Page 49 of HER: A Psychological Thriller

Of course you have.

The girl behind the counter giggles. “You know, like Orphan Annie?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I get it.”

It’s amazing how things can shift in such a short time. Ann says in her book it’s important when we’re down that we move up the emotional scale. Rage is one step above anger, and that emotion is one I can access easily. Maybe longing isn’t so far off.

The technician hands me the carrier, and I peer in. The same small eyes, although they are bigger now, stare back. A paw reaches out and swipes at my finger. Her claws snag my skin, drawing blood. It’s a welcome feeling.

“She’s quite playful,” he tells me. “A real hunter.”

No doubt.

“Cats are great companions,” he says. “She’ll make someone a good pet.”

“Just not me,” I say. “My husband is allergic.”

“That’s too bad.”

It is. It really, really is.

Finally, he gives me directions to the shelter, although I’ve already looked them up. Little Annie cries nonstop all the way there. In the lot, I allow myself one last look. “I hope you’re grateful,” I tell her. “I hope you get a good home.”

She yawns big and wide and then she stands, like she’s ready to pounce, like she wants to play. Like I’m prey. She rubs the side of her body along the carrier door, begging to be petted, so I stick my finger through the metal grating. Her fur reminds me of Ethan’s hair.

My eyes water. And I don’t think it’s allergies.

“He’s not coming back,” I say.

She answers by swatting at my finger with her paw and then leans forward, biting at the tip playfully. Her teeth are small and sharp and they hurt. She draws blood. I don’t know what changes in that moment, except that I recall something Ann said the other night at the dinner party. If you’re going to suffer, it’s better not to do it alone.

So what if Ethan hates cats? That doesn’t mean I have to. He may be allergic. But I’m not. Maybe what you think you want isn’t what you need. And maybe what you need isn’t always what you want.

Like Chet. Like Ann. Like this cat. Maybe life is twisted and mixed up that way.

“It’s settled,” I say to Little Annie. “Looks like you’re coming home with me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

SADIE

There comes a point in every person’s life where they can no longer lie to themselves. For me, this is that point.

It started out as a game, but it didn’t end that way. Early on, not long after we were married, not long after we’d moved to Penny Lane, I picked up the wrong toothpaste at the grocery store. It was the first and the last time. “What’s this?” Ethan asked, bringing me the box.

“Toothpaste.”

“I can see that. It’s not my brand.”

I squinted at the box and said, “You’ll live.”

“That’s the wrong thing to say.” He pressed me backward against the kitchen counter cornering me with his body. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to pay for this.”

I smiled and then wiggled away. I wasn’t in the mood for sex. At the same time, I was also aware that I couldn’t say no again. It would be the third consecutive refusal, and I was pretty sure my husband was counting. He usually did.

“Bend over,” he ordered. At first I thought he was joking. It wasn’t until he took me by the hair and used more force than I could resist that I realized he wasn’t. It wasn’t until he pushed my pajama bottoms to the floor and spanked me— once, twice, three times—that I realized it was downhill from there and not in a good way. Later that night, long after my husband had drifted off to sleep, as I surveyed the damage, the broken blood vessels in my back side, the tears in my vagina I didn’t have to see to know they were there, I realized there was no coming back from this. I could have sustained a lot of forms of humiliation. An affair, ridicule, the silent treatment. But this kind, I wasn’t sure about.

THE FOLLOWING morning he woke me by bringing breakfast to bed. For a moment, I thought I’d dreamed what had happened. Ethan had never been abusive. We dated for a while before getting married, and so long

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