Then my thoughts snap back to Jenna.
How that guy treats her. The other day he threw garbage at her, expects her to cook, shop, and probably clean too as if it’s still the 1960s. He should count himself lucky a dozen times over to have such an intelligent woman. And then I see that look again. The moment he walked in, she changed.
It was the same yesterday, too—when I saw her come out crying. She was scared, and the wildest scenarios ran through my mind. I shouldn’t worry about her, but I do. It’s almost like I have no hobbies other than worrying about others, but my mindwon’t let me rest, and I know I have to check on her or I couldn’t sleep. I’ve always been like that. I’ve got helper syndrome.
I dash back to the couch and open the e-mail app again, only this time I actually start typing. It’s ridiculous how rarely I write e-mails. How do you even start?Dear Ms. Davis. Are you okay?
Fucking ridiculous.
EIGHT
Jenna
Matthew doesn’t say anything. He just stands there and watches me. Maybe he thinks that if he waits long enough, I’ll say something first. Maybe he expects an apology for not immediately leaping to my feet, begging for forgiveness and welcoming him home with a hand-rolled sushi platter and a lap dance. I don’t know anymore.
I go back to the couch and start to clean up the mess we made, pretending not to notice him as I pick through a pile of legal envelopes and notes. There’s another coffee ring on the edge of the coffee table, right next to the mug I never brought to the sink. I use my thumb to try and scrub it away, but it just smears into a bigger, more pathetic circle. The silence stretches. God, when did it get so complicated between us? Everything is a fight these days. I feel like I don’t even have to look at him and he jumps at me for the silliest reason.
“You could have at least warned me,” he says.
I want to say that he never gives me warning before bringing home his entireMagic: The Gatheringfamily or passing out drunk at the computer, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I texted you atfive.” I’m careful to keep my voice even, like if I’m calm enough, maybe he’ll follow my lead.
He snorts. “Yeah. And you mentioned you’d be working. Not that you’d bring home a random man and his child. I don’t want them to steal my stuff.”
I can feel myself getting defensive. I don’t want to. I really don’t. But he makes it impossible to keep my cool. What could they possibly take? His ridiculous game cards? Honestly, it’s just sad.
“I’m simply doing my job, Matthew. We’ve talked about this. Sometimes my job means emergencies, and this time emergencies mean people at our place. I can’t share any more details because of client confidentiality. But it won’t happen again.” My voice is tight, clipped, but not shouting yet. I almost never do. He’s the one who shouts. Not me. I can’t stand it when adults throw tantrums like children. But who am I supposed to say this to? He’s not even paying attention.
Matthew shakes his head, mouth twisted. “Yeah, well, maybe you should spend less time being a fucking hero for everyone else and remember you live with someone. Someone who pays rent here too, you know. If you put as much effort into keeping our home tidy as you do for your clients, I wouldn’t feel like I’m living in a damn pigsty. It’s unbelievable that you don’t feel a shred of shame inviting people into this chaos.”
There’s this knot in my throat again.
It gets bigger and bigger and then I just snap.
I can’t take it anymore and slam the mug back on my coffee table. “Do you have to be such an ass? Are you jealous or what is this really about?”
He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m notjealous. I’m just sick of being second place to your job. Or to this—this guy and whatever his drama is. Everyone seems more important to you than me!”
I want to laugh, because if anyone is in second place, it’sme. My entire life is triaged, and the only way to keep all the balls in the air is to pretend I don’t care which one drops first. But right now, I can feel myself slipping. I just can’t do this anymore.
“It’s just work. Stop imagining things.”
He glares at me. “I saw the way you laughed with him.”
So, itisjealousy then. I’m honestly taken aback that he can still feel something about me at all. I thought he had become so numb that emotions were a thing of the past for him.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I repeat myself. Damn. I always cave, don’t I? “I want to keep work separate from our home life. It was just a one-time thing.”
Matthew is already halfway to the bedroom. “Don’t worry,” he throws over his shoulder. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
The bedroom door slams. I’m dismissed.
So that’s it then.
I already know that anything I say now would be useless. He would scream, I would cry. And it would lead to nothing. I count to five, and then ten, and wander down the hallway, past the bathroom, and pause outside the bedroom door. I can see the faint glow of Matthew’s phone through the crack. He’s probably rage-scrolling Reddit, or texting his gaming buddies about how cruel and lazy I am. I want to go in and make peace, but the thought of trying and failing again tonight is too much.
I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to fight for myself.
I go to court and argue for other people every day, but when it comes to me, I cave. I apologize. I fold before the battle even starts.
