“Expecting somebody?” He stands in the doorway with that smirk on his face which reads ‘whatchya gonna do about it?’
What would I do? Admire the swelling, and bruises, is what. His face remains a mess. Wherever he’d been all day, it sure as shit wasn’t a doctor’s office.
“You probably need stitches for that eye.” I pull my dripping hand out from under the tap, and switch it off.
“Thanks for stating the obvious.” He snatches the dishtowel from the handle of the oven, and tosses it at me. “Dry off, and flip that steak before it burns.”
If looks could kill, his shirt would be on fire. Never once have I glared at his back as he walked away, but after last night, and after meeting him, I feel a new source of determination.
The instinct to fight might be imperceptible to Dylan, but I know it’s there, and that’s what matters. My strength has found a way to return. It may still be a fledgling, poking its head out from the safe confines of its underground bunker, but the strength is still there.
Maybe I can do this? Maybe I can try?
“Smells like it’s burning,” he hollers from the couch.
Confident there’s no possible way for him to see me, I flip him the finger through the wall. I turn the damn steak, finish it off, plate the food, and serve it to him with a cool beer—top removed, of course. He grimaces at the meal.
“I guess it’ll do. You’re lucky I’m fucking starving, Jane.”
The thought hits me upside the head like a nine-iron; he’s never called me anything but my name. No ‘baby’, ‘honey’, or even something as simple as ‘dear’. The jackass has never given me a pet name because quite simply, he doesn’t feel that affection for me.
How did I never see that before now? Have I been getting around with blinkers on?
“I’m sorry, baby. What would you like me to make you tomorrow night? I’ll make whatever you want.”
He lets his gaze drift to me, and it’s cold. Like icily so. “I’d like you to pay enough attention to me that you fucking remember what I like to eat. Do I honestly need to tell you again, after all these years together?”
I stare at him, nostrils twitching, and I swear to God I hear the click of something break in my head. The gears shift, and machinery grinds. This ship isn’t running quite as tight as it used to.
“You think I don’t pay attention to you?” I mumble.
His head whips back as though I’ve hit him. “Are you talking back, Jane?” A moment passes where neither of us moves. My heartbeat drowns out the sound of the sports on TV. “Well?”
Robotic Jane turns away from the scene, and all intentions are to return to the kitchen, and avoid the conflict.
Dylan has other ideas.
The plate clatters to the floor, ceramic shatters, and I know he’s on his feet.
Three, two, one . . .
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
My skin crawls.
“You fucking dare turn your back on me?”
My chest rises, and falls with a carefully hidden shudder. I turn to face him, impassive as ever.
“Answer my fucking question, Jane. Were you talking back?”
I know he’s baiting me. The smirk on his face says he’d mapped how this would play out before he stood. “It wasn’t my intention, but I know that’s how it sounds.”
I cry in shock at the pain. He’s hit me before, but always with an open hand. This time, it’s a closed fist directly to the jaw. The agony spreads through my teeth, and down my neck.
“Get out of my sight, you disrespectful slut. All these years carrying you, and that’s what I get?”
I do as I’m asked—I leave. Who is this woman I’ve become? One hit to the face, and I crumple back into the role of submissive wife within a heartbeat. I had the gall to fight for Rocco last night, so why the fuck can’t I do it for myself?
Hot tears sting at my eyes as I make my way up the hallway to our bedroom. God only knows what I’ll do once I get there: fold some washing, change the sheets, clean the bathroom—again. Whatever it is, I’m certain it won’t be continue to cry. He doesn’t deserve my tears, and I don’t deserve to pity my situation.
Not when I’ve put myself here.
I stand in the doorway to our room—correction—his room, my retreat. Why is it that? Why does this room make me so comfortable? My eyes roam my surroundings; the bedspread he liked, the bedside lamps he chose, the fucking color on the wall—that was all his doing. Nothing in here is mine. Nothing of me remains—anywhere.
Where did I go? If I was to go through all our storage, would I find myself somewhere amidst the unused silver from our wedding? The pointless things I bought him for anniversaries and birthdays that I found gathering dust on shelves, and in cupboards?