But the irony is that having Striker in charge of it has made me feel more unsettled, instead of less. In a way, it feels like Striker himself I need protecting from. Even if he’s incredibly easy on the eyes. Even if he’s only there to keep me safe.
The truth is, I’ve had enough of being watched in my life to make this situation a special kind of hell for me.
I guess most people would call me an introvert. In general, I prefer the company of a good book to the company of people. Marriage was kind of a stretch for me in that respect. To be honest, I had been nervous about moving in with Mark, for that and other reasons. Even early on, I knew him to be a bit of a control freak — the kind who liked things to be just so. I told myself I’d rather be with a neat freak than a slob I was always picking up after. Still, I knew sharing a space with him — with anyone — would be a challenge for me. I found myself pushing off living together until after we were engaged. And then, it just seemed like it made more sense to wait until we got married, so I wouldn’t have to move twice.
It turns out, waiting that long was a mistake. Once we tied the knot and moved into this house, he started acting less like my partner, and more like an authoritarian parent. The first big conflict arose over the fact that I had decided not to take his last name. Before the wedding he said it didn’t bother him. But after we were married, he started to drop disparaging remarks, saying that other people — especially men — would take our different last names as a signal that I wasn’t fully committed to the marriage.
From there, a possessive, jealous streak in him emerged that I had never seen before. If a man talked to me at a party and I appeared to enjoy the conversation, Mark would sulk for days afterwards, and accuse me of inviting flirtation, or worse. He would accuse me of not “honoring the marriage” and making him appear foolish.
Then there were his opinions on my appearance. Mark was quick to criticize my hairstyle, or a new item of clothing I’d purchased. When we had plans for a night out with friends, he’d give me a “suggestion” about what he thought I should wear that turned out to be more of a directive. If I didn’t choose that outfit, he would to pout about it all evening, but insist nothing was wrong.
As Mark’s wife, I felt like I was being watched almost all the time. I never quite relaxed, knowing that he was constantly evaluating my words and actions, whether he actually said anything about them or not. It was stressful and exhausting, always living by the yardstick of my husband’s expectations. I wore myself out defending myself from accusations of flirtation or even cheating — accusations which were completely baseless, and thus even harder to disprove.
Ironically, it wasn’t until later that I learned he had been cheating on me the whole time.
When Mark started lobbying hard to start trying for a baby, I balked. We had only been married for a year at that point. I told him I’d like to push parenthood off for a couple more years, while I concentrated on my building my career.
“But why, December?” he asked me, astonished and more than a little irritated. “You’re going to quit working once Baby is born anyway. What’s the point climbing up the professional ladder when you’re just going to have to climb down again?”
We had never once talked about my leaving my career once I became a mother, but Mark talked about it like it was a done deal. That was the moment I realized that having Mark’s baby was to be his final keystone of control. Once I got pregnant, I would lose my career — which I had worked so hard and long for. And with it, my identity as an individual.
I held fast to my insistence that we wait at least one more year before trying for a baby, hoping that would give me time to convince him I could practice law and be a mother at the same time. Not long after, Mark started finding fault with the firm where I worked. On the way home after a dinner party one night, he threw a fit in the car and accused Lance Roth, one of the partners, of making a pass at me right in front of him. It was a ridiculous accusation, but Mark wouldn’t let it go. Things got so bad that the tension between us became unbearable. In the end, I left the firm and started my own office, just so I would no longer have any male colleagues for Mark to accuse me of leading on.
Looking back on it now, the whole thing makes me sick to my stomach. I tried so hard to fit into the boxes that Mark had created for me, both real and metaphorical. The biggest physical box was this house, purchased for the express purpose of showing off and entertaining. Mark chose it because it was impressive enough to raise eyebrows, and project an image of success, good taste, and established wealth. Then there was the enormous fancy black SUV for me to be seen around town in — a car I got rid of as soon as I could after our separation, because the payments were ungodly. As time went on, the boxes of my life got more numerous, and more uncomfortable.
In the end, Mark gave me an ultimatum. He told me he was done humoring me. It was time for me to quit “playing around” and get serious about starting our family. It was time for me to leave my job.
Instead, I finally decided I’d had enough, and left the marriage.
Technically, I’m still Mark’s wife, though we haven’t lived together in months. I’m definitely poorer, wiser, and the worse for wear. My life isn’t what I thought it would be at this stage in the game. I’m living in a giant house with a mortgage I can’t really afford, which Mark doesn’t help with, probably because he’s hoping I’ll come to my senses and let him move back in. And I still have a huge chunk of student loans from law school that it will take me an eternity to pay off. I make a decent income as a family lawyer, but honestly, I’m barely getting by.
But at least my life is mine again. Or at least, it will be, eventually. Maybe I’m just not cut out for marriage. Or for any relationship at all. Now, when I come home at the end of a stressful, intense day, I can truly relax. I don’t have anyone breathing down my neck. There are no one’s passive-aggressive suggestions to cater to. Compared to the last few years, it’s heaven.
Now, though, having Striker out there, following me around — watching what I do and where I go — feels uncomfortably like the worst parts of my marriage. Which I guess is why I blew up at him last night when he ordered me to lock my door. I know he’s just doing what Tank asked him to do. But don’t feel like I’m being protected. I feel like I’m being spied on. Albeit by a very hot, unnervingly sexy biker.
I hate the very thought of it. I really, really hate it.
Lost in painful thoughts of the past, when I finally come out of my reverie, Bert has finished his business and is digging a hole next to a hydrangea bush.
I take a sip of my coffee, and grimace to find it ice cold. “Shit,” I hiss, spitting it back in the cup. I must have been out here for longer than I thought. I whistle to Bert, grab an old towel off the railing to wipe off his muddy paws, and head back inside. I’m going to be late for work at this rate. I’ll have to be quick about it if I want to grab a shower before I get ready.
8
Ember
Striker doesn’t appear when I pull my car out of the driveway, and I make it to work without a motorcycle escort. On the way, I’m still reconsidering whether I should Cady and Tank and give them recommendations for another lawyer to take their case.