Ugly(73)

I can’t wait until he gets home.

Just as I finish putting the scissors away, back in the third drawer in the kitchen, I hear the key go into the lock. I fly across the room, the biggest and warmest smile for my husband, to welcome him home.

The door opens, and I jump into Trent’s arms, peppering kisses all over his face. “Get off me,” he says as he pushes me away. “Jesus, Lily, I just got home, give me a few minutes to wind down.” He drops his bag beside the door and walks in, taking his tie off. He’s not in the clothes from yesterday, but that’s understandable, because he told me he keeps clothes at the hospital in case he needs to sleep there.

“Sorry, Trent,” I say as I pick up the tie he dropped on the floor.

“Get me a drink.”

I go over and get his whisky, preparing it exactly how he likes it. Two fingers of whisky and three ice cubes. When I turn around, he’s sitting at his usual spot at the table looking at the love hearts. “Here you go,” I cheerfully hand him his drink.

Trent picks up one of the hearts, looks at it, frowns and tosses it aside. “What’s this shit?” he asks, as he pointedly looks toward the hearts.

“I’m just really happy,” I answer as I try and move toward him to sit on his lap.

“What’s got you finally behaving like a damn wife should instead of acting like a bitch?”

“You. I’m just so happy, and now I understand what you go through. I just want to make you happy, that’s all.” I bend to take dinner out of the oven. “Dinner’s done, I’ll just serve yours up.”

“What I go through? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well…” I start saying. “Don’t be mad, but I went and bought a pair of shoes today.”

“You did what?” he slams the glass on the table and it makes me jump back, dropping the knife in my hand onto the tray of food I’ve prepared.

“I had to, but I’ll walk to work for the next two weeks to pay for the money I took from the bank for the shoes,” I say as quickly as I can in one breath.

“You what? You went to the bank?” He stands with so much force and anger, his chair falls backward on the floor, and his thighs move the table forward. “You went to the damn bank?” he asks again.

His tone scares me, my body temperature drops to what feels like freezing and every hair on my body trembles with fear. “I got new shoes.” I point to my new shoes, resting just inside the family room.

His eyes widen and he tightens his jaw. His nostrils are flaring and his lips snarl at me. “Go get them,” he eventually mutters through his closed jaw.

I go into the family room and pick the shoes up, bringing them over to Trent. I extend my arm and hold the shoes out to him. “Here you go,” I whisper.

The look on his face is filled with so much anger. “Get the scissors,” he instructs in the same low, grim voice.

I walk over to the drawer and get the scissors and walk back to him. “Here.”

He shakes his head at me. I’m not sure what he’s saying, and he’s not actually verbalizing it. I look down at the scissors, then back to him. I count in my head, because I’m still so unsure of what he wants. The tension in the room rises, the knot in my stomach is desperately tying itself tighter and tighter again. My throat begins to constrict and I’m having difficulty trying to breathe.

“Cut them up,” he says looking between the shoes and the scissors.

My heart breaks into tiny pieces as I realize the severity of his words. “What?” I whisper. “But they’re new, and I don’t have other shoes.”

He takes a step toward me, and I counter by taking one away. Trent pushes me with both hands, with much force I stumble back into the fridge. The door handle jabs me in the back. “Cut them up,” he repeats in the same deadly, low monotone.

“But I’ll walk to work for two weeks to pay them off. I don’t want to cut them.”

He grabs a fistful of the hair on top of my head and slams my head back into the door of the freezer. “Cut them!” He screams no more than a hair’s breadth from my face. Spittle flies out of his mouth, and lands on my face.

“But…” Smash. He hits my head once again against the door.

“This will teach you to meddle in my business. It’s my money, not yours, you no-good piece of trash.” Tears are rolling down my face, my head is splitting from where he’s slammed it against the hard fridge door. “That money is mine, not yours.”

“But I’ve been working for it,” I stupidly challenge. I realize belatedly I should have kept my mouth shut.