"That hurts you, doesn't it?" she sneered. "You can't stand the thought of her moving on, but you expect me to sit here and let you scream her name while you finish inside me?"
She stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the linoleum. She walked over to him, stopping inches away. She smelled of soap and cold fury.
"Here is the new deal," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I am done playing the understanding girlfriend. I am done waiting for you to get over it."
She poked him in the chest hard.
"You are going to get a job. Any job. I don't care if you're scrubbing toilets. You are going to bring money into this house."
Poke.
"You are going to stop drinking. If I smell whiskey on you again, I will lock you out."
Poke.
"And you are going to stop saying her name. You are going to bury her. Because if you ever disrespect me like that again... if you ever make me feel like a substitute in my own bed..."
She let the threat hang there. She didn't say she would leave. She couldn't leave; she had nowhere to go either. They were two rats in a bucket.
"I will make sure this child knows exactly who you are,"she hissed. "I will poison him against you before he can even speak. I will make you a stranger in your own house."
Harrison looked at her. He saw the hatred in her eyes—hatred born of humiliation. She didn't love him anymore. The fantasy of the "great romance" was dead. Now, it was just a hostage situation.
"Okay," Harrison said, his voice hollow.
"Okay?"
"I'll get a job. I'll stop drinking."
"Good." Emily stepped back. She walked to the fridge and opened it, pulling out a carton of orange juice. She poured a glass with a steady hand.
She took a sip, then looked at him over the rim of the glass.
"Go take a shower," she commanded. "You smell like a distillery. And you smell like her."
Harrison didn't argue. He turned and walked into the bathroom, closing the door and locking it.
He turned on the shower, cold, full blast. He stepped in, clothes and all.
He sat on the fiberglass floor of the tub, letting the freezing water hammer against his head, trying to wash away the hangover, the shame, and the name that was branded onto his soul.
He was sober now. And the reality of his life was crystal clear.
He had traded a partner for a warden.
Chapter Fourteen
Sarah
Sunday morning usually meant silence. For the last six months, Sarah had guarded her Sundays like a fortress—no calls, no emails, just her, a book, and the quiet reclamation of her space.
Today, however, she was putting on lipstick at 10:00 AM.
She looked in the mirror. She had chosen a soft cream sweater and dark denim. It was casual, approachable. It wasn't the armor she wore to court, nor the "look at me" dress from the gallery. It was just Sarah.
She grabbed her bag and drove to The Foundry, an industrial-chic coffee shop in the Arts District. Her heart did a strange, fluttery thing in her chest—a rhythm she hadn't felt in years. It wasn't the heavy, dread-filled pounding of anxiety she had lived with toward the end of her marriage. It was lighter. It was anticipation.
When she walked in, the smell of roasted beans and rain hit her. The place was crowded, but she spotted him immediately.
