Reece (Stud Ranch)

1

My husband sat across from me eating the Denver omelet I’d prepared for him while scrolling through his email on his phone with his thumb. Two slices of bacon crisped to perfection sat on a side plate, along with a piece of wheat bread, toasted to a light brown, one pat of butter right in the center. One glass of orange juice, one glass of water. His cup of coffee was in a to-go insulated mug. I’d warmed the cream in a water bath to make it the correct temperature so it didn’t cool down the coffee—not microwaved. Jeff hated the taste of coffee with microwaved cream.

It all had to be done just so.

I’d taken extra care this morning to get everything perfect. All the while knowing that perfection didn’t always mean safety.

If Jeff got an email he didn’t like, or read something on the news that annoyed him… Well, there were a thousand variables I couldn’t control.

A sick part of me sat in anticipation for his mood to turn. For that twitch in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils that meant the placid silence of the morning would turn on a dime to chaos and violence.

Jeff looked up at me sharply and frowned. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Crap. I smiled, careful to keep my expression neutrally pleasant. “Just thinking about the day, darling. I need to take the dry-cleaning in today. I look forward to getting some sunshine. The rain’s supposed to clear up later.”

He frowned before glancing down at his phone. “No.”

I blinked and swallowed, my fingers tightening in their grip on my fork and knife as I sliced into one of my two boiled eggs. All I was allowed for breakfast. “Oh? Would you prefer I went tomorrow?”

“I don’t want my wife gallivanting all over town in a rainstorm, is that too much to ask? It’s supposed to rain all week.”

I demurely put the bite of tasteless boiled egg in my mouth. It would be pointless to mention that there was going to be a break in the weather this afternoon. Or that a little rain had never hurt anyone.

Jeff shoveled the rest of his breakfast in his mouth, standing up and grabbing his half-finished toast. Then he glared down at me. “You haven’t taken your pills.”

“Oh. Forgive me.”

I grabbed the handful of pills from the little bowl he’d put them in beside my plate setting. Five pills. Three were anti-depressants. One was an anti-psychotic. The last was a tranquilizer.

I tossed them in my mouth, then took a swallow of water.

“Open,” Jeff demanded.

I opened my mouth wide.

“Tongue.”

I lifted my tongue to show there weren’t any pills squirreled away underneath.

“Good girl.” He picked up his briefcase from beside the door to the garage, then his coffee. He stood there waiting, and I scurried to do the expected.

I hurried to his side and kissed his cheek. He patted me on the backside, then looked at me meaningfully. “I expect dinner on the table at six sharp. I might be late, but I might not be. Either way, I expect the food to be hot, so keep it warm in case I’m late. But don’t let it get rubbery. I hate that.”

“Of course.” I smiled. Pleasantly. Vacantly.

“Good girl.”

“Have a good day at work, darling.”

He ignored me, attention back on his phone as he pushed through the door to the garage and let it slam behind him.

I stayed still, my back ramrod straight, until I heard the garage door open and then shut again.

And then I ran to the bathroom and stuck my finger down my throat until I was choking up the pills. I counted, only breathing out in relief when I saw all five of them floating in the toilet.

I sat back on the cool tile as I flushed. Not for long, though. I got up and brushed my teeth. I was sure the enamel on my teeth was getting worn by this morning routine, but I didn’t see any other way. Besides, it was a short-term fix. I’d only been doing it for eight months.

The withdrawal was a bitch, that was for damn sure.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Slim. Long blonde hair. Under thirty. The trophiest of trophy wives.

As long as you didn’t look too closely at my wrists and the scars from the deep slashes there. Bruises could be hidden with concealer, but scars were more difficult. I wondered if any of our so-called “friends” ever wondered why I always wore long sleeves or else a watch and heavy bangles on my wrists, no matter the occasion. Then again, they didn’t need to wonder. Jeff told anyone who would listen that I’d tried to kill myself. It fit well into the narrative he painted of me as mentally unstable and “fragile.”

I’d been on the cocktail of pills ever since I’d made the attempt to exit this shit life six years ago. During the withdrawals last fall, I couldn’t say I wasn’t tempted to take the shortcut again. Jeff had finally allowed me to be around sharps again after year two out from The Incident. So I had access. I could have done it.