by Ws Greer
“I don't want to control you. I just want you to act the way a good wife should.”
“And let me guess … a good wife should act the way you say she should?”
Trent lets out a scoff loud enough for the neighbors to hear as he stands up and places his hands on his hips hard enough for it to hurt.
“You know what? This is bullshit,” he barks. “I shouldn’t have to try so hard for this to work, Kim. Being married is about being obedient.”
“Obedient?”
“You're goddamn right! You're supposed to honor me. All you do is disrespect me.”
“Please, Trent, you disrespect yourself with all of this jealous, sensitive, insecure bullshit,” I fire back, and the heat in the room has risen to the point where I’m starting to sweat.
“I am not insecure, and I’m not going to sit here and listen to you calling me names. I’m fucking tired of your attitude!” he blares.
“I’m tired of your goddamn attitude! I don't even know who you fucking are anymore.”
“Oh yeah? Then why are you even married to me?”
“Great question! I have no fucking idea!” I snap back, and Trent explodes.
“Fuck you!” He screams as he turns around, grabs one of the wooden chairs from our dining room, and flings it as if it’s weightless. The chair hurls across the living room and smashes against the wall on the opposite side, breaking into a few hundred pieces only a few feet away from me. I duck and cover my head with my arms, and when I look up, he's only inches from my face.
“If you don't like the man I am, Kim, then don't bother sleeping in the same bed as me. Just stay out here on the fucking couch,” he snarls, before turning on his heel and walking to the bedroom.
As he slams the door behind him, knocking a picture of us off the wall, I’m left with nothing more than a newfound fear, and the sound of my own frightened breathing.
Chapter 27
~ KIMBERLY ~
Sleep is strange. It’s something your body needs in order for you to be able to function properly. You have to have proper rest, and I’m pretty sure I read somewhere that you would go insane without sleep, and maybe even die. You literally have to lay down and get your rest, and when you do, it comes in one of two ways. It’s either peaceful, or terrifying.
I've had plenty of peaceful nights of sleep. I always cherish them. It’s those nights when you lay down on your soft pillow and feel like you just laid atop a cloud. It’s almost like your body is thanking you for finally lying down after being up all day long. Your eyes close without you knowing it, and you drift off. Sometimes I’d have nice, calming dreams of some fantasy or past experience that makes me wake up with a smile on my face, feeling refreshed and ready to start the next day. Then I'd look over at Trent and feel like my life was perfect. That’s what I consider to be a good night’s sleep with a calm and peaceful awakening.
Then, there is the other side of sleep. It can come in a couple of different ways. If you’re cursed to have nightmares, then sleeping isn't peaceful to you. I’m fortunate to not be afflicted with being mentally tortured on a nightly basis, but tonight I’m a victim of the second version of a terrifying night of sleep. Nothing ruins your sleep more than being startled awake to find terror standing right next to you. It’s in that moment you wish you never would've fallen asleep at all. You'd rather be driven insane than wake up this way ever again, and that's exactly how I feel when Trent stomps down the hall into the living room, and lifts the couch so high I nearly fall off of it, before slamming it back down on the floor with a thunderous boom.
“You fucking bitch!” His voice cracks through the room, scaring me out of my sleep and thrusting me into a world of confusion and chaos.
My eyes open but my brain is still half asleep. I don't know what it is going, and I look around the room in pure bewilderment and disorientation as I blink over and over again, trying to focus on what’s going on. When I’m finally able to see straight, Trent is standing at the end of the couch. He’s shirtless but still wearing his jeans, and even while I’m still drowsy, I can smell the stench of beer on his breath.
“Trent?” I call him as if I don't recognize him, and I kind of don't right now. His face is twisted into a tight scowl, and he's glaring at me with fury in his expression.
“You think this is funny? You think this is fucking funny, don't you?” he barks, and the look on my face should tell him I don't know what he’s talking about, but he doesn't seem to catch on.
“Trent, please stop yelling. I don't know what you're talking about. Are you fucking drunk?” I ask as I sit up. He doesn't have to answer the question. It’s as obvious as it gets.
“Oh, you don't know what I'm talking about? How about this, Kim? How about you changing all of your fucking passwords so I can’t log into your accounts? That ringing any goddamn bells?”
Shit. I had forgotten all about it.
“Trent—”
“Shut up!” he screams so loud I nearly cover my ears. “I knew you were a whore, Kim. I've always known.”
I gasp as my hand involuntarily reaches up to cover my mouth. I can't believe he just said that to me.
“You walk around all day with your goddamn titties out for the whole world to see, like you're some fucking Playboy model. You want all eyes on you, and I know you're cheating on me. I know it. This proves it.”
“How fucking dare you,” I bellow back. “All this proves is that I changed my passwords because you wouldn't give me yours. I’m not cheating on you, and I can't believe you called me a whore. Fuck you, Trent!”
“Oh, fuck me? No, Kim, fuck you! You're as slutty as they come. When you got hired at Lane’s, every guy in the place was talking about how they wanted to stick their cock in your mouth. You know why? Because you're a whore, that’s why. You talking to guys on social media? Huh? You telling guys you're not married to a great man who loves you and treats you with respect?”
“No, you fucking piece of shit! And how the hell is calling me a whore treating me with respect. I’m fucking sick of this bullshit with you, Trent.”
“I don't care. You prove it then. Give me your phone. Don't push any buttons, and give me your phone so I can see all the guys you've been talking to. Give it to me, now.”
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to run out of the house. I want to punch him in his fucking face, but the combination of emotions seem to cancel each other out, and I just sit on the couch with wide eyes.
“I said give me your phone!” Trent yells as he steps forward and snatches my phone off the end table next to me. Knowing my passcode, he gains access to all of my privacy, and I watch him press the screen over and over again, weaving in and out of apps, searching for anything he can find to vilify me. He won't find anything. As much as I’ve grown to hate him, I would never cheat on him. I’d leave first, and that option is starting to look like a very good one.
After a few minutes of searching through every app I have, Trent stops and stares at me. He almost looks sad that he didn't find anything. I think he wants me to be cheating on him at this point. If he caught me cheating, he could point out that it’s me who’s a terrible person and not him. But lo and behold, it’s not me.
“I told you,” I say to him, trying to calm myself. “How dare you come in here and do this shit with me. How dare you call me out of my name. How dare you!”
“No, shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” he says, and I gasp again.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Oh please. You're so sensitive. I know you've been cheating on me. Just because you deleted all of your messages doesn't mean they were never there. I’m not just going to stand by and let this happen. I see you when you're typing on your phone. I see you on Facebook. I see you, Kim. You're on Instagram, and I guarantee you're looking at pictures of shirtless guys on there.”
“No I'm not!”
“Bullshit. You are. And I’m going to put a stop to it right here and n
ow.”
Without another word, Trent starts walking toward the kitchen with my phone clenched in his fist.
“What are you doing?” I ask, getting up from the couch so I can see him. “Give me back my phone.”
“You might want to say goodbye to it while you still can,” he says as he walks over to the kitchen sink and turns on the water.
“Trent, no! Give it back to right fucking now!” I yell just as he flips the switch on the garbage disposal. The spinning blades scream to life as I start to run to the kitchen, but I know I won't get there fast enough.
“Too late,” he says, just before he shoves my phone into the disposal.
I hear it cracking and breaking against the blades, and my body doesn't even try anymore. I stop running, and stand there as pieces of my phone start to fly out of the hole in the sink, nearly hitting Trent in the face. I know the phone won't make it down the drain, but it’s certain to be ruined. The garbage disposal will probably be ruined too, but he doesn't care, and he proves it as he leaves the motor running with my phone inside, and walks right past me without saying another word.
IGNITION
Chapter 28
~ MALCOLM ~
I’m a firm believer in communication. All forms of communication are important, but verbal communication is probably the most important, in my opinion. The reason the world seems to be in such disarray is because we as a society don't know how to communicate with each other. We make assumptions about the people on the opposite side of the argument, and never take the time to learn anything about people who think differently than we do. It never works, and that's why things continue to get worse and worse, especially in America. We’re told not to talk about religion, race, or politics, and as a result, we have no idea how to have a conversation about these deeply rooted things with someone who disagrees with us or has a different point of view. Cutting off communication with the people we’re supposed to care about never works. Ever. Lack of communication is exactly why Evelyn and I have been having problems since we moved into the Marriott.
It has been a few days since Evelyn’s car was set on fire and we decided to stay in a hotel until Ava was questioned by the police. As our bad luck would have it, we haven't heard from the police since the night we left Evelyn’s house with her charred vehicle still smoking in the driveway. I don't know if they can't find her, or if they never even started looking. Just like the night Ava threw a rock through my window, Evelyn didn't get her on camera, so the cops have no reason to believe it was Ava. They simply chalk our complaints up to hearsay with no evidence, and as much as I hate it, I don't have high hopes about what the police will do.
As a result of the silence around the case of the burning car, Evelyn has been very distant. I honestly can't say I blame her. If the roles were reversed, I probably wouldn't want to stick around through someone’s drama with their ex, especially when that drama literally puts my life in danger. I'd be long gone, and I'd advise my patients to be long gone as well. With that in mind, I have to commend Evelyn for trudging through this mud to try to be with me at all. However, it’s obvious her legs are tired from being pulled down with each step, and she can't go on much longer. If I don't pull her out of this mud, our relationship will die in it. So, instead of sitting on opposite sides of the bed assuming what the other person is thinking, it’s time to start communicating.
After a rare, calm day at the office, I return to the Marriott in a pretty good mood. I don't know what to expect when I see Evelyn for the first time today—since she left for work before I could wake up, once again—but I walk into the room focused on the task at hand. The red and white carpet is soft enough to feel even through the soles of my Stacy Adams, and the suite that is laid before me is beautifully decorated with blemish-free cream couches and chairs to accompany gray tables and desks with white crown molding and baseboards. I walk past the large bathroom with its massive Jacuzzi tub on full display in the center of the room, and step into the living area, where I find Evelyn already sitting on the king-size bed with both of her feet up. She’s still dressed in her work attire—a white dress that stops just above her knees, with a royal blue watch, bracelet, and Jimmy Choo heels that all match each other. The woman is a picture of perfection, and I actually pause at the entryway when I see her sitting there holding half a glass of red wine. Her blue eyes are glued to the TV, and she doesn't unstick them from the screen to look over at me.
I release a breath as I remember how things used to be between us before Ava started being Ava again, and step into the room.
“Hi,” I start as I bypass my side of the bed and take a seat in front of Evelyn, blocking her view of the TV. “How was your day?”
“Stressful,” Evelyn replies before sipping her wine, still trying to relieve some of that stress. “Can you slide over a bit? I was watching TV.”
Wow. It’s like that?
“Umm, actually I was hoping we could talk,” I answer, but her eyes find their way past me.
“I can talk and watch TV at the same time,” she fires back quickly.
Yep, it’s like that.
I get up from the bed and slide a chair from the small table over so I can stay close to her. The disconnect between us is becoming a serious problem, so if I'm going to have any chance of fixing us, it has to happen right now.
“Evelyn, the past few days have been very awkward,” I begin, although Evelyn is still focused on the TV. “I'm starting to feel like things are falling apart between us, because we don't even talk anymore. We’re both therapists, yet we don't talk. That's a problem, wouldn't you say?”
“I suppose it is,” she answers, glancing at me briefly, before going back to the screen.
“Okay, well I’m not a fan of keeping things bottled up, so I want to talk about it before things get so far apart that we can't bring them back together again. If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to talk about how you feel about everything that has happened, including your feelings about Ava.”
Evelyn’s eyes drop to the silky sheets under her before she grabs the remote and puts the TV on mute … finally. She turns to me and lets out a breath as she places her wine glass down on the nightstand.
“Malcolm, I thought I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to date you. I knew you had issues with your ex, but I don't think anybody could've predicted how bad things would get. I mean, I’m literally working through issues with my insurance company because your ex set my car on fire. I’m pissed. I’m pissed that these cops can't seem to track her down, or at least haven't told us they talked to her. We’re completely in the dark about where she is, or if she's being charged for doing this. I’m also pissed I’ve been staying in a hotel these past few days. I miss my house and being surrounded by things I worked hard to purchase. It’s my stuff, and although this is a nice hotel room, it’s not mine. Ironically, that's how I feel about you, Malcolm. You're a great guy, and I love spending time with you, but it doesn't feel like you're mine.”
I shift my weight in the chair because I suddenly have become uncomfortable. “Are you implying I’m Ava’s?”
“No, but she thinks you are,” Evelyn answers. “Being with you is supposed to feel the same as it does owning my home. There isn't another person out there in the world that thinks my home is theirs. No one is walking into my home while I’m having a glass of wine inside, thinking they have more of a right to my place than I do. Everyone knows my place is my place. This situation with Ava feels like there's a dangerous stranger constantly walking into my house and threatening me for being in my own bedroom. It’s as personal of an attack as there is. So, if you're looking for an explanation for the distance between us, there it is. I’m surrounded by discomfort. I’m uncomfortable in this room, and I can't find comfort with you right now either, and maybe I'm struggling with that. Does that make sense?”
“As much as I wish it didn't, it makes perfect sense,” I answer. “I completely understand, and I agree with you that this isn't
how things between us should be. It’s fucked up that Ava is out there and that she’s able to cause drama in my life at any time. I hate it, and I wish she were gone, but there's also nothing I can do about it. I’ve already taken it to the authorities, and they're doing—or not doing—their thing with it. I can only control what I can control. So, if you could wish for anything, what would you have me do in this situation?”
She lets out another frustrated breath as she lifts her glass and takes a swig before setting it down again. “I don't know. I just want to be happy and comfortable again.”
“Me too,” I reply. “And I think the only way to do that is to take ownership of our lives, both separately and together.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean we need to go back to living our lives. You're right, Evelyn. This is a nice hotel, but it’s shit compared to the comfort of my own home. I don't like the idea of trying to hide away until Ava is brought in for questioning. As much of a nuisance as Ava is, I’m not scared of her. It’s not like Ava is some murderer who’s hunting us down. She's a very sick woman who needs help, and I honestly believe that at some point, she’ll get the help she needs. It will probably be because she forces the court’s hand, but eventually she’ll be some place where they can help her. But that’s not our responsibility. All we can do is live our lives, and I’m done hiding. I have to go back to the man I am, and that means living where I live, and doing the things I do. So, if you're up for it, I'd like to go back to where we were when we first started. I'd like to go back to being an affectionate couple who loves spending time together, laughs all the time, has sex all the time, and has high hopes for the future. I'd like to go back to being happy with you. You cool with that? Because I am, and I don't fucking care if Ava doesn't like it.”
Evelyn pauses a moment, looking at me with something in her eyes I haven't seen in a while. The corners of her mouth start to turn up, and I see the hint of a smile forming. My heart flutters just from the tease of that oncoming smile.