21. Twenty-one
Twenty-one
May 2022
Connor Kelly
I t turns out Phoenix didn't get the memo about the truce. I honestly didn’t know he had it in him.
There is a land called passive aggressiva, and Fee is their king. He has usurped me of my throne.
I am not a morning person. One of the only things that makes me a functional human being before nine am is coffee. But once again, when I step into our small kitchen just minutes after Phoenix has left for work, I find myself staring at the empty coffee pot in defeat.
Today marks six weeks. Six weeks since Phoenix switched from making coffee for two to coffee for one. I tried calling him out on it, but he claimed it was because he wasn’t sure what time I’d be up.
He’s a liar who lies.
To top it off, it’s dirty from when he used it, so not only do I have to make my own pot, I have to clean it first. I’m not one to get overly metaphorical, but fuck me, if this empty, dirty coffee pot hasn’t come to symbolise the state of our relationship.
I scrub it clean, more aggressively than necessary. Once it's on, I glare at it while the brown liquid that promises to wake me up drips down from the filter into the cup.
This guy! This fucking guy! To confirm my theory Fee is, in fact, being a petty little miscreant, I decided to get up just a couple of minutes after him this morning. Our house has absolutely zero soundproofing qualities, topped with wolf shifter hearing, so I know he fucking heard that I was up.
“Thanks for making enough for two,” I say sarcastically as he pours the perfect amount of coffee for one person into his mug. Did he fucking measure the water first? He’s certainly precise with his vindictive behaviour.
“You’re not usually up.”
“Mhmm. You’d think your ears would have informed you otherwise.”
“It’s just coffee. I’ll make another pot if it’s that important to you.”
“Don’t strain yourself,” I mutter as I make my way to the offending kitchen appliance. Fee looks like he’s going to acknowledge the snarky remark, but instead, he gets up from his chair, pours his coffee into a travel mug and leaves the house without another word.
I thunk my head against the cupboard door several times and groan.
Fuck! I’m running late. Where are all my clean clothes? I saw Fee put the washing on two days ago!
I’m meant to be meeting Niamh and Will for drinks in ten minutes but my only pair of black jeans that aren’t totally scruffy are nowhere to be found.
“Fee?” I yell down. He was sitting in the living room the last time I checked. No answer.
I stomp down the stairs to see where he’s gone, but he’s disappeared off somewhere. Fucking great.
Upon returning to the bedroom, I empty out the laundry basket onto the floor. I try to take deep breaths and count to ten when I realise that only my dirty laundry remains. He separated his clothes from mine and washed them. Like we’re fucking roommates.
Logically, I'm aware that I'm partly to blame for the mess we're in now. But Fee doesn't get to make our whole life together miserable because I fucked up once. If he hadn't agreed to marry Niamh we wouldn't be in this mess in the first place. So, fuck him.
Flinging open his wardrobe, I grab his favourite pair of dark blue jeans and one of his nice black leather belts for good measure. I have a smaller waist than him, after all.
“Fine, dick head. You want to only wash your own clothes? I guess we’ll be sharing a wardrobe now,” I mutter to myself.
I quickly shoot off a text to Niamh with an updated ETA, spritz a little aftershave on my neck and leave as quickly as possible. I need to get fucking drunk tonight.
Mission accomplished. I don’t remember exactly how much I drank last night, but guessing by my cotton mouth and the fact I’m on the verge of tears from the loud crashing that’s coming from downstairs, I’m going to assume a lot.
Once I’ve brushed my teeth and thrown on some joggers, I go in search of water and paracetamol.
“What, in the fiery pits of hell, are you doin' right now? It’s a fuckin' Sunday mornin',” I spit at Fee, who appears to be bashing all of our pots and pans together for no fucking good reason.
“I’m cleaning,” he says like I'm the one acting deranged here.
“Most people clean with a sponge. I’m not sure bashin' the pans together is gonna give you the result you’re lookin' for.” Unless his intention is for my head to explode so my brain matter sprays the wall, then I suppose he's right on track.
“Where were you last night?” he asks. I’m surprised by his sudden change of subject; this might be the first question he’s asked me in weeks.
“I went for dinner and drinks with Niamh and Will.”
“Nice. You and Will famously make good choices when you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Mhmm. We drank so much that we actually fucked on the dinner table. Turns out I’m an exhibitionist at heart. My twin sister being right there was a little awkward, but we made it work!” A tiny little part of my brain tells me that was not the right thing to say. But I'm hungover. And he's bashing pans. A man can only take so much.
Fee narrows his eyes at me, and I’m ready for the fight. My head might be throbbing, but I’ll ignore it if we’re finally going to have this out.
But no.
He drops the pan in the sink, grabs his car key off the side and leaves.
I want to punch something.
I don’t, though.
It’s a Friday night, but I told Sammy I’d help him fit a bathroom in his new house tomorrow, so I went to bed early. I also went to bed alone.
Fee went out at around eight pm wearing his nice jeans and a dark green polo that fitted him sinfully.
He didn’t say where he was going, and I’d have rather swallowed my own tongue than ask him. Hasn’t prevented me from obsessing about it, though.
After what feels like several hours spent tossing and turning, I finally fall asleep, only to be woken up about an hour later.
A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s three in the morning. The front door slams shut. The tap runs in the kitchen. Then he clambers up the stairs, before stumbling gracefully into the wall.
When he literally crashes into the bedroom, I turn on the bedside light. He squints at the light and tries to cover his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Go back to sleep,” he mumbles as he face-plants onto the bed, fully dressed, still with his shoes on.
I sigh.
Tossing back the duvet, I get out of bed and begin undressing my barely conscious husband.
“W'you doin'?” he asks but makes no moves to assist me.
“Puttin' your drunk arse to bed.” Once he’s down to a t-shirt and boxers, I manage to wrangle the duvet and cover him up. I grab some painkillers and a glass of water from the bathroom and put them on his bedside table.
Fee snores like a freight train next to me, and I lie there wide awake, wondering if it’s ever going to get better or if this is just our life now. The last two months have really started to wear on me. At first, I thought I just needed to wait it out until he got over it. Fee always gets over it. But not this time. I'm on eggshells around him now.
Fee rolls over, throwing an arm around my waist, and I hold my breath. Apart from occasionally reaching out for me in his sleep, Fee hasn't touched me in weeks. And I'm not talking about sex. I mean, not even a shoulder nudge, and I'm ready to burst out of my skin.
Wolf shifters are tactile, and the need for touch is as strong as the need to run for miles and miles. Scrunching my eyes closed, I try to fight the swell of emotion at the fact the only time my husband will come within a metre of me is when he's unconscious. Knowing it's largely my own fault, doesn't make it hurt any less.
I’m still wide awake when my alarm goes off a few hours later, and Fee doesn’t stir at the noise.
“Um, are you home for tea tomorrow night?” I ask Fee almost a week later.
He looks slightly suspicious but says, “Hadn’t made any other plans, why?”
“Niamh and Will are coming over for dinner. I was going to make lasagne—your favourite.” I’m not beyond bribery to get him to spend time with me, even if he is determined to be Frosty the Snowman.
“Sure, okay.” It’s the enthusiasm that warms my heart, I swear.
“Damn, this is actually really good,” Niamh says as we tuck into the lasagne I made.
“Thanks, tried a new recipe.”
“Ooo, whose is it? Delia Smith's?” Will asks, and I immediately regret opening up this line of questioning. My cheeks pinken.
“Um. No. Actually, it’s a family friend of Phoenix’s.”
“It is?” Fee asks, sounding surprised. I just nod. “You got the recipe from Claire?”
“Yep. It’s no big deal,” I reply, nudging a piece of garlic bread on my plate with the prongs of my fork.
“When?”
“A few days ago.” His face scrunches up in confusion, but he doesn’t say anything else. Something about his total apathetic response to the fact I had to speak to his fucking horrible mother to get hold of Claire for this recipe makes me see red.
I’m sick of the empty coffee pots.
I’m sick of separate laundry.
I’m sick of all of this.
When I reach over to get more lasagne, I 'accidentally' drop some in his lap.
“Ooops.”
“Shit, that’s hot,” he says. I should feel bad. But I don’t.
“Sorry, they’re your favourite jeans too. That must be super annoyin'.”
“It’s fine. They’ll wash,” he says through gritted teeth.
“It’s understandable if you’re annoyed; I’d be annoyed if it were me.”
“Wouldn’t take much,” he mutters. Before I can offer a snarky reply, Niamh kicks me under the table.
“Will, oh my god. Tell them about the potato patient,” Niamh blurts out. Will looks from her to me, unsure.
“Oh, erm, yes. Funny story. I’m working in A&E at the moment, and we had a patient come in with a potato in his rectum. Claimed he’d been gardening naked, and somehow, it had got stuck up there. We couldn’t get it out, so he had to go to surgery. The next day I asked how it had gone. The surgeon was like, ‘ I don’t think he did that gardening somehow .’ I was like, obviously, but why not? He goes, ' Because the potato we removed was completely peeled. ' ”
Niamh snorts a fake laugh, having heard the story before. Fee offers a tight smile. I would ordinarily find the story hilarious, but not right now. Nothing feels very funny right now.
“Wow. Tough crowd. That story has really been killing it lately,” Will mumbles. “Maybe I didn't tell it right?”
“Sorry… I got distracted,” I reply.
Once the world's most awkward dinner comes to a close, I walk Niamh and Will out to their car while Fee cleans up.
“I say this with love, but do not ever make me sit through a dinner like that again. Jesus. I almost stabbed myself with a fork because a night in the hospital would have been less painful than that,’ Niamh says, pointing in the direction of the house with her thumb.
“Same here. And I literally just came from there,” Will agrees.
“What are you going to do to fix this? You can’t live like this forever,” Niamh says, and I groan.
“I know.” I dig my fingertips into my eye socket. “I’ve tried all sorts. I might have to do something drastic. Like a romantic gesture. How disgustin'.” Niamh just pats me on the back.
“Let’s not arrange another dinner like this until you’ve tried that. I do love you, just not that much.” I snicker and press a kiss to her temple. I give Will a hug, and they both get into his car and drive off.
Before I head back inside, I tilt my head up to the sky. It's a rare, totally clear night, and the longer I look, the more stars appear. I take a few steadying deep breaths, rallying to return to my house of silent hostility.