Page 8 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

Ted nods. “Oh, okay.”

That’s it? I wait another few seconds, but all he does is dip more of the dunker in his tea before taking another big bite and chewing carefully. Okay, so he’s not even going to meet me halfway. He’s making me say it, spell it out for him.

“There’s one in New York that I want to go to,” I blurt out. God damn it.Have more fucking filters, self.As soon as the words are out, I think of half a dozen ways I could have worded itbetter. But it’s too late now. I’ve given Ted exactly what he needed, and he’s not going to waste it. Of course not.

His eyes widen and he straightens up in his seat—gosh, Jane, I’m shocked!—and he places his tea and cookie on the table. Not so shocked that he’s forgotten about the drink and snack, I see. “In New York? Like, New York City? The East Coast?”

How many fucking New Yorks are there? He really has to drive home how far away this con is.

“Yeah,” I say in the most neutral voice possible. I am Switzerland. I will not be swayed.

“Sweetie, that’s—” He pauses, then there it is. The Sigh. Except this one also conveys, in addition to all the other emotions, impatience (we’ve been over this, Jane, why do you have to be so thick?). “That’s out of our budget.”

Know what’s really outside of our budget? I want to hiss. This fucking house. The way it dominates all of our income, its cumbersome presence sucking every available cent and giving me nothing in return. An overgrown backyard we hardly use, despite Ted’s insistence that we would use it one day. His parents are avid gardeners; every month there’s a new offering from them—a basket of yellow-green apples, a punnet of apricots, a bag of heirloom tomatoes, bulbous and ugly and disturbingly warm from the sun. And with each gift, there is an attached comment. “You kids should grow your own too! It’s so rewarding!” With a pointed look at me, because Teddy Bear is just so busy, isn’t he? They literally call him that—Teddy Bear. He pretends to hate it, but he adores the name and resents that I haven’t picked it up, that I still call him Ted, or worse, Theo sometimes.

I would rather live in an apartment. I’d lived in an apartment with Mom for most of my life, and living in a house seems wrong, like wearing borrowed clothes. Mom had died in herapartment three years ago. A stroke. Her neighbor called to complain about the smell, and that was when they found her, two days before I was due my weekly visit. If she’d been living in a house, I would’ve been the one to discover her. We’re not built for houses, Mom and I.

I push the thought out of my head and focus on the discussion. “It’s a good investment for my career,” I say. He likes this word, “investment.” Uses it for all of his splurges. The stupidly expensive computer, the gaming chair, the adjustable standing desk that he never, ever stands at.

I can see him considering whether he should deploy The Sigh again. He thinks better of it. For now. “I know how much this writing thing means to you...” This writing thing. I try not to dwell on it. Instead, I brace myself for the “but.”

“But...” He winces like what he’s about to say is physically hurting him. Look how much pain you’re putting me through, Jane.“I just don’t think it’s quite there yet, you know?”

I shake my head. No, I don’t know, you fucker. I’m not going to make this easy for him. I’ll watch as he struggles through the next few sentences, watch him prettify the words that are meant to cut me down.

“Well—” Now he sighs. It’s not The Sigh, just a small one. An “I’m trying” sigh. “It’s just—look, please don’t take this the wrong way. But you’re a midlist writer. What was your last advance for?”

He knows what my last advance was for because he adores how tiny it is, how insignificant it is compared to his freelancing fees. So I don’t say anything. Let him say the numbers, rolling them in his mouth like peppermint candy to be savored.

“What was it, two grand?”

“Two thousand three hundred.” Dammit. I wasn’t going to say it, but I fell for his bait.

“Two thousand three hundred dollars,” he announces with a satisfied nod. “Broken up into three payments.”

This is how most publishing payments work. They’re broken up into as many chunks as possible—the signing payment, the delivery and acceptance payment, and one last chunk when the book is actually published. Eight months it took me to write the book, a book about a depressed suburban housewife that is never going to earn out, never going to make me another cent. Ted likes to remind me that I am privileged because I can afford to write full-time thanks to him.

“A ticket to New York City at this time of the year is going to set us back what, five hundred dollars?”

Ha. I’ve prepared for this, you asshole. “Actually, only about a hundred if I fly budget.”

He frowns. He hadn’t seen this coming. Then he rallies, “Sweetheart, I don’t think you should fly budget. That’s not safe.”

“I looked up their safety ratings”—I did not—“and they seem really good.”

“And where would you stay? New York’s expensive.”

“No problem. I would stay outside of the city and commute in. I found places for around fifty bucks a night—”

“No, those places won’t be safe. I can’t possibly let you stay there.”

All these noes disguised as concern. I want to scratch him, peel the skin off his face so I can see the thoughts oozing underneath like toxic mud. He just wants to keep me here, tethered to his side so he can always be the superior one of the two of us.

“And then there’s the cost of food and travel and...” Here it comes, The Sigh. And it’s a good one this time. He’s been building up to it. It conveys the world. When it’s done, he looks deflated and sad and empathetic. “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I just don’t think we can afford it. We can’t justify the cost of sending you to a con.”

I make it out of his study and down to the basement just in time before I snap.

5

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