11. Nelly

Chapter 11

Nelly

W arm water enveloped me as I sunk further into the bathtub. I’d left the jets off this time to keep the noise down just in case it was loud enough to be heard in the main house — I didn’t want to interrupt Matty’s bedtime routine with his dad.

Rosie’s voice filtered out through my phone’s speaker, cutting through the light sloshing sound of the water. “So, it’s going well, then?”

“I mean, I’m currently sitting in a bathtub with jet capabilities. So that’s an easy yes.”

A chuckle filtered down the line, a little tinnier than she normally sounded. “Yeah, I figured it would be a nice place once I realized he was a player on the Atlanta Fire and not just a staff member,” she said, the unmistakable sound of nail clippers breaking up the silence on her end. “I’ve only spoken to the dad once to get the basic information, but he seemed nice enough. I’ve mostly just been in contact with the coach. Casey, I think?”

“Yeah, Casey.” I leaned my head back on the little waterproof pillow, heat and weightlessness soothing my bones.

The temptation to mention that the dad she had spoken to was the same man I’d told her I had met at Smokey’s gnawed uncomfortably at the back of my mind. I wanted to talk about it, wanted to spill the beans to literally anyone who would listen so I could get a morsel of advice. But the one person I wanted to tell most was also my boss, and she had gotten me this gig in the first place.

The fear of jeopardizing the best-paying job I’d ever landed kept me from opening my mouth and letting the words fly out.

“Have you heard anything else about the wedding?” she asked, her tone a little hesitant as a much larger snap! rang out, followed by a mumbled, “Shit.”

“Trim too much nail?”

“Yeah,” she groaned.

“That sucks,” I sighed, slipping just a little bit further down. My chin touched the water, my breasts floating almost comically beneath it. “And no, I haven’t heard anything else about the wedding. I don’t think they’re insane enough to invite me.”

“Didn’t you introduce them?”

I wanted to turn on the camera function of this damn phone just to show her the annoyed expression I was sure was written all over my face. “Yes, Rosie, obviously.”

The levels of irritation and hurt that stemmed from their point of contact being me ran deeper than I cared to admit, and as the frustration slowly started to sink in and spread outward, I found myself mumbling a quick, “ Just a second. ”

I slipped beneath the surface of the water entirely.

Sound dulled as my ears filled, and I sat there, fully encased and holding my breath, letting the water scald my face and scalp. I introduced them. I was the genesis of my own trauma. Morris was a producer, Ruby was a wedding singer — it felt natural to introduce them when I did, it felt normal that they wanted to work on things together without me. It wasn’t a question in my mind when he started hanging out with her more and more after he’d come to my OBGYN appointment because, of course, he was upset, and of course he wanted to bury himself in work.

I just didn’t know he was burying himself in her at the studio.

And when he’d finally told me, when he felt bad enough about it eleven months after that appointment and almost a year into our engagement, I hadn’t had the guts to tell him to fuck off. I’d still tried to make it work, offered him couples counseling, offered to put the wedding on hold, offered to help him, as if he were the one who needed to be gently handled. The only thing I’d ever had a spine with was my job, and he knew that, took advantage of it, walked all over me in our relationship, and hedged every bet on it.

He controlled everything .

Morris made every decision for me. He bought me my clothes, he chose what was for dinner, he decided who was considered okay to hang out with and who wasn’t. He decided when we went to bed and when we woke up, he decided what apartment we would rent, he decided what classes were best for me at university. And deeper than that, he controlled the bedroom in every single way possible.

Wear this for me. Wear that for me.

Fuck, choke on it, you don’t need to breathe yet.

We’re trying anal tonight.

You don’t need a toy. Your hands should be enough.

Maybe you should get a boob job .

You’re doing it wrong.

You’re doing it wrong.

You’re doing it wrong ? —

I pushed my nose and mouth above the water, taking the quietest gasp of air I could into my aching, burning lungs, and dipped back beneath the surface again.

There was a level of control in the bedroom I thrived under, and Morris had looked at that line in the sand and crossed it like it wasn’t there to begin with. Things had to be done his way, to his liking, with no regard for me or my enjoyment or my needs . And I’d let him.

And when he’d finally left me, when he realized that I wasn’t getting a hint and was just letting this happen, I hadn’t a single clue of what to do. I’d stood there, watching in freeze mode as he packed his things, unable to move. Just like that time when I’d kicked a soccer ball into the road. Just like when my stupid vibrator fell out of my purse at Smokey’s and gurgled on the floor from its air pulse technology .

I swallowed past the burning in the back of my throat, past my lungs that screamed for more air. It hadn’t been like that with Seb.

It was a thought I’d been avoiding for the last two weeks, but it wasn’t wrong . Seb had asked what I liked. Seb had checked with me every step of the way. Seb had been gentle until I’d relented and fessed up to my lie, and he hadn’t laughed and taken it way too far when I’d admitted to wanting it rough. He hadn’t even let me touch him — he just wanted to touch me .

I couldn’t remember a single moment in my relationship with Morris where I’d felt like the person in the driver’s seat. I wasn’t even sure if relationships could be like that, if sex could be like that. But if sex with Seb was anything like what he’d done to me that night…

I scrambled to the surface, gasping for breath again and knocking my phone clean off the edge of the tub.

I couldn’t think like that. Seb was my boss, and Seb clearly had some kind of problem with me. But God, I wanted to think about it, wanted to imagine it, wanted to feel him, and touch him, and see what was beneath his clothes. I wanted him to talk to me the way he had that night, wanted him to whisper the most depraved things in my ear, wanted him to push my buttons and find my limits and respect them.

Water dripped down my cheeks as I sat there, chest heaving, boiling alive in the too-hot bath.

I wanted to go inside the house. I wanted to go up to his room, wanted to not say a word, wanted him to grab me and throw me on the bed and show me what it could be like to have sex with someone who didn’t only care about themselves.

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t. For some reason, he didn’t like me anymore and maybe didn’t even like me to begin with. Maybe I was just the first person he’d approached that night that gave him the time of day. Maybe I was just an easy person to play with. Maybe I didn’t matter at all.