Page 47 of Tell Me No Lies

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all if I get to eat this kind of shit.

I attempt to smile at a couple of the women also filling plates, but they ignore me just as much as their husbands ignore them, so I finally give up and go back to my task.

I've worked at Tate’s shop for about a month now and, thanks to the number of potlucks that happen there, I've gotten to see what he gravitates toward, so it's not difficult to pick out what I think he’ll like. Chicken isn’t his favorite, so I go for the beef, choosing a thick slice of juicy prime rib before surrounding it with mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and corn. I line three dinner rolls along the edge, because the man loves his carbs, and stack on six foil-wrapped pats of butter because the only thing Tate loves more than carbs is butter.

Once his plate is filled to capacity, I go to the beverage station and again, the selection is easy. Tate carries a bottle of Dr Pepper zero around with him all day at work, so I choose a can of that, along with an ice-filled glass, and begin working my way through the room.

It's like being in the twilight zone after working at a bar. Not a single man glances my way. No one tries to grab me or get my attention. It's almost like I don't exist.

Or more likely, don't matter.

It makes me wonder why any of the women around me are here. Especially the ones who aren't currently a part of the IGL. I know you don't have to be part of the IGL to be married to a misogynistic asshole, but damn. A part of me still can’t believe there's not an uprising being organized over by the buffet.

Then again, there kinda is. And I’m part of it.

When I reach Tate’s side, I do as Myra instructed. Keeping my eyes away from everyone, I carefully set his food in front of him, doing my best to be unobtrusive so I don't interrupt the important male conversation going on. My delicate female ears couldn't possibly understand the discussion they’re having about the fucking weather.

I have to lean close to Tate to put his drink in place. I start to set the can down, but then figure I should probably open it and fill the glass, so that's what I do. I'm surprised these guys don't want their wives hand feeding them too. The mental image of these grown men with bibs across their chests as a spoon airplanes into their open mouths has me choking down the need to laugh. Thankfully I manage to keep a straight face. I doubt something like that would go unnoticed.

Luckily, the slow glide of Tate's hand sneaking along my ankle does go unnoticed by the rest of the table. It drags higher as I fill his glass, his rough palm smoothing over my calf before coming to a rest on my knee. His thumb strokes my skin even though he doesn't outwardly acknowledge my existence. I’d say he was trying to soothe me, but since I’m not the one struggling, I have to believe the touch is almost an apology. Because he hates me having to do this more than I do.

Honestly, it's turning out to be way easier than I expected. All I have to do is the exact opposite of whatever I would normally do, and I’m the perfect submissive wife.

I finish filling his glass, keeping the can in my hand since a good wife wouldn't expect her husband to throw away his own trash. Tate’s hand slowly drags away from my skin, almost like he hates to stop touching me. Once it’s back in his lap, I step away without looking back, leaving him on his own. Hopefully he can handle it.

I scan the room, looking for where the rest of the wives have gone, only to discover a glimpse of them through a single-wide open door.

Holy shit. These motherfuckers won't even eat in the same room as their wives.

Again, I'm forced to smother a laugh. At least I'm amused at this point instead of incensed. I've not been known to show the best behavior when I'm angry, so I thank the universe as I move into where the rest of the women are, only to find a second buffet. This one is nothing like the one for the men. There is no prime rib. There's no shrimp. It's fucking chicken and steamed vegetables. We don't even get rolls.

But I’m starving, so I get myself a hunk of bland chicken, a scoop of broccoli, and a Diet Coke then go find an empty seat. The difference between the two rooms is almost eerie, and I try to take it all in as I sit down and pick at my less than appealing meal.

The volume in here is much lower, with every woman barely speaking above a whisper. The conversations going on around me are limited to children, cooking, and housekeeping. I zone out since I have less than nothing to add. I do try to occasionally nod along when everyone else is nodding, and smile when everyone else is smiling, but this shit is almost as boring as the food on my plate.

I'm just about to give up on the tasteless entrée, when I notice a familiar woman watching me across the room with a steady gaze. I look behind me to make sure she's not focused on someone else, but when I turn back to face her, she tips her head the tiniest bit toward the hall.

My stomach flips. I know she’s the wife of one of the men we met at the elevator, but I think she might also be one of the women I’m looking for.

I collect my silverware and plate, giving the women at my table what I think might be a sweet smile, before getting up and walking away. After tossing my trash into the bin, I attempt to casually walk out into the hallway, my heart racing with excitement.

It's fucking empty.

I glance back into the room, but the woman I saw earlier is gone, so I slowly creep along, looking for any sign of where she's gone. As I pass an unmarked door, it cracks open. A hand flies out, gripping my arm and hauling me through a wider opening before closing us into the darkened space.

"Do you have a good recipe for boysenberry pie?" The words tumble out of the woman's mouth, rushed and breathy.

I feel along the wall, scrambling around for a second before finally finding the light switch and flicking it on. Turning to face her, I take in her terrified expression. I reach out and take her hands in mine, holding them tight. "I do. Would you like it?"

All the air rushes from her body at my answer, and she sags forward. I'm a little worried she's gonna collapse, so I grab her in a hug as she lets out a sob.

I squeeze her tighter, tipping my head toward the ceiling as tears burn my own eyes. My throat is tight as I try to soothe her. "Everything's going to be okay. We’re going to get you out of here." I take a deep breath, swallowing down my own surprising reaction because I need to be strong. For her. For the rest of the women who need me.

For Tate.

I lean back, meeting her eyes with mine. “My name’s Piper. Who are you?” I know all the names of the women who are planning to come with us, as well as their ages and basic descriptions, but that’s not nearly enough to make an identification.

That’s why I have the best boysenberry pie recipe in the world. No one will bat an eye at hearing one of these women ask me about cooking, and the filling choice is too unusual to be inadvertently brought up.

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