Chapter Text
“That color looks spectacular on you, Miss Anderson.”
It was the very next day, a Monday evening, and you were just finishing up with your last customer of the day. Working behind the makeup counter at Macy’s wasn’t exactly the job you’d imagined for yourself at this age, but it’s better than being a secretary to some sleazeball. It was hard enough convincing your parents to let you work anyway.
The woman in front of you hummed, sucking her teeth as she eyed her lips in the vanity. “You think so? Perhaps something more pink.”
Fingering the array of lipsticks, you picked out a different color. “How’s this one? It’s called ‘Cherries in the Snow.’” You uncapped the lipstick and presented it to her, watching her eyes light up in interest.
The vanity fogged as she inspected it on her lips, a thin smile forming. “Gorgeous! Just the color I’m looking for. You girls never disappoint.”
You smiled. “I’ll meet you down at the register, Miss Anderson.”
Relief tore through your body when she walked off, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. The day felt impossibly long, not to mention how exhausted you were. It wasn’t exactly easy to get any sleep last night.
Agonizing pain stabbed your skull in steady thumps. God, this headache was killing you. The entire day, you couldn’t get your mind off of him. What he told you the other day, how his behavior was growing to be more and more unpredictable; “passionate”, your mother called it. The last thing you needed was a “passionate” man, trying to put his boot on your neck while you chased your dreams of college and independence.
The entire thing made you feel like your head was splitting into two.
You had no interest in ending up like your mother.
Times are changing, after all. It was 1953, and that dated disposition of his has no place in the modern world—or in your life.
A dainty hand grasped your shoulder from behind, causing you to jump in shock. You twirled around to a pair of concerned eyes; your manager, Josephine’s. A friend of your mom who got you the job in the first place.
“Head in the clouds?” she half-joked. Her short, brown bob shook a little as she tilted her head to get a better look at you.
“Only a little.”
“Say, why don’t you go home and get some rest?” She offered, gesturing vaguely over to Miss Anderson waiting at the register. Her thin red lips stretched into a smile. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Thanks, Jo.”
You grabbed your coat and scarf from your locker in the breakroom, waving her goodbye as you walked off.
The outside cold is harsh, a biting chill that encompassed your whole body. You wrapped your scarf around your neck even tighter, shoulders stiffening as you began to walk faster. It was already dark outside, the cold was unbearable, and you needed to be home. Last thing you wanted was your father complaining about you getting home late, less he decides to let you keep your job.
You braced against the piercing wind, too cold to think about your father right now. You had to focus on getting home quickly. That is, until you heard a quiet shuffling resonate from behind you, followed by the thump of slow, deliberate footsteps.
It wasn’t particularly concerning. It’s 6pm, people are getting off work. Of course someone else would be walking home. Not to mention your walking on a busy street, cars wisping past faster than you could see.
You had always wanted a car. A nice one, like a Chevrolet or a Ford, so you wouldn’t have to walk everywhere, especially not to work, in these godforsaken heels. Your feet ached and blistered everytime you got home, and you distantly wondered if the pain was worth all the trouble.
But you knew it was. The only reason your father refused to buy your car was because you were working, after all. As much as you cared for him, his austere attitude knew no limits. You could already hear his voice: “If you can make your own money, you can buy your own car.”
So work you shall, achy feet be damned. Once you saved up enough for a car, you were leaving and never coming back. His stubbornness to keep you in the house only fueled your determination to spite him.
You finally turned onto your street, stopping for a moment to check the time on your watch. That’s when those footsteps behind you, the ones you overlooked so foolishly, paused at that exact same moment.
Okay—someone is definitely following you. You’re usually such a vigilant person; always making sure to scan your surroundings, take note of anyone around you. But you were more than halfway home now, and you had just noticed someone creeping up on you.
Internally, you cursed yourself for being so careless. You reach into your pocketbook to grab your house key, white-knuckling it as you pick up the pace. The feet behind you followed suit, trying to keep up.
Don’t turn around. Focus on getting home.
The footsteps came louder, faster, and you resisted the urge to scream. Your head whipped around vehemently, your surroundings becoming increasingly familiar as you approached your house. Adrenaline coursed through your body as you weighed your two options—keep at your current pace, or make a break for it.
As if on queue, those footsteps behind you gained even more momentum. Heavy and fast, finally deciding to pounce. Like your assailant knew somehow that you were almost home.
Option two it was: you sprang into action, sprinting down your street in a frightened stagger. Your feet tripped over each other, but you managed to keep your balance as you eyed your house in the distance.
Almost there. Your hands trembled as you fiddled with the key, holding it to prepare yourself to unlock the door as quickly as possibly. Stumbling up your porch steps, you swiftly turned the key into your lock, turning it clockwise once, then twice, before scampering inside.
The door slammed behind you, your back sliding down as you caught your breath. Your head felt fuzzy now, filled to the brim with endless scenarios of what could’ve happened.
Your father, already settled into his chair, raised an eyebrow at your irrational behavior. You heard your mother in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something and humming to the radio.
“And what on earth has gotten into you?” He probed, brow furrowing suspiciously.
You straightened up instantly, brushing your skirt as if wiping away your apprehension. You couldn’t let your father know someone was following you; there’s no chance in hell he’d let you continue working. Your one and only inkling of freedom.
“It’s freezing out there,” you managed, taking off your coat and gloves, “I swear, my entire face feels numb.”
A pregnant pause; then he hummed, taking a drag from his tobacco pipe. “Why don’t you go upstairs and wash up? Your mothers just finishing dinner.”
You nod, hanging your coat on the banister before making your way upstairs.
Once in your room, you immediately closed your blinds and drew the curtains, making ascertain that no one was watching you. Peaking out, you looked down each side of your street, feeling a little crazy in the process. Could this all be some deluded paranoia of yours? A trick your mind was playing?
Better safe than sorry, you told yourself, unzipping your employee uniform.
Macy’s. What a bore. You're a highschool graduate of 3 years already—4 this coming January—and you need to go to college. A prestigious one, perhaps Yale or Brown; you had the grades for it, after all.
You just had to stop entertaining your parents’ and their frivolous fantasies of marriage and children. Those are their expectations, not yours. You had your own dreams to worry about: A college diploma, a respectable job, a beautiful home all to yourself…
As you slipped on your housecoat, you heard the doorbell ring. The door opened, followed by an eruption of laughter and chit-chat. You couldn’t quite make out whose voice it was, but you were certain it was a man’s. An extra pair of footsteps, long and heavy, made their way around your living room. The door slammed shut.
One of your fathers friends, perhaps? Or a neighbor; you can recall your mother inviting the Ferguson’s over for dinner one of these days. You went to the bathroom to wash your face and head downstairs for supper. What you needed was food in your stomach after such a stressful day.
As you descended down the stairs, the laughter and chatter grew ever persistent , further piquing your curiosity. That voice, that laughter, those footsteps; it all seemed so familiar to you. Could that be..?
The boom of your fathers voice permeated the stairwell, making you flinch as he only confirmed your greatest fear:
“(Y/n)! You didn’t tell me you invited Mark over for dinner.”
And there he stood, grinning at you like a wolf, sharp teeth and all. You couldn’t help the repulsed look on your face, your stomach dropping as a bout of nausea caused your knees to buckle.
“Ah, I didn’t-“
“It’s a pleasure to be here tonight, Mr and Mrs. (L/n),” he intercepted, throwing you a warning glare. “I was just as surprised as you are.”
There was no getting out of this one. Your dad already had his arm around his shoulder, running his mouth off about some inconsequential guy things, like baseball or cars, while your mom quietly set another plate at the dining table. You looked around in agony, desperate for a way out, whilst doubting that one will ever come. Trapped like a rabbit caught in a snare, frozen in shock as you feared moving even an inch will only tighten the rope.
Mark, upon noticing your horrified expression, smiled at you. Not a malicious smirk, or his usual lustful leer, but a real, genuine smile.
What a fucking lunatic.
Deep breathes. In, out. In through your nose, out through your mouth. You had to calm down and recollect your thoughts. Act coy, play into his little games.
Your lips tugged at your cheeks as you struggled to smile back. Just for tonight, you’d try to appease him. Gently let him down after dinner, and pray he’ll admire your straightforwardness and leave you be. An unlikely scenario, but one you held onto nonetheless.
Your mothers head peaked through the kitchen. “Help me plate the food, will you?”
You sighed, finally moving from the spot you were frozen onto. In the kitchen, your mom was already plating your father’s food. You grabbed a plate and started scooping mashed potatoes, for Mark you’d assume, before moving onto your own.
You were floating.
Or It felt like you were, at least. Your body felt feather-light, fragile, as you watched yourself scoop food into your own mouth. You looked around the table, buzzing with laughter and conversation. Mouths were moving, words were coming out, but you couldn’t hear a thing. Or could you? You heard yourself respond, after all, lips moving without your brain having much of a say. Everything was fuzzy.
The table shook as your mother got up, the plates on the table disappearing one by one as she washed them in the kitchen. Only then did you realize dinner was done, everyone had eaten, and it was time to clean up.
Your eyes darted to Mark, still conversing with your father about God knows what. As you pulled your chair out, you felt a tinge of anxiety stab your heart.
“Dad, can I talk to Mark for a minute?” you asked, a tight-lipped smile making its way into your lips, “Alone, please?”
Your father looked at you curiously, an eyebrow raising as he grinned. “I don’t see why not,” he said, eyes gesturing to the front porch. Of course. In no known universe would your father let a boy go to your room.
You grabbed his arm and hastily made your way out the door, feeling his whole body jump in gladden. As if your touch was the most exhilarating thing he’s felt. Once outside, newfound rage surged through your body, quickly deciding to drop the shy girl act entirely.
“Are you serious?” you hissed, crossing your arms as you glared at him. His expression remained ever calm and stagnant, only serving to piss you off more. “What makes you think you can just show up at my house, uninvited?” Your body was hot with anger as you pointed an accusing finger at him, the tip nearly touching his chest. “I mean, how do you even know my address?“
Suddenly, you remembered those footsteps behind you. Long and heavy, following you all the way from work to your house. Then, just as you get home, this guy shows up. You took a step back, panic creeping up your spine.
“Did you follow me home from work?”
His eyes widened in dismay; the look of someone who's just been caught. He quickly began sputtering out an explanation.
“I’m sorry. I— I didn’t mean to scare you,” he breathed out. He looked flustered now, the blush from his cheeks now spreading to his entire face.“I’m not some pervert, you know. It’s dark out, you’re a young lady, I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
“So you start stalking me? Inviting yourself into my home? You’re practically a stranger to me!”
A large hand grasped yours—hard. You felt his palm squish your fingers with ease, a vice grip that won’t let go no matter how hard you pulled away. Icy sharp fear washed over you as you trembled.
“I’m not sure you understand where I’m coming from. We’re married,” he spat, enunciating each word, “In the eyes of God, we are no strangers.”
You froze in shock, anger clouding your overall judgement. That’s right—this guy is delusional. A certified nutjob. You were a good woman, but even this is a bit. . . much. You had to stick to the original plan: let him down gently.
“Listen, I’m sure you’re a swell guy. But I’m not the girl God has, uh, ‘chosen’ for you. I mean, I don’t even want to get married.”
This seemed to startle—scare?— him, as if you were the crazy one in this whole ordeal. His face contorted into a look of pure awe, like you’ve suddenly grown two heads.
“You can’t be serious.”
“And why not?” you scoffed, “I want to go to college; More and more are accepting of women these days, you know. For instance, just earlier this year, a woman graduated from Harvard’s medical school—“
“This is ridiculous,” he interjected, cutting you off in the middle of your lecture, “Women belong in the home, with a husband and children.” You swore you could see a vein pop out of his forehead. “Who’s been feeding you this nonsense?”
“Just forget it,” you sighed, your frustration cracking through your speech like porcelain. “The point is, you’re wasting your time.”
“Let me prove you wrong.”
“How?”
His eyebrows furrowed, eyes darting down to the floor as he took a moment to think. After a short pause, he looked back to you.
“Let me take you on a date. Just one date, and I’ll leave you alone for good.”
You laughed at his choice of words. Not because it was funny, but his sheer audacity was a bit amusing, even to you. Acting as if you really had a choice.
Rejecting him now would only lead to more problems down the line. It’d be wiser to at least feign interest. Perhaps then he’d accept your cold-shouldering, lulled by the fact that you at least tried. Not to mention your parents would finally be off your back. For now, that is.
”One date,” You held up a single finger, “And if I refuse you thereafter, you never mention it again.” You looked at him almost pleadingly.
He smiled like a shark, his eyes glistening as they lit up in delight. “Be ready by 6:30 this Friday, I’ll pick you up.”
“Will do.”
As he picked up his coat and hat he threw on the rocking chair, relief washed over you. The mood suddenly shifted, his nervousness melting away into a state of pure elation. He practically bounced down your porch, turning around to face you one last time.
“You won’t regret this, (Y/n)!”
Your shoulders sagged in defeat. As you watched him skip away, further and further into the darkness of the night, you couldn’t shake off a certain feeling that you had just made a huge, irreversible mistake.