Jack and I always fought when he wanted to spend time with someone else. I felt abandoned and worthless whenever he wasn’t with me. I thought that was normal.
One evening, I was sitting in the living room reading from a collection of Anne Sexton’s poetry when I heard Jack call from the kitchen, “Babygirl, I’m going to the bar with some friends.”
“Which friends?” I closed the book and yanked my dress down over my knees, hugging my legs into my chest.
“Some painters. You don’t know them.”
“I wanted to hang out with you tonight,” I whined.
“I’m sorry, little one.”
He had been going out a lot, and I was spending the majority of my time at home alone.
I stood up and wandered into the kitchen. “I feel like I haven’t seen you at all lately, between all the late nights at the studio and days at the pub.”
“That’s not true.” Jack’s speech was slurred. He was sipping something amber from a glass. I traced my eyes along the counter, trying to find the source. An empty bottle of bourbon sat uncorked next to the sink. “We spend all our time together.”
“Sleeping together doesn’t count as spending time together.” I peered at him with my best wounded look, trying to appeal to the part of him I used to be able to manipulate so easily.
“I’m sorry.” He downed the remainder of his glass, placing it in the sink. “We can hang out tomorrow.”
“That’s what you always say. ”My skin was prickling, my ears began to burn. “Tomorrow there will be some other excuse.” I held onto the table. I was losing my grip.
“Why are you trying to start a fight right now?”
Outside, rain was coming down in heavy blasts. I watched the offbeat drips through the window, clinging to the rain gutters before falling to the ground. The neighbours’ wind chimes clinked together, jingling as if they were trying to score the scene. I hoisted myself up on the table and hiked up my dress, spreading my legs wide.
Jack shifted his focus between my legs. “You naughty little girl.”
I bit my lip. “If you stay, you can do whatever you want to me.”
He moved toward me, placing a hand on each of my knees. He shut my legs and kissed me. “I have to go. It’s work.”
I felt as if I’d been branded with a hot poker. I shoved him away and he stumbled backward.
“If you leave, don’t bother coming back.”
He didn’t say anything as he headed for the door.
“Jack?” I called desperately, holding back tears.
“What?” he snapped, flicking his hood over his head.
“Don’t go out the front door.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“You came in the back door,” I whispered, pointing in its direction. “It’s bad luck to leave through a different door than the one you—”
The door slammed. The floorboards vibrated under my feet. A whoosh of wind. He was already gone.