“Real considerate of you to break the prenup like this.” His voice is almost a whisper and humming with—is that glee? The nerve of the bastard! “Bringin’ home children. I was thinkin’ about hiring some pool boy to say you’d been cheatin’, but this is so much easier.”
Patricia is impressed in spite of herself. She knew he was intelligent enough, but she never suspected he might still be clever. He’s certainly never hidden his indiscretions well, but then again, the prenup was all about her causing problems in the marriage. He’s the one whose money needed protecting. She’s toed the line perfectly, never dreamed he was just looking for an excuse, a gotcha. To think: Keeping her granddaughters for a while is what collapsed the house of cards she built so carefully. All along she thought he was the dupe, but apparently…he always knew it was her.
With nothing left to lose, Patricia lets her real feelings surface, tears springing to her eyes as if on command. “Randall, after all this, you’re abandoning me? Leaving me with nothing? When you have millions upon millions?” Her voice breaks, her bottom lip quivering.
He catches her chin in his fat fingers. “Don’t snivel, sugar. Don’t tell me you didn’t know what this was. We both needed something for a time. We both got it. And now it’s past its prime, and so are you.” He turns her face this way and that. “You were forty-five when I met you, but you looked thirty. Young enough to show well and mature enough to be respectable. And now you’re just another stuffy old bird, expecting flowers and a tennis bracelet every got-damned day.” He lets go. “We had a good run, didn’t we?”
“But I did everything you ever asked.”
She feels a fool, standing there, limp and empty, voice wobbling.
He nods. “You did. And then you got old and boring and expensive. Consider the vaccination my appreciation for past service.”
As he opens the door, Patricia watches the back of him, letting the revulsion she’s ignored for so long fully sink in. “And what about Iceland?” she asks.
He looks back at her and shakes his head sadly. “Honey, I never even bought you a ticket.”
20.
Chelsea is singing “Life Is a Highway” at the top of her lungs with Jeanie, and it feels like she’s sixteen again. The minivan windows are down as Jeanie crawls up I-4, and Chelsea has her feet up on the dashboard. She’s wearing an old pair of cutoffs and flip-flops and has a sweating McFlurry in the cup holder at her elbow. Her hair is up in a bun, she’s wearing sunscreen but not makeup, and pretty much everything about this moment would infuriate David.
Not to mention that while she took everything at home that he might need, she left behind her wedding rings.
Oh yes. David will be very, very upset.
And it feels good, if a little petty.
I-4 from Tampa through Orlando is normally stop-and-go, but these days, thanks to the Violence, it’s free sailing. Not that Jeanie is taking advantage of that fact. She goes exactly the speed limit with the cruise control engaged, both hands on the wheel even as she sings. That tracks with everything Chelsea knows about her: Before the Violence, her entire personality hinged on the responsibility of being a school PE teacher, and she’s going to follow the rules even if no one’s looking. That’s why she insisted on driving—she could tell Chelsea was upset. And of course, with all Chelsea’s worldly belongings in the back, they couldn’t take Jeanie’s Mini Cooper.
According to the map on Jeanie’s phone, they’ll reach their destination in half an hour, now that they’re on the other side of Orlando and past the theme parks, which are shut down, because kids getting attacked by their favorite princesses would be a PR nightmare. The address is a fairground, but no fairs have taken place since the pandemic began. Not because the government has made rigid rules about gatherings—that would of course infringe on personal freedoms—but because, as it turns out, being brutally beaten to death in front of your kids is a bit more threatening than getting sick ten days later, so events canceled themselves due to low ticket sales.
The song ends, and they trail off happily. Chelsea zips a hand outside and makes waves in the air. Everything feels like a new treat—everything David hated. Windows open, shoes on the dashboard, eating in the car, big sunglasses, which he always said made her look stupid. If the world was slightly different, she would try to convince Jeanie to stop at Disney World and spend a day without kids or husband, riding rides and eating whatever she wanted to without having to give a single shit about anyone else’s needs or feelings. It’s the most indulgent thing she can imagine, eating a Dole Whip on Jungle Cruise without someone being petulant or whiny.
“Guess you didn’t see that post on Facebook,” Jeanie says after taking a sip from her ever-present Yeti cup full of ice water.
Chelsea pulls her hand back inside. “Huh?”
“The post going around Facebook. About the girl who had her feet on the dashboard and she got in an accident and her femur basically ended up in her hoo-ha?”
Although her instinct after half a lifetime with David is to pull her feet off the dashboard, a tiny rebellion blooms in Chelsea’s chest and she leaves her feet where they are. “I guess I didn’t see that.”
“Yeah, there was an X-ray and it showed her bones all messed up—like, in the wrong place. And another girl, the airbag threw her foot into her face and broke her skull or something. And her foot.”
“Okay.”
Jeanie drives on, and Chelsea watches her smile slip into a flat line as she keeps glancing over.
“It’s just not safe,” Jeanie continues. “That’s what I’d tell my kids at school, and it’s what I’m telling you now. I can’t make you do anything, but I like to think you’d make the safe choice.”
“I don’t think that’s my biggest problem right now,” Chelsea says lightly.
“It will be if we’re in an accident.”
Chelsea looks over at Jeanie, who’s frowning. “There aren’t any other cars. What could we possibly hit?”
“It’s not about what we’re going to hit, it’s about not doing stupid shit and annoying the driver.”
“It’s my car!” Chelsea splutters. “My feet! My hoo-ha! I swear to God, I did not leave David just to get told what to do with my goddamn body again!”
“Chel, you’re being a real Debbie Downer, you know that?”
If she moves her feet, she feels like she’s giving in to another David. Jeanie may not want to be like David, but for an adult to pressure another adult into doing something, to call her names? Well, that’s not the freedom she went to so much trouble to find. But if she doesn’t take her feet down, she’s an idiot who makes bad choices, and she’s an idiot who has to admit she’s making bad choices.
Instead, she drops her flip-flops on the floorboard and sticks both feet out the window.
It feels pretty good.
“That’s not safe, either,” Jeanie starts.
Chelsea pulls her feet inside the car and turns to tell Jeanie to mind her own fucking business when everything goes black.
* * *
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