Page 57 of Homestead

It might feel like my home now, but it’s not. Not really. Not as much as it’s Jimmy’s. He can kick me out whenever he wants and leave me to fend for myself in a hostile world.

He’s the one providing me a roof over my head and food on my plate and any degree of security.

I have to keep him satisfied in every way. I don’t have any other real choice.

Grandpa taught me well to never bite the hand that feeds you, to never put yourself at risk for nothing more than pounding on an impervious wall.

You have to do what must be done to survive. That’s always been true, and it’s truer now than ever.

I can do it.

I made a mistake, but I can fix it.

I can make Jimmy happy again.

I have to. Otherwise I’ll lose everything I’ve worked so hard to get.

* * *

The next morning, I’m resolved to do better. Tobebetter.

I sit up as soon as Jimmy’s feet hit the floor at dawn, smoothing down my messy hair and smiling at him. “Good morning.”

“Mornin’.” He’s sitting on the edge of the bed. His boxers have slid so low I can see the top of his butt crack. His hair was slightly damp from the water he splashed on his face when he went to sleep last night, so it’s sticking up in chaotic kinks today.

He’s still a little tense, eyeing me warily as I crawl over and stand up. I’m still naked since I never put my gown on last night. His eyes dip down in an instinctive once-over before focusing back on my face.

I raise a hand to my cheek when I realize he’s looking at the bruise. It’s not throbbing this morning, so I almost forgot about it. The skin is tender when I push on it.

I hate it. It reminds Jimmy of how helpless I am.

He’s still sitting on the bed when I go to the dresser to grab my panties. I smile at him again as I step into them and pull them up my legs.

“You feel okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. I’m fine. How about you?”

“I’m okay.” He won’t stop peering at me, and it’s getting on my nerves. But I’ve resolved today to do better, so I’m not going to express any sort of impatience or annoyance.

I find a T-shirt and pull it on before I wash my face and brush my teeth.

He’s unnerving me by still sitting there staring, but I ignore it as I dry my face with my towel.

“You’re not still mad at me?” he finally asks.

I pause in the middle of fitting myself into my jeans. I’m eating so much more now that I’ve gained a little weight. My jeans are tighter than they used to be. “Of course I’m not mad.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Are you still mad?”

“I wasn’t—” He cuts off the protestation he couldn’t possibly think I’d believe. “I’m not mad.”

“Okay, good.” Upset and confusion is still shuddering in a tight ball inside me, but I refuse to cater to those feelings. I manage another sweet smile. “I’m sorry I was moody and stubborn yesterday.”

His eyebrows pull together. “I’m sorry I sounded mean and hurt your feelings. You wanna talk about it some more?”

I do want to talk about it. Everything inside me wants to explode with it. Get the whole thing out. But I know for sure that if I start that conversation again, I’ll begin arguing to get my point across. I’ll get upset when he doesn’t listen. It will turn into the same mess as yesterday.

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