Page 27 of Bartholomew
“Hold up for a minute here. Hold up. Okay, this is a two-part thing I need to say and, more importantly, that I need you to hear. First of all, I was also raised in Zion. I get it. Okay? I was there, too, and heard my fair share of spewed vitriol,” he began with a smirk. “But that is not how this house works. Understood?” I couldn’t help but nod.
“Good. If you haven’t caught on, I can be a complete goofball. This space,” he stated as he gestured to the room around us. “This whole house I have built as a safe place for myself. This is a place where I am not a Son of Zion. I am not Bartholomew Temple. I am Ollie. Complete goofball, and whatever else I choose to be. You are now my wife, and this is your home as well. So, the same goes for you. I don’t want you to be anything but your authentic self. Especially here. It’s vital that you understand that, Delilah.”
He spoke with a zealousness that I didn’t want to question. But the cruel voices in my head that had been born of years of self-doubt and self-hatred would not be pushed aside.
“But it is my job to please you, Ollie. As your wife, it is my duty,” I tried to explain. I needed to be what he needed, not who I was. And surely, he understood that. A look crossed his face that I did not understand. A look that sparked something within me, just as his touch had.
“Well, as much as I would like to discuss that, it is a topic of conversation for another day. But I need you to understand that what I want, what would please me most, is for you to be your true self. Don’t try to be someone else just to please me. Teach me. Teach me about you. About who you are and what you like. Okay?” His words were spoken with such sincerity that it took me a moment to digest his words. He didn’t want me to be the perfect wife?
“Yes, but Ollie, a well-run home and a submissive wife makes a husband happy,” I tried to explain. They had taught me exactly that.
“Christ, you are trying to kill me,” he muttered, running a hand over his face.
“It’s really hard for me,” I barely uttered in a whisper, unable to look at him.
“I know it is. I truly can see that, but I promise you are safe here. This home is your home and I want — no, I need you to feel safe here. Exactly as you are. I don’t want some perfect Zion wife. I want Delilah. In all her glory.” As he spoke, his knuckle found the underside of my chin and lifted until my eyes found his again. All I could see there was genuine want. His desire for me to be just me was true. But it wasn’t that simple. Far from it.
“Your compliments make me uncomfortable,” I admitted, lowering my eyes. His gaze was too intense. I wrung my hands in my lap with nervousness.
“Why on Earth would they make you uncomfortable?” he scoffed in mock confusion, almost affronted at my confession.
“Because I don’t like being made fun of,” I scoffed right back, looking away and sighing. It wasn’t something that was easy to talk about, but Ollie was making it hard not to.
“Wait, wait, wait. You think my compliments are my way of making fun of you?” His tone was pure shock. I looked up to see his jaw held open and his eyebrows raised to the ceiling.
“Well, yeah,” I admitted, my hand raising to my hair to twirl a strand around one finger. It was a nervous habit.
“But… But why?! Why would a compliment not be a compliment? I don’t get it,” Ollie argued.
I sat there a moment and just gestured to my body, my hands moving up and down.
He sat there, almost gob smacked and slack jawed.
“I’m not understanding.”
Again, I gestured to my body, more obviously. When he shook his head, leaning back against the couch with his arms crossed over his chest, I stood and spun in a circle. My arms were wide as though to say: Hello, it’s me!
“Yeah, nope. Still not understanding what you’re on about,” he admitted, his lips quirking to the side in thought.
I rolled my eyes, tired of the game of charades this had become. “I am a fat, blubbery, ugly, sad excuse for a woman. Of course, you would make fun of me. And maybe that’s hard for me. I have a thick skin, not just a thick waist,” I spat out. In an instant, I regretted it. What on Earth was I thinking?!
It mortified me. The words were out there, and I could not take them back. Lord, how I wished I could. Ollie sat there in silence. His jaw was closed, his eyes not looking at me. I could see the tension there in his face.
What had I done?
What would the repercussions be?
What had I done?
The silence stretched on for long moments. I stood there, not wanting to move. Not wanting to sit. Not wanting to hardly breathe, for fear of making the situation worse. If I could have dissolved into dust at that moment, it would have been better.
Don’t show emotion. Don’t show them anything.
Be small. Be invisible. Be quiet. Be non-existent.
But I couldn’t be any of those things at that moment. Because here we were, in the living room of our home. And Ollie sat there, not looking at me, the muscles of his jaw clenched tight as his hands were held clasped tightly in his lap. Gone was the relaxed and easy-going nature of his posture. Finally, he spoke.
“Do you truly feel that way?” Gone was the funny, confident Ollie. His words were quiet and intentional. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t want to speak. I was afraid of what else would come flying out of my mouth should I try again. Instead, I simply nodded.
