Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
So my natural curves were nonexistent.
I hated that Robert’s eyes were on so much of my exposed skin.
“Robert,” I snapped, finding the anger that should have been at the surface since I’d opened the door. “You need to leave. You cannot be here.”
I didn’t want to know why he was in California and not the state he’d been determined for us to live, and die in. It would be easier for him to run for office with his father’s help and connections in the state.
Something moved in his face with my words. My tone. The strength in it. He despised it, I could tell. Robert only liked women weak, agreeable, beaten down.
The fury in his eyes sparked an old fear, and emotional flinch that was muscle memory.
I hated myself for the fact I did actually flinch as he moved toward me, the footfalls of his boots echoing in my ringing ears.
The hit that I was expecting didn’t come.
Not until he slammed the door at least.
He didn’t want an audience.
He made sure that no one saw the bruises, evidence of his abuse. Made sure that he seemed like the doting husband, father, and reputable detective on the surface.
Once the door was closed, he turned on me, got in my space, my entire body was held taut, shaking with his proximity. All the strength I thought I’d built up over the years tore like the flimsy film that it was.
“I cannot be here?” he whispered. He never yelled. In all the times he’d raised his fists to me, he’d never raised his voice. But those whispered threats, insults, warnings, they made my skin bleed. “I am your husband,” he hissed, leaning in so I couldn’t escape his face taking up my vision.
He was close.
Too close, taking up my space, my breathing room.
“I am allowed to be wherever I want to be. Where my wife is raising our child in fucking squalor,” he said, gazing around the room in distaste.
I found my backbone with the mention of my son. I moved around him, away from him so I was standing in the middle of the room. I eyed my cell phone at the breakfast bar. I doubted I’d be able to dial for help if things went bad—and they always went bad when Robert had this look in his eye—but I could yell for help. I could fight. I would fight.
“Squalor?” I repeated, looking around my living room. Sure the paint was chipped, the furniture was second hand, the carpet was faded and the kitchen appliances were almost older than I was. But the pantry was stocked. Everything was wiped clean to the point of obsession—a takeaway from my marriage when I wasn’t allowed to leave a speck of dust anywhere—the pile of laundry the only thing messy. It was cluttered, sure. With my things and Nathan’s toys. But it was so far from squalor it was laughable. I knew squalor. I grew up in it.
Squalor was cigarette burns in battered and filthy furniture. It was roaches crawling on the floor. It was an empty fridge. A rotting fruit bowl. A one-bedroom trailer housing three people.
It was beer bottles, empty and full within reaching distance of children. Along with a crack pipe.
It was filthy clothes that were two sizes too small.
My home was not that.
“This is a home,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “My home. Not one where I’m slapped for forgetting to vacuum a room. Or have my hair pulled for using the wrong fabric softener. Or being punched in the face for forgetting that you hate peas and putting them in your dinner. That isn’t a home. That’s a prison. Which you need to go back to. Right now.”
I clenched my fists at my sides, my entire body shaking. I forced myself to maintain eye contact with Robert.
I enraged him. I could see that. It both terrified me and pleased me. Never had I stood up to him. Not even when I left, I’d stolen away in the night, when he was out drinking, or cheating on me.
He’d never seen this version of me.
It shocked him a little.
But only a little.
“You had everything,” he snapped. “A home you never could’ve dreamed of when you were in the poverty I pulled you out of—”
“I’m not speaking about this,” I cut him off, the memories too close. “I’m not speaking to you. Unless you’re here to finally sign the divorce papers, I have nothing to say to you.”
He laughed. It was unexpected and entirely unpleasant. It filled my beautiful, warm home and immediately turned it colder than any kind of AC.
“Divorce?” he said, still chuckling. “I didn’t come to divorce you, despite the fact you’ve entirely let yourself go since we’ve been apart. That’s easy to fix, though. No, I didn’t come to sign anything. I’ve come to get my wife and son back.”