67. Allie
Allie
I didn’t go to work today. Instead, I did something far more reckless. I cooked dinner.
For him.
It was stupid—delusional even—to think I could change someone who has spent decades perfecting his I don’t give a shit personality. Rico never pretended to be anything but who he is. He never sold me a fairytale. I was the one who clung to that stupid, infuriating, all-consuming thing called hope.
Hope, for the record, is a menace. The serial killer of all joy.
I knew what I was walking into when I married him. I just refused to fully acknowledge it. I thought I could change it.
Fine. Lesson learned. I get it.
So, I recalibrate. Shift the focus. My restaurant will be my pride and joy. When we have kids, I’ll throw myself into them, love them so fiercely they’ll never question their worth. And unlike my husband, my children will love me back. Unconditionally.
That will be enough.
I won’t have the picture-perfect marriage, but Rico will be a provider, and I know—I know—he’ll love our kids. I’ve seen him with his nieces and nephews. He lights up. He feels something for them, even if he refuses to feel anything for me.
It’s almost eight. I never texted him about dinner, but he always assumes I’m at the restaurant, which means he usually comes home before seven. So, where is he?
My fingers tap against the wooden dining table, the food in front of me long past cold, the wine in my glass untouched.
When I hear the garage door open, my stomach does an annoying little flutter that I immediately want to stab into submission.
Two days of silence. Two days of not knowing where we stand.
Two days of stewing in my head, trying to figure out how to talk to him without sounding like an unhinged lunatic.
And then there he is.
Rico stills in the kitchen's doorway, his eyes landing on me, his entire body pausing. The surprise on his face is almost comical. What? You think I died? Packed up and left? All were tempting options, and I'd lie if I said they didn't cross my mind.
“I… I made dinner,” I start, suddenly feeling ridiculous for even attempting this. “Thought we could talk.”
He steps into the kitchen, silent, opening the fridge, grabbing a water bottle, and chugging half of it—obviously avoiding looking at me.
“Were you at the sparring gym?” I ask, noting the slight mess of his hair, the exhaustion dragging at his eyes. That usual hunger he has for me when he sees me? Gone.
He shakes his head. No explanation. No further details.
“I can heat up the food,” I offer, nodding toward the now-cold meal sitting pathetically on the table. I spent all day cooking—literally simmering marinara sauce, stewing over my thoughts, and now I get this?
“Not hungry.”
And just like that, he walks right past me, straight down the hall.
I shoot out of my chair and chase after him. “Rico. We need to talk about the other night.”
He stops, back still to me, and then sighs like I’m the most exhausting person he’s ever met, then turns around slowly.
“Why?”
I blink. Why? WHY? Is he for real right now?
“Why do you think?” I bite out. “We need to discuss how to move forward.”
“There’s nothing to discuss.” Icy. Detached. Worse than the man I married a few months ago.
The tone that ends conversations, not starts them.
I swallow, tugging at the hem of my shirt, steeling myself. “I moved my things back to my room,” I tell him, my voice surprisingly steady. “I thought maybe we could talk about where we go from here.”
He studies me, his face unreadable, and then—without any inflection, like he’s announcing the weather—he says, “I was with my therapist this evening.”
And then—he walks away.