Written in the Scars(7)

“Damn it, Elin,” I mutter, my spirits sinking faster than I can gather them. I don’t miss the defeat in my shoulders or the squiggle in my bottom lip as I glance into the living room. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I stare at the back of the empty sofa.

“Guess what happened to me today?” I saunter around the sofa and stand with my hands on my hips, trying not to melt down. He looks at me again. “I went to the bank to take some money out of the savings to pay the house insurance.”

His face slips just a bit, the corners of his mouth dropping ever-so-slightly. Forcing a swallow, I suck in a breath and continue.

“There’s over a grand missing from our account.”

I watch him with bated breath, hoping to see him startle or confusion cross his features. He doesn’t look at me. He just watches the television like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Ty?”

“Yeah?” His jaw is set, flexing under his grimace. “I took some cash. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” I exclaim, my head spinning. “It’s a thousand dollars! It’s the money to start our family! What did you do with it?”

He swings off the sofa, cringing as his weight settles on his leg. “It’s my fuckin’ money too, Elin. I don’t have to explain shit to you.”

“If it were twenty or fifty bucks—hell, if it was a hundred dollars—I’d agree.”

Our heated gazes meet. Mine in disbelief, his in some state of defense that I don’t understand.

I think back on the past few weeks and a chill slowly twists itself through my body.

The hours he goes missing. The sudden secretiveness of his phone. The hushed conversations, the distance he’s put between us. The fights we have that start over nothing and the more than willingness on his part to sleep on the couch. My stomach hits the floor, my knees wobbling.

“Ty?” I ask, my voice shaking. “What did you do with that money?”

“It’s none of your damn business.” Although his eyes blaze, his tone is more uncertain now as the words drop, weighted with insinuations.

He stands, babying the leg that was hurt when a wall burst in the mine and snapped his fibula. He hasn’t been the same since—physically or mentally. It’s put a strain on our marriage as I’ve tried to keep up with him emotionally and financially.

“Ty?” I choke out.

He seems to understand my suggestion without me saying it, and I’m glad. I don’t think I could ask him out loud if he was planning on leaving me, if he had another woman somewhere waiting on him. I couldn’t handle that. I don’t care how bad things have been. I can’t stomach an affair. The thought alone sends bitter bile creeping up my throat.

“If that’s true,” I say, squeezing the words past the lump in my throat,“then get out.”

“Oh, you’re throwing me out now?” he asks, his voice rising. “Is that how it works?”

“Were you fucking around on me?” I cry.

“Was I fucking around on you?” he huffs. “Are you serious? What, you think maybe I wanted to have sex that wasn’t dictated by a calendar and thermometer?”

The laugh in his tone, the mockery he’s making of our attempt to have a baby incites me.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“I’d love to, but we haven’t checked the date yet,” he says, amping himself up.

“How dare you! How dare you throw that in my face!” I shout, tears stinging my eyes.

“A spade’s a spade, E.”

My face heats, my cheeks scalding as the tears wash over them. “Are you cheating on me?”

“Elin . . .” he scoffs, like my name is dirty coming out of his mouth.

“Are you?”

“You want me to? Would that make this all so much easier for you? You can hate me and feel good about blaming everything on me.”

“Yeah, I want you to. Of course I do.” I roll my eyes. “I’m so sick of this, Ty.”

“Not as sick of it as me.”

“Then go.”

He storms by, taking a wide circle so we don’t accidentally touch, so I can’t reach out and grab his arm. My jaw slams against the hardwood, words begging to be spoken, but I can’t find them. I can only watch his back flex under his shirt as he walks out of my life, the door squeaking behind him.

A full-body shiver yanks me back to reality, to a kitchen that lacks the smell of his coffee or the sound of the television in the other room. With a lump in my throat, I head into the living room. Grabbing a pillow off the sofa and pressing it to my chest, I fight back the sorrow by setting my jaw and grasping for the anger lurking just beneath the surface.