Oh well, it’s not worth going back in to get it.
The dinner I lied about earlier being, well, a lie, I slide a frozen pizza into the oven a half hour before Paul’s supposed to be home. I actually can cook, I actually like to cook, but Paul enjoys it so much that I seldom do it. The last thing I want to do is make my husband happy.
Turns out I could’ve that night, since Paul didn’t come home when he was supposed to.
Or at all.
The following day he isn’t home either. I consider shooting him a text to see if he’s alive, but I don’t care enough to type it out. Mostly I just want to know if I’ll have the bed to myself again, because I love having the bed to myself.
By afternoon I still haven’t heard from him so I decide, fuck it, I’m gonna make myself a nice dinner. I never did get that money from my mom and I probably shouldn’t splurge on extra groceries since Paul hasn’t been bringing much home lately, but I do it anyway. I buy myself a nice—cheap—bottle of wine and all the ingredients to make my famous chicken parm. I’m literally humming as I stroll out of the grocery store, so excited for the night ahead of me.
I pour myself a glass and turn on some music while I prepare it, swaying around the tiny kitchen, using my sink as a makeshift counter since there’s not enough room for all the dishes.
I hate this goddamn house and its stupid, tiny kitchen.
But I’m so excited to eat that I can’t even be bothered. Plus I’m on my second glass of wine, and the world gets pretty rosy when I’m on my second glass of wine.
My thoughts, fueled by wine, drift back to the mean, sexy guard back at the old junkyard. Liam. What a sexy name. He has to be sexy with the name Liam, right?
“Liam,” I murmur it aloud, just to hear it on my lips. Sounds nice. Like his shoulders. I’ve always been a sucker for a man with broad, strong shoulders.
Paul has such lame, disappointing shoulders. Hate Paul. Not gonna think about Paul.
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Liam, sexy Liam. With his sexy hips all pressed against mine.
I mean, sure, in real life he’s probably a bully asshole like all the rest, but safely tucked away in Fantasyland, I’ll pretend he’s just kinky.
I giggle to myself and pour another glass of wine.
I don’t even get two sips in when I hear Paul’s truck pull into the drive.
“Oh no!” In my tipsy state, this seems like a bigger crisis than it is. I want all the chicken parm for myself. I don’t want Paul to know I even remember how to make chicken parm, because then he’ll start pestering me to cook again.
I contemplate dramatically ripping it from the oven and throwing it in the trash before he can make it inside, because hate Paul—but I don’t, because love chicken parm.
“Oh well,” I finally say, more mournfully than is justifiable, really, but fuck it, more wine.
Life is good!
The door opens and life gets less good, even with wine, but I suck down a few more gulps, trying to hold onto my happiness.
“Damn, that smells good,” Paul says as he steps inside.
Stupid Paul and his stupid long nose, smelling the food I cooked. He doesn’t deserve to smell the food I cooked.
I ignore him.
The fleeting thought that I should reinforce him saying nice things crosses my mind, but I strike it down, because of the whole “fuck it” thing.
I gulp more wine.
Too much wine, too fast, and I’m really starting to feel it. I place a stabilizing hand on the edge of the counter and blink hard a few times.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, since I cooked.
“I didn’t think you’d be home,” I answer honestly, and with an earnest grin on my face.