Respect Me, Part 1 by Nia Arthurs
Harriet
I only attendthe party because of Doc.
The little voice inside warns I should stay home. Prickles dance up my spine as I douse my brown skin in lotion. As I pull on my robe.
Unease stirs in my chest.
A storm is coming.
It’s waiting for me there. At that party.
I’ve never been one to fall on gut feelings, but it’s more than premonition. Schmoozing Jerrison’s guests and parading around with him sounds like a nightmare.
It kills me to honor my husband in private. How on earth do I accomplish that in public?
Deep breaths. Closed eyes.
I can tame the beast inside.
These past two weeks have been lessons in restraint.
Everyday I wonder. Hesitate. Rebel.
Is it worth it? Can I feel new in this skin of service?
It hurts.
It burns me.
What has he done to deserve pots that boil over and pans that sizzle? Coconut rice. Onions doused in oil. Meat tenderized over flames.
What has he sacrificed to earn my smiles, my patience, my fingers holding the ironing board steady as I steam his tux?
Honor.
Such a small word.
Such an impossible task.
Each attempt is harder than the next. Smiles that freeze on my face. Biting remarks that I swallow and choke down. Middle fingers and swear words and curses that would make my grandmother blush. All rolled into a ball and tossed in the dark. Hidden inside journals. Locked in my heart where he can never find the key.
Honor, Doc said. Honor and then leave him.
A diabolical plan.
I revelled in the cruelty. The wickedness.
Something tells me that Doc wouldn’t have a problem with that.
I like the power.
A tiny manipulation.
The merest hint of payback.
I’ve seen the changes in Jerrison. Like a child once prevented from having any sugar and now given free rein, he’s gorged himself on my subservience.
I laugh to myself in the dark. Chuckle in the privacy of the bathroom.
Hilarious.
Knee-slapping.
It’s funny how clueless he is.
It’s funny how doing these servile tasks earn me a smack on the behind, a baseless compliment, a smile of approval. Ah yes, woman. You should have been doing this all along.
It’s funny how, even when I honor him, my husband still returns late at night, smelling like legs that opened and closed. Lips that welcomed his kisses. Fingers that stretched far to find the places that are only supposed to belong to me.
I can see it all clearly.
And it makes my plans a little easier.
A little sweeter.
My days are always busy. In the mornings, I work on Doc’s assignment.
Apartments are not hard to find.
Bank accounts are not that difficult to open.
I learn the importance of subterfuge. Pocketbooks buried deep inside my underwear drawer. Numbers and zeroes transferred from my paycheck to another account. Lies to tellers, loan officers, realtors.
It’s not that difficult to hide. To tuck secrets away into crevices. No wonder Jerrison’s so good at deceit. Like a muscle, lies roll off my tongue as easily as a song.
“Is it ready, Harriet?” My husband’s voice jars me from my thoughts.
I pull the crisp white shirt off the ironing board and lift it high. Hold it against the light. Golden rays from the lamps stream through the fabric. There’s not a wrinkle in sight.
“Here.” I hand it over to him.
He accepts it with pale, trembling fingers. “Tonight is extremely important.”
“You’ve mentioned that.” My smile is wry. Patient.
It’s been a while since I’ve smiled genuinely at him. At myself.
I discovered how fake my grins were when I brushed up against a real one.
It was a few days ago when, for the seventh time in a row, Jerrison came home and I was there. Not only me. Food on the table. Wine chilling in ice. His favorite music crooning from the speakers. Hands outstretched to take his jacket, his shoes, his burdens.
Those gorgeous blue eyes lit up from the inside. Diamonds. Precious stones. The rarest crystals. Wrinkles had formed around his mouth. All his white teeth glistened.
He gave that smile to me.
And I realized I have never had the opportunity to give him the same. To feel as loved, prioritized and precious as he did in that moment.
It made me sad.
That night, I didn’t laugh into the darkness.
I cried.
I held the pillows that smelled like him, that mourned his absence, and let the tears flow.
Who have I become?
Where is the Harriet who’d knock out teeth in a boxing ring?
I didn’t recognize myself.
“Harriet?” Jerrison calls to me in a tender voice. Strong hands appear on my shoulders. He leans his head down so we’re eye-to-eye. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” I answer distractedly.
His hand brushes my cheek. “You’re nervous.”
I don’t respond. I only look at him. The soft light brushes over his pale skin. He’s gleaming tonight. His hair is styled thicker at the top and shorn at the sides. His broad shoulders are defined in that snug white shirt and pressed slacks. He looks every bit the modern prince.
“I can’t wait to show you off tonight.” His eyes crinkle. He genuinely believes that’s a compliment.
“I’ll just slip into my dress and finish my hair.” I force a smile. Push his hands off me.
To my relief, he doesn’t try to lean in for a kiss.
The hardest part of Doc’s assignment is not sleeping with my husband. My little acts of service draw out his affection. Like a dog wagging his tail, he can’t stop jumping on me. I’ve dodged kisses. Hugs. Fingers that roamed in the night, slipping under my nightgown and dipping into my panties.
Whatever restraint I had in the bedroom, Jerrison seems determined to break. Thankfully, I’ve been able to avoid him by feigning sickness, but I’m not sure how much longer that excuse will hold up.
His eyes follow me as I slip into the bathroom. It’s a hungry look.
I let it linger.
He can watch.
Even I know I’m impressive tonight.
I catch a look at my reflection. A professional came in to do my hair and makeup. She styled my weave into a sleek press that falls sharply to my shoulders. Thick mascara rims my eyes and makes them pop.
I look dangerous.
The robe slips off my skin. I grab my gown for the night. The dress is a daring black number with a low backline and a slit to an indecent height up my thigh. It embraces my body the way stars embrace the night. The way clouds cling to screaming blue horizons. I’m braver in it. Bolder in it.
I drink champagne in the limousine Jerrison hired. Hold his hand when he keeps wiping it against his pants from the nerves. Fix his tie before we enter the ballroom filled with his board members, his clients, his employees and investors.
Everyone turns to greet us. Everyone knows our name.
Mr. and Mrs. Bradley.
The perfect harmony.
I slip into the role like it was made for me. I’m sharpened by years of practice. Gentle laughter. Hands clasped around his elbow. Smile prettily. Investors like pretty women and pretty smiles.
It’s all pretense. All suffocating. But I do get one little breather. He stomps through the room, his muscles bursting out of a fitted black tux.
Fuentes.
Jerrison’s newest athlete.
He shakes my hand enthusiastically, his dark eyes glittering. “Mrs. Bradley, it is so nice to finally meet you.” His words are clipped with a hint of a Spanish accent. It’s delightful to hear. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
Fuentes turns his brown eyes on Jerrison. “You two look great together.”
Jerrison is about to explode with pride. “She’s my better half.” He hooks his arm around my waist. “I couldn’t ask for a better woman.”
Fuentes grins so hard I’m afraid his cheeks might pop. “This is so good to see.” He claps his hands and it sounds like thunder. Several people glance our way. “You want to know why I chose your agency over everyone else, Bradley?” He juts a finger at me. “It’s because of this. Because you’re a family man who loves his wife.”
It’s hard to keep the smile in place. Hard to maintain my expression when, inside, my eyes are batting up and down and riotous laughter threatens to leak out of me.
“We need more of that these days,” Fuentes gushes, shaking Jerrison’s hand. “We need more good men in this industry.”
“Well, you’ve certainly signed with the best one,” I say, letting the lie tremble through me. My gag reflexes don’t get the upper hand. “He loves me, protects me and treats me like I’m precious.” I glance at Fuentes. “If he treats you half as well, then I’m sure you’ll be quite happy with this agency.”
Another grin from Fuentes.
Another proud head tilt from Jerrison.
How could he be so happy right now? Is there not a streak of shame? No thread of uncertainty? Guilt? Regret?
Someone calls Fuentes away and I’m glad because I can’t maintain that facade a moment longer.
“Jerrison,” a feminine voice warbles. A stunning woman approaches us. She’s tall and svelte with rich dark skin, the kind that seems to absorb and emit it’s own light. Her gap-tooth is the most charming sight I’ve ever seen. Long, black hair spirals down her shoulders.
It’s strange that I don’t even notice her dress, as stunning as it is. She is the one who gets all the attention and her clothes are lucky to be on her body.
I take my eyes off the model and notice the way Jerrison has suddenly gone tense beside me.
“Good night,” the model says, her voice soft and cultured. “Congratulations, Mr. Bradley.”
“Thank you.”
My eyebrow arches.
The model glances at me. Smirks. “I’m Ashley. Nice to meet you.”
“Ashley,” sweat dots my husband’s forehead, “this is my wife, Harriet.”
Ashley gives me a once-over. “That is an amazing dress.”
“And you are absolutely gorgeous.”
“Not as pretty as you.” She smiles. Then her eyes dart to Jerrison and linger. “Right, Jerrison?”
My husband pointedly glances away.
The unease I’d felt getting ready for this party returns to me in full. It’s like a swarm of mosquitos descending on me. Biting at my flesh. Buzzing in my ears.
The undercurrent between Jerrison and Ashley sends alarm bells clanging through my head. I don’t want to put my finger on why I’m feeling a current of attraction flowing between them right now.
“Could you excuse me? I’m going to get a drink,” Jerrison says. “Do you want anything, babe?”
I shake my head.
Jerrison gives me a curt nod.
Ashley excuses herself and follows him.
I watch them, my suspicions hiking with every step they take together. Every so often, Ashley’s arm brushes his side.
Something clenches in my chest.
A deep, dark understanding that every woman knows. A voice every woman hears, whether she acknowledges it or not. Whether she listens or not.
My phone buzzes in my purse.
I fish it out and notice a text from Nathan Zedina.
Stunned, I open the message.
The darkness I’d been sensing all night descends. Cold and swift.
Inside the text from Nathan is a picture of my husband and Ashley, laughing together as they walk, hand-in-hand up the street.
