Tight by Alessandra Torre

after it with a stick and whacking it into place whenever it got happy or hopeful, whacking extra hard when words like I love you threatened to spill out. Could a relationship survive in that environment? Could it thrive? When had I gotten so afraid of love and hope that I strangled it to death with my insecurity? Maybe it was easier to date an ugly man, one with obvious flaws, one who belched and couldn’t dress, and wasn’t so damn perfectly tempting. At least then I’d feel confident.
    I tapped the envelope against my palm and checked out the postmark as I walked up the driveway. Three days earlier. That was what I got for not checking my mail every day. She must have left the nail salon and driven straight home, her fresh nails pulling out a new invite before the polish had even set.
    I threw the invite, along with the rest of my mail, on the kitchen counter, fed Miller, and flipped on the bathroom light. Ran a hot bath and lit a candle. Submerged myself in bubbles and dozed a little, contemplating the idea of Brett as a wedding date.
    It’d be horrible. Our bridesmaid dresses were coral for God’s sake.
    My parents would be there. As would my ex. As would all of the girls. As would my boss. As would almost every other person in Quincy.
    It’d put pressure on our relationship. Didn’t all weddings? I’m pretty sure I read that in Cosmo once. “Never Take a Man to a Wedding” … Something like that was the title. The article had had bullet points and everything. Something about how we’d look needy, and they’d feel pressured to flee.
    Plus … this was Quincy. Not a five-star resort or a private beach home, or a steak restaurant with candles and champagne. I didn’t even know if our relationship would work in the light of an average day. Brett might be some finery vampire, whose skin might eat away in the presence of polyester, rednecks, and American beer.
    By the time the water was cool, my toe thumbing the drain before stepping out, my mind had all but decided. I would , damn the consequences, invite him. Warn him of the perils involved, and let him make his own decision. He was a big boy. And if Chelsea McCrory’s wedding ended up being the demise of our relationship, then it wasn’t built to last anyway.
    I dried off, got in pajamas, and found my phone, seeing a new text from him, a photo. I opened up the pic while sticking popcorn in the microwave—my dinner that evening. It took my mind an extra second to process the photo, the cream invitation in his hand identical to my own, just a few feet away on my counter.
    Chelsea McCrory. That little witch. She’d sent him his own invite, my name casually beside his own in that damn perfect calligraphy script.
    And … just like that, I lost all credit for making my own decision to invite Brett. Just like that I had to call him and explain that I really did want him to come to my best friend’s wedding, which was in two weeks … and I hadn’t made any previous mention of.
    My hands tightened on the phone, and I seriously contemplated throwing the damn thing against the wall. Instead, I took a deep breath, collected my thoughts, and called Brett.

“Today’s lesson is about removal of hope. The strongest slaves hold out for an idea of release, of rescue. That makes it infinitely harder for them to adjust to and enjoy life as a slave.” He picked up his pen.
    I will never adjust to this. I will never enjoy this.
    “Do you have hope, Kitten?”
    “No.” Yes.
    “Is there someone that you envision rescuing you?”
    “No.” Brett.
    “I’ve told you about this cell. About the ten pounds of concrete that surround each of your bars. About the fact that, should you somehow escape this cell, that you will still be locked in the basement, a windowless space whose door has four deadbolts. The closest house is a half-mile away. I live alone. Your screams don’t carry past this room. Your hope for escape, or for rescue, should be dead.”
    “It is.” Brett