Page 17 of The Bonds We Break
And I don’t even want her.
So why do I give a shit?
Again, she said she consented. Why would she do that? She must have a plan. I’d like to think I’m smart, but Rae Miller is smarter. She must be playing mind games with me.
I don’t know what she thinks her endgame is, but I guarantee she won’t get there, even as I acknowledge that her disdain gets under my skin.
To avoid thinking about it, I go through Rae’s things. I find her cellphone and laptop and lock them in the old safe that has a dial to get into. The combination is Mom’s birthday. My memories of her are twisted but being reshaped by Gwen, my twin, and the truth about why she and Mom disappeared for so long. I used to wonder why Dad kept the code as Mom’s birthday; I always thought she betrayed the club, but I’m starting to realize there were extenuating circumstances that Dad knew about.
I’m not sure how long I stare at the flames once I sit back down, but it’s long enough that my eyes feel heavy. I throw a few more logs on the fire, close the door, and adjust the damper so it will burn more slowly. Given this place only has a few rooms, it will be enough heat to not be miserable.
When I step back into the bedroom, Rae is dressed again. I glance at the chair where her underwear and bra remain. But she’s pulled on her yoga pants and hoodie as pajamas. She’s beneath the threadbare covers, shivering.
I’m not even sure if she’s awake or asleep.
I pull on my black Henley but tug off my jeans. The heat hasn’t filtered into the bedroom, but I’m used to the cold, doing rides and camping out in all kinds of weather.
But this bed has never felt as cold as it is with Rae Miller in it.
7
RAE
Iknow it’s a dream, mainly because we’re speaking in Shakespearean prose.
Clue number two is that King is looking at me like I am his world.
We’re both naked in a beautiful garden that’s too perfect. Every blossom is in bloom, all white. There are no flowers to deadhead, no weeds to pull, nor soil to till.
“Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee,” I say.
Now I’m quotingThe Taming of the Shrew?
I’m half awake, half asleep. Conscious enough to know it’s a dream, but asleep enough to be unable to stop it from playing out.
King steps towards me as if my words confirm everything he feels. His warm palm skims my waist, moving up until he cups my breast, where his thumb brushes the tip of my nipple playfully. He takes my chin, tips my head slightly, and presses the softest kiss to my lips.
“I may be your sovereign, your king. But you, duchess, are my queen.”
My eyes open with a start. I gasp, trying to calm my racing heart.
I try to blow out a silent breath, but it comes out shakily. And I’m more aroused than I’d ever admit.
Even if I didn’t have psychological training, I would’ve seen straight through the elements of the dream.
To start, Shakespeare’s plays are known for addressing the complexity of the human condition, often through the lens of problematic men. Hello, Macbeth. King obviously falls into the category. He’s a study in masculinity that borders on the toxic. Perhaps he could be a study in power and revenge and what the pursuit of them does to a man.
He’s obviously the center of the dream because of the hostage predicament I’m in with him.
The garden symbolism is two-fold. I love my garden. I love the feeling of nurturing something from its birth. Watching the stages at it goes from seed, to shoot, to stem, to flower, to compost. But gardens in dreams can also symbolize a person’s true self and inner beauty. Or the cycle of beauty, death, and renewal.
Of course, every flower is white because internalized purity culture is a thing. I try to visualize the scene with color, but my brain won’t let me. I’ll work on that later.
And my words to King in the dream—The Taming of the Shrewis jammed with all kinds of misogynistic and patriarchal themes. Katherine is portrayed as an uptight shrew. Petruchio wins her over by depriving her of food and gaslighting her into believing what she’s thinking, seeing, and feeling is wrong at every turn, just so she’ll become an obedient bride. It’s all mind games. I remember reading it in high school and beingfuriousthat she fell for it, became complicit in it, and then was happy in their marriage. My father was furious when I threw the book against the wall, where it dropped and smashed a plate that was sitting on the dresser.
So the final line I spoke about the worship of a husband ... fuck that shit.
I don’t know a single good husband, although I pray my brother will be a good one to Briar.
