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“It’ll be okay,” I whispered to myself. “It’ll be okay.” I grabbed the split crème and rushed to the sink, furiously trying to clean it and hide the evidence of my failure. It’d be fine. Fine. Fine fine fine. I’d been so perfect lately. I hadn’t given him any cause to—
But I was too late. Too late, I heard the sound of keys jingling in the front door.
I poured out the soapy water from the glass mixing dish, threw the dirty mixer beaters in the bowl, then in a rush, grabbed the oven mitts.
Swearing internally and hearing my own heartbeat rushing in my ears, I yanked the filet mignon out of the oven and shoved the still-dirty glass bowl in the stove instead to hide it.
I pushed the door shut and turned off the oven just in time, because the next second, Jeff came around the corner into the kitchen.
I grinned my brightest grin at him and greeted, “Hi honey, how was work?”
His eagle eyes took a survey of the kitchen and I was sweating bullets. Had I missed any evidence of the crème anglaise disaster? Would he discover my deception? Dear God, please. Not tonight, not tonight.
I prayed that the bright smile on my face didn’t waver.
Jeff narrowed his eyes at me. “That asshole Barry is trying to weasel in on my case, can you believe that?” He yanked at his tie to loosen it and came further into the kitchen, recounting the many ills of his day. The ways he was slighted, not appreciated enough, and how he could run the firm so much better than the senior partners.
It was a similar litany every day.
I nodded and made sympathetic noises. I made to carry the dishes of filet mignon to the dining room when he frowned.
“Where’s the crème? You know I prefer crème with fruit for dessert.”
I gulped. “I thought it might be nice one night to try without,” I said in a rush.
I immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say from the expression on his face.
“You thought? But you didn’t check with me? You thought you’d just ruin one of the few single pleasures I get in my day because, what? You had a fucking whim?”
“I’m so sorry,” I apologized, knowing from long experience that groveling was the only way to avoid worse consequences. “I’m so sorry, honey. It won’t happen again.”
He shook his head, snorting. “You know, I expect this kind of disrespect at work. But in my own goddamn home? This is supposed to be where I can come home and relax after a long day providing for the both of us. I don’t ask for much from you, do I?”
“No,” I shook my head vigorously. “You’re so good. You don’t ask for a thing.”
“But the little that I do expect, you can’t even fucking do that right.”
I flinched as his voice rose and he took a step towards me when all the sudden he paused, frowned, and sniffed. “What’s that smell?”
“What?”
“That smell.” He looked at me like I was a criminal and then he walked over to the oven and yanked it open.
My anxiety spiked through the roof and I held out a hand uselessly as we both looked at the leftover cream that was now steaming and smelling strange from the residual heat that had been leftover after cooking the filet mignon.
“I can explain,” I scrambled. “I know you love the crème anglaise with the fruit, so I tried. I really tried, but it split, and there wasn’t time to remake it, so I panicked. I’m so sorry, it was stupid—”
“So you lied to me?” he roared, turning to me. “You thought lying to me was better than admitting and owning up to your failure?”
He grabbed one of the small ceramic bowls of perfectly selected berries and threw it against the wall. It shattered into pieces and my entire body jolted with the crash. Blue and red berries scattered all over the floor.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” I said pathetically. “I’ll never do it again!”
But he’d already crossed the room and the next thing I knew, his heavy hand was swinging towards me.
“No!”
I woke up.
I woke up covered in sweat, curled in a ball, my arms over my stomach. As if it would do any good now.
And then I kicked the mattress furiously and threw one of my pillows across the room.
I flopped back on the bed, swiping angrily at the tears springing from my eyes. I stared at the ceiling in the dark room.
That fucking crème anglaise.
How was I ever supposed to move on if—
The aching well of grief opened up inside me, a never-ending abyss. Sometimes, in the light of day, it felt like I could trick myself into believing a new beginning was possible here.
But then all it took was closing my eyes and I was dragged right back to hell.
