myself.

I went to the crawfish boil with Nick. I smiled the whole time. Everyone called me Marie. And I wore elbow-length sleeves to cover the bruises on my arms. I didn't cry one tear on the day of Gretchen's funeral.

But I did cry on Monday, when I got a small package in the mail. Opening it, I found Gretchen's bracelet with all its jaunty, jingly little charms.

"Dear Haven," read Liberty's note, "I know you were meant to have this."

Halfway through our second year of marriage, Nick's determination to get me pregnant had become all-consuming. I half suspected he would kill me if he knew I was still secretly taking birth control pills, so I hid them in one of my purses shoved back in a corner of our closet.

Convinced that the problem was me — it couldn't possibly be him — Nick sent me to the doctor. I cried in the doctor's office for an hour, telling him I felt anxious and miserable and had no idea why, and I came home with a prescription for antidepressants.

"You can't take that crap," Nick said, crumpling the slip of paper and tossing it into the trash. "It might be bad for the baby."

Our nonexistent baby. I thought guiltily of the pill I took every morning, a secret act that had become my last desperate bid for autonomy. It was difficult on the weekends, when Nick watched me like a hawk. I had to dash into the closet when he was in the shower, fumble for the cardboard wheel, pop a pill out and take it dry. If he caught me . . . I didn't know what he'd do.

"What did the doctor say about getting pregnant?" Nick asked, watching me closely.

"He said it could take up to a year."

I hadn't mentioned a word to the doctor about trying to get pregnant, only asked for my birth control prescription to be renewed.

"Did he tell you when the best days were? The days you're most fertile?"

"Right before I ovulate."

"Let's look at the calendar and figure it out. How long into the cycle do you ovulate?"

"Ten days, I guess."

As we went to the calendar, which I always marked with an X on the days my period started, my reluctance didn't seem to matter to Nick. I was going to be invaded, impregnated, and forced to go through the birthing process simply because he had decided so.

"I don't want it," I heard myself say in a sullen tone.

"You'll be happy once it happens."