I listen as Grant checks in on James. I can’t hear most of their exchange, but I overhear the last of it. We’re set to leave in an hour. I check the time, and then I go into the walk in closet and try to gauge what my husband might like me to wear. Eventually, he comes back into the room—I can tell by the way the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. They’ve done that since the first time I laid eyes on him. Of course, now it means something very different than it did back then.

“Well,” he says, his voice deep and smooth. In control. “Let’s see what you chose.”

I hold up the little black dress. These days I like safe bets.

“Hmmm,” he says, eyeing me up and down.

“What?” I ask, because I know it’s what he wants. Sometimes my husband wants to spell it out, and sometimes he likes to play.

He rubs his jaw and then pauses mid-rub. “I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength tonight, you and I…”

I lean back against the wall and study my husband. I feel that familiar pang in the pit of my stomach. Longing. Longing for what, I’m not sure. It’s complicated. Like my wardrobe selection. He wants to play. Fine. I place my hands on my hips and offer a sly smile. “What would you have me wear?”

“One of the upsides of being married to one of the top plastic surgeons in the country is having a large wardrobe, Mrs. Dunn. And this—” he says holding up the dress “is what you choose? ”

I take it from his hands. “Yes, because the downside is—you are constantly on display.”

I feel the back of his hand reverberate off my left cheek. I feel the sting, the weight of his hand as the blood pools to the surface. But I didn’t see it coming. Mostly, I don’t. Instinctively, my hand goes to my face. I feel the burn, and I cower.

When I’m able to look up, I see my husband wringing his hand. He thinks it hurts.

“I told you not to test me, Josie. You know how I feel about disrespect.” He swings his hands wildly, motioning around the large walk-in closet. It’s big, big enough to be a spare bedroom. Sometimes it is. “I give you all of this and for what? To have my life—our life—mocked?”

“I’m not mocking you,” I cry. I don’t mean to. Rarely can I help it.

“You’re telling me you didn’t know going in that there would be…certain expectations?”

“No, I knew.”

“So then what? It’s not okay to want my wife to look good when I take her out?”

“No,” I say staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean—.”

He takes my chin and lifts it so my eyes align with his. My teeth dig into my tongue. He won’t want to cancel. Which means he won’t leave a mark.

“Then what did you mean?”

I shake my head. Not much because it’s in his hands. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do know. Don’t take me for a fool, Josie. And I won’t take you for one. Lest you forget what’s at stake here. If you can’t be what I want you to be then just say the words—if this is not what you want— you know where the door is. You’ve always known.”

He’s right; I do know what’s at stake. Everything. My husband isn’t a fool. We both know that.

“Is this what you want? Us? This family?”

“Of course.”

“Because, you know how easy it would be to let it all go, don’t you? I’ve always told you…I’ll set you up in a little apartment—you know the kind—and we’ll call it a day.”

“And the kids? What about the kids?” He likes it when I bring this up. It hammers me into place.

“They’ll stay here, of course. Where they’re comfortable.”

I know what he means. He doesn’t have to say it. He controls everything. The money he off-shores, or ties up in his business—and the house is in the church’s name—so, in the end, he’s right. I’ll come out with very little.

“Anyway. Let me remind you. You like appearances, no?” He glances at my phone. “What kind of job do you think you’ll get? Money guarantees beauty. My profession is a testament to that. But it doesn’t always work the other way around, now does it? You’ll need a skill set to land you a job.” He scoffs. I look at the floor. “What do you think that might be? At your age? Lunching? Carpool? Gardening? Reading? I’m glad you have your hobbies. Don’t get me wrong; that’s why I work so hard. But let’s face it, what you have are hardly employable skills, darling. ”

He shifts my chin forcing me to look at him. I’ve heard this all before. “It was just an off the cuff remark,” I say. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He touches my face. “And I didn’t mean to put my hands on you.”

I nod like I understand, and I do. I understand that he chooses his words carefully. He doesn’t say, I didn’t mean to hit you. Slapping you was an accident, I meant nothing by it. No, not my husband. He’s precise. Careful.

This makes me realize I should be too.

I run my fingers over the dresses. I collect myself, get my emotions in check. I select a green silk A-line dress Grant bought for me during his last trip to Argentina. I’m guessing he’ll like this one. It holds memories.

I snap a photo of it next to a sheer blue wraparound and post it to Instalook with the caption: Decisions. Decisions. What say you?

Almost instantly, I have ninety-two responses, and I realize I was right to go with the A-line.

“I’d like to lie with you before we go,” Grant calls out from the bedroom. It catches me off-guard given our argument. That’s not to say I’m surprised. I know him.

“Just a sec—” I hold the dress up to my frame and wonder if I hurry to throw it on whether it’d make any difference. Probably not. I’d just have to find something else to wear. He steps into the closet. When I don’t answer, because there isn’t one, he repeats himself. “I said I want to lie with you before we go.”

I know what this means, and I meet his eye accordingly.

“I have to get ready,” I say, glancing at the clock.

“Being late is fashionable, Mrs. Dunn.” He’s standing just behind me, running his hands over my hips. He’s lying. He doesn’t like to be late.

I watch his hands in the mirror. They’re cold. “What do you think about this dress?” I ask, a considerate distraction.

“I think— I like what is underneath the dress better.”

His response tells me what I need to know. I won’t be getting out of it tonight. Not that I’ve ever really been that successful. We have an agreement. It’s one every couple at New Hope shares: one is never to refuse their spouse. It’s written in scripture.

“Josie,” he repeats, his tone stern. “I said, I want to lie with you.”

This time I do as he asks, without hesitation. I hang the dress over the door, and I turn to him.

He waits for me to exit the closet, and his eyes never leave mine as I walk across the room. I get into bed and eventually he climbs in on top of me. I swallow hard at the weight of his body on mine. He smooths my hair away from my face. “Do you love me?”

“Of course,” I tell him.

He stares into my eyes, and it’s like he can see right through me, to the depths of my soul. “I am so lucky,” he says, after a long, slow exhale. “To be going to dinner with you. To be married to you. To have you in my bed. This is what it’s all about, Josie. The sacrifice. This,” he says motioning to the small, ever-shrinking space between us. “This is what it’s all about.”

I nod and offer the most sincere smile I can muster.

He kisses the spot just between my eyes, and he’s so gentle. It kills me. “You will be the most beautiful woman there. Without a doubt. It pains me,” he says, wincing. “I will have to share you with everyone, which you know I hate doing. But when I look across the room and your eyes meet mine, I will know.”

I can see he wants me to ask. So I do. “You’ll know what?”

His lips trail lower and lower. I grip the sheets. “I will know the flush on your cheeks is because of me,” he says, and he pauses long enough to look up and smile from down below. “And that, my love, will be a gift to us both.”

I want to be angry, lying there, with his head between my legs. I want to hate him for asking me to do this here, now, after what just happened in the closet. But he doesn’t make it easy. “You are so beautiful when you give in,” he tells me as he moves inside of me.

A moan escapes my lips because he knows all the right places to touch, all the right things to say. He knows what to do to get the reaction he wants. That’s what he does. He sculpts things—people, faces, breasts, asses—he sculpts them to perfection. He’s perfected everything, even our lovemaking, down to an art, down to an exact science. That’s how he works. He’s learned how to get my body to respond every time, and without fail, it does. “Just let go, Jos—” he urges. He pushes on the edges of my instability. “You just have to let go.”

And so I do. I lie there, and I picture myself as a balloon tethered to something intangible. I watch myself come undone until I am floating free. Up, up, and away.