"You're always sorry. You're always so fuckin’ sorry." He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grip is hard enough to bruise, but I don't flinch. Don't pull away. "You'd be nothing without me. You know that, right? Nothing. And now look what you've done. You've destroyed me."
He releases me with a shove.
I stumble, catch myself on the counter, watch through blurry eyes as he grabs his keys from where he threw them.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
"Out. I need to think. I need to figure out how to fix this." He pauses at the door, looking back at me with something closeto disgust. "Don't wait up. And clean up that glass before I get back."
The door slams.
The apartment goes silent.
I stand there for a long moment, not moving, barely breathing.
Then my legs give out, and I sink to the kitchen floor, pressing my back against the cabinets, and let myself fall apart.
I don't know how long I cry.
Long enough that my eyes are swollen and my throat is raw.
Long enough that the afternoon light shifts from bright to golden to dim.
Long enough that my body aches from sitting on the hard floor, hunched over my knees like a child.
But eventually, the tears stop. And in the silence they leave behind, something else emerges.
A thought. Small at first. Barely a whisper.
He's gone.
Cain is gone.
Out drinking, probably.
Drowning his rage in whiskey and self-pity.
He won't be back for hours, maybe not until tomorrow.
I could leave.
The thought is terrifying.
Exhilarating. Impossible.
I could pack a bag. Call my mother. Walk out the door and never look back.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm on my feet. Moving.
My hands are shaking as I pull a duffel bag from the closet—the same one I brought when I moved in three years ago, back when I thought this was love.
I throw in clothes—whatever I can grab, whatever will fit.
Underwear, jeans, t-shirts.
My toothbrush.
The photo of my mom and me at a Steelers game, the one I keep hidden in my nightstand because Cain said it was stupid.
