Page 41 of Salt in the Wound
I wanted to have sex with him.
And anyway, it was necessary for bringing Mark closer to me, for earning his trust and affection and anything else I could use to squeeze all the blood out of this marriage that I could.
Your sins to save God’s kingdom.
“There is one other option,” I said. Calmly. “You could deflower me for real.”
thirteen
He didn’t react at first, other than a single muscle jumping along the side of his jaw.
“No,” he said finally, and stepped away from the globe.
“No?”
“Absolutely not,” he clarified. “I have many kinks, but acrimonious regret isn’t one of them.”
I studied him. “Why would you regret it?”
He sighed, closing his eyes, and once again, I wondered how much he’d had to drink. This was the most expressive I’d ever seen him, and it was captivating to watch. Like watching the waters of a cold, deep lake recede to reveal a drowned village.
“I’m not talking about myself, Isolde.” He opened his eyes and met my stare with a hard, dangerous one of his own. “I meanyou. You would regret it.”
“I wouldn’t,” I said—although even as I said it, I wondered.
Would I? Would there always be an invisible Isolde in my head, one untouched by her father and uncle’s schemes, who’d been able to choose differently?
But you can’t choose differently.I’d taken this road with my eyes wide open; I’d anticipated having sex with Mark eventually, had chosen it. My virginity would be just another offering laid down on the altar, ready to burn, and I’d finally accepted that I was eager to strike the match.
Mark clearly didn’t believe me, given the skeptical set of his mouth, and I stepped forward.
“I wouldn’t regret it,” I said again. “It’s something I assumed would happen eventually.”
“Eventuallyis very different from right now.”
“And,” I went on, “it doesn’t matter, does it? Virginity? I thought you of all people would feel that way.”
Mark gave me a look. “Do you want me to tell you that your hymen is just like tonsils or an appendix? That removing it together would be clinical and unremarkable?”
“Well, not unremarkable, necessarily, but the concept of—”
“I’m well aware of the bullshit premise of virginity, Isolde. It’s also permissible for it to matter to you, or to me.”
“Doesit matter to you?” I asked. He’d never intimated that it did; he’d been explicit about fidelity after our wedding but had never mentioned if he expected me to wear white honestly on our wedding day.
Mark’s eyes flicked down to his glass and then back up to me. It was momentary, brief. I could almost convince myself that I’d imagined it.
“Divided loyalty matters to me,” he said. His voice was firm, convincing. “If you come to hate me later because of this, that is a problem. If this is the seed of some future discontent, that is also a problem. This arrangement only makes sense if I can count on us being united after our marriage.”
“No perceived gap between us, I remember.” I stepped closer again, near the globe now. “But I don’t think you answered the question I asked. Does me being a virgin—or staying a virgin—matter to you?”
“If you’re asking whether my estimation of you is contingent on you possessing a hymen, then the answer is no.”
“And if I’m asking something else?”
That muscle in his jaw jumped again, and then he lifted the scotch to his lips and took a long drink. He took his time before replying. “And what are you asking, sweetheart?”
I didn’t know what I was asking. I didn’t know what it was that I wanted him to say. I wanted my virginity not to matter to him, because then we could dampen the fires of my father’s suspicion in the most efficient way. I wanted my virginity to matter to him because I wanted it to matter to someone, this physical marker of my choices.
