I stare my husband down, and the thought hits me. Maybe they contacted him because he’s the one who bought the fucking thing.
Joe’s mouth tightens. My husband is not a confrontational man. He’s one of those passive-aggressive guys who holds it all in and pouts about it for weeks after. We’ve never crossed the line with each other, but God, we’re both getting close to it.
Rain begins to thunder down, and when Joe fixes his eyes on me, you’d swear he was blaming me for it. For everything. The house. The state of our marriage. The rift with his shitty mother, who’s hated my guts since the day she met me. But mostly, he hates me for that one unspeakable August night five years ago that ended in police sirens and screaming.
I hold my hands up, backing away from the couch. From him. Reaper watches us from the coffee table, tail flicking back and forth.
“I didn’t buy this,” I say hotly.
He raises an eyebrow, snorts. “You sure? You buy a lot when you’re…”
Drunk.
I shake my head, and my heart pumps so hot and fast it’s making me dizzy. I want toget out of here.I want to sprint out the front door, right into the soaking rain. “I wouldn’t buy this,” I say quietly. “Not this.”
“Why? What is it?”
Quickly, I bend down and launch the DVD at him. It lands with a thud in the center of his thin chest. He catches it clumsily.
I wrap my arms around myself, but I can’t stop shaking. Silently, Joe inspects the DVD. In his pale hands is the mustard-yellow cover with Matt Damon and Robin Williams. Joe turns it over and over again, grim-faced and silent. I know he’s thinking about my little sister. He knows it was her favorite movie. I know he, too, can see her perched on our old couch, telling anyone who’d listen,One day I’m going to be a therapist.
Every marriage has silent rules. Ours is,Don’t speak about the past. Don’t speak about Lizzy.
Joe and I met five years ago. We’ve been married three of them. And in all these years, he’s never brought up my sister.
I fold my hands behind my head and wait, eyes on the rain.
“Did you buy this?” I ask quietly.
I made the dangerous move, and we both know it. I’ve picked up my queen and nudged it forward.
His jaw tightens, and when he looks up, I’m chilled by the look in his eyes. Murderous, you’d call it. In our hometown, Joe was famous for his easy smile, and now he carries the heavy energy of a bad storm…. God, where did that boy go? What have we done to each other? I glance desperately at the door, wondering if it’s too late to undo this. Undo everything. He drops the DVD, and it lands on the ground with a sick thud.
“Why would I send you this?” he asks softly, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Huh? Why would you think that I would send you this?”
To fuck with me? To punish me?
I can think of many reasons, and what a shame that is. My fingers are numb with fear and cold, and the rain roars down like it’s angry at us.
“For God’s sake,” Joe says hotly, “you’re the one who…”
He doesn’t finish. I swallow hard, not even sure what I’ll say. I stride forward so quickly that even Reaper flinches. I’m scared and angry, and I’m all up in my husband’s face, hot breath on his cheek.
“My sister…” I breathe. “You know this was my sister’s favorite movie.”
It was my sister who wanted to be a therapist…
“Don’t,” Joe says shortly, eyes flashing.
Is it just me, or is the house listening to our fight? It’s the strangest thing, but something flashes through my vision again. A pulsing black heat, coming from the heart of the house. It feeds off our dangerous anger,relishingit.
Joe steps closer, the tip of his boot prodding mine. Cold rage radiates through his thin body. Ifeelit. I hold my fists steady at my sides…in case they’re needed.
The lightbulbs flicker, dimming, brightening, dimming, and thewarning from Mr. Whitman bolts through my head.The house made him crazy.But that’s not true. Not true. Not true. It’s the storm that’s making the lights flicker. The storm.
In a soft, dangerous voice Joe says, “Just. Fucking.Don’t.”
It’s not the house making Joe and me crazy. We don’t need any help with that. We’re perfectly capable of fucking things up on our own.
