Free Exiled (A Madame X Novel) by Jasinda Wilder

his chest, and lets me cry.
    Sometimes it’s all there is, to cry and know it’s not okay.

FIVE
    W e spend a week in an odd domestic stasis. Eating. Sleeping—together, but not
sleeping together
. He doesn’t touch me with sexual intent and I do not attempt to instigate it either. We both know we need time between you and me and Logan and me. We go grocery shopping. We pick out a new TV and new bedside table lamps. I accompany Logan to work and act as a sort of personal assistant, out of boredom and a desire to be useful. We go to dinner at restaurants, both fancy and plain.
    He takes me shopping, and for the first time in my memory, I get to choose my own wardrobe. Bras, underwear, jeans, T-shirts, sweaters, skirts, simple cotton dresses, tennis shoes, sandals, flats, socks, tights, leggings, sweatshirts, shorts, workout gear. A whole new wardrobe of simple, attractive, comfortable clothes. He expresses his opinion on certain items, which ones he likes and which he doesn’t, but leaves every decision up to me. Nothing is excessively expensive, nothing is formal or uncomfortable. They are clothes that reflect
me
, and it’s a gift from Logan the value of which I don’t thinkhe or anyone can fathom. Just choosing my own wardrobe, it makes me feel like a real person, like a woman with her own identity. I have a
style
, and it is utterly and solely my own. And Logan expects nothing in return. That in itself is wonderful and amazing, to be given something freely. Always before, I felt like everything I did, everything I had came with a price, physical or emotional or psychological. Logan is content with a simple “thank you” and the happiness so evident in me.
    He takes me to a movie at a theater—a wonderful first for me, an experience I want to repeat as often as possible. It is rapturous, transporting me into a world where I do not exist. A pleasing escape.
    We take Cocoa for long meandering walks through Logan’s neighborhood.
    Logan writes up a business plan for me.
Comportment
, he calls the business. I’m not sold on the name, but it will do for now. He guides me in constructing a business vision and a mission statement. All businesses need those two things, he says. We scout for locations; he writes up the loan contract; we squabble about both.
    We go to an outpatient doctor to have the pressure bandage removed and the area checked. It’s healing nicely, we’re told. Wash it gently with warm water, don’t rub it too much. Leaking tears are normal, and so is a little blood in the tears. Logan refuses the prosthetics offered, both temporary and permanent. Not the way he wants to go. Not going to pretend to have an eye.
    Beth has come by a few times over the last week with patches—leather, silk, combinations of materials, plain, ornate, and everything in between. Logan sorts through them, discarding some and keeping others.
    He vanishes into the bathroom at the doctor’s office and emerges wearing a patch that, to me, suits him perfectly. It is made fromthick, aged brown leather, hand tooled with ornate swirling designs, the rim of the patch itself lined with brass rivets.
    He grins at me expectantly. “So? What d’you think?”
    I can’t help but laugh at his eager expression. “It looks great.”
    “I’m glad you like it.” He glances at me. “I didn’t want anything boring, but I was worried it’d be too much.”
    “You make it look . . . cool.”
    He scrapes his hand through his hair, tosses it dramatically. “That’s me. King of cool.”
    I snort. “Not anymore. Dork.”
    “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were teasing me.” He quirks an eyebrow at me. With the eyepatch, the effect is even more dramatic.
    We’re at his SUV now; yes, he drove, carefully and with prior approval.
Just leave extra stopping distance
, he was told,
until you get used to the change in depth perception
. He climbs up and in, starts the engine while I buckle. Out into traffic, music on