Page 48 of The Woman

I toss a furtive glance over my shoulder at the plate, intending to tell him something like, “I’ll eat it tomorrow,” just like he did to me in the past, but at the last second, I actually see what’s on my plate, or rather, the way it’s laid out.

My heart skips a beat as I stare at it.

Color . . . size . . . shape. He made it into a pattern for me.

I turn back to him, but he’s no longer looking at me. He’s poking at his own food. Wordlessly, I sit back on my stool, taking an extra second before I pick up my fork and start eating. I’m not sure if it was an apology or simply something to show he noticed, but whatever it was, there was some unspoken intention there.

He drives us to a place that, by the looks of the building, is much larger than the one we got the dress from. After parking, he scans our surroundings before turning to me.

“I’ll walk you around, and if there is something that you like, you can squeeze my hand or stare at it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

That was probably the most he’s spoken to me since breakfast, not that he’s a big talker to begin with.

“You need to be careful,” he adds. “No talking to me like you have been.”

I immediately transform my face to the blank smile he doesn’t appear to like and say through the fake expression, “I know how to behave. I’ve been doing it a long time.”

With pursed lips, he pushes the door open and walks around to open mine, reaching down to take hold of my hand. He doesn’t let go of it, even after we’ve entered the store.

I’m overwhelmed by the size of the inside, and the amount of options to choose from. There are more clothes than I’ve seen in my entire life.

We head left first, which takes us to an area where there are rows and rows of different tops. There appear to be whole sections dedicated to a certain style – long sleeves, ones with prints on them, and other areas for tank tops and soon.

I can see why Phoenix most likely would have come in here, grabbed the first items he saw, and then left.

With a neutral face, I look around, but underneath, I’m filled with wonder and even a little excitement. There are a few other men here with their women, walking the aisles and looking around, but I can tell they’re normal, so I don’t pay them any mind.

He leads me slowly down a row of tops hanging on racks, turning around to look at me every so often to see if something stands out to me. When I see one I think I might like, I squeeze his hand and we come to a stop. I stare at the top in question until he picks it up and holds it to my chest.

“You like this one?” he quietly murmurs.

“Yes,” I reply with that vacant smile, adding, “You could really just pick out whatever you want me to wear.”

“No.” He checks the size and then hangs the top over his arm before we continue on.

A few times, I catch his gaze lingering on certain items as if he might like them. So, one of the times he does it, I indicate to him that I want it without him knowing I saw him looking at it, and then watch his face closely as he picks it up and holds it against me, running his eyes over it a little longer than the other ones.

I like that he wants to see me in certain items. As much as I am different, I’ve still been raised as a normal woman, and pleasing a man has still been ingrained in me to a certain extent.

“Pretty,” I tell him with a vacant smile.

The appreciative look on his face fades with that one word.

It’s funny how he’s so adamant about making sure I pretend to be normal when we’re out in public and yet still behaves like he doesn’t like it.

We continue on, moving from section to section, and after a while, despite what he said earlier about not picking anything for me, he does start pointing out items that he thinks I might like. I know he’s been paying attention and observing because the items he points out are in the colors I’ve mainly been selecting. He’s also made sure they’re symmetrical or at least had the pattern cover the entire front side and not just a portion of it.

My appreciation for him grows, slowly pushing away the lingering negative feelings about his abrupt departure last night.

We make it to the dress section, and even though he said I could pick anything, he doesn’t respond when I squeeze his hand to indicate a particular dress. I squeeze harder, but still, he pays no attention. When I realize he’s ignoring me on purpose, perhaps because the dress is short and tight, I squeeze as hard as possible to try and stop him. He acts as if I’m doing nothing to him, and I’m probably not. His hands are much larger than mine, and it very likely feels like nothing more than a hand massage.

He finally glances over his shoulder at me but then simply looks away again, continuing to drag me along.

I swear his eyes were almost sparkling when he looked back as if he enjoys controlling me and getting a rise out of me. I silently huff and let my hand go limp in his. I didn’t even really want the dress, but he didn’t know that.

In the next row, he stops and picks up a cute violet dress with white polka-dots and a ruffled bodice that turns into a flowing skirt that would end just above my knees.

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