What if it was too much?
What if I’d finally pushed him too far—and not even through my own actions?
This wasn’t how I expected it. Not calm. Not premeditated. It had to be impulsive, in anger. He didn’t deserve to take me out anyway, but this cool, premeditated bullshit—fuck that.
“Marlene busy tonight?”
He doesn’t tense at the blow, he sags. Sighs. Drops his fork. No anger. I haven’t riled him. He looks sad. Maybe she dumped him.
He doesn’t say anything so I just keep eating.
After watching me take four bites, unconcerned with whether he eats or not, there’s finally an edge of sarcasm when he asks, “How’s Thor?”
I can’t help smiling, and to be honest, I don’t try. I smile, big and unapologetic, and take another bite.
He doesn’t need to know Thor no longer comes around.
Paul sulks. Pushes his pasta around with a sour look on his face. “How’d you even meet that guy anyway?”
“Oh, you know, at the deli counter, buying cold cuts.”
He is unimpressed. “Fine. Guess it’s none of my business. I’m just your husband.”
“I don’t ask how you meet yours, you don’t ask how I meet mine.”
This seems to jar him, like he’s never once considered he’s not the only one who fucks around. “How… How many others have there been?”
“Does it matter?”
He looks so disenchanted I almost feel bad for him.
Well, no, not really, but it is amusing.
He’s trying to wrap his mind around what I’ve just said, head shaking in denial. “This is not what I wanted.”
“Same.” I’m glib, coldly meeting his gaze.
His head drops into his hands. I roll my eyes at his dramatics and go to the fridge for more parmesan to shake over my pasta.
While Paul processes whatever emotions he’s dealing with over there, I enjoy my pasta. It’s good. Maybe not as good as I remember, but it feels like my world is different now, bleaker, and even delicious pasta doesn’t hold the same appeal.
It’s disappointing.
I almost wish he hadn’t bought it, then I could always imagine it would’ve been as good as I remember.
A dark, dismal cloud settles over my head all of a sudden. It drapes itself around my shoulders like a physical weight, and suddenly I’m exhausted.
There’s still nearly half a plate of pasta but I don’t want it. Shoving it to the center of the table, I announce, “I’m going to bed.”
“Wait.” The sound of chair dragging across the floor makes me tense. I don’t stop, I keep going to the bedroom, but he follows me.
I run through the phone number Liam left me. I kept the paper it was written on, but I also memorized it, just to be safe.
“I’m tired,” I say, wanting to be left alone.
He grabs my arm—habit—but lets go as soon as I glare at him over my shoulder. We’ve made it to the bedroom. He raises his hands as if in surrender, implying he meant no harm.
“What?” I snap, tired of the guesswork.