“Great idea!” Mom agreed. Her voice was impressed as if I’d come up with a possible solution to climate change. “Get down to your best size, and then I’ll send you new clothes, and we will start looking for a husband.”

We. I was not looking forward to dodging her matchmaking efforts. Luckily, Mom honestly believed I had another ten to twenty pounds to go before I was pretty enough to catch a man. So I’d probably be able to put those conversations off for a few more months.

I didn’t tell her guys were already starting to pay me more attention.

They looked at me differently when I walked down the street. One even flirted with me in the produce aisle and asked for my number as we picked out our tomatoes.

I turned him down, just like I’d averted my eyes when other men gave me that “how you doin’” nod. I had no idea how seriously Victor was taking those vows we’d made, but I highly doubted he’d be okay with me hooking up during my “punishment.”

Still, as I walked away from the guy who’d asked for my number, I wondered if Victor would look at me differently when he saw this version of me.

Or if he would ever show up.

More months went by, and still no Victor.

By April, nearly a year after he dropped me off at this prison, I’d learned to stop expecting him. This must be my punishment. Ten sexless years, wasting away in Rhode Island instead of getting the medical degree my parents had been so excited about a year ago.

Whatever.

I had my workouts and my cooking hobby, and my job to keep me busy. I’d also started taking excellent care of myself with the help of YouTube hair and makeup tutorials. I bought a bike, and I almost felt free as I cycled everywhere with the wind in my face. Sometimes for hours.

And sure, that feeling that I should be doing something else, something more, hadn’t gone away. It nagged at me, especially at night. And, of course, it made me sad that I was basically lying to all my friends and family about where I was and what I was doing.

But that was what alcohol was for, and at least this ridiculous prison had a wine fridge that I could keep fully stocked with bottles. Usually, a glass or three was all it took to help me sleep when that restless feeling got too loud. Sometimes a whole bottle, which was why I’d quickly learned never to trade with any of the other daycare workers for a morning shift no matter how nice they asked.

But main point: I wouldn’t unravel like Victor probably thought I would when he left me in Rhode Island to rot.