Ovid wrote, "Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you."

When Brielle grabbed me by the arm that Monday, the dull pain radiating underneath my uniform felt worth it.

Kellen and I had gotten carried away, getting hot and heavy at the Seaport until he questioned if I wanted to continue our make-out session in the back of his car. I was apprehensive, checking my phone for the time and discovering it had died.

I knew I was finished; going into a full panic when I realized what I thought had been a few minutes was three hours of unmarked time.

To say Colleen was pissed is an understatement. My mother grabbed my arm so hard it bruised but, then again, I've always bruised easy. She closed her hand and smashed it into my face with Alexa, Damian, and several officers there to see.

The family lawyers quickly buried the incident. It was their jobs to make us seem like the picture-perfect family and, while they did, Colleen subjected me to a rape kit despite my assurance I had not been harmed. It would be a few months until I discovered my mother's concern was more about my virtue than my safety.

I felt mortified when my stepfather came to check on me. Damian looked hurt, as if almost unable to put it into words when he questioned how long she had been doing That to me. It made me laugh. Rueful and bitter, I envied someone who came from a world where a pop to the face was unspeakable.

I cut my eyes at him, requesting Damian not pretend he didn't know. I wasn't naïve; not in the sense most children my age were. I knew the infrequent beatings from Colleen were nothing compared to what Callahan would have done to me. To Wren.

I understood that, in that Manhattan condo, a boy who had never attended a school was thriving, so I would take her beatings. I would diet how she wanted, not smile too wide to keep from embarrassing her with my teeth, spread my legs and be subjected to every humiliation if it meant Wrenner could have a happy life.

I wouldn't give Damian the luxury of pretending not to know.

"Happy little girls don't slit their wrist, daddy." I forced a smile, watching Damian's heart break in front of me.

He hugged me, my body tensing in his arms. My father promised to protect me. He assured me that despite being punished for the next three months, he loved me and would never let her hurt me again.

I'm sure he believed his words but even then I knew it was a lie.

"I've been calling you since Saturday. What the hell happened? The police came to my place looking for you," Brielle scolded as we shuffled to lunch.

"Same - my mom thinks you're a heathen now, so, thanks." Emily tittered, enjoying having someone else for her mom to bitch about for once.

"I don't have my phone; I'm grounded," I explained.

"Saint Rue?" Emily gasped. "Can't be!" she teased.

I have never been, and never will be, a saint. I just wasn't stupid. While Wren and my friends were skipping class to go to the beach. I was the one they got notes from. When my friends were all experimenting with sex and drugs, I avoided it like the plague.

Because I knew what was expected of me. I didn't want to give my mother any more reason to hurt me. It just didn't seem worth it until Kellen.

"I was hanging out with my boyfriend and lost track of the time," I said to my shocked friends.

"Your what?" they exclaimed.

"Boyfriend?" I repeated.

I get why they were so surprised. Though I had some suitors, I had never been on a date. The closest thing was when an older teen asked me to ride the Ferris wheel with him during the school carnival my freshmen year.

He told me I was pretty. Then he tried to force me to touch his dick. My little brother broke his arm making me persona non grata at my high school and I didn't mind. I was waiting for someone. My heart and mind set on a dark-eyed man with a mischievous smile. Someone like Kellen Riaz.

When he dropped me off a block from my family's home, Kellen kissed me. He laughed when I nervously asked if I would see him again. He said of course I would; I was his now

I spotted Jamal in the crowd. We only shared a lunch period so I had to get to him quickly.

"I'll be right back." I smiled, taking off in his direction.

"Oh god, please not him!" Brielle complained as I zipped through the crowd.

Jamal was flanked by fellow STARS recipients, Violet Lopez and her best friend, Aleena Collins. Despite not being fed from silver spoons, they were the most popular kids at school.

I felt jealous of Aleena despite never having said two words to the high school junior. During my sophomore year we shared an advanced placement class but before then I only knew her name.

My first day of school, someone called me Aleena. They ran up behind me and tugged my hair telling me they loved the color. Then they saw my freckled face and realized I wasn't her.

It kept happening throughout the day, with someone even going as far as to ask if I was related to the stranger. And then I saw her.

Aleena Collin's and I had similar body types though her ass and breasts were a bit bigger at the time. We were both pear-shaped. We had full bow-shaped lips, small rounded noses, golden brown skin, and springs of bouncy curls growing from our heads.

Her face was clear; not one freckle in place. Her eyes were bigger - soft and round with an innocence that let you know she hadn't seen much in her life - and everyone loved her.

I hated it. I couldn't understand how someone who looked so much like me could feel so comfortable in her skin.

"Hi!" I stepped in Jamal's path.

"Hey, Rue," he flirtatiously called my name.

Violet narrowed her eyes, looking at Jamal curiously. He smiled pulling me to the side. "You look happy," Jamal noted.

"I'm living. Give me your phone," I commanded.

"My phone?" Jamal looked over to Violet glaring at him with a displeased expression.

"Are you guys...?" I asked, noticing he spent a lot of time with the mean girl.

"Fucking?" Jamal abruptly stated shocking me completely. "Yes. Why? Jealous?" he teased.

My face burned red, leaning in close and speaking in a hushed tone. "That's a dirty lie," I whispered.

Violet wore her hymen like a badge of honor. Happy to openly slut-shame girls who she felt 'gave it up' too easily.

"There's other places to stick it, Rue." Jamal grinned.

I felt embarrassed. I didn't talk about sex. My parents made the subject horrific and uncomfortable. Callahan sold people and Colleen made the subject taboo. I wasn't even allowed to attend sex ed. My knowledge of reproduction came mostly from the internet.

I gave Jamal a shove and promised him I was in no way jealous, but I was secretly judging Violet for doing things I would later get off on. I changed the subject. "I need your phone to call Kellen."

"Kellen?" Jamal chuckled looking past me to the girls splitting the sea of students bustling the halls.

"Yes, Kellen, and don't tell Wren," I ordered.

"Why not?" Jamal mused.

"It's not his business," I insisted.

"Why is it mine?" Jamal teased.

"My phone was taken on Friday and I sadly don't know my boyfriend's number, so give it," I demanded, pulling the phone from his pocket.

"Careful, your boyfriend has a temper," Jamal chuckled. "He'll get mad if you touch the wrong thing."

"What is your code?" I impatiently asked.

"Private," he replied, taking the phone and entering his password.

It was my birthday. Years later I would learn Jamal liked me just as much as I liked him; we both just waited too long to say it.

"You have ten minutes. We're going to the dollar pizza place up the block." He pointed a stern finger. "Don't lose my phone."

I nodded my understanding, "What's his name under? I don't see it," I said, scrolling through the K's.

"Asshole. I guess you'll see why soon enough." Jamal turned to walk away.

"What the hell is going on?" Brielle locked eyes with Jamal as he slipped by.

"I'm more interested in this boyfriend." Emily smirked, making an obnoxious face at Violet gaping at me from over her shoulder.

"You just mean-mugged the most popular girl in school," I giggled, hitting the call button on Jamal's phone.

"Is she? I can't say I cared to notice." Emily shrugged.

"What is it?" Kellen snapped at the other end of the line and I realized he was likely still in class.

"I missed you!" I blurted nervously, an excited longing in my chest, my friends looking at me, fascinated and confused.

"What?" Kellen's voice softened.

There was an inflection in his voice, letting me know he was trying to place a face to my voice. I frowned, feeling a spike of jealousy and questioning if he had a lot of girls who called him.

"Yes," Kellen admitted, "but none of them matter anymore. Hey Red, why do you have Jay's phone?" he said, bringing a giant smile to my face.

I explained I was grounded. Playfully pouting while I accused Kellen of being a bad example.

"I would hope you have a mind of your own." He chuckled.

"I'm sorry Kellen, is my teaching interrupting your call?" I heard in the background.

"Yeah, a little," he replied. A chorus of laughter followed.

"Oh, you're in class. I'm sorry!" I said, unsure why I was so nervous.

I had never felt like that before. I didn't trust people, especially men making everything they did or said negligible. Kellen felt different. I really wanted him to like me.

"No. I was leaving anyway," he replied, ignoring his teacher's calls and continuing our conversation.

"Where are you going?" I smiled while Brielle and Emily piled in to listen.

"Movies, probably to eat. It's almost lunch right?" Kellen saidd.

"Oh..." I felt slightly disappointed. "Who are you going with?" I asked, trying not to be that girl.

In some way or another we have all been that girl. The Us versus Them is just misogyny that I admit, is still deeply rooted within me. I'm trying to work on it.

As a teen I had a weird relationship with popularity. Wren and my friends were popular, my connection to them making me a blip on the high school map but I kept to myself and the girls on the basketball team.

It wasn't a choice. It just was. I didn't like attention but in the same breath I liked when boys thought I was cool. The biggest compliment to me being I was 'nothing like the other girls'. That eventually translated into my relationships, an odd need to be the cool girlfriend then wife.

I don't know why but I want to be the kind of woman that other women aspire to be. Any given day my head feels like a riot where nothing makes sense and Gage is my only reason to roll out of bed but to the outside world I have it all together.

The cool girl doesn't complain. She doesn't get jealous. She makes her man's life nothing but easy. She's nothing like the other girls - the kind of woman men look at and think, where can I get one? Not that it ever worked out for me.

"You," Kellen replied, filling me with a rush of excitement. "I mean, If I'm such a bad influence, you won't have a problem skipping the rest of the day."

Present

I wake, and he is still with me. His arms wrapped around me like a child cuddling their favorite doll. I gently push his chest, rolling myself free smiling as Gage uses his arm to block his eyes from the morning sun.

My head hurts. I'm a stoner. Doctor approved, of course, but aside from wine, it's rare that I drink. The next day hangovers always kick my ass.

I slip from the bed, closing the shades before leaving the room. I brush my teeth, gather our discarded clothes, and do a load of laundry like I would any other Saturday morning.

I return, wearing Gage's freshly laundered T-shirt and he's still sleeping. My love is normally an early bird. A typical morning for him would be up before dawn and having a slice toast with his coffee while reading his daily reports.

He then works out. Five sets of stair sit ups. Ten sets of push ups. A few pull ups on the bar that used to be behind the bedroom door and finish up with a run and a shower before kissing me awake for his second breakfast.

My husband has a medium build but he's a big guy. An inch under my brother, Wrenner, at six foot five. His calorie intake is a budget in itself and I think it's where most of that excess energy comes from.

I smile, wondering if I should let him sleep in while I climb onto the bed to admire him closely. I miss him. He's right in front of me and I miss Gage. I feel like I'm losing him. Like he's at the tip of my fingers slowly slipping away.

I use my fingers to trace his regal features. I married a beautiful man with a perfectly symmetrical face down to the number of freckles on his cheekbones beside his eyes.

Six each. A descending constellation of freckles somewhat like my own and a beauty mark beside the lower part of his full rounded lips. I loop around his naturally sculpted brows, down the brim of his nose, tempted to kiss him as I linger against his mouth.

I'm scared. Terrified he will leave me once he opens his eyes.

Gage presses his lips against my finger tips, alerting me he is awake. "Good morning," I greet him while he kisses my palm, working his way up the length of my arm and pulling me in.

"Good morning," Gage responds, his voice a smokey rasp of sleep. "Is this my shirt?" he asks, caressing the soft fabric between his fingers.

"Is it?" I quip, planting minty butterfly kisses around his face. "I've missed you my love. I'm happy you're home," I confess, trying to ignore the apprehension in his kiss.

"Rue..." Gage says my name in anguish.

I don't want to hear his next words. I just want to live in this moment. Laying my head on Gage's chest, I wish time would just stop.

"Don't ruin it," I beg, but he does anyway.

"I'm not coming home Rue... I—have a lot of things to figure out," he says and it feels like a punch to the gut.

"What is there to figure out?" I whisper.

Gage takes a deep breath. His heart pounds against my ear while he tells me he loves me but he can't be what I need. Who is he to decide what I need?

"What does that even mean?" I pull away.

"It means... this is a mistake. I —" He is speaking, but I can't hear him.

Gage's mouth is moving but all I can do is wonder what was the mistake? Sleeping with me? Waiting to see when I came home and if I was alone? Or does it go further?

Was marrying me a mistake? Falling in love? Making that transition from friends to lovers, believing this time was different. Was that a mistake?

"What is the mistake, Gage?" I simmer, standing from the bed trying to keep my cool.

He's looking at me like a ticking time bomb. Crazy little Rue is always ten seconds from losing her shit.

"I didn't mean it how it sounds." Gage fumbles over his words and I wonder how is this man one of the greatest minds of our time?

Gage stands, shameless in his nakedness, holding my head in his hands. He wills me to remain calm. Wills me to come back from that place where my thoughts create mountains and monsters.

"Breathe," he instructs, and I realize I am not breathing.

The thought of losing him, that he regrets loving me, feels like someone is gripping me by the throat and I can't breathe.

Gage kisses me. He wraps his arms around me and breathes air into my lungs and I wonder, is it this? Had moments like these become one too frequent and in between?

"Hey, listen to me. Look at me," he pleads, with unbearable pain in his eyes. "I will always love you, but just because we're in love doesn't mean we're right for each other." His voice shakes, begging for me to understand.

I don't. Placing my hands at his wrist, I beg him to change his mind. I'll go back on anxiety meds. I'll give him a child.

"Whatever it is, whatever I have done, just let me fix it."

Gage pulls away. "You did nothing wrong. Rue, you're perfect," he says in a harsh tone that makes his words hard to believe.

"Then why?" I exclaim, ten seconds from a mental breakdown.

Gage pulls away and walks over to the dresser to grab his USMC raid shorts I had claimed as my own. I guess he wants to take everything from me.

It makes no sense. I'm the impulsive one. I'm the one who is most likely to fuck our lives up on a whim. Gage has always been reliable. My one constant.

Above all else, my husband is an engineer. Everything has to make sense and if it doesn't he will take it apart and build it back up until he understands.

Gage dislikes the unknown. He avoids anything illogical and, most of all, Gage hates contradictions. So how can he love me and not want to be with me? How can I be perfect if he is so determined to leave?

He sits on the stool in front of my vanity, watching my mind work. Probably waiting for me to cry or break down, but I feel numb. Sick mostly.

"I came here to ask about the papers. I called, but —" he explains.

"My phone is dead," I mumble.

"Rue," Gage sighs, looking to his bare feet. "I know you; I know you're a fighter and I love that but —" he begins and I know what he wants to say, I just won't let him say it.

"Shut up." my jaw tightens, anger surging through me.

I've been a loyal wife. I humbled myself to be nothing more than a trophy for my brilliant husband. I dye my hair because he likes brunettes. I haven't had more than a trim in four years because he likes it long. I keep my political opinions to myself, deleting social media entirely just in case I couldn't help it.

I fuck him how he wants, when he wants, where he wants, and sure, I've made some shitty mistakes but, I always keep my cool in public; be the fun wife. Be the chill wife. Be the one people say he is just so lucky to have.

I've made him my whole identity and he expects me to just stop? Quit? Say, it was a fun experiment but I guess this is where we part ways?

No.

He says he loves me. He says there's no one else and, until that changes, I refuse to back down. I refuse to stop fighting for us but, before I can get a word out, Gage tells me to stop being stubborn and sign the papers.

"It's the only way the core can start on spousal support," he says as though I hadn't walked away from millions two times over.

I don't want their money. There's no consolation for how they ruined our lives. Gage was fine before he left. Perfect and happy. He was as devoted to me as I was him and whatever happened on his last mission ruined that.

I feel overwhelmed, clenching the fabric over my belly while wiping my tears with my wrist.

"Don't cry, Rue, you're breaking my heart," Gage pleads, and it pisses me off.

What about my heart?

"I don't want your money," I snarl, removing his shirt and tossing it in Gage's face.

I turn and head to the bathroom in desperate need of a shower. I feel dirty. Disgusted. With him, with me, what we had done.

"I know it's not about money, but if you plan on keeping the house—" he says, standing in the bathroom door as I throw on my robe.

"What house?" I force a smile, a happy pantomime, my original setting. "This house? The one made for a family of six because you wanted four children instead of two?" I ask, my hand gravitating back to my upset stomach and then it dawns on me.

His mind was made up from the moment he walked through that door. Gage knew he wasn't coming home and he knew I would do anything if I thought he was.

"Merde..." I laugh to myself.

That wasn't love we made last night. It wasn't even a quick fuck. The whole time he was inside me, from the moment he made the request, Gage knew exactly what he wanted.

It was fucking entrapment.

I feel sick. I'm shaken by the thought of having his face running through my halls after he is long gone. I know that somewhere in me is the capability to resent our child for the life that was promised and there will be no one here to protect it from me.

"Cela ne doit pas être un combat, Rue."

This doesn't have to be a fight, Rue, Gage sighs, knowing how to play the game so well.

French is my first language. When overwhelmed or overly excited, I revert to my childhood comfort. The one thing I had to connect me to my mother before I knew what she was.

Gage knows how much I love it when he speaks my language. He's trying to pacify me. Trying to soften the blow of asking me to bear his children while telling me he doesn't want me mere hours apart.

"What are you doing?" Gage asks as I tear open a pack of Plan B.

What does it look like I'm doing? I wonder.

Gage storms over and reaches for the case and I laugh wildly as my mind pieces it together. He doesn't want a baby, he wants progeny from what his mind deems as an acceptable gene pool.

I may be crazy, but I still test at an above-average intelligence and we are both New Gen's which would likely make our child the first of its kind. A genetically perfect being crafted by his brilliant mind.

I love this man but I'm not an incubator and I don't actually want to be a mother. I toss the pill into my mouth, hard swallowing as Gage looks at me betrayed.

"You love me, but you won't have a child with me?" he tries to rationalize.

"You don't want me, but want me to have your child?" I counter, staring at each other as we stand at this hollow impasse.