Seaton turned to see Lincoln heading in their direction.
Relief flooded her veins as she turned back around.
"Daryl, please. Just go. We have nothing to do with each other anymore."
"The fuck we don't, Seaton. I let you have your tantrum. Now it's time to come home."
Seaton tried to move around Sam again, but he held her back.
Frustrated, she wanted to stomp her feet, but she wouldn't want to prove Daryl right in any way.
"Sam," she leaned against his back, rising up on the toes of her sandals, "please let me talk to him."
She felt him hesitate.
There was a physical tremor in his body, but she knew the moment he made the decision to let her move past him.
She felt him exhale and saw him turn his head toward her.
"I'm not leaving you alone with him."
Seaton nodded. "Thanks. I know and I'm grateful, but I don't want this to escalate."
"That's what I'm worried about."
She heard his words and squared her shoulders.
Sam took a step to the side to let her pass, but he didn't move any further away.
She'd thank him later for the support, but she didn't want to antagonize Daryl. He sounded like he'd already worked himself up.
When she was closer to him, she could smell whiskey like it was coming out of his pores.
Great. When he was sober, he was mean. That was enough to make her worried.
But drunk? She could only remember one time and it wasn’t pretty. It was explosive. Like a tornado spinning around her. At least he’d kept from hurting her.
"Daryl," she knew how to lower her tone, but she had no idea how he'd take it. He probably didn't either.
There was no guarantee with him.
And she was exhausted.
Of him.
"Daryl," she spoke again and he turned his head toward her and away from Sam, "please. Go home."
"Go home?" His voice was biting. "I got home tonight and there was nothing ready for dinner."
She held back the words she wanted to say. They'd been separated for more than three months.
"Things have changed for both of us, Daryl. I'm not going to be there to cook for you now. We're not together anymore."
She wanted to say she was proud of herself for putting her words together in what she hoped was a clear and concise way to get through the frustration he was feeling.
She wanted to tell him that before they'd separated, he'd always complained about the food she cooked. It was too salty. Too bland. It was too hot. Too cold to eat. The wrong flavors.
Now, he was mad that food wasn't ready for him to eat at home.
