“A friend, hm?” He pulls eggs and bacon from the fridge while I pour orange juice from the carton. “Seems like you’ve been hitting the wine hard lately—you sure that’s helping with everything that’s been going on for you?”
I narrow my eyes, watching as he cracks eggs into a bowl and then begins whisking. “It helps me sleep, so maybe.”
He nods, “I didn’t find any evidence of sleepwalking last night, so there’s that.”
I grit my teeth, pushing down the things I really want to say. Now would be the time to tell him about the text messagesfrom the stalker, but I don’t have the energy to be accused of being crazy and making things up this morning. Plus, I’ve already deleted them. I can’t stand the thought of looking at them in my inbox every time I open my messages. I guess the smart move would have been to save them for evidence, but the truth is I just want them to go away.
“So who’d you share the wine with last night, El?” He’s pretending to play it casual but I can hear the annoyance lacing his words.
“Aubrey,” I answer.
“Really?” His jaw flexes with anger. “You like her?”
“She’s kind,” I offer. “You don’t like her?”
He doesn’t say anything, but his whisking turns aggressive. “I think you should be careful with a girl like that.”
“A girl like that?” I nearly choke on my laugh. “What does that mean?”
“It means... I think she has an ulterior motive. I think she wants to break us up.”
“Why on earth would she want to do that?”
“I don’t know, El, why on earth does anyone do anything?” He grinds fresh peppercorns into the eggs and then sprinkles them with sea salt. “You’ve been dressing sexier since you’ve been hanging out with her—the red lipstick, the late nights, the wine. You’re becoming someone I don’t know.”
“Is that a problem? You just want me to stay the same sweet little college student you married?”
“Um... kind of.” He drops a pad of butter into a warm skillet. It sizzles and melts instantly and then he pours the eggs in after. He turns, facing me squarely. “You’re becoming a stranger and someone I wouldn’t even be friends with, honestly.”
“Really?” I shoot back. “That seems dramatic, even for you.”
“Even for me?” he scoffs.
I just shrug, thinking about what Aubrey said last night.Does he always have opinions on how you live your life?
“I hardly think I’m the dramatic one,” he spits out, turning back to the eggs with a spatula in hand. He turns the heat down to low and starts pushing them around the pan. “Fuck—you always do this. Always try to make things bigger than they are. Can you blame me if I just want you to myself?”
I don’t respond, because what is there to say, really? I know I’ve changed, but I like the woman I’m becoming. I feel a sense of purpose and belonging that I haven’t felt before.
“You’re not home enough to care, Jack.” My tone is soft, submissive, just like he prefers.
“Nice—perfect. So it’s my fault then? I work too much trying to support us and put some money away and achieve some of the goals and dreams we set for ourselves before we were even married?” His tone takes a darker turn then. “This is your fault, you know? Always fixating on my work stuff, but what part do you play in this, El? If our marriage deteriorates it’ll be because of this—because of your fixating and constant anxiety and unhappiness no matter what I do. You’re taking on too much—maybe it’s work, maybe it’s this new friendship, maybe life is just too much for you. But all the sleepwalking and outbursts and—fuck, you won’t even talk to me about taking medications, and you won’t admit that the sleepwalking has become a problem. What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch you destroy yourself? Now you drink bottles of wine at night to knock yourself out? You want to know what I really think? I think you’re walking yourself right to the asylum with all of your bad decisions, especially considering your family history.”
And there it is. The final death blow.
“You know what?” I am seething, feeling rage light a fire inside of me. My fingers start to twitch and my muscles tremble with anger. “You’re a piece of shit. You’re hardly the man I married, and it takes everything in me not tohate youfor it.”
Before I can think, I throw the full glass of orange juice in Jack’s face. He ducks but not in time; the liquid splashes across his face and drips down his t-shirt, the glass landing on the floor before it shatters into a dozen pieces. I turn on my heel and stomp out of the kitchen, Jack’s growl of frustration following me as I reach our bedroom and slam the door, locking it behind me.
“Such an asshole,” I whisper, trying to calm my clamoring heart. I think back on all the love that we used to share, wondering where it all went and when.
The sun is setting behind Low Library, casting everything in that soft, rose-gold light that makes even the sidewalks look romantic. We’re walking slowly, neither of us in a hurry, our shadows long and overlapping as we move up the steps toward my dorm.
I can still feel the sun on my skin. Still taste strawberries and brie on my tongue. But more than anything, I feel him—his hand just barely brushing mine as we walk, like he’s asking permission without saying a word.
I steal a glance at him. Jack’s looking straight ahead, but his mouth is curved into that slow, secret smile. The one he wears when he’s about to say something that will undo me.
I can’t help it. I laugh, quiet and breathless.“Why are you smiling like that?”
