Page 226 of Wicked Proposal
My heart cracks, but I don’t let it show.
Eli. My son, my world. The first few days we were here, he’d gone completely non-verbal. Brad blamed it on me, of course.
Look what you did to him. He’s gone stupid because you’re such a shitty mom.
He was about to strike me, that night, when Eli spoke again.
“Dad. … Please, don’t hurt her.”
Five words. Just five, but Brad lit up like a Christmas tree.
Because, for the first time, his son had called him “Dad.”
He has no idea how bad that is—that he’s not throwing himself into his arms, yelling ‘Daddy’ at the top of his lungs, filling his ears with chatter. Only I see how withdrawn he’s become, how wan, how blue.
His dad is unpredictable. His mom is a liar. His house is unfamiliar, filled with strange smells and fabrics he’s never felt before. His Garfield plushie isn’t here—we have no idea where it ended up, after that night at the apartment.
Maybe that’s a good thing, though. Brad never would have let him keep it. He would have bought him a new one and tossed it in the trash. Eli would have cried. Brad would have lost his temper.
It’s a good thing Garfield left.
If only we’d been half as smart.
“You’re not eating.”
I startle back to the present. “I’m not hungry,” I tell Brad.
He considers my words for a second, sipping his morning coffee. “Good. You should watch your weight. Your body’s not what it used to be.”
Oh, you mean after I had a fucking kid?
I grind my teeth into dust.Keep quiet. Don’t engage.But it still makes me furious to hear him speak like this in Eli’s presence. All the effort I put into raising my boy away from such nonsense, teaching him to be respectful of women, of everybody—all of it is going up into smoke.
But it’s just temporary. There’ll be time to fix it.
Once we’re out of here, I’ll fix everything.
Ifthat ever happens.
“Okay!” I force another smile and clear away the plates. “Time for school, munchkin.”
“I still don’t get why you insist on sending him to that nonsense school,” Brad grumbles as soon as Eli’s out of earshot. “I could have him enrolled into Riverdale with a snap of my fingers.”
“Well, he’s already made friends there,” I say, trying to dance around the heart of the subject: that Eli’s got special needs and Brad needs to get that into his thick fucking head. “And the year’s paid out.”
“Hmph. Well, we’ll have to reevaluate next year.”
We won’t be here that long, sucker.
“Sure. We can do that.”
He gives a pleased hum. “See? Housewife life’s agreeing with you. Leave all the big decisions to me, sweet thing. No need to worry your pretty little head with the hard stuff.”
“Of course. Whatever you say.”
He doesn’t like that answer. I can tell he knows I’m not being genuine—that I’m just playing the game. But pride is pride, and Brad’s never been the type to question when things are going his way.
If he can have his cake and eat it too, he’ll never look closely enough to see if there’s rat poison in the batter.
