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The juice was warming in her hands. When she had gone out, it had been ice-cold, still frosted with condensation. Donni had not been thinking of her husband at all when she had gone outside. She had been thinking about the light, and the plants in the backyard, and whether the jade plant or the aloe would emphasize the natural ingredients for the stupid sponsored post she’d agreed to do for the paycheck.
“No,” said Donni. “But the sun was rising.”
“Was he acting strange? Headaches? Slurred speech? Any stress?”
Donni thought about their fight this morning and how it had been triggered—of all things—by the sight of the juice she still held in her hands. It had been an awful morning for them both and Marco had woken up to an email from his lawyer filled with even more bad news.
“What the fuck is that?” he’d snapped.
“It’s juice,” she had responded. “I need to do a sponsored post, but I forgot.”
“You’re doing fucking Instagram posts in the middle of my fucking trial?” He scoffed disgustedly. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Donni.”
“I am on your side,” she’d said through gritted teeth.
“No. You’re on the side that flutters around, getting your nails done and posting pictures of fucking avocado toast while we sink like trapped rats on this shit-filled boat of a life. You’re onyourside. Meanwhile there’s barely any food in the goddamn fridge.”
“Well, at least I’m paying the bills,” she’d said coldly. “I don’t see any checks coming through the mail withyourname on them, Marco.”
Marco had never hit her before, but in that moment, he looked like he might. “Some wife,” he sneered. “Marrying you was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life.”
Ten years ago, she might have cried, the way he clearly wanted. Back when she still craved his approval. When he still thought he could save her. When she’d been in love with him enough to want him to. But she was done letting men make her cry.
(You’re so pretty when you cry)
There was a loud cracking sound. Her hands were digging into the plastic so tightly that it had buckled. “No,” she said tightly. “He wasn’t acting strangely. And as for stress—well, what do you think?”
Officer Corcoran returned her gaze levelly.
“I think your husband was under a lot of pressure.”
Which may have been the understatement of the fucking century.
???????
The officers had left the backyard a mess. They’d kicked the decorative volcanic rocks out of their beds, tracking them over the tile in little red crumbles with their heavy boots. The agave plant was missing one of its leaves, and some of the verbena looked trampled.
Whatever they’d wheeled him out with had left oily tracks on the stone. She kicked at one of the skids with her sandaled foot, smearing it. The body was gone, at least. That was a relief.
Marco is gone, she thought again.
She sank into one of the Adirondack chairs.
Just a few hours ago, she had been talking with him—okay, fighting with him, if she were being honest—and now he would never say anything to her ever again.
She twisted her wedding ring with its baroque pearl. She and Marco had gone to thrift stores along the boardwalk Venice Beach, picking them out for each other.
“It’s better than buying a blood diamond,” she’d said, feeling whimsical. “More sustainable.”
Marco had laughed his big booming laugh. “Make sure you don’t get anything too small. I don’t want you making me look cheap in front of all my friends.”
He had chosen a thick engraved gold band. The gold was so pure that it looked buttery. Donni, on the other hand, had picked out an enameled art deco piece, with a pearl surrounded by small wreaths of laboriously painted flowers.
“That one? Are you sure? It looks like it was made for a child.” The sales associate had put the dusty ring case on the glass counter and Marco’s eyes swept over the gems in appraisal. “Wouldn’t you rather have this rose gold with the sapphire?”
No, Donni had thought, tracing a tiny petal.It looks like it was made by faeries. “I want this one.”
She had been twenty, then. At twenty, she thought she knew what she wanted.
