1
LENA
Five years ago
Brandon arrives an hour later than he said he would. He walks in talking into his phone, doesn't acknowledge me, and sets his backpack on my kitchen counter.
His voice is irritated, loud, and completely unaware that I'm standing right in front of him.
This isn't new.
Whatisnew is the part of me that no longer wants to pretend it doesn't bother me.
He ends the call and exhales as if the world has wronged him personally. "Unbelievable," he says, shaking his head. "You have no idea what I deal with."
I nod once because I don't have the energy for the usual guessing game. "Everything okay?"
He pulls out a takeout container. "I picked up dinner for myself. I didn't know if you'd eaten, but you can have some fries if you want."
I look at the container, then at the pot of pasta I made. I spent twenty minutes on it. He didn't notice the smell, the bowls I set out, or the effort. The familiar sting rises in my chest, but I breathe through it. "I made dinner," I say. "I told you earlier."
He shrugs. "You didn't say it like a plan."
I resist the impulse to throw something at him. "I said I was cooking."
"You also say a lot of things you don't follow through on."
I feel my jaw tighten. "Such as?"
He waves a hand. "Let's not start. You're already in a mood."
I cross my arms. "I'm not. I'm trying to have a normal conversation."
He snorts out a laugh. "Normal for you."
I stare at him. "What does that even mean?"
"It means you get worked up over every little thing," he says, like he's reciting a weather report. "You say you're going to try something new, then you bail. You said you'd join me at the gym. That lasted a month."
My stomach drops, because I stopped going to the gym to give myself a break from him.
He made every second in that place feel like an exam I was failing.
If I slowed down, he'd lean in and whisper that it must be "that time of the month again." If I wanted a heavier snack after a workout, he'd say I was "undoing the measly calories" I burned.
He'd watch the treadmill screen and remind me that other women ran twice as long without getting winded.
He treated my body like a problem he had to fix, and when I pushed back, he accused me of being emotional or hormonal, like I couldn't possibly know what I needed.
"Are you serious right now?"
He shrugs again. "I'm just saying. You get sensitive about the stuff you don't want to talk about. Like your… lifestyle choices."
"My what?"
He doesn't look at me when he says it. He reaches for his jacket like we're discussing groceries. "Lena, come on. Don't make me spell it out. You know what I mean."
The air turns sharp, thin. "Say it."
