“Actually, I’d like to put an apple in your mouth and roast you on a spit,” I say.
“Go ahead and wear pajamas to dinner, Naomi. You think that would bother me? You can go out dressed as Santa Claus and I wouldn’t care.”
Now I genuinely am insulted. “Why wouldn’t you care?”
He raises his eyes to mine. “Because I think you’re beautiful no matter what.”
Ugh. That’s really low, even for him. I spin away from the liar and go to wash another load of bedclothes. All of our blankets and pillows got streaked with grime in the U-Haul, so Nicholas has been spending all day washing everything while I scrub the rest of the house down with wipes. I have nothing against Leon, and he lived cleanly, but I do feel a little like I need to scrub him out of the house. His eyes are in the walls, following us wherever we go.
I check the dryer and holy god, this man is going to burn us to the ground. “You need to clean out the lint trap! Letting it get this packed is a fire hazard.”
“You’re a fire hazard,” I distinctly hear him mutter under his breath.
“I know you’re used to having a woman do all the housework for you, but I might not always be around. You should listen to me. I’m trying to educate you and help you to grow as a person.”
“How about you put your advice in a pamphlet and I’ll take a look at it when you’re finally gone?” he replies.
I make the trip upstairs as violently loud as I can. Maybe I go a little overboard, because I slip on the edge of a step and save myself by hugging the railing. I glance down, hoping he didn’t catch what happened, but of course he did. His quiet laugh sucks one year from my life span. “Are you all right, honey?” he calls up, sweet as cotton candy.
“Shut up. Go draw your mother a bubble bath.”
“You’re obsessed with my mother.”
I’m sure we’ve traumatized the house. It’s used to quiet, sensitive Leon. It’s probably never had to deal with this level of vitriol before. Nicholas and I are monsters nowadays and I don’t like either of us, but I definitely don’t like who I was before, the Naomi who kept her mouth shut and didn’t speak her truth, so there’s no going back. Nicholas and I are in a free fall.
I grumble obscenities into my closet, chucking Snoopy and Woodstock pajamas over my shoulder. I’m tempted to keep them on, but I’ve got applications circulating and knowing my luck, a manager at someplace I’m trying to get hired would see me. No one wears Snoopy and Woodstock pajamas to a steak-house unless they’re Going Through Some Shit.
I do, however, carefully choose a bumblebee-yellow shirt that washes me out. I tug my hair into an unflattering low ponytail, bangs sticking straight up like I’ve been electrocuted. I don’t bother to dab concealer under my eyes. As a matter of fact, I dab some faint purple eyeshadow there. I look like a pilgrim with cholera. Mrs. Rose is going to have a field day with my appearance, which I’ll punish her son for after we get home. My feelings are already so hurt, I can’t help but smile at my reflection.
“Hurry up!” Nicholas complains outside my door. He jiggles the knob and it’s locked, obviously. I’ve just gotten back the luxury of having a bedroom all to myself after a year of sharing and he’s not invited in. “You waited until the last minute, like I knew you would. It’s irresponsible to arrive late! I’ll have to text Mom and tell her what our drink orders are, because you were dicking around all day and couldn’t bother showering or putting on actual clothes until it was almost dark out!”
“I’m basically ready!” I yell back. “All I have to do is put my shoes on and …” I fill the rest of the sentence with low-volume nonsense.
“And what?”
“Get off my back. We’ll get there when we get there.”
“That’s not how civil society functions. How about you grab your makeup bag and put all your crap on in the car?” It’s adorable how he assumes I’m in here making myself pretty instead of smearing a pentagram on the floor in my own blood and casting hexes on him.
I turn fully around to face the door. “How about you go iron your socks like a complete psychopath? Anyway, leave if you want. I’ll meet you there.”
This has been the goal all along. I want him to leave without me.
“If we take separate cars, Mom and Dad are going to think something’s up.”
“Your dad probably doesn’t even know what year it is. Your mom will be grateful for something new to talk about. She’s been beating that Heather-didn’t-send-a-card-for-Mother’s-Day dead horse for eons.”
He hesitates. “Are you sure?”
It’s Sunday evening. The wait for a table will be ridiculous. I picture a line of people trailing out the door, wrapping around the building. Two of them will be in matching sweater vest combos, fuming over the mysterious cancellation of their reservation.
“Go on.”
I watch his Jeep pull away from the house before flying downstairs and grabbing my keys. Leon said he’d meet me at the Junk Yard. After that, I’ve got fifteen minutes to book it to Beaufort and make a spectacle of myself. Nicholas is too good a soldier to bend his will to my plan A and give up on his own. He won’t submit unless his commander forces the order. Up until now, whenever I needled Deborah, it was for the purpose of annoying Nicholas. I knew she’d whine at him about me in private. Whining at him just isn’t going to be enough. Luckily, I can get way worse! I’m going to make myself so obviously unfit to have around that Mrs. Rose will threaten to write Nicholas out of the will if he doesn’t call off the wedding.
My ploy is a beautiful seven-layer cake. I don’t have to cancel the wedding, and neither does my beloved fiancé. We’re going to get his parents to do our dirty work for us: plan D. I’m casually setting fire to everything and it feels awesome.
Plan D is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, which I realize about halfway to Beaufort. In all of my scheming, giddy over the visual appeal of me rolling up to dinner in this Frankenstein’s monster of a car, I failed to remember that my new whip is a stick shift.
I had to feign confidence about this to Leon, because by then he already had the keys to my Saturn and was elated about the trade-up. (“Are you sure? Your car’s in much better shape than mine. Why do you want it? Are you sure?”) In my head, it looked like this: Nicholas bought Leon’s house without consulting me, so I’d go and buy Leon’s car without consulting him. I’d stun Mr. and Mrs. Rose, who are so snobby about cars that they make the landscaper park his rusty pickup in the garage to hide it from the neighbors.
They’ll see Nicholas’s Jeep and know something’s wrong with his brain. When they see my car, they’ll believe that whatever’s wrong with his brain is me. I’m a lower-class nobody with no shame who doesn’t deserve their son. I’m a madwoman, and I’ll drag him down to my level. No country club in Wisconsin will admit their precious boy when they see what kind of wife he’s shackled to.
I paid attention during Leon’s mini lesson, but even though he told me I have to accelerate at the same time I let off the clutch, when I first tried to get going I didn’t release the clutch quickly enough and the car shot forward, knocking over a dumpster in the Junk Yard’s lot.