“No. I’m going to cook dinner, and when you’re done acting like a child, you can come out so we can talk like adults.” I open my mouth to respond to his condescending tone, but he opens the door, walks out, and closes it behind him. I don’t stay in the room for long.
Just as he slams a skillet on the oven burner, I approach.
“Don’t you dare turn this around on me when you’re the one who lied.” I stand next to him, suddenly itching for a fight.
“I didn’t lie! I told you I’m my mother’s only child. She’s the only parent who loves me. She’s the one who has taken care of me my entire life. I don’t know those people, and I barely knew my father when he was alive. And I already told you, I don’t like talking about it! Drop it!” For no reason at all, he picks up the skillet and slams it down again. He walks to the fridge and yanks it open so hard, I’m afraid he’ll damage the hinges.
“I told you all the shit with my mother, Adam. I told you about the most hurtful thing she’s ever done. You lied to me every time I asked you about the New York number and you told me that your father had no kids. And all this time you let me believe you were struggling financially. You never once—”
“Hold on there, Melanie. Hold one goddamn minute. I know you’re having a pity party of one, but I never told you I had no siblings. I told you I was my mother’s only child. That’s the truth. And I never said I was struggling financially. Not once. You came to that conclusion on your own. And when the hell was I supposed to tell you? Before or after you did one of your spreadsheets? Before or after you told me you were looking for equality in this marriage? Before or after you figured out we’re in the same bracket? Whatever the fuck that means. We’re equal because we say we are, not because of how much money we bring in. You’re the one with the ridiculous ideas in your head. And look in the mirror, sweetheart, if you want to talk about liars.” My head rolls back as if slapped. I take a deep breath and slowly approach him. His back is still to me while he rummages through the fridge.
“Excuse me? Now I’m the liar?” Stunned by his accusation, I stand behind him and wait for an explanation.
“You’ve always been the liar.” He closes the fridge door, turns to me and says, “Look at me in the eye and tell me you were drunk the night we got married.” My mouth opens, but suddenly it feels like it’s filled with cotton. I lick my lips and stare into my husband’s eyes.
“I—” I take another deep breath. “I—” Nothing comes out.
“You what? You can’t say it, can you? The minute you woke up, you ran like a scared rabbit and lied to your family. Said that I got you drunk and tricked you into marriage, when the truth is, you’re the one who askedmeto marryyou. And newsflash, wife, you weren’t drunk.”
I refuse to acknowledge the truth of his words.
“You’re not going to turn this around on me. And for the record, Adam, the answer is before. You should have told me that you’re a millionaire before I did the spreadsheets, before I talked about being equal and before I started waking up at the butt ass crack of dawn to make your lunch so we can save for a house. You’ve made such a damn fool of me.”
“I’m done talking about it. Now you know. That asshole did me a favor because now I can stop tiptoeing around the money issue. And I love those things about you, Mel. I love cheapskate Mel because she’s willing to sacrifice for our future. I’m crazy about nineteen fifties Mel who always leaves a sweet little note in my lunch, and I can’t keep my hands off slutty Mel. I loved learning about you that way.”
I shake my head, too far gone in my anger to listen to his reasoning. “Whatever, Adam. What’s the real reason you kept this from me? Did you think I would be after your money?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Melanie Flynn.” He slams the skillet again. “I married you without a prenup. You want the damn money? Take it. I don’t give a shit about it.” He opens the fridge again and looks inside. After a few minutes where the only sound is the rapid beating of my heart, he looks at me and asks, “Do you want chicken or beef for dinner?” His tone is back to normal, signaling that he’s done with this conversation.
I don’t respond. I turn on my heels, return to the bedroom and slam the door behind me, locking it this time.
Forty-five minutes later, while I’m lying on the bed staring at the ceiling, he turns the knob. When met with the lock, he pounds one of his massive fists on the door.
“Dinner’s ready. Open the fucking door.” I ignore him. In fact, I turn on the TV and turn the volume on full blast, but that does little to drown out the pounding. He stops a few seconds later, and just when I think he’s gone, he knocks the door off its hinges. He stands in the middle of the room looking like a man possessed. I try to scoot off the bed, but he reaches for me and grabs my hands. Once he’s pulled me up, he throws me over his shoulder as if I’m nothing more than a bag of dirty laundry and carries me to the kitchen.
He sits down, puts me on his lap, and wraps an arm around my waist to keep me in place. He reaches for my plate and puts it in front of me.
“I made steak since you don’t like the way I cook chicken,” is all he says. He eats his vegetables and sweet potatoes with one hand, but when it’s time to eat his steak, instead of letting me go so he can use a knife and fork, he picks up the steak with his free hand and eats it like a caveman.
My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Tonight was supposed to be a romantic night of being snowed in with my husband. I was supposed to make him dinner, and we were going to spend the night making love either on the couch or in the bedroom. Some nights he’ll spread a blanket out on the rug in front of the TV and we’ll make love on the floor, but today has turned into a complete shit show.
My stomach growls again. I sigh, reach for my fork and eat. He only lets me go after I take my last bite. I clear the table and clean up. He doesn’t try to talk to me again. While I straighten the kitchen, he sits on the couch and turns on the news. While the weatherman talks about the storm, I walk away and take a shower, hoping it will clear my mind.
It doesn’t. By the time I come out and put on pajamas, I’m more hurt and confused than when I went in. I’m supposed to meet with the baker on Saturday to sample the different cakes. Last weekend when I looked at flowers with Molly and Ananda, I cheapened out because I had to pay extra for my wedding dress. Now, I just feel like a damn fool with my budgeting and penny pinching.
I open one of the spreadsheets and look at what we’ve already spent compared to expected expenses. I slam the laptop shut just as he walks in. He’s in nothing but a green towel wrapped around his waist. Water glistens on his bare chest and droplets fall out of his damp hair. When he drops the towel, I turn away from his semi hard cock.
“Still giving me the silent treatment, huh? Okay.” When he goes to the drawer to look for his clothes, I grab an extra blanket and pillow from the top of the closet.
“You are sleeping in our bed,” he orders.
“My bed. When I first moved in here, you said the bed was mine. You’re the one who is sleeping on the couch. You can sleep on your weight bench for all I care.” I slam the blanket and pillow on his chest, and he looks at me dumbfounded.
“Not happening.” He tosses them across the room and gets on his side of the bed. Since there’s no way I’m sleeping with him, I grab the pillow and blanket and leave. I’d slam the door, but it’s already hanging off the hinges.
I barely have time to get situated on the couch before he comes stomping. “You’re so damn immature,” he says. “Come back to bed.”
“I’m fine out here.”