She found herself looking forward to their morning breakfasts, to their evening TV sessions, to their random conversations about everything and nothing. Dawn was educated. He’d quote philosophy and poetry randomly. He’d reference obscure films. He had opinions on everything from politics to pizza toppings. “Pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity,” Don declared one evening. “Thank you,” Ila agreed passionately. “Finally, someone with sense.” Although, Don added thoughtfully, “I once had a pizza in Italy with figs and pushcido that changed my life.
So, I’m willing to admit that fruit can work on pizza under very specific circumstances. Figs aren’t pineapple, Ila argued. That’s completely different. Is it though? Dawn challenged. Fruit is fruit. They debated pizza toppings for 20 minutes, and it was the most fun Ila had in months. She also started noticing inconsistencies, like how sometimes Dawn’s hands would shake and tremble, but other times when he forgot, they’d move perfectly smoothly. Or how his posture would straighten when he was focused on something.
Then he’d remember to hunch over again. Or how his raspy voice would sometimes slip into a deeper, smoother tone before he’d cough, and the raspiness would return. It was like he was performing, but that was crazy. Why would someone fake being old and ugly? One evening, Ila was in Dawn’s study delivering some papers he’d asked for when she noticed a photo on his desk. It showed a young man, maybe 30, who was absolutely gorgeous, tall, fit, with perfect features and a confident smile.
“Who’s this?” Ila asked, picking up the photo. Don looked up from his laptop and for just a second. Ila could have sworn she saw panic flash across his scarred face. “My nephew,” Don said quickly. “My sister’s boy. Handsome devil, isn’t he?” “Yeah,” Ila agreed, studying the photo. “He looks like he could be a model.” “He’s in tech,” Don said quickly. “Very successful, very busy. We don’t see each other much.” Ila set the photo down, but something about it nagged at her.
The young man in the photo had the same eyes as Dawn, the same shape, the same color, but that was probably just because they were related. A month into the marriage, Ila’s mom came to visit. Patricia had been calling every day to check on Ila, worried sick about her daughter living with some strange old man. “Mom, I’m fine,” Ila insisted over the phone. “Actually, I’m really good. Don is he’s really nice. Nice? Patricia repeated skeptically. Ila, the man bought you like a used car.
How nice can he be? Just come visit, Ila said. See for yourself. When Patricia arrived at the mansion, her jaw literally dropped. “Sweet Jesus,” Patricia whispered, staring at the house. “This is where you live?” “Yeah,” Ila said, grinning. Pretty crazy, right? They found Dawn in the garden reading a book. When he stood to greet them, slowly, painfully, leaning on his cane, Patricia’s eyes went wide. Ila saw her mom trying to hide her shock at Dawn’s appearance, and she felt a strange surge of protectiveness.
“Dawn, this is my mom, Patricia,” Ila said quickly. “Mom, this is my husband, Dawn.” “Mrs. Williams. Don rasped, extending a shaking hand. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ila speaks of you often. Patricia shook his hand gingerly. Mr. Barrett, thank you for for taking care of my daughter. Oh, I think she’s taking care of me. Don said with that dry humor Ila had come to love. She’s been teaching me about modern graphic design. Apparently, my aesthetic is painfully outdated.
I said your office needed updating, Ila protested, laughing. That’s different. You said my furniture looked like it belonged in a museum, Dawn countered. And not in a good way. Because it does. Patricia watched them banter, her eyes going back and forth like she was watching a tennis match. Later, when Don excused himself for a business call, Patricia pulled Ila aside. “Baby, are you okay?” Patricia asked seriously. really okay, Mom? I’m great, Ila said. Honestly. I know Don looks intense, but he’s actually wonderful.
He’s smart and funny and kind. He’s been helping me with my career. He treats me with respect. Honestly, I’m happier here than I’ve been in years. Patricia studied her daughter carefully. You like him? Of course, I like him. Ila said, “He’s my husband.” No, I mean you like him, Patricia emphasized. Ila, are you catching feelings for this man? Ila’s face went hot. What? No, he’s like he’s old enough to be my grandfather. Age is just a number, Patricia said carefully.
And I see the way you look at him, like you’re seeing something the rest of us can’t. You’re imagining things, Ila insisted, but her heart was pounding. Was she catching feelings for her ugly, elderly, purchased husband? No, Ila told herself firmly. Absolutely not. You’re just grateful for his kindness. That’s all. But that night, as she lay in bed, she couldn’t stop thinking about Dawn, about his laugh, his intelligence, his unexpected sweetness, about how safe she felt around him, how valued, how seen.
