Pause (Larsen Bros)

My stomach curdles at how loud and obnoxious he’s being. I could honestly heave my beer into the bushes. He keeps darting looks at me out of the corner of his eye, like he’s gauging how this whole scene is affecting me. My shoulders are slumped, beaten down by his words and his anger. As if I’ve already given in. Not okay. He doesn’t get to show up here and make me the bad guy. And he doesn’t get to shame me publicly, or otherwise, when I’ve done nothing wrong.

Leif stays silent.

“I fucking warned you,” continues Ryan.

The other tattooed man stands there with his arms crossed, watching and waiting.

“Anna?” Ryan’s hands are clenched into fists, hanging ready at his sides. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Just deleting the app off my phone that you used to find me.” I drop my cell back into my purse. “That won’t be happening again.”

He blinks in surprise. “I’m still your husband.”

“And that gives you the right to stalk me?” I ask, indignant as all hell. “I don’t think so. You’re not my keeper. You don’t own me.”

“Anna, I love you.”

“No,” I say, my finger jabbing in his direction. “No, Ryan. You don’t get to do what you did and call it love.”

He lets out the heaviest of sighs. No man has ever been so poorly treated. Just ask him. It’s like the stresses of my accident have created a second Ryan. A raging asshole Ryan. “Let me take you home. You look tired.”

“I think she looks good,” says Leif. Which is nice, but not helpful.

Ryan bristles. “Let me drive you back to your parents’ place. Or you could come home with me. What do you think?”

“You don’t care what I think. You know, I almost believed you were sincere about giving me space. About respecting my decision to take some time to figure things out.” My laughter is a bitter thing. “You lie about everything these days. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“I was sincere. I am sincere.” He swallows hard. “You’re not thinking straight. You don’t understand how—”

“Hard it was for you while I was in a coma. Yes, I know,” I say. “So hard that you had to fuck one of my best friends.”

“Anna,” he chides. Ladies aren’t supposed to swear. Especially not at him.

“He slept with your best friend while you were unconscious?” asks Leif. “Seriously?”

I nod.

“Ouch,” says the other dude, whoever he is.

Ryan squares his shoulders. “This is none of your business. Either of you. This is between me and my wife.”

Funny thing is, I don’t feel like his wife anymore. I don’t feel like a hell of a lot of anything. A blank piece of paper waiting for a new story to be written. The beginning of something with no future in sight. That’s what it feels like to be me.

“Problem is,” I say, “everyone knows because you were so damn careless that my mom walked in on you and her having a touching moment at my bedside. So not only did you cheat on me, but you were shitty at it!”

Ryan’s mouth gapes at my outburst. But I do not apologize, nor will I calm down. Not this time, dammit.

My hands shake at my sides, but I am not some meek bitch to smile and nod and do his bidding. Not now. Not ever.

“Anna?” Leif is asking me what I want to do. It’s nice that someone here still thinks I’m a capable adult and not a broken thing in need of handling.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” I say, placing a hand on the railing to hold myself steady. “I mean . . . my husband and one of my closest friends. Not only my whole damn life, but some of the most important relationships in it, got fucked while I was unconscious. Every time I think I’ve got a handle on it the whole thing just slaps me in the face all over again. Do you have any idea how that feels? To be made to feel so small and stupid by the actions of people who are supposed to love you?”

“You’re being unreasonable,” mutters my husband like he’s dealing with an irate child.

Truth is, I’ve been pretty sedate about things until now. Apart from crying for the first month and hiding out in my room the rest of the time. Maybe I’ve just been reluctant to get loud and messy in public. To delve deep into the nitty-gritty of the situation. Practicing denial and hiding from shit has been so much more helpful. Not. Guess this showdown has been coming for a while. And it’s his fault for showing up here and forcing things.

My hands shake with righteous fury. “Ryan, you need to leave. Now.”

He opens his mouth, but no.

“Now,” I repeat.

He stomps off, climbs into his new company Chevrolet Silverado, and slams the door shut. Give me strength.