Page 32 of Bitter Truth
“I’ve got it,” I say, standing.
Without a word he snatches the dishtowel I’m reaching for and crouches, attacking the floor. It looks like he’s trying to scrub a hole through it more than mop up a spill. I guess we’re doing this now after all.
Kneeling, I take his hand in mine, stilling his frantic wiping. “Jake, what’s wrong?”
He pulls away, rising to his feet. “I wish you’d stop asking me that.”
“And I wish you’d answer honestly,” I say, taking my time as I stand beside him.
His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. The muscles in his neck stand out like ropes pulled taut beneath his skin. “What makes you so sure I’m not?”
“Besides the way you’ve been acting?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I gesture toward him. “Are you really trying to say that you aren’t on edge right now?”
“What? Because I cussed when I spilled some water?”
“Among other things.”
“Like?”
I realize my mistake too late, because now I have to give him an example.
“Like yelling at an intern,” I say softly.
He goes so still he no longer appears to be breathing. His eyes narrow. His voice is a low growl as he asks, “Who told you that? Julian?”
“Yes.”
“What else did he tell you?”
“That something’s wrong. That you’ve been acting upset.”
“And you believe him? Over me?”
“In this case? I think that I do.”
I’ve never seen the expression that now darkens Jake’s face before. He mutters to himself as he storms by me. I follow him into the living room. Watch as he snatches his keys and wallet from the end table. Grabs his briefcase from the floor.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Anywhere but here.”
“Seriously? You’re just going to leave? You’re not going to talk this out?”
“What do you expect, Cassidy?”
I stare at him, not sure I heard right. I don’t think he’s ever called me by my full name before, not once in almost thirty-nine years. But his expression makes it clear—I heard correctly.
Part of me wants to beg him not to go. Before that part can speak, the rest of me clamps my tongue painfully between my teeth, because this isn’t all on me. I’m not trying to antagonize him. I’m trying to understand so that I can help.
I’m fighting for our relationship here, but it feels like I’m the only one. Which means that while 49% of me feels horrible regret, the other 51% is simmering with anger, the kind that makes me afraid of what might come out if I open my mouth.
So I watch him walk out the door. Listen for the sound of his truck engine as I stalk around the house like a tiger trying to reach its prey. But the sound doesn’t come.
Would I hear it over the thundering rush of my pulse in my ears? Over my own voice filling my head with doubts and regrets? Over the crunch of my molars as they grind together?
