David tosses his laptop bag on a chair, turns on his heel, and leaves. Chelsea knows that as his rage builds, he’ll hang up his clothes, put on his sweats, and stomp downstairs for a beer. That, at least, won’t be a disappointment. She got a case of his favorite local IPA, and he’ll most likely start guzzling them down like a dying man in a desert who’s just discovered water. The more he drinks, the angrier he’ll be. There should be dinner on the table. No dishes in the sink. The floor should be swept, not sandy and poopy. The counters should be spotless. The garage should be empty. His needs should be taken care of.
There are six empty bottles lined up on the counter when the movie ends and Chelsea and the girls wander into the kitchen. It’s past their bedtime, but right now Chelsea doesn’t care about that, either.
“They should be in bed,” David says, slurring a little.
“They’re on their way. Just one more cookie.” She reaches into the freezer and hands each of her daughters a Girl Scout cookie from his private stash, his last box. It’s a petty little fuck you, but it feels good.
“Go to bed!” he roars.
“But Mommy promised to read a story after we washed off our masks—” Brooklyn starts.
“Then she lied. It’s past bedtime, and you’ll do as you’re told!”
Brooklyn flinches away from him, hurt, and he smiles as if gratified to see that he still has that power over someone. As for Ella, she skulks away, out of range. She’s watching him so carefully, and Chelsea can’t blame her. Before David can yell again, Ella herds her little sister up the stairs and out of sight, shushing her every time she tries to protest. If this is going to work, Chelsea has to get on with it, while they’re still awake and alert.
She saunters over and leans back against the counter, right in that corner where David himself generally holds court. She’s not even looking at him—she’s casually reading the cookie box. His cookie box. While she chews a cookie.
His cookie.
“What the hell has gotten into you?” he asks, voice low and deadly.
She looks up, and he scrutinizes her face, now free of the green mud, probably checking to reassure himself that he got his money’s worth out of the Botox party. Does he even notice the way she’s staring at him, defiant and angry? It’s been years since she dared to challenge him.
“Nothing.” She smiles. “What’s gotten into you?”
And then she shoves another cookie in her mouth.
“Goddammit, those are mine! You know that!”
Relishing every second, she swallows and rolls her eyes at him.
David throws the beer bottle across the room, where it crashes against the cabinet and shatters. Glass rains down, frothy golden beer spilling over his precious granite countertops. Chelsea goes very still, breathing hard, her eyes pinned on him, artificially wide and innocent. Goading.
“I’m just eating a cookie, David. Why are you being so violent?”
He slaps the box to the ground and grabs her throat in one hand, his thick fingers digging in as he shoves her head back. Her heart ratchets up with excitement and fear, and she follows his lead. She’s just barely tall enough for her head to crack dully against the cabinets, the counter a hard line against her spine. She grabs for his wrist and forearm, scrabbling at him, but it’s like fighting a monster, all muscle and bone and primal rage. He’s got an erection now, the absolute asshole, and he presses it against her, a threat and a promise. Her eyes drill into his, unblinking, radiating hate.
“You did this, Chel, not me.” He pinches with thumb and fingers, pressing in on her trachea, making her gasp. “It’s like you want to make me mad.”
She tries to shake her head back and forth and can only manage vibration. She’s fighting it now, fighting the strangle and the choke, pulling at his arm, trying to get the breath she needs. Her fingers are wrapped around his wrist, trying in vain to pull him away. And then she kicks him with a bare foot, jamming her toes into his shin, freshly painted blood-red nails slicing divots, and he jerks her neck sideways, making her head bounce around.
With frantic suddenness, he lets go, and she drops, barely catching herself, clutching the counter behind her for dear life.
Her hand rises to her throat, her fingertips brushing the aching bruises there with tentative curiosity. She wishes for a mirror, for confirmation. She looks to the stairs, quickly, and sees two shadows watching.
“That was…” she starts but doesn’t finish, her voice raspy.
“Just don’t make me do it again.”
He turns back to the fridge for another beer, but what she says next stops his hand in midair.
“I don’t make you do anything. You’re an adult, David. You’re responsible for everything you do, including abusing your wife.”
He turns back to her slowly, bares his teeth and growls a warning. She bolsters herself against the counter, unsure if she can stand on her own, shaking as hard as she is. Adrenaline pumps through her, urging her to flee or freeze, but for once she’s doing something different. For once, she meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.
“What did you just say?” he whispers.
“Wife beater,” she hisses. “Coward.” She pauses, sneers. “Pussy.”
It’s like a red curtain comes down in front of his eyes, like any vestige of humanity is tucked away, and David’s fist shoots out of its own accord, thudding into her chest, just over her heart. She hears herself make a sound like a dying bird, a squealing, animal gasp.
“You done yet?” he asks, a taunt. “You got anything else you need to say t’me?”
She stands tall, one hand to what she knows will be a nasty bruise, as if she’s pledging to the flag. “I always knew one day choking me unconscious wouldn’t be enough. That you’d turn to fists like a dumb brute.”
This time it’s not a fist that strikes her but an open hand, a hard slap to her cheek. She wasn’t expecting it, and it rocks her head sideways. Brooklyn’s gasp is audible from the stairs. Chelsea spins and catches herself on the counter, her back to him. Her brain rattles in her skull, a flash of copper on her tongue making her wonder if she cut her own mouth on a tooth.
Still she turns back to face him and straightens with painful effort.
“Bully. Monster. Asshole. Pathetic.” She enunciates each word. She looks him in the eye. She wants him to know that she means it.
When he hits her this time, she sees it coming but can’t dodge fast enough. It’s a fist to the jaw, just like in an action movie. She cries out and staggers away, and blood fills her mouth, and when she looks back, he’s inspecting his knuckles.
He’s more worried about his own pain than hers.
Glaring at her, he shakes his hand as if he’s just taken out the trash.
“This is your fault,” he warns her. “I don’t want to do this.”
“Funny how you keep doing it, then. Hitting someone half your size. Big hero, there. Your mother would be proud.” She sputters a little cough, and glittering red spatters the chest of her sleep shirt. She doesn’t bother to wipe it away. She’s going to see this through to the end.