1
Kat
December 13
HOW CAN A BEAUTIFULred gown feel so much like a cage?
Slipping the floor-length red satin gown over my head, I can already hear the comments that will come from Nic’s coworkers and Nic himself. I like compliments, I do, but not when the intention behind them has my skin crawling.
I zip the back of the dress up to the top, which hits the middle of my back. I tap my phone to check the time. Shit, I only have fifteen minutes before we have to leave.
Plugging my curling iron in, I quickly apply my foundation and concealer, followed by my blush and bronzer. Once my curler is warmed up, I loosely curl my dark brown hair and ruffle my fingers through it afterward to separate the curls. Blending out a brown smoky eye, I glue on lashes and add a dark red lip to complete the full look.
Pausing, I stare at the reflection of myself, not recognizing who she is. When did I morph into this person? The girl who is paraded around as a trophy by her husband at company events. A cloud of wariness gathers inside of me. Mrs. Claus is the only name I’m ever addressed by. And that is who I’m having a stare down with in the mirror. The persona that was carefully built by myadoringhusband.
Throwing all my makeup back in its bag, I go to step out of my bathroom and remember that I don’t have shoes on yet.
“Kat, in two minutes, I need you to be down here, or we’re going to be late.” Nic’s voice booms through the house.
My pace picks up as I run to my closet and slip on a pair of gold stilettos. I grab the simple gold threader earrings off of my nightstand, and then I rush downstairs, so Nic doesn’t turn into a full asshole tonight.
When I hit the last step, he opens the front door, already trying to rush me out. I snag my purse and coat and lead the way.
It’s beautiful out tonight, although it is quite cold. Snow is lightly falling down around us. I love the snow; it feels like magic.
“You look great, by the way,” Nic says as we walk down the sidewalk to the car.
This stupid coat. I can’t get my arms through. “Thanks.”
Nic turns the radio up when we get inside the already warm car, and Christmas music pours through the speakers.
“Anything I need to know for tonight?” I ask him as I thread the earrings through my ears.
Last time I went to a company dinner with him, I looked like an idiot. It wasn’t fun for me, and it certainly wasn’t fun for him. I heard about it for fucking months. But it would’ve been helpful if he had told me that we were there to celebrate a record-breaking year of sales. But, no, that would’ve been too easy. So, when one of their largest investors approached us with celebratory praise, I asked what it was for. Nic laughed it off, saying I had too much to drink and that he didn’t marry me for my brain.
I don’t care anymore what Nic thinks of me, but I care what I think of myself. So, I refuse to be unprepared again.
Nic owns and runs his family’s toy business, called Claus Creations. It’s a multimillion-dollar company with locations in almost all fifty states and a handful of locations scattered internationally. They ship worldwide. No house is unreachable.
“Tonight is the company holiday party. Everyone will want to talk to me and get the scoop on what we are rolling out next year. I just need you to stand and smile at my side the whole night with the usual pleasantries. I’ll network with some people, we’ll eat, I’ll make a speech, and we’ll head home shortly after that. It’ll only last about two, three hours tops.”
Three hours? This night is going to last forever.
“Got it,” I reply and look out the window, watching the snow fall.
I like to believe that there was a time when Nic and I were actually happy as a couple. But I honestly don’t know anymore. We met when we were so young. I had just turned eighteen and was able to leave foster care. I couldn’t stand being in my last foster home any longer. They were … problematic, to say the least. They had a lock on the fridge, so we wouldn’t take the “good food.” And more locks on the bathrooms, so we had to get permission to use the toilet or shower. Which we were never permitted to use after nine a.m. until eight a.m. the following morning. My eighteenth birthday, I was done. Agencies were supposed to follow up, check out where you were staying, what type of support system you had, et cetera, until you turned twenty-one. But that didn’t always happen. Kids fell through the cracks, myself being one of them.
Nic found me sleeping on a bench in the cold and brought me to his home. Whether it was pity or the generosity of Christmas, Nic let me stay with him at his place. First for a few days, then a week, then a month, and so on.
At first, I admit that I was using him for a roof over my head and food on the table. But then our friendship turned romantic. I met his family and visited him at work. And then it seemed like I blinked, and we were engaged, then married.
The passion between us seemed like enough. But I don’t think it ever really was. We kissed occasionally, held hands in public, and danced at events. I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve had sex, usually only when we are incredibly drunk. But that’s about as far as it has gone. He doesn’t want kids, and I wasn’t ready for kids anyway. I said that wouldn’t be a problem. That all I needed was him.
But eventually, that changed. I think about the boys and girls in foster care, wanting more than anything to spend the holidays with a family they can call their own. I want to adopt one day. But when I picture that future, Nic never seems to be in it.
After we married, the passion didn’t grow at all. If anything, in the absence of it, tension seemed to blossom. The slightest thing I did would trigger him. He would blow up, we would fight about literally nothing, and then he would storm off to his office. I just chalked it up to him working himself to death. But he wouldn’t want it any other way.
Over time, even the fire in that died. And we just started moving as random pieces in a game, going through the motions, day by day. My romantic feelings for him died some time ago. But he’s still important to me no matter what, with romanticism or not.
