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He doesn’t answer me. No surprises there.
He disappeared into his bedroom the moment he got home from school, and he’s most likely listening to one of his astrophysics podcasts. He was rambling more than usual when he got home, babbling facts and figures that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, and I got the feeling maybe Bailey had a rough day, too.
Sipping my wine, I glance out the front window as I sink happily into my favorite overstuffed wing-back chair that looks out over the community garden on the opposite side of the street.
Someone has painted graffiti with red spray paint across the low brick wall at the front of the garden that saysquestion everything. A few bricks over, someone else has writtenwhy?in thick black paint, and every time I look at it, I catch myself wanting to laugh at the cleverness, but tonight, I’m not in the mood for cleverness or good humor.
Our house is a red-brick two storey, built sometime in the late 1930s. It’s old and needs a little work, but it’s jam-packed with unique features and a whole lot of character. There are two large bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a small living room, kitchen, and a foyer on the main level, and below, there’s a tiny basement that I had converted into a storage room a few years back.
Kicking off my heels, I rub my throbbing toes into the carpet, sighing contently, and I’m just about to turn on the six o’clock news when the growing roar of a diesel pickup alerts me to the fact that my shitty day is about to get a whole lot worse.
The truck slides effortlessly into the empty parking space right out front, and I could seriously scream with what the sight of that truck does to me.
My ex-husband.Great.
Anger surges, running through me at an alarming rate. Jonathan is the last person I want to see right now.
Even with a glass of wine in my hand, the tension radiating throughout my entire body is immediately evident, and a rising sense of dread creeps up my spine like an unwanted friend coming to visit.
Jonathan catches me watching him through the curtains as he climbs out of the truck, taking the front stairs two at a time. Motioning for me to open the door for him, I groan loudly before putting my wine glass down on the side table, climbing back to my feet and reluctantly making my way from the living room into the foyer.
“What are you doing here?” I sigh heavily as I throw open the front door.
“Well, that’s some welcome, Mack,” he grunts.
God, I hate how he calls me Mack. I always have. It wasn’t cute in college, and it’s not cute now. It totally rubs me the wrong way, like a new sweater with a scratchy label. I want to rip the damn thing off and throw it straight in the trash.
“You’renotwelcome, Jonathan. What do you want?”
“I want to grab some stuff from downstairs. I’m working on a new build in the morning, and I need a few of my tools that are still here; otherwise I won’t finish the job on time.”
“I’ve been asking you to clear out your stuff for ages, if you had, this wouldn’t still be happening. I’ve been more than reasonable, and I’ve given you—”
“Jesus, Mack, what’s wrong with you? You got PMS or something? Need a hug?”
What?Do I need a hug? No. I do not. And even if I did need a hug, Jonathan would be the last man on this planet I’d turn to for it. He’s damn lucky there are no weapons around.
He grumbles something under his breath that I don’t quite catch. But I’m not in the mood to care, and I really just want him gone. “You can’t keep dropping in whenever you want, Jonathan. This is my house. You don’t live here anymore.”
“It’s stillmyhouse, too.”
“No, it’s not.” I can’t believe we’re having this same damn conversation after all this time. We’ve been going around in circles like this for so long now that I can’t recall a time when we weren’t. “I got this house in the divorce. My name is on the papers. You got the business put entirely into your name, despite the fact that it wasmewho covered all our bills while you were getting started, and it was me who paid for your insurance, as well as all the payments on that stupid, big truck parked out front there.”
“Mack, come on—”
“No, you need to stop this shit, Jonathan. We’re done. You need to take the rest of your things with you by the end of the month, or I’ll—”
“Or, you’ll what?”
“I’ll go downstairs myself, gather it all up and put it out on the sidewalk for trash collection.”
Jonathan glares at me. He steps forward, but I don’t dare back up despite the way his closeness suddenly feels like I need to cut a hole in the air just to breathe. There’s a threatening manner to his movements, a rattlesnake ready to lash out.
“You’re such a bitch,” he spits, pushing past me into the house, knocking my shoulder so hard that I stumble back against the wall. “And you wonder why our marriage didn’t work.”
Oh my god.He did not just say that.
“Our marriage didn’t work because I was never enough for you,” I shout, following him toward the staircase that leads downstairs. “If you a need refresher course on why our marriage wasn’t all rainbows and sunshine, there you have it.”
