2019
I do not know how, but I am now standing back at the quad where I was before. I am in front of the bench where I last sat, consuming my lunch like a ravenous bird. My body feels heavy against the ground, and Nicolas Moreno stands near me with anticipation painted across his face.

"Are you ready to go to the library as Dr. Peterson suggested?"

I must have blacked out through this because I am unsure how I ended up here.

"I guess? Why are you going to the library with me?"

"It's for your thesis," he says, smiling. "Dr. Peterson said that you need any resource you can to dig more into Marie Guidry's life because of her hatred for Ignace Leblanc. I offered to come with you."

"Oh, you did?" I ask, scratching my neck. I feel like hiding. "I'm sorry, I must not have been paying much attention. I guess you can come with me, but why? I only met you once. We barely know each other."

"Anything for the person who helped me find my flute." He smiles, his eyes brightening. Something stirs in my heart when I look into his eyes.

"It was nothing," I say, scratching my neck as I silently chuckle. "Just kind of strange how quickly we found the thief."

"And how you knew the thief," he said. "I was not expecting that. You knew him, how again?"

"From high school. Iñaki was one of the best musicians there, you know. He even got a scholarship to Juilliard."

I was always jealous of him for getting the full music scholarship, as I could not afford Juilliard, not even with the little scholarship they offered me.

Nicolas keeps his head hanging low and shakes it, sighing. "Que vergüenza. What a shame. Someone like him should be playing at concert halls, not stealing expensive instruments."

I know he has a daughter. I know she's sick, but the more I think about it, the more unsettled I feel. Did we really put too much trust in what he said that night?

"Either way," I say. "I'm glad he gave you your flute back."

Our conversation is interrupted by a familiar voice. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest as I turn to face Jeff, who is looking at me with a narrowed gaze.

"What are you doing here?" Jeff asks, eyeing me up and down, no smile on his face. Of course, there wouldn't be a smile. He isn't happy to see me.

"School," I say.

"Who's the guy?" he asks.

"Um, this is Nicolas," I say, realizing my hand is still on his arm.

"Ah," he says. He crosses his arms and leans in close to me. "So you got yourself a new boyfriend? And you didn't think to tell me you've got  someone new?" There is pure vitriol laced in his words.

"Since when do you care, Jeff?" I stiffen, gritting my teeth. I can't help but think he looks handsome with his light brown hair tapered to the side. I find it hard to look away.

"I have a right to know," he says.

"You lost that right the moment I found out you were being unfaithful, Jeff."

He shrugs. "You know that things between us were bad, I meant it when I said no hard feelings."

"You asshole," I cross my arms against my chest. "You honestly think that sleeping with Bessie Forstall is going to make me feel better because there's no hard feelings? Get out of my sight."

He laughs, shaking his head. It's still too painful to look at. I try not to remember the memories of us sitting on the bench here at the quad.  Walking together hand-in-hand at the Riverwalk Mall, hand in hand. No, Corrie. Stop. He left you for her. You have got to get over him.

"Whatever," he says, stepping away. "I was having a good day until I saw you. Ruined my day, Corrie."

"You ruined my life, you know. Are we in high school, Jeff? You're a college professor now, and you're acting fourteen. Oh, and by the way, I heard that your class has one of the lowest in attendance. The dean is considering taking your class off the syllabus."

He scoffs. "You know ad hominem attacks are real mature."

"Whatever," I say. "You're not the big shot you think you are just because Loyola hired you. Now get your puny little ass out of my sight."

"You know what?" he says. "Fine. Be that way. But don't come crawling back to me when your new boyfriend gets tired of your naggy, sorry ass."

"And I think you need to shut up, or I'll let the dean of the college know how you're speaking to students. You don't have tenure." The threatening words feel absolutely glorious coming out of my mouth.

He walks away in a storm. I continue riding that high until it comes crashing down like a wave. I am empty. Flat. There is nothing inside me but numbness.

"Who was that?" he asks. "Was that the guy you were on the phone with the other night?"

"Yeah, he's my ex, um, fiance."

He nods in understanding. "Oh."

I admit I love the way his mouth forms the word oh with his Spanish accent. He smiles at me and puts his hand over my shoulder. I find that I can barely breathe when I look into his eyes, his warm eyes, and I can't quite understand why this is happening to me. My head is swimming. Words are running in my mind, things that are beyond my comprehension and I wonder if these thoughts are also in his mind because we are looking at each other. I do not know how much time has passed either.

"I'm sorry about that. I left you alone and I shouldn't have."

"You did leave me alone."

"I'm sorry," I say, frowning. "I really should have called him back another time. I just thought it might have been an emergency."

He shakes his head, waving his hand in dismissal. "It's no problem. You seemed upset and I wanted to find you, to see why you were so upset, but I lost you in the crowds. I was going to, um, ask for your number."

"You were?" I ask, looking up at him with surprised eyes.

"Well, yes. But now you are here! I suppose we can exchange numbers, then?"

"Well," I say, chuckling as I bite my lip. "Uh, I guess we can."

He hands me his phone and with trembling hands, I put my name and number in the contacts.

"Wait," he says, looking at me with his brow furrowed in confusion. "Your name, you said the other night, was Corrine, no? Pero, como te llamas? Sorry, sorry. What is your name?"

"Uh, yeah. My name's Corrine. You can call me Corrie."

"Is it a joke?"

He shows me his phone and what I put in the contacts.

Marie Guidry.

***

1720

The morning has broken and I stand by the window, in the hopes that Francois will stay sleeping forever. I think of Officer Moreau and the conversation that we had with each other the night before. He saved my life and I am grateful for this. When I close my eyes, I imagine being carried by him, even if I could have gotten out on my own. He saved me, I was mere seconds away from being an alligator's midnight snack.

My thoughts come to a halt when I think I hear Francois stir in the bed at the corner of our cypress-wood built home.

I do not wish to see Francois, nor speak to him. The way he always grabs me in the morning, as if I am his property, it disgusts me. But what can I do? I am his wife now and there is nothing that I can do about it. The early morning hours are the most peaceful for me. They are the moments where I can forget where I am, who I am, and what I am. I envelop myself in the isolation and the chorus of nature.

Though it is quiet and rather lonely here, only a handful of homes, and surrounded by wildlife all around us.

Until I hear stirring and the sound of his groaning.

My morning is ruined.

"Marie?" he says, sitting up. "Where is breakfast?"

"I have not cooked it yet."

Silence.

Francois walks up to the table and slams his hand on it, causing it to tremble. "You know I have to work out on the forge and you have not cooked my breakfast yet?"

"Francois," I say. "Forgive me."

"Of course, someone as inexperienced as you would not know to cook me my breakfast in the morning. You barely know how to do it, you dumb oaf." His voice is gruff, the sound like rocks spilling out of ones hand to the ground.

I know what he is referring to. I know he is aware that he took it away from me, but he uses words like inexperienced and unknowledgeable to belittle me. We have not discussed this matter yet, and frankly, I do not know if he ever will. The man thinks that he can break me with his words. Treating me as if I am nothing more than to serve him, but I am not that kind of woman. Francois's world differs so much from mine that he does not understand the tiny cell they kept me in at the prison. The screams of the other women I still hear in my ears every night. The people who lost their minds, reduced to nothing but mutters and groans. The sick and injured people in a different part of the hospital. The stench of death all around me. Of course I am experienced.

He thinks that I am inexperienced? I will prove him wrong. He is going learn what I am all about, just you wait, Francois Guidry. You won't be able to handle me.

"I will cook your breakfast." I walk over to the fireplace and carry the pan.

Maybe I should put too much salt in his eggs? See what happens when he gags. That will be a sight to behold while I sit there and revel in it, every second of it. Perhaps I should also make his coffee bland by adding the soil from the river in his drink. Dirty coffee water. It will be disgusting. And I will laugh in his pathetic face.

I stoke the fire on the stove and over the pan, I begin scrambling his eggs, just adding a little too much salt.

But he comes up behind me and begins kissing the back of my neck. His breath hot against me and I want to club him with the pan. All I want to do is club him with the pan.

"Stop it," I say.

"No," he says. "I am your husband. You should know that I have the right to whatever I want. If I want to kiss you, you let me kiss you."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "I do not wish to be kissed."

"Too bad," he says, grabbing my chin and forcing a kiss on my lips.

I cannot stop it. It is beyond my control. He opens his mouth and mine is still closed.

"You truly are inexperienced," he says, gruffly. "You open your mouth with mine."

I keep my lips closed while he tries again. He groans as he stops the kiss. "You are doing this to me on purpose."

"So what if I am?" I say. "I am cooking you your breakfast as you want, Francois. And you come up behind me, forcing unwanted kisses on me. So what do you want? The kisses or breakfast?"

His eyes glaze over, and they are filled with the lust that I have seen in so many men's eyes. The same look that the men who would buy flowers for their mistresses. The men in the prison who chose some of the women. Fortunately, I fell in the cracks by the grace of God.

"Both." He grabs me and growls as he says. "I want both."

"Not now."

"But you enjoyed me last night," he says, kissing my neck.

"I did not."

"All of that is a lie. You know it, Marie."

"You are a fool if you think that I enjoyed it, Francois. Now let me cook your breakfast. You have a long day at the forge."

And then I will be alone for hours, praises be!

His eyes widen and then he breaks out into laughter. He does not speak anymore for what feels like ages, instead he just continues to laugh and laugh.

"It is not funny, Francois," I say, stepping forward and glaring daggers at him.

"Then cook me breakfast and stop looking so beautiful when you do it, then maybe I will stop."

Is this supposed to be his idea of being romantic? I have put too much salt in his scrambled eggs that are far too burned for him now because he spent all that time trying to kiss me. And now he will definitely scrutinize my cooking skills yet again. It has been like this since the day we married. He does not keep his distance from me. Wherever I go, there he is. Kissing my neck, doing whatever he desires.

It fills me with disgust every time — but what choice do I have?