Chapter 8
EIGHT
Jenna
Matthew doesn’t say anything. He just stands there and watches me.
Maybe he thinks that if he waits long enough, I’ll say something first. Maybe he expects an apology for not immediately leaping to my feet, begging for forgiveness and welcoming him home with a hand-rolled sushi platter and a lap dance. I don’t know anymore.
I go back to the couch and start to clean up the mess we made, pretending not to notice him as I pick through a pile of legal envelopes and notes.
There’s another coffee ring on the edge of the coffee table, right next to the mug I never brought to the sink.
I use my thumb to try and scrub it away, but it just smears into a bigger, more pathetic circle.
The silence stretches. God, when did it get so complicated between us?
Everything is a fight these days. I feel like I don’t even have to look at him and he jumps at me for the silliest reason.
“You could have at least warned me,” he says.
I want to say that he never gives me warning before bringing home his entire Magic: The Gathering family or passing out drunk at the computer, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I texted you at five.” I’m careful to keep my voice even, like if I’m calm enough, maybe he’ll follow my lead.
He snorts. “Yeah. And you mentioned you’d be working. Not that you’d bring home a random man and his child. I don’t want them to steal my stuff.”
I can feel myself getting defensive. I don’t want to. I really don’t. But he makes it impossible to keep my cool. What could they possibly take? His ridiculous game cards? Honestly, it’s just sad.
“I’m simply doing my job, Matthew. We’ve talked about this.
Sometimes my job means emergencies, and this time emergencies mean people at our place.
I can’t share any more details because of client confidentiality.
But it won’t happen again.” My voice is tight, clipped, but not shouting yet.
I almost never do. He’s the one who shouts.
Not me. I can’t stand it when adults throw tantrums like children.
But who am I supposed to say this to? He’s not even paying attention.
Matthew shakes his head, mouth twisted. “Yeah, well, maybe you should spend less time being a fucking hero for everyone else and remember you live with someone. Someone who pays rent here too, you know. If you put as much effort into keeping our home tidy as you do for your clients, I wouldn’t feel like I’m living in a damn pigsty.
It’s unbelievable that you don’t feel a shred of shame inviting people into this chaos. ”
There’s this knot in my throat again.
It gets bigger and bigger and then I just snap.
I can’t take it anymore and slam the mug back on my coffee table. “Do you have to be such an ass? Are you jealous or what is this really about?”
He throws his hands up in the air. “I’m not jealous. I’m just sick of being second place to your job. Or to this—this guy and whatever his drama is. Everyone seems more important to you than me!”
I want to laugh, because if anyone is in second place, it’s me. My entire life is triaged, and the only way to keep all the balls in the air is to pretend I don’t care which one drops first. But right now, I can feel myself slipping. I just can’t do this anymore.
“It’s just work. Stop imagining things.”
He glares at me. “I saw the way you laughed with him.”
So, it is jealousy then. I’m honestly taken aback that he can still feel something about me at all. I thought he had become so numb that emotions were a thing of the past for him.
“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again,” I repeat myself. Damn. I always cave, don’t I? “I want to keep work separate from our home life. It was just a one-time thing.”
Matthew is already halfway to the bedroom. “Don’t worry,” he throws over his shoulder. “I’ll stay out of your way.”
The bedroom door slams. I’m dismissed.
So that’s it then.
I already know that anything I say now would be useless.
He would scream, I would cry. And it would lead to nothing.
I count to five, and then ten, and wander down the hallway, past the bathroom, and pause outside the bedroom door.
I can see the faint glow of Matthew’s phone through the crack.
He’s probably rage-scrolling Reddit, or texting his gaming buddies about how cruel and lazy I am.
I want to go in and make peace, but the thought of trying and failing again tonight is too much.
I don’t know why, but I can’t seem to fight for myself.
I go to court and argue for other people every day, but when it comes to me, I cave. I apologize. I fold before the battle even starts.
A people pleaser. That’s what I’ve always been and even when I know I should stand my ground, I don’t. I’m terrified of starting over. So much so that I keep clinging to whatever this is. It’s not love. It’s not even a relationship. It’s just misery.
But somehow, it still feels impossible to let go.
I slip into our tiny guest room after brushing my teeth, crawl into the bed and pull the covers up to my chin.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of the city.
I don’t let myself cry, but I do let myself feel bad.
Just for a minute. But that’s enough for me to think again that maybe I should go apologize to Matthew.
Even if he started it, even if he was awful, shouldn’t I at least try?
We’ve been together for seven years. Apologizing is what adults do, right? They make peace. Talk to each other.
I lie there, still staring up at the white ceiling.
Part of me wants to march back in there and tell him exactly where he can shove his attitude.
But another part—the part that still flinches at raised voices—is already composing freaking apologies.
My dad’s face flashes before me, that tight smile he’d wear after our fights, waiting for me to break first. Somehow each time Matthew and I fight, I’m seven years old again, hiding behind the sofa while Dad slams cabinet doors in the kitchen.
My mom worked double shifts at the hospital, came home to dishes I was supposed to wash but didn’t, and then—kaboom.
Nuclear Dad came home. I’d slink out eventually with my best “‘I’m adorable, please don’t be mad’” smile, and he’d sigh that bone-deep sigh before Mom pulled me into a hug.
Then my father was gone, and Mom got depressed.
And the damage was done. My brain’s wiring is officially: conflict → panic → people-please → repeat.
It’s like my personal emotional algorithm, and the output is always me, folding myself into origami to keep the peace.
Now here I am, grown up and rehearsing the words “I’m sorry” even though they taste like surrender.
Maybe if I just smooth things over, we can pretend this never happened.
Maybe that’s what love is supposed to be. Or maybe I’m just a coward.
When I finally can’t stand it anymore, I throw off the covers, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and pad out into the apartment.
My walk of shame. The bedroom is washed in flickering gray and blue from the TV.
At first, I think Matthew is asleep, his head propped awkwardly on one of the hideous throw pillows his mother gave us.
His feet are bare, poking out from the edge of the blanket.
I take a few steps closer, hugging my arms across my chest for warmth and maybe a little self-protection. I open my mouth to say something—I haven’t decided what yet, probably just “hey” or maybe “I’m sorry”—when I notice that he’s not sleeping. At all.
He’s lying on his back, knees up, eyes glued to the TV, and his hand is wrapped tightly around his dick, stroking in time to the rhythmic panting noises coming from the speakers right next to me.
It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s so aggressively, performatively masturbatory that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to leave or start clapping.
I stand there for a few seconds, waiting for him to notice me, maybe to be embarrassed.
But he just keeps going, never breaking eye contact with the TV.
The woman on the screen is fake moaning like her life depends on it, which, come to think of it, maybe it does.
I want to say something scathing or clever, but all the words shrivel up in my mouth.
Instead, I clear my throat. Loudly.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t even slow down. Just lets out a low, guttural sound—not quite a moan, not quite a growl. The tempo picks up. The blanket tentpoles, then deflates.
He hits pause on the remote.
The woman on the screen is frozen mid-arch. Mouth wide open.
I just can’t believe him. We had a fight. He threw insults my way, and while I lay awake, tormented by guilt, all he could think about was jerking off? Like, yay, finally she’s gone. Now there’s time for me and myself?
Matthew finally turns his head toward me. His face is all stubble and bleary eyes, and he doesn’t even bother to pull up the blanket to hide his erection.
“Do you want something?” he says, voice flat, as if I’ve interrupted a crossword puzzle—not his porn.
I want to scream at him. I want to throw something heavy at his head. I want to curl up and die of humiliation. I want to demand an explanation for why he hasn’t laid a finger on me in months. Why he prefers to wank the minute I’m out of sight.
Instead, I lift my chin and say, “Nothing. I wanted absolutely nothing from you. Don’t worry and stay the fuck where you are.”
Then I spin around and march down the hall, slamming the guestroom door shut behind me.
Only then do I let myself slide to the floor, back against the cheap fake wood, knees up to my chest. I press my fists into my eyes until I see fireworks.
I breathe in slowly, then out even slower.
I can still hear the faint wet sounds of the paused video, echoing in my head like some perverse lullaby.
I’m not against porn. It can be fun. It’s just the whole situation. The way he acts towards me. Like there’s not a single spec of respect left.
God, I wish I could start over.
I wish I could be anyone else, anywhere else.
Why is being loved so hard?
Why do I have to do so much for someone to actually love me the way I am?
Sometimes it feels like it’s so effortless for others.
They marry, have children, and live these happy lives where their partners cook for them without a hint of anger, or tend to them when they’re sick.
If I catch a cold, Matthew heads to his mother’s place because he doesn’t want to risk getting sick himself.
A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another. I feel so mocked.
That’s when I notice it. My phone lights up, and my gaze darts to the large clock mounted on the wall behind the bed.
It’s 2 a.m. now. A message at this time?
Another tear slips down my cheek, but I push myself up and settle onto my bed, checking my phone.
It’s a message from Colton. His personal Gmail address.
I hesitate. For a second, I consider deleting it without reading, but I’m curious. This case is so complicated.
Ms. Davis,
I just wanted to check in if you are okay. I am sorry if this is unprofessional. I can’t sleep.
–C.
It’s so short but I have to re-read it twice before I believe it’s real.
My chest does a weird flutter, like a bird is trapped inside.
He can’t sleep because he worries about me?
I roll my eyes at myself, but I can’t stop the half-grin creeping up.
There wasn’t even much happening when he watched us fight, and he still worries?
I shouldn’t read too much into it. I’m just not used to others caring about me.
Or better yet: about men caring about me.
Before I can think too hard, I stand up and push the little deadbolt on my bedroom door. The gesture is automatic. I don’t need privacy from Matthew—it’s not like he cares about enough about me to come checking but it feels right anyway.
I sink back into my bed, fingers hovering over my phone’s screen as I reply:
Dear Mr. Dickhead,
I’m fine, thanks. Just a late night. Is everything okay with you and Livy?
—J
I hover for a second, then hit send. The second the whoosh goes off; regret comes in like a tide.
I shouldn’t have responded. This isn’t the behavior you’d expect from a leading attorney when dealing with clients.
But the answer pops up almost instantly.
It’s a relief to see someone as impatient as me, even if it’s a six foot five disaster of a human being.
Thank you for helping me today. I hope I did not make more trouble for you. If I’m being honest, and I know I shouldn’t, I don’t like the way he talks to you. You deserve better.
I smile, even though no one can see. A single tear slips from my eye, but I feel it stop.
I start to reply: You’re not trouble.
But I delete it and try again. I need to be professional. It’s from my work e-mail. I can’t flirt with Colton. Ever. So, I try something else:
Helping you is my job. I’m good at it ;). Try to get some sleep, we need you clear-headed tomorrow. And thank you for the kind words.
It’s not long before another e-mail hits my inbox.
Okay, just tell me you’re safe and he won’t hurt you. I really can’t sleep otherwise. And don’t lie. I know we don’t know each other well, but I would come for you if you needed me. Just wanted to let you know. I’ll stop now.
There. I grin again. Now it’s me being pathetic.
I’m safe, Colton. Thank you. Good night.
This time, I hit send and immediately close the app. If he wants to respond, he can, but I won’t check again. I can’t. I’ve said my piece.
I put the phone on my nightstand and let myself sink back into the pillows, pulling the blanket up to my chin again.
The last thing I think before drifting off is that it’s strange how the smallest kindness can stick to you like a bandage.
Even from someone you’re supposed to hate. Especially from them.