Page 21 of Repluse

It takes lessthan ten minutes for the men to tow my car out and onto the road. Logan joins me in the truck, Scott drives my car, and Shane returns to the tow truck and drives ahead.

Lauryn Hill quietly sings about being killed softly in the background. Logan doesn’t listen to music, not ever—something I’ve always found odd. How? How does anyone live their life not listening to music? Even when we had nothing as kids, we had the radio, the music.

Even knowing what Logan would do, I put the radio on as soon as I’d got myself comfortable in the passenger seat. I watched as my husband pulled his seatbelt into place and was already counting backwards from three when he used the controls on his steering wheel to silence something that might bring me joy.

“How’d it happen?” he asks while staring ahead at the road that’s only illuminated by our headlights.

“I turned off the highway. I knew because of the time, the roos would be about, so I was watching my speed. I was focusing on the road ahead, but a big buck just appeared on the passenger side and started to come across. I thought if I kept going, he might hit the wing and bounce up on the bonnet, so I swerved right but…” I pause for dramatic effect and shake my head. “I don’t know what happened—surface water or if the road was just slippery—but I lost control on the turn, then didn’t react quickly enough to brake because I was trying not to hit a tree.”

I swipe at the invisible tears on my face and draw in a few shaky breaths.

“You okay, though? You didn’t hurt yourself?” he finally asks. “There’s nothing… No chance you’re pregnant is there?” And there it is. He’s not worried about me. His only concern is for the precious child he’s hoping I’ll be incubating sometime soon.

Well, tough luck, motherfucker, because I’m still taking my contraceptive pill and have no plans on stopping just yet.

“No, I just had my period last week. You know that.”

“But we fucked right after it finished.”

“That’s not how it works, Logan. Straight after is my least fertile time.”

“Any time has gotta be better than never. Maybe you should get one of those trackers on your phone, so we know exactly when the time’s right.”

For a split second, my heart drops into my stomach at the mention of phones and trackers.

The shock that my husband is even aware of fertility tracker apps hides my confusion.

“Have you been doing some research, Mr Walsh?” I say with a smile while reaching out and squeezing my husband’s thigh.

“We need to do something, Mila. It’s not normal that after all this time we’ve been trying, you still can’t get pregnant. Get thetracker. We’ll do what it says, but if you’re not pregnant soon, then you’re gonna have to go and see a doctor.”

And here we go again. Him insisting I see a doctor, me knowing exactly how to get out of doing that.

“I told you before, if I get a referral from Doctor Spencer, the specialist will want to see both of us.”

“And I’ve told you before, I’m not the one with the problem. It’s you who needs to go and get checked out!” He slams his hand on the steering wheel as he shouts out the words.

I knew this outburst was coming—it happens every time we broach the subject—but I pretend to flinch and shrink back into my seat anyway.

We silently turn onto the driveway leading to the house we live in. This might be Logan’s home, but it’s not mine. The original parts were built in the late eighteen hundreds by Scott’s—however many—great grandfather, and has remained in the family since, always passed down to the eldest son, with every member of the family expected to remain living here.

We have our own wing, which includes a bedroom, ensuite, a retreat, a kitchenette/wet bar, a private section of balcony with outdoor furniture, and a multitude of plants in pots that I’ve personally added.

Ella lives in her own wing, Scott and Nora in theirs, and two others sit practically empty, while one serves as a guest wing with multiple bedrooms and bathrooms.

If it wasn’t for the fact we’re all expected to dine together each evening, I could easily manage to go days without bumping into any of Logan’s family in the house.

After pulling into one of the multiple garages, Logan parks the truck and exits without a word. I follow, but instead of heading into the house, I ask Scott for my keys as he passes. He tosses them in my direction, and I snatch them mid-flight.

“Well, there ya go. You do have another talent apart from leading my son around by his dick. We know it’s not making babies, and it’s definitely not driving, but the girl can catch. Good on ya.”

I ignore him and keep walking towards my car. After pulling my bags from the back, I head inside the house and straight up to our bedroom. I quickly unpack and put everything away before stripping out of my damp clothes and jumping in the shower.

There’s no sign of Logan once I get out, and as hungry as I am, I put on a pair of pyjamas, and climb into bed.

My brain’s quiet for all of a millisecond.

I didn’t think it was going to be this hard. I’ve had to lie most of my life, but this—this whole other life I’ve spent the weekend living—is so much harder to return from than I could’ve ever anticipated. It’s given me confidence, empowered me, and I’m finding it a struggle to maintain the mousey little housewife persona and not tell my husband and his father to go fuck themselves.

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