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What the hell?
I watch in horror as he scoops cobbler onto a plate, frozen to the spot.
16
Delilah
“What are you doing here, Cole?” I ask, gripping the corner of the wall next to me. Officially, he’s been out of my life for two months. He finally left—coerced not willingly—about fourteen months ago, but I had only really begun to feel safe since the divorce. For such a long time, I’d locked my doors at night. I had looked over my shoulder more times than I could count, and even now, hearing a man yell makes me shudder in fear. But now he’s on my turf, somewhere he most definitely has no business being, and I am pissed.
The metal feet of the chair screech against the floor, and he makes himself at home. Not sure how to approach the bomb—ready to blow at all times—I watch as he shovels a big bite of the cobbler in his mouth before he looks up. His eyes are the color of faded blue jeans that have seen better days. “I’m eating. You always did make the best cobbler.”
“You would know,” I smart back, my better sense forgotten.
“What does that mean?”
I debate on holding my tongue, but I never did abide by his rules. Most of the problems in our relationship can be summed up in that confession. “Means you were eating cobbler all over town and not caring that I knew.”
The vein in his forehead becomes prominent in his anger.
Stage one.
His spoon hits the dish, clanging to the table. “You and that mouth of yours—”
“Are none of your concern anymore. I want you to leave.” We stare at each other for what feels like minutes. It’s seconds, but time with him always did drag, so I add, “Right now.”
He stands, the veins in his neck coming out to play.
Stage two.
I remember the stages well. They were ticking time bombs leading to the finale—an explosion where I suffered the consequences.
The pop of cracking knuckles.
Stage three.
I have to stand my ground, or he’ll come back. The rubber soles of his shoes stick to the linoleum as he walks, the sound ominous in his approach.
My breath shallows, but I won’t cower.
“Delilah Rae Cutler. That’s my fucking name on the end of yours, meaning you. Are. Mine. Always mine.”
Stage four.
I flinch when his hands come at me. When I’m not hurt or hit, I open my eyes and realize I’m caged by his body, his expression laden with disgust as he snarls at me. “What do you know about Jason Koster being back in town?”
My silence must be telling, my body trembling, my breathing staggered. My throat closes in on me. He grabs my jaw as soon as I turn away and forces me to look at him. I press my hands against him and push, but his hold on me tightens, the taste of blood coating my mouth. When my eyes begin to water, he steps back and sits down to eat more cobbler.
Don’t cower.
“Leave, Cole.”
“Stay away from him, Delilah.”
My heartbeat picks up, the fear I felt when I first found him in here returning and shrouding my bravery. “Don’t tell me what to do.” My voice sounds meek, and I hate it. I hate him. “We aren’t married, and this is not your home. You need to leave right now.”
Grabbing his chest over his heart, he fakes offense. “Oh, that hurt, but you know what will hurt more?”
His questions are all leading, and I don’t respond. He never expects an answer anyway. He’s way too impressed with himself to let me actually guess. “You,” he replies. “You will hurt. Stay away from him. That’s your only warning.”
That’s when his gaze travels over me. “Why are you dressed like that?” I refuse to give him any part of me. When I don’t reply, he adds, “You look like a whore.”
“Get out.”
Laughing, he stands and grabs his plate. Tossing it into the sink, the sound of shattering ceramic fills the space. “Oops. Tastes like shit, anyway.” He grabs his hat off the table and kicks the screen door open to leave. The new dent in the metal is seen before it slams closed after him.
I grab my keys from the hook, the only weapon I have within reach, then listen until I hear his truck roar away from the house.
I’m safe.
Leaning against the wall, I try to calm down.
I’m safe.
Looking at the dessert from here, I feel tears spring to my eyes. I no longer have a dessert to take, but I know my makeup is ruined as well. As much as those should worry me more, it’s not my biggest concern. We can live without dessert, and I can fix my makeup.
But my dish. He knows this was my mother’s. I only have a few pieces left of the original set—thanks to my ex-husband—and now I’m down another dessert plate.
