Page 5 of This Life of Mine

“I’m not ordering anything. You can cook something,” he says, agitated.

I turn away from him, closing my eyes, trying to find patience. I push to my feet and head toward the bedroom.

Cole stands and follows. “Don’t fucking ignore me. I said I’m hungry.”

“Then feed yourself, Cole, and leave me alone.” I walk in haste now.

The words are barely out of my mouth before I realize my mistake.

I reach the room and sense the quiet calm, the stillness that comes right before a storm breaks.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes lock on mine, cold and unreadable. Then the dam bursts. Rage consumes every feature. I brace before he ever moves.

Cole grabs the lamp from the nightstand and hurls it across the room. It explodes against the wall beside me. Glass rains down around me as I instinctively crouch, throwing my arms over my head.

The sound rings through the room. Then comes the next crash. And the next.

Picture frames rip from the wall as Cole swipes them off one after another. Glass shatters and family photos scatter like confetti beneath his feet.

My heartbeat hammers against my ribs, each thud bruising from the inside. Fury. Humiliation. Terror. They collide until I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins.

For years, this was how it began.

Not with fists. With warning shots.

A shattered plate. A hole in the wall. A lamp hurled across the room. Every act carefully chosen to answer the same question before I ever asked it:See what I’m capable of?

The walls seem to inch closer with every breath.

Then he faces me. And in that instant, I’m eighteen again, and the anger seeping from him takes my breath away.

As he marches in my direction, I brace myself for what comes next.

I jerk awake, dragging in a breath that never seems to reach my lungs. My heart hammers against my ribs, each violent beat rattling my bones, threatening to split me open from the inside.

For a few disorienting seconds, I’m unsure of my surroundings.

The dream clings to me like a second skin. I’m still there. Still trapped in that house, waiting for the sound of breaking glass. Still bracing for the man I once loved to become someone I feared.

It takes several breaths before the surrounding darkness begins to take shape and reality gradually settles back into place.

I can smell the faint scent of floral detergent on my sheets, and the sound of the ceiling fan thrumming fast above me. It’s my little sanctuary.

Not his home. Not his rules.

Rest never comes easily. Even on my best days, sleep feels like something I borrow, not something I own.

Even after years apart, Cole still finds me in my sleep. Unfortunately, my subconscious hasn’t gotten the memo that I’m divorced.

My alarm explodes beside me, shattering the fragile calm. I rub my eyes and draw in a slow breath.

Three a.m. wake-ups are not for the weak.

My whole body feels weighted down. My limbs are heavy, my head thick with exhaustion. Sitting upright feels like a chore.

The nightmares are only part of it. The fatigue, however, burrows into your bones and refuses to leave.

A late-night gym session followed by several hours of reading a spicy romance novel until midnight seemed like a good idea at the time. This morning, my exhausted body strongly disagrees.