Lucia #2
“You think I don’t see it?” he snaps. “You think I don’t know when something’s off in my own house?”
His hand releases my wrist, only to shove me backward, hard. My heels hit the rug unevenly, and I stumble, catching myself on the arm of the couch. The jolt sends another wave of dizziness through me. I breathe through it as best I can.
“I said, let it go,” he says, voice rising now, anger spilling loose. “You don’t get secrets. Not from me.”
“I don’t have secrets,” I say, because denial is muscle memory, because admitting anything feels like handing him a weapon.
He laughs again, louder this time, sharp enough to make my ears ring. “Bullshit.”
He grabs the mug off the coffee table and hurls it into the sink. Porcelain shatters, fragments skittering across stainless steel. The sound cracks through the apartment.
I flinch, despite myself. There it is.
Marco’s eyes light up. “There,” he says. “That. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Before I can move, he’s closing the distance again.
His hand slams into my shoulder, not a strike exactly, but enough to send me stumbling sideways.
My hip hits the edge of the island. Pain flares white hot, stealing my breath.
I gasp before I can stop it. His hand comes up fast, fingers hooking into my hair near my scalp, yanking my head back just enough to force my face up toward his.
“Don’t make noises like that,” he snarls. “You want the neighbors calling the cops?”
My scalp burns. Tears spring to my eyes uninvited, humiliating and useless.
“I didn’t…” My voice breaks. I swallow hard and try again. “I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s your problem,” he says. “You never mean to. You just do.”
He shoves me again, harder this time, sending me back against the counter. My lower back hits the edge, pain shooting up my spine. I cry out before I can stop it.
Marco freezes. For half a second, the room goes very still. Then his face twists.
“Oh, so now I’m the bad guy.” He steps back, throwing his hands up like I’ve offended him. “I work my ass off. I get disrespected all day. I come home, and this is what I get?”
I clutch the counter behind me, knuckles white, legs shaking. Every part of me feels wrong. Too bright, too loud, too close to the edge.
“I didn’t say that,” I whisper.
“You don’t have to,” he snaps. “You wear it all over your face.”
He advances again, and this time there’s nowhere to go. My back hits the counter fully, cold stone pressing into my spine. He crowds into my space, one hand braced beside me, the other sliding to my stomach again, possessive and accusing.
“Tell me the truth,” he says. “Right now.”
My breath stutters. “I am,” I say, because it’s the closest thing I can manage without breaking.
His hand presses harder, fingers digging in just enough to hurt, not enough to leave marks where someone else might see.
“You lie,” he says. “You always lie.”
My chest feels like it’s tearing a slow, exhausted rip. He steps back again, pacing now, agitation splintering in every direction. He rakes a hand through his hair, then slams his fist into the cabinet door. Wood cracks. I flinch again, helplessly.
“Jesus,” he mutters, like this is happening to him. Like I’m the problem in the room. “I can’t even breathe in my own fucking house without you acting like…”
He cuts himself off, eyes flicking to the mess in the sink, the shattered mug, the cabinet hanging crooked on its hinge.
“You make me do this,” he says, turning back to me, anger reassembling itself into something cold and righteous. “You know that, right?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is tight, my body trembling now in ways I can’t control anymore. I slide down the counter slowly, my legs giving out beneath me, until I’m crouched on the floor with my arms wrapped around myself like that might hold me together.
Marco watches me for a moment, chest heaving. Disgust crosses his face.
“Get up,” he snaps.
I don’t move.
Something about that, about me not scrambling fast enough, not fixing myself quickly enough, seems to tip him over whatever edge he was teetering on. He swears, grabs his jacket from the back of the chair, and shoves his arms into it with jerky, irritated movements.
“I can’t even look at you right now,” he says. “You’re exhausting.”
He kicks one of the lemons across the floor on his way to the door. It rolls, slow and ridiculous, until it bumps against the wall.
The door slams again, harder than before.
Then there’s silence.
I stay where I am for a long moment, curled on the floor, my face pressed into my arms. When the sobs come, they tear out of me without warning.
Ugly, breathless, shaking my whole body.
I cry until my chest hurts, until my head pounds, until the apartment feels too big and too empty and too familiar all at once.
When it finally slows, when I can breathe again, something is different.
I don’t feel relief.
I feel finished.
This can’t happen again.
I might not survive it again.
I push myself up slowly, every muscle aching, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. I don’t look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see.
I go to the bedroom and pull one small bag from the back of the closet. I pack without thinking too much. Underwear. Jeans. A sweater. Toothbrush. Charger. The motions are steady, methodical. My hands shake, but I don’t stop. If I stop, I might sit down. If I sit down, I might stay.
I won’t.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Marco already.
Don’t start shit.
I stare at it for one long second.
Then I type one word.
Done.
I hit send. Block his number. Block everything connected to him before I can talk myself out of it.
I check my purse. Cash. Not much, but enough to get out of the city. His credit card, still tucked into the side pocket. I hesitate only a moment before closing my fingers around it.
I zip the bag. Slip my shoes on quietly, like he might still be here, like the walls are listening.
The hallway light flickers as I leave the apartment. The door clicks shut behind me with a sound so small, it feels unreal.
Outside, the night air is cold and wet, rain misting my face. I breathe it in, deep and shaky, and keep walking.
* * *
At the airport, I book the first red eye I can find with trembling fingers and his card. No destination matters as long as it’s far.
It isn’t until I’m seated at the gate, bag at my feet, heart still racing, that the truth finally settles in.
I’m not scared of leaving.
I’m scared of how long I stayed.