Unexpected Weather
Prologue
Steve-Work
Dinner tonight?
Yeah, I have a project I can pin it on.
Steve-Work
We can go to the sushi place you like. We can get that private table in the corner, again.
Only if you’ll let me feel how wet you are sitting at the table.
Steve-Work
You make me so wet, especially when you slide your fingers inside me at dinner. I’m wet right now thinking about it.
I want to throw up reading through the message thread. My husband of a decade, discussing fingering a strange woman at a restaurant. Dropping my hand to the small swell of my belly, I cradle my little baby. My baby, our baby. I just wanted a family, and now, I’m not sure what’s going to happen.
My phone pings with an incoming text message. Opening the text thread with Roger, I read the predictable message.
Roger
I have to take a client to dinner. I’ll be late, don’t wait up.
Are you sure? I was already cooking.
Roger
Callie, I have to take a client to dinner. I’ll be late, don’t wait up.
Do I need to repeat it again?
No, I got it. Goodnight, I guess. I love you.
Roger
I love you too.
Returning his tablet to the drawer beside the bed, I settle in for another night by myself. There have been a lot of lonely evenings recently, and it seems this has become a pattern for Roger.
In the morning, I clean the house from top to bottom before printing out the text transcripts between Roger and his mistress.
When he gets home after work, I wait calmly in the dining room, my evidence laid out on the table.
“Hey Callie,” he says as he walks into the house, dropping his keys on the front table and his backpack to the floor. “Where are—what are you doing?” he asks as he walks into the dining room and finds me sitting here with all the papers surrounding me.
My hands shake as I prepare to confront him. “Hi, Roger. Would you like to sit down?”
He looks at me warily before looking at the papers spread on the table, the text messages, the dating website profile, the pictures I found deleted, months’ worth of evidence from the tablet that mirrors his phone.
“What the fuck is all this, Caroline?”
“You tell me what it is; you know.” My voice is even, emotionless. I feel my belly, heavy under my shirt, and my sweet, innocent baby that I’m keeping safe.
Throwing his hands out, Roger swipes all the papers onto the floor, his face turning red.
“You went through my stuff?” he says accusingly, as though I’m the problem. I don’t respond, I just watch him. Reaching out, he grabs me roughly by the arm and hauls me to my feet.
Bringing his face close to mine, he calmly whispers, “Don’t touch my fucking shit.
” The level of malice in his eyes terrifies me and my heart races in my chest. Pushing me to the floor, he stalks out of the room.
Pulling myself up, I grab my keys and cell phone, sliding them in my pockets before I rush upstairs to grab my bag.
Loud stomping follows me as he all but chases me up the stairs.”
“Get back here, Callie!” he calls to me.
“I’m done, Roger, enough is enough. I’m pregnant. You’re never going to change.” I rush into our bedroom, closing the door, and clicking the lock.
Roger pounds on it relentlessly while screaming about kicking the door down. I clutch my stomach and cry. Our little family.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I tried. I really did.”
I ignore him and look around, throwing anything I see remaining into the bag before opening the door to an enraged Roger.
“You’re not going anywhere!” he screams in my face, spittle flying from between his lips, his whole body shaking with barely restrained rage. He snatches the bag from me and throws it to the end of the hall.
I push past him and exit the room. I don’t need my things; I can get new stuff.
“I am leaving. I can’t keep living like this.
” I try to keep my voice level; I try not to antagonize him.
This needs to be the last time. When I reach the stairs, he wraps his fingers around my arm again, this time so tightly I can already feel the bruises blooming under the skin and the bones grating together.
“Get the fuck back here, Callie. You’re not going anywhere.” He spins me to face him. “You’re my wife, and as my wife, you will stay here. And I will do what I want, when I want, with whomever I want. YOU’RE MY WIFE AND THAT’S MY BABY!”
I yank my arm free and turn back toward the stairs.
As my foot lands on the first step, both of his hands slam into the space between my shoulder blades, and I go flying.
My feet leave the ground, and I watch in slow motion as the tile of the first-floor entry way hurtles toward my face.
I throw my arms out to try and catch myself and scream as I freefall.
Slamming into the ground, my wrist crunches beneath my weight and the front of my body collides with the floor.
Lying flat on my front, the bump of my baby pressing into me, pain ricochets from my injured wrist to my cheek, where it presses into the floor, to my abdomen and pelvis. Tears well in my eyes.
Roger’s thundering footsteps approach as he half-runs half-tumbles down the stairs calling my name.
“Callie? Callie, baby, I’m sorry.” He kneels next to my head, eyes wide.
“Roger, please call 911.”