“Pizza,” he says without looking at me. “Order from that place on Fourth, not the shitty one you got last time.”
I nod, though he can’t see me. “Do you need anything else? Coffee? Breakfast?”
Now he turns, a smirk playing on his lips. It’s the expression he gets when he’s about to say something he knows will hurt. “You know what I need? A wife who isn’t a lazy, unorganized slob.”
The words hit their mark, but I’ve built calluses over my heart. Still, I flinch slightly.
“What’s with that stupid book scanner thing you bought anyway?” he continues, warming to his topic. “More junk cluttering up the house. As if your ‘system’ of book piles everywhere isn’t bad enough.”
My book scanner. The one purchase I made for myself last month, ordered in secret and paid for with money I’d been squirreling away from my paycheck. It helps me catalog my collection, keep track of what I’ve read, what I want to read next. It’s mine. Just mine.
“It helps me organize,” I say, my voice small.
“Organization would mean getting rid of half that shit.” He waves dismissively. “You don’t need more books. You need to read the ones you have or sell them. They’re taking over the house.”
My books are all confined to the library, the one room he rarely enters because there’s nothing in there for him. No games, no computer, no TV. Just books and a comfortable chair and a throw blanket where I sleep most nights to avoid our bed. He just wants something to complain or fight about.
“I need to go or I’ll be late,” I say, retreating toward the door.
I close his office door harder than necessary, not quite a slam but close. The sound echoes through the hallway.
“Don’t slam my fucking door!” he shouts through the wall.
I keep walking, grabbing my purse and keys from the hook by the garage door. My hands are shaking, but not from fear this time. From anger. From the indignity of being treated like a child, like a servant, like less than human by my husband. So much for the promise to ‘honor and cherish.’
Outside, the morning air hits my face as the garage door opens, fresh and clean compared to the oppressive atmosphere inside. I slide into my car, a practical, boringSUV that Eli approved because it “doesn’t draw attention,” and grip the steering wheel.
“Fuck him,” I whisper to myself, the words a tiny rebellion in the quiet car. “He can’t tell me how to spend my own money.”
I start the engine and back out of the driveway, feeling the familiar weight lift slightly from my shoulders as I put distance between myself and the house. Work awaits. Valerie and Mia will be at the shop. For a few precious hours, I can pretend I’m someone else. Someone who deserves kindness, someone who might one day be brave enough to leave for good.
As I drive away, I glance in my rearview mirror at the house growing smaller behind me. From the outside, it looks like a dream home. No one would guess the nightmares that live inside. By the time I get to the print shop, I’ll have plastered a fake smile across my face, the same one I always use for work. The one my best friends can see right through.
But as I drive toward my few hours of freedom, I can’t help but wonder: is this all there is? Will I spend the rest of my life hiding bruises and flinching at sudden movements and sleeping in my library to avoid Eli?
2
Lila
The stereo screams atfull volume, bass thumping through the speakers of my hatchback as I press the gas pedal harder. Arankai’s “Heavenly Bodies” drowns out my thoughts, drowns out Eli’s voice that always seems to linger in my head. This is my ritual. The moment I’m far enough from the house, I crank the music to levels that would have earned me a lecture about “destroying the speakers” if he were here. But he’s not here. For the next eight hours, I’m free. Not completely free, but free enough to breathe without calculating each inhale.
I sing along, voice cracking occasionally. My singing voice is terrible, another thing Eli never fails to remind me about. But in this car, on this stretch of road with the windows rolled up tight, I can be as terrible as I want. I can take up space. I can exist without apologies.
The road curves ahead, and I ease off the gas, checking my watch. I’m early today, despite the confrontation with Eli. Being early is another ritual. I’d rather be at the printshop alone for twenty minutes than spend an extra second in that house.
I make a sharp U-turn onto the side street leading to the back of a small strip mall.By the Bay Print and Mailis through an alley. It’s a little bit of a walk, but parking back here means more room for customers in the front. To most people, it probably looks unremarkable. To me, it’s a lifeline.
The back lot is empty except for a delivery truck pulling away. I slide into my usual spot nearest to the alleyway entrance, killing the engine and letting the sudden silence wash over me. For a moment, I just sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, savoring the transition from one world to another.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. My heart jumps. Is it Eli checking up on me already? But it’s just a notification from the bank. I exhale slowly, hating how my body reacts to every small sound, how deeply the fear runs.
I grab my purse and climb out of the car, fishing the shop keys from the side pocket. The morning air is cool against my skin, carrying the salt tang from the nearby bay. Another deep breath. Then I unlock the back door and step inside.
Fluorescent lights flicker on automatically, buzzing softly overhead. The familiar smell greets me—paper, ink, the faint chemical scent of toner. I drop my purse behind the counter and hit the main light switch. The shop comes to life, shadows retreating to corners as light floods the space.
“Good morning,” I say to the empty room, a habit I’ve developed on the days I open alone. Sometimes I think ithelps set the tone for the day. Speaking my voice into the silence, claiming the space before anyone else arrives.
First things first. I move to the corner where the steel deposit box sits bolted to the floor. Customers can drop off packages after hours through a secure slot, and it’s my job to process them first thing. I twist the key in the lock and pull out a handful of padded envelopes and small boxes. Someone’s left a note attached to one: “Please rush, my grandmother’s birthday!” and I smile, setting that one aside for priority processing.
