Chapter 20 Paper Cuts #2
“He’s not eavesdropping, he’s staying out of the way because I asked him to. Grown men know how to do that.”
“A grown man? He’s a kid. Hmm.” He studied me. “But are you hoping he will be your rebound? Are you cooking his meals so he can maybe see you as attractive? Don’t waste your time. He’s got better options than an old woman with a stretched-out pussy, fat belly, and sagging titties—”
“Fuck you—”
“I wonder what Judge Coleman will think when he finds out you’ve got some strange man around your kids.” Scott turned. “When did you rent the basement? And why didn’t you tell me?”
I seethed. “It’s none of your business.”
“It is my business. This is my house.”
“It is our house and you stopped paying the mortgage months ago. Remember that? The basement is a separate entrance with a separate lease, and it pays for the things you say you can’t afford.”
The vein in his temple jumped. “You will not have some stranger around my children.”
I pursed my lips.
He studied me. “I find out he’s been around them and I go to the judge.”
“You’re very comfortable with weaponizing courtrooms. Maybe because that’s the only room you’ll ever win in.”
His mouth flattened. He glanced toward the stairs, toward the bedrooms where our children slept, and I saw it—the calculation.
He wanted to shout; he wanted to make this a show.
He didn’t, because the neighbors would hear, because the judge would hear from me later, because their little heads would lift from pillows and carry the sound into morning.
He swallowed whatever performance wanted to climb out of his throat and jerked his chin toward the door. “I’m getting my suitcase.”
I followed him. “I don’t want you here.”
“You do. You just don’t want to admit that you miss me.” He strode toward the door.
“I don’t miss you anymore. I don’t even want to hear your voice or see you.” I headed out with him. “Please don’t do this, Scott. Don’t force me to deal with your disgusting face. It would be a nightmare.”
“You’ve been lonely, Teyonah. I know it.”
We stepped outside.
The night air was thick and mean.
Next door, Mrs. Patterson had the nerve to be outside and on her porch, sweeping.
This bitch. . .
That broom wasn’t for cleaning.
It was her camouflage.
The woman could’ve been in bed, could’ve been reading her Bible or talking to her cats, but no—Mrs. Patterson had found her real ministry: watching other people’s lives unravel in real time.
She paused mid-sweep when she spotted me. Her face bloomed into that smile I didn’t trust—too wide, too knowing.
“Well, look at God!” she called out, voice syrupy and loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. “The family’s back together again.”
I rolled my eyes. “Evening, Mrs. Patterson.”
She waved the broom like a blessing. “Evening, Sister Teyonah! Evening, Brother Scott! The Lord sure does work in mysterious ways, doesn’t He?”
“Sure does,” I muttered under my breath.
Scott, oblivious, smiled back. “Good evening, ma’am.”
“Mmm-hmm. God bless.” Her broom started moving again, slow strokes across nothing. “I was praying for you two to get back together. Them boys need their father. Mmm-hmm. I’m going to make you a big ole box of cookies, Scott. You be on the lookout now!”
“I sure will, ma’am.” Scott winked at her. “Thanks for thinking of me. I sure do love your cookies.”
Unfortunatly for me, Scott would trash them too. Maybe if he’d just eat one, the problem of him would finally go away.
Sometimes I wondered what Mrs. Patterson really saw through those lace curtains all these years during my marriage.
The woman didn’t just watch—she witnessed.
Surely, she’d been there for every fight that started loud and ended in silence.
For every slammed door, every sob I swallowed so the boys wouldn’t hear. I’d caught the flicker of her lamp more than once when Scott’s voice rose high enough to wake the block.
Maybe that’s why her smile tonight looked different.
Maybe she knew more than she ever said.
She thought Scott should be back?
Yet, she’d seen Dominic too. The day he moved in, shoulders hunched like a man carrying ghosts. How gentle he was with the boys. How he fixed the gutter, shoveled the walk, left a bouquet on the porch on my birthday when he thought I wouldn’t notice.
She’d seen that too.
So when she called out “the family’s back together,” was it a blessing?
Or a warning?
I looked in the other direction.
Across the street, the Masons were out front again, watering their lawn for the fifth time today like they were trying to resurrect Eden.
The husband stood by the hose while his wife supervised from the porch, two enormous American flags billowing behind her like patriotic wings.
They loved this country more than God and in the loudest way possible—bumper stickers, lawn ornaments, and a mailbox painted red, white, and blue.
By the walkway stood those damned racist ass jockey statues—two of them, short and sun-faded, with red jackets, white breeches, and cartoonishly wide eyes.
Their skin was painted a glossy, impossible black.
Their big red lips were frozen in exaggerated grins.
Those damned statues had no business surviving past the 1950s.
I’d filed complaint after complaint with the homeowners’ association. Every time, I got the same bland email back—We’ll review the matter at the next meeting.
But nothing ever changed.
The jockeys stayed.
The Masons smiled. And their sprinklers hissed like applause every time I pulled into my driveway, watching me the way people watch things they’ve already decided don’t belong.
Now the husband watched us, turned to his wife, and shook his head in disapproval.
I guess we have a big audience tonight. Whatever. Fuck all of these people.
Mrs. Patterson remained outside, sweeping that broom at half speed.
I lowered my voice and lifted my chin. “I have been happy that you’re gone. No one in this house has missed you—”
“Lies.” Scott popped the trunk and grabbed his suitcase. The wheels thumped down like a gavel. He hauled it up by the handle and headed back to the house.
I could feel Mrs. Patterson listening, could practically hear the gossip script writing itself in her head.
I shifted closer to Scott, blocking her line of sight. “Don’t do this.”
“You need me. The boys need me.”
“This is stupid,” I followed him back into the house. “Your wanting to be here when you are not wanted here. That’s not stability. That’s ego.”
“It’s the law.”
“It’s a temporary order. Which means it can also be temporarily ignored when it conflicts with safety. Emotional safety is still safety, last time I checked. You are messing with mine—”
“Cute. Let’s see if that will really work on the judge.”
“We’ll see, but for now.” I closed the door. My hands shook from how angry I was. “For now. . .here are the rules.”
“Rules?” He stopped in the living room. “What fucking rules?”
“You can sleep on the couch. You will not sleep in my bed.”
His head jerked back. “It’s our bed.”
“It’s the bed where I sleep, you haven’t earned the right to call anything ours since you cheated.”
He pointed to the papers. “Court order says cohabitation in the marital residence.”
“Cohabitation,” I repeated. “Not consummation. Not proximity. Not whatever fantasy you thought was going to happen once you forced yourself in here.”
His eyes narrowed to mean little coins. “If you deny me the bed, I’ll tell the judge you’re violating the spirit of the order.”
I stepped closer and pointed at him. “If you go to sleep in that bed tonight, you will not wake up in the morning to tell the judge about a court order or anything else.”
For one delicious second, fear ran across his face and forgot to hide. It looked good on him—like truth finally trying on clothes.
He swallowed and went silent because he believed me.
Bitch.
I had been taking and taking his bullshit for years—his criticisms, his emotional abuse, his silences, his cheating.
Tonight, I was finally standing up for myself, and it felt like a weapon settling into my hand, properly balanced.
He recovered. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you the weather. You walk into this storm, you will drown.”
He blinked.
We stood like that, too close, the suitcase between us like a child we were pretending to co-parent.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well. . .we will see what the judge says about that threat.”
“We will.”
“I’m sleeping here in this house tonight. Couch or bed, I don’t care. I will be here when my kids wake up.”
“You’ll be here on the fucking couch.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Or you can fuck around and find out.”
“I don’t even know who you are right now, Teyonah. I plan to have the judge give you a drug test.” He rolled the suitcase to the coffee table, dropped the handle, and looked around my living room like a realtor. “I’m also taking the office.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You don’t use it.”
“I use it every night, and tonight, especially. I brought work home. You will not touch my files.”
“Files?” He laughed and moved toward the hallway anyway. “I’ve got real work to do. You’re just a glorified secretary. That’s not a career, it’s paperwork in heels. I am the only real lawyer in this house. You’re just the support staff.”
I watched him disappear into the office.
A tremor of anger ran through me.
Calm down. Just. . .calm down. If you kill him, you go to jail and then who will raise the kids? No one.
I went to the kitchen, got a glass, and filled it with water.
Just drink and steady yourself. You will get through this. You will figure this out too.
Behind me, cardboard rustled and snapped from my office.
Son of a bitch.
Scott was already moving his things where they did not belong, the way he had always moved himself into spaces he never learned to tend.
I could see it without looking: his jacket slung over the back of the chair, his watch on the dish where Oliver put tiny rocks, his smell pushing its way up the stairs like a bad suit in summer.
I turned to tell him something that would send him to the couch again and saw the window instead.
Oh.
In the dark beyond my reflection, a shape resolved.
Tall.
Muscular.
Still.
The shadow line of shoulders I knew with my hands before I knew with my eyes.
Dominic was in the backyard.
Standing in the darkness.
Watching.
I swallowed.
How much did he hear?
Then, Dominic shocked me by stepping into the light and letting me fully see him.
Fuck. . .
His eyes.
I’d never seen eyes say so much without moving.
He didn’t touch the glass.
He didn’t lift a hand.
He just turned his head a little, watched the space where Scott had disappeared, and then cut his gaze back to me.
The message landed like a cold punch to my throat.
If you don’t get rid of him, I will, and you won’t like how I do it.
My bottom lip quivered.
Fear slid along my ribs and tightened, a snake finding the smallest way it could fit through flesh to touch bone.
I hated the fear because it wore love like a mask, and I loved the fear because it meant someone was standing outside in the dark watching my house like a guard dog with a degree and a steady hand.
I wanted to open the door and let him in.
Yet, I also wanted to bolt the door and keep him out so he wouldn’t get involved in my mess.
I wanted all the contradictions to stand next to each other and agree to behave until morning.
Behind me, a box thumped.
Scott moved something else.
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t.
I kept my eyes on Dominic until he tipped his chin once and then darkness took him.
Shit.
My hands found the counter edge.
The laminate pressed back.
The night pressed in.
And more fear surged through me.
What am I going to do?