“Your childhood wasn’t normal.”
“So what?” I shrugged, feeling unaccountably irritated by the direction of this conversation. “Neither was yours.”
“You know what I mean, and it’s not the same. I grew up going to a posh boarding school, which is normal for a subset of the population. But you grew up practicing gymnastics six to eight hours a day. That’s normal for maybe two hundred people in the world. By all accounts, your giftedness in gymnastics might be called a rare disease. Are you sure your desire to give Grace and Jack a normal childhood isn’t about you overcompensating for what you missed? What you lost? Rather than what’s in their best interest?”
I straightened my back, lifting my chin, leveling him with an incendiary stare. With measured coolness, I responded, “No. I’m not.”
He seemed to be deliberating my words—and me—as though attempting to navigate a minefield.
“Now, darling—”
“Don’t call me darling.”
“Why not?”
I kept my voice monotone. “Because it’s manipulative. You only do it when you’re trying to get your way. And I’m tired of being manipulated by you.”
He flinched, frowning, but his tone was combative as he challenged, “Did I hit a nerve?”
“Yes, of course you hit a nerve, but you were trying to. You just flat-out accused me of raising our children without their best interest at heart. You are being spiteful and mean, and I don’t deserve that kind of treatment.”
“Fe—”
“I am your wife. I love you. I love our children. I do my best. I’m not perfect. This is not a debate about who is wrong and who is right. I agree, we need to come to a consensus together. But you are being a bully, and it needs to stop.”
Greg snapped his mouth shut, and the muscle of his jaw ticked. We watched each other, exchanging wary stares across the length of the bunker. The longer the silence stretched, the harder I had to fight my ingrained urge to apologize.
But then the laptop dinged, interrupting our standoff. Greg gave me one last hard look—one that promised we were not yet finished with the current topic—and moved to the table. I set the gun down, I hadn’t realized I was still holding it, and crossed to stand next to him as he accepted Alex’s call.
“Okay, here’s what we got.” Alex began speaking as soon as the video connected. “I will have a truck—four-wheel drive—waiting for you in five hours. You need to get to the outskirts of Enugu. There will be a compatible charger under the driver’s seat, as we discussed. Once you secure the money, get to the airfield by midnight the day after tomorrow. I’m IM-ing you the directions to the truck and the airfield now.”
“We’re leaving the country before the hostages are released?” I started to cross my arms over my chest, but Greg reached for my hand. Not looking at me, he laced our fingers together, then brought my knuckles to his lips, absentmindedly brushing soft kisses against my skin.
It occurred to me in that moment: marriage is an ultimate sport in emotional multitasking. I’m never only mad at Greg. I’m mad and madly in love; angry and concerned for his wellbeing; he frustrates and delights me in the same second. We were arguing, but we were still a team.
“Yes. Once the money is secured, there isn’t any reason for you to stay. Negotiations can occur without you having to be in the country. Once they release the hostages to their embassies, we’ll tell them where the money is,” Alex explained. “But I’ll need you to booby-trap it.”
Greg glanced at me, then back to Alex. “The money? You want me to booby-trap the money?”
“Yep. Just in case they don’t follow through.”
Greg nodded. “Okay. Sounds like fun.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. Part of me loved that booby-trapping millions of dollars with explosives was Greg’s idea of fun. Maybe one day he would teach our children how to booby-trap millions of dollars, because if they didn’t learn about it at home, they would just learn about it on the streets.
“Also, the mail carrier flight will take you through Egypt. From there you’ll be unpacked and will take a FedEx carrier to the Cayman Islands.” Alex read from a screen to his right.
“Egypt?” I frowned.
Alex glanced at his webcam. “Yes. What’s wrong with Egypt?”
“Nothing . . .”
“What?” Greg pushed.
“Well, their latest protests, the environment seems dangerous. Weren’t the police raping both men and women?”
Greg lifted an eyebrow, appearing thoughtful, and nodded his head. “I believe so. But to be fair, it’s about time rape stopped being so sexist.”
“Greg!”
“What?”
“There is nothing funny about rape.”
“I agree. And there’s nothing funny about sexist rape, either.”
Although I could appreciate the ironic nature of his statement, I had to draw the line someplace. No jokes about rape, even if they were effective in highlighting a double standard. “You are so terrible, I don’t-I can’t-you should be ashamed of yourself.”