Page 115 of Yearn
His eyes narrowed to mean little coins. “If you deny me the bed, I’ll tell the judge you’re violating the spirit of the order.”
I stepped closer and pointed at him. “If you go to sleep in that bed tonight, you will not wake up in the morning to tell the judge about a court order or anything else.”
For one delicious second, fear ran across his face and forgot to hide. It looked good on him—like truth finally trying on clothes.
He swallowed and went silent because he believed me.
Bitch.
I had been taking and taking his bullshit for years—his criticisms, his emotional abuse, his silences, his cheating.
Tonight, I was finally standing up for myself, and it felt like a weapon settling into my hand, properly balanced.
He recovered. “Are you threatening me?”
“I’m telling you the weather. You walk into this storm, youwilldrown.”
He blinked.
We stood like that, too close, the suitcase between us like a child we were pretending to co-parent.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “Well. . .we will see what the judge says about that threat.”
“We will.”
“I’m sleeping here in this house tonight. Couch or bed, I don’t care. I will be here when my kids wake up.”
“You’ll be here on the fucking couch.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Or you can fuck around and find out.”
“I don’t even know who you are right now, Teyonah. I plan to have the judge give you a drug test.” He rolled the suitcase to the coffee table, dropped the handle, and looked around my living room like a realtor. “I’m also taking the office.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You don’t use it.”
“I use it every night, and tonight, especially. I brought work home. You will not touch my files.”
“Files?” He laughed and moved toward the hallway anyway. “I’ve gotrealwork to do. You’re just a glorified secretary. That’s not a career, it’s paperwork in heels. I am the only real lawyer in this house. You’re just the support staff.”
I watched him disappear into the office.
A tremor of anger ran through me.
Calm down. Just. . .calm down. If you kill him, you go to jail and then who will raise the kids? No one.
I went to the kitchen, got a glass, and filled it with water.
Just drink and steady yourself. You will get through this. You will figure this out too.
Behind me, cardboard rustled and snapped from my office.
Son of a bitch.
Scott was already moving his things where they did not belong, the way he had always moved himself into spaces he never learned to tend. I could see it without looking: his jacket slung over the back of the chair, his watch on the dish where Oliver put tiny rocks, his smell pushing its way up the stairs like a bad suit in summer.
I turned to tell him something that would send him to the couch again and saw the window instead.
Oh.
