Chapter 13: The Reluctant

“You’re sure about this?” I asked ... again. My voice came out lower than I intended, tight around the edges.

“Yes,” she said.

Steady. Quiet.

But not fully certain.

I could hear it in the space between the word and her breath—like she’d already said it to herself too many times, and this version was just the final one that had to stick.

It wasn’t only her voice. It was the way her jaw held itself too rigidly in place, the faint tremor in her fingers as she kept them still on purpose, as if stillness could substitute for control.

I exhaled slowly. I’d been trying to talk her out of this. Every version of the argument had already been used up.

My mouth opened, then closed again.

“It’s—” I stopped.

My hands lifted halfway without meaning to, hovering in the air between us before I realized I didn’t know what I was trying to point at. At the table. At her. At the situation itself. They dropped again too slowly, like even they weren’t fully committed to what I was about to say.

“Those are real,” I finally said. “You can’t get out of them without the keys.”

I blinked longer than usual. Like I was trying to reset something in my head. But there was nothing new left to say. Just the same warning, repeated until it started to lose meaning even to me.

“I know that,” she said. “I’m fully aware they’re real.”

Her voice was calm. Almost composed enough to pass for certainty.

Almost.

Her fingers still hadn’t stopped trembling.

Her shoulders lifted in a small shrug—too controlled to be casual, too restrained to be natural. It lingered a fraction too long before settling, like she had to consciously let it go.

Then she raised her hands slightly, as far as the chain around her waist allowed.

Not abruptly. Carefully. As if testing the limit, even though she knew exactly where it was.

The chain held with the faint pull. The connected lockbox shifted with a dull, heavy sound as everything adjusted to her movement.

“I know I’m stuck like this until we get there,” she said, then stopped.

Her eyes flicked down for a moment, and I could see it—the realization catching up with her words.

“I know,” she added more quietly. “And you can get me out.”

A moment passed.

“What if something goes wrong?” I asked. “Before we get there.”

The words came out faster than I meant them to. Sharper, too. I hated how easily the fear slipped through.

My hands tightened at my sides. I noticed it and forced them to relax, like I had to physically override my own body just to stay steady.

“What if there’s an accident?” I continued. “I won’t be able to get you out.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“You keep saying that,” she said.

Her fingers flexed once. Then again. Small movements. Contained. Not agitation—more like pressure held behind glass.

She wasn’t angry. Not even really defensive.

“Things can go wrong whether I’m like this or not,” she said, her voice dropping. “It’s not like this is what causes it.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” I replied. “And you’re trembling.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary.

“Just do it,” she said.

Her eyes drifted to the keys on the table.

“This is different,” I told her, trying one last time. “You’re not just wearing those here with me when you need them,” I shook my head slightly. “You’re going outside. Getting into a car and...” I trailed off, not finishing the thought.

“I’ve been out like this before,” she reminded me.

“I know that,” I replied. “But we had the keys. I could’ve gotten you out of all that if it came to it. And we were always close to home—we never went that far with you like that.”

She smiled. “The cabin.”

I smiled back, thinking about it. “That was different,” I said. “It was secluded. You could walk around like that and never come across anyone.”

“I did walk around like this,” she said.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “Seems like a lifetime ago.”

“But this is different,” I told her again.

She knew I was telling the truth. The uncertainty on her face said it all—lingering in the tightness of her expression, in the way she hesitated, just for a second.

Still, she didn’t budge.

“Just do it,” she repeated, quieter this time. “Otherwise, this isn’t going to work.”

Then, after a pause: “An hour in and you’ll be pulling over to take them off.”

“We can leave the keys on the table,” I said.

Her expression shifted—barely.

“So, we can drive back instead?”

I picked up the keys and turned them over in my hand.

There wasn’t much to them—just the cuffs and padlock key on a cheap metal ring. In all the years, we never got a decent key chain for them. Or for the other set.

“Alright,” I said.

I walked over to the counter and grabbed her bag, then mine.

“We should go,” I added.

She moved toward the garage door in small, careful steps.

They were “hobble cuffs”—at least that’s what she called them. Just long enough to take small steps, but that’s it.

I reached the door ahead of her and opened it, holding it for her to pass through.

She paused at the threshold, then stepped forward, and I guided her lightly by the arm as she stepped down into the garage.

I then hit the button and the door started to rise.

“I’ll throw the keys in the neighbor’s trash,” I said.

Pickup is this morning. The truck usually came early in this neighborhood. The idea was simple ... even if we turned around, the garbage would already be gone.

“You’ll really do it?” she asked.

I looked back at her.

“Yes,” I said.

But my voice didn’t land the way I wanted it to. Even though I had tried to sound convincing.

“You can come watch me do it,” I added after a moment. “But someone might see you.”

She nodded as she reached the passenger side door.

I stayed just outside the garage opening, keys still in my hand.

But she kept walking toward me.

“I think Kevin’s already gone to work,” she said. “And Leslie leaves right after him to take the kids to school.”

I nodded.

“Careful,” I said as she stepped onto the driveway. “The pavers.”

She slowed, watching her steps as she crossed the stones, making sure her heels didn’t catch in the gaps between them.

“We can bring a shorter heel,” I told her.

She shook her head. “No. We already adjusted everything for these.”

I nodded.

The heels pulled her tendons tight, allowing the cuffs to be fastened more snugly around her ankles without causing pain—which was exactly how she preferred them. We’d learned that over the years, from her wearing them around the house and when we went out.

And today she was in five-inch stilettos. She wanted to do something sexy for me—at least, that’s what it seemed like. She didn’t wear heels that high anymore, not outside anyway. Mostly just around the house, in the bedroom. So, I knew she was doing this, in part, for me.

I liked her in very high stilettos. That’s why she’d chosen the fitted pencil skirt, the sheer pantyhose, the tight blouse.

I’d always loved her in those clothes, which she often wore to work. Kind of a requirement, really, in pharmaceutical sales—part of the role was looking sexy for doctors, helping to sell whatever drug she was promoting at the time.

But there was something else—what they meant. Once they were on, especially with the cuffs tightened like they were, she wouldn’t be able to walk without them.

If she took them off, her tendons would stretch, and the cuff would dig into her ankles. She’d have to walk on her toes to avoid the pain, but with the heels being so high, she wouldn’t be able to keep her foot arched at that angle.

I think, in some quiet, unspoken way, that was part of it—she’d be stuck in those heels.

I walked with her until we reached the sidewalk, then veered toward the neighbor’s driveway and bin, lifting the lid. Turning to face her, I held up the ring of keys, just standing there, looking at her.

I hoped she’d say no. That she’d changed her mind.

But nothing had changed. The only difference now was that we were outside, instead of back in the kitchen, about to have the same conversation.

I let out a slow breath and dropped the keys into the trash can. The lid fell with a soft thud, and I stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of it all.

As I stepped back toward her, I saw the silver minivan turning into the cul-de-sac, coming straight toward us. Leslie’s car slowed as it neared and pulled into the driveway.

She waved at us from the window, and for a split second, it felt like everything was just normal—the kind of neighborly wave you’d give on any other day.

But then her gaze shifted, and it was like a switch flipped. I could see her reaction before she even fully registered what was going on.

Her eyes widened, and her hand paused in mid-wave, like she’d just caught something unexpected in the corner of her vision.

I saw the instant her mind started working, the confusion crossing her face. She barely waited for the van to stop before she was out of it.

A few seconds later, she was scanning Veronica from head to toe. Her gaze kept darting between the box, the cuffs on her ankles, and then up to the chain around her waist.

She looked back at me, her lips parted slightly in shock, but she didn’t say anything immediately. I watched as she looked around.

“Veronica. Sweetie, what happened?” she asked. “Have you been arrested?”

I glanced at Veronica. I’d tried, earlier, to talk this through with her—to come up with some kind of explanation we could fall back on if something like this happened. Something simple, believable. Anway, we hadn’t talked about it.

“No, no—I’m not arrested,” she said quickly, the words tumbling over each other, her breath just a little too shallow. “I’m ... I’m okay. Really. I’m okay.

I winced inwardly. That, I thought, is probably the worst possible thing you can say while looking like that. If you have to insist, you’re okay—standing on a sidewalk in the early morning, talking to a neighbor while completely restrained—you’ve already lost.

Leslie blinked, trying to catch up, her expression lagging a second behind the moment. And Veronica saw it—of course she did. It was written all over her face.

There was a flicker of hesitation, barely a heartbeat, before she pushed forward anyway. “Um ... it’s...” She glanced at me. “We’re...” The words fell apart as soon as they left her mouth.

She was stumbling now. I could see it happening in real time—her thoughts scrambling ahead while her mouth lagged behind, throwing out half-formed words just to fill the silence. Each one only made the situation worse, buying her a second at a time but costing her any chance of sounding believable.

Leslie didn’t respond right away. She just stared, her expression caught in that awkward in-between—concern not quite settling into understanding, confusion not quite sharpening into suspicion. She held the silence like she was waiting for it to explain itself.

“I’m okay,” Veronica finally said, quieter now, as if trying to steady the moment. “We’re just leaving.”

“You’re going out?” Leslie replied, surprised. Her gaze flicked between us. “Why—why are you on the sidewalk?”

She gestured slightly, confusion breaking through more clearly now.

Luckily, she hadn’t seen us drop the keys into her bin. At least, I didn’t think she had.

“The garage is cluttered,” I said quickly, nodding toward the car. “It would’ve been difficult to help Veronica inside, so I helped her out here first. I was going to pull the car out and then get her in.”

Leslie nodded slowly, like she was trying to accept it, but I could still see the skepticism in her eyes.

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re like that,” she said, her voice quieter now. Her eyes moved over Veronica again. “You’re going out ... like that?”

A pause.

She was still trying to process it.

“How...” Leslie started, then hesitated. “How did you end up like that? Who ... who put that on you?”

“One of Veronica’s old girlfriends is getting married this weekend,” I finally chimed in. “And the bachelorette party is later today.”

I added, “And she and her boyfriend are into...” I glanced at her, leaning in slightly, then shrugged with a small shake of my head. “You know—really kinky stuff. I guess she’s enjoying herself with husband number three.”

I looked at her and could see she was still trying to process it all.

“And...” I sighed. “She thought it would be fun if all the girls showed up like this.” I pointed to Veronica, then to the restraints. “And she’s kind of doing a sexy prison theme for the party. You know—sexy guys showing up like cops, arresting the girls.”

I did my best to make it sound sexy, keeping it casual, like it was no big deal. And that we were only doing this because of the bride-to-be and her whims.

Leslie just looked at me.

“Okay,” she said. “But...” I could see she was still processing it all. She closed her eyes briefly. “Just ... just put them on when you get there,” she said.

“She wants the girls to show up like this,” I told her again. “And she and Veronica are old friends ... And she’s kind of a bridezilla. Even now.”

Leslie nodded, but she wasn’t convinced. “Can’t...” she said, glancing at Veronica again, then back at the restraints. “Can’t you just put them on when you get there? What does it matter?”

“Why...” She looked at Veronica now. “Why would you wear them there? That can’t be comfortable.”

“We checked Google Maps, and there really wasn’t anywhere to pull over that wasn’t a parking lot where there would be people,” I explained. “And these...” I reached over and gently lifted the box a little along with Veronica’s hands. “Prison restraints are a bit complicated to get on. Especially these. It takes a while to make sure everything is on right.” I looked back at her. “You know—secure, properly fitted.”

Leslie leaned forward slightly, her eyes fixed on Veronica, then on the restraints.

“Prison restraints?” she said, a little louder now. “Those are real prison restraints?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding again, trying to sound casual. “Like I said, Veronica’s friend is a bit of a bridezilla, and she wanted it to be authentic.”

I could see Leslie wasn’t convinced.

“Only the best with her,” I added quickly. “Crystal, gold-trimmed plating, real silverware—”