Chapter 17- Zane
“This shit’s for the birds,” I said out loud, to nobody but the walls.
Mark had been gone all morning—of course.
Said he had errands to run, but I knew better.
He just didn’t want to be here. Didn’t want to deal with preparing for the family he invited over.
Before, I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t even noticed he never did. Now I noticed.
What the fuck was I even doing?
I stood in the kitchen, hands flat on the counter, staring down at the ingredients lined up like soldiers waiting for orders.
A roast, potatoes, garlic, rosemary. Dinner for Mark’s parents—people who had never liked me, who only showed affection in the form of backhanded compliments and “suggestions.” People who would complain, about seasoning or richness or how I should’ve used butter instead of oil.
He should’ve asked the neighbor bitch to cook for them.
She was already fucking him. Might as well let her play wife too.
Mark’s parents hated me anyway. Always had. Thought I was a gold digger. Like I ever asked him for anything. If all I wanted was money, I could’ve stayed home with my parents—I wouldn’t have gone without.
But that’s the problem with people like Mark’s parents.
They see certain people, and decide who you are in five seconds, and shove you into a box you never asked to be in.
And the worst part? I let them without protesting or correcting them.
I let them because I loved Mark. Because I thought I couldn’t live without him. How fucking stupid was that?
Thinking about it made me want to square up with in momma and kicks his daddy in the dick for the old shit he said.
I blinked hard. My head hurt. My chest was tight. I was cursing too much. Thinking too much. Feeling way too much.
The overhead light buzzed. The fridge hummed. I stared at the roast, at the marbling, the way blood pooled under the plastic. I glanced at the knives. My fingers twitched.
“Fuck this.” If I stayed in that house one more second, I’d cry or scream or combust.
I left everything on the counter. Snatched open the fridge, grabbed the foil-wrapped cake, the cinnamon rolls, the cookies I’d. Packed it all into two paper grocery bags, slipped on sneakers, grabbed my keys, and left.
I didn’t leave a note. Didn’t text. Old, delusional me would have felt bad, but now? Fuck it.
Monique, a brickhouse type with wide hips and a wider afro and a light complexion, was at the front desk at the women’s shelter when I got there.
She used to be a resident once—the girlfriend of some abusive Miami Dolphins player who she said would beat her for blinking too hard.
Now she was free of him and used the money she sued him for to keep the shelter open.
She pulled me into a hug the second she saw me.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look like you’re about to snap.”
“I just needed somewhere to breathe.”
She frowned. She didn’t ask questions. Just grabbed my hand and led me to the breakroom, left the baked goods at the desk.
“What’s going on?” she asked, sitting down across from me. Her pretty face balled up.
I told her some of it—not about Sam. But the part about Mark. About him fucking the neighbor. The way I couldn’t leave without having nothing. How stupid I felt.
She nodded, listened, then said, “That sounds like financial abuse.”
I blinked. “What?”
“All that ‘he lets you’ spend money one stuff and then throws it in your face? But won’t let you work. Go to school. That’s control That’s abuse.”
I frowned. “No... I mean, I have access to everything.”
“Is your name on any of it? Do you know how much he makes? How much he owns or saves?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t know.
That silence was all she needed to hear.
“Exactly,” she nodded after a beat. And it wasn’t like she was being self-righteous or condescending. She was trying to make me see what I hadn’t even thought about.
I left not long after. Drove straight to the bank. Waited in line, pulled out a check from a dusty old checkbook, and wrote one out to myself. When I got to the counter, I smiled like I belonged there. Slid it over.
The teller typed. Frowned. Typed again.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re not listed on this account.”
My stomach dropped. “That can’t be right.”
She double-checked. “It’s in Mark Blackwell’s name only.”
I walked out in a fog. Everything buzzing around me except my body, which felt like stone. My phone vibrated—Mark.
I didn’t answer.
Why hadn’t I thought about any of this before?
I’d let myself become a placeholder in a life where I didn’t own shit. My mama taught me better. My daddy gave me the blueprint. I’d ignored them both for a man who put my name on nothing.
A text lit up my screen: I’m picking up my parents. I need you to cook something and get the guest room ready.
I didn’t respond.
Instead, I parked at the closest park I could find.
I wondered where I could get whatever Sam had me smoking at his house from.
But I didn’t know those types of people, so I sat there for hours.
Scrolling through social media. Pulling up and staring at Sam’s number every once in a while.
Wanting to call him. Needing to hear his voice.
But what if he was with his wife? What if I was just a mistake to him?
A pretty detour? Even revenge. He had been with his wife a long time.
How could he not love her even a little bit?
Mark kept texting about dinner.
Around six, I picked up a pizza and went home.
His parents were already sitting in my living room, smug and self-important-looking head asses. I dropped the pizza on the coffee table, gave them a polite smile.
“I have a headache,” I said. “Dinner’s handled.”
I turned and walked upstairs.
Mark followed. His voice was tight, sharp. “What’s gotten into you?”
I stopped halfway up the stairs, turned to him slow.
“Unless you want me to show my ass in front of your parents, I suggest you leave me alone.” My heart was pounding so fast. I wanted to hit him. I had never wanted to hit anybody.
I closed our bedroom door in his face before I did something I’d regret.
Later, he came to bed. I felt the mattress shift.
“You keep acting like this,” he said, voice cold and distant, “and you can be replaced.”
I didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just laid there breathing slow and steady. Pretending to be asleep.
But I heard him.
And I really didn’t care. I wanted to tell him so. But I tucked my lips. Sam had a month before I said fuck it all.