Page 37 of Marrying the Gardener
Crimson
Golf. Why am I not surprised that the first family event my wretched grandfather chooses for this Saturday isgolf? Why am I not thrilled that my father pulled Kaleb under his arm the moment we got to the green, marched him up to my grandfather, and said,I’d like you to meet my son?
That’s perfect. Flawless.
Plans going off without a hitch.
And, yet, as I stand here—watching attentively like a woman inlove—my heart hurts for my cousin’s wives, my aunts, any woman who has to deal with the men in my family without any hope of a safe future without them. Presently, some of my idiot cousins brought their wives along, and their eyes were void of color when they said,Uh, yeah, no, we don’t want to come and watch your muscles ripple as you hit balls with sticks. We’ll stay at the club, thanks, in far more eloquent ways.
Everything just plain…hurts.
Kaleb drives a long shot onto the green, near the hole, and I jump, clapping my hands like a twerp. He’s been playing aperfectgame, running his numbers on par with either my father or my grandfather so as to not outshine either of them while also maintaining that he rests in the same league. It’s sickening how quickly my grandfather has taken a shine to him. It took barely three minutes for the old man to decide that the three of them would run through the holes on the same card, in the same golf cart.
It pisses me off howgoodKaleb is. At everything. Manipulation. Holding his liquor. Chatting business.Golf.
Arrogant smile fixed in place, he strides across the green toward me, sweeps me up in his arms, and dips my body before planting his mouth on mine.
I do not gag thanks to our evenings of torture, but it does take everything in me not tobite.
My grandfather—a balding man with a gold filling in one of his front teeth—guffaws before shouting, “That’s one way to shut a woman up!”
Kaleb smirks as he frees my mouth, clamps me to his side, and fills his palm with my hip. “And to think it’s onlyoneof my favorite ways.”
I sure wish I could blush on cue. Instead, I settle with burying my face against Kaleb’s chest and hoping he doesn’t toss me away too quickly like every other time he’s come to celebrate his good shots. It’s hard to gather my balance in these heels, but since my job is looking pretty and being stupid, I couldn’t exactly wear sneakers.
These men do ever so love witnessing a woman who’s helpless.
So, here I am, fumbling about like a baby deer to stroke their egos. Glancing over at me and laughing and feeling better about themselves because they were smart enough to know how to walk today isalllllpart of the sport. Never mind that if I were behaving likemyself, I could chase them down this green in heels three inches taller with the speed of a Lovecraftian horror interested only in disemboweling them.
Walking in thin heels atop soft earth is as simple as resting your weight on the balls of your feet—and filling your bloodstream with the vehemence of your female ancestors.
I want so badly to be a Lovecraftian horror.
Yet I’m stuck as a floozy.
A mere accessory.
My grandfather turns his crooked gaze on me, deeming me worthy to be spoken to for the first time in twelve holes. “How’d you find a good man like this, girl?”
My mouth opens; Kaleb answers, “She was being harassed on the street outside my office building. Weren’t you, baby?”
I shiver, as though the memory haunts me, and cuddle closer to Kaleb for safety. “It was horrible. All the nasty things they were saying.”
Kaleb laughs, smacks my butt, and abandons me after my father finishes his stroke. “Of course,” Kaleb says to my grandfather, loud enough that I can still hear him, “now I get to say them. She just likes it from me.”
Dearold grandpa cackles, then he sniffs and pats Kaleb on the back. “I was so disappointed when my only son couldn’t produce a suitable heir. It took years of trying, and then that woman he married went and died on the first failure.”
My stomach hurts as I step carefully in the direction of the golf cart.
My father joins the men ahead of me.
Sun gleams around them as they circle Kaleb, adopting him as one of their own, and my father says, “I hope that woman’s genes don’t spoil your future, son. Crimson better give you a boy—and live through it.”
No one is mentioning the fact that it wasn’t my mother’s fault. No one is even alluding to the fact that my fathertriedwith countless other women all throughout my childhood, intending to marry anyone who could give him a son. No. No one here would ever face the reality that amanwas the problem.
Kaleb exhales a laugh. “It’s not only her mother’s genes at play here, so I’m not exactly worried. Come on, Dad.”
I flinch before I can reach the golf cart.
