Shepley
I pulled into the covered parking spot next to America’s Honda and sighed. The steering wheel whined as my white knuckles twisted back and forth. The look on America’s face before, when I’d spoken without thinking, wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. If I said something stupid, anger would be evident in her eyes. But I hadn’t made her angry. This was worse. Without meaning to, I’d hurt her, cutting her deep.
We lived three buildings over from Travis and Abby. Our building was less college students and more young couples and small families. The parking lot was full, the other tenants already home and in bed.
America stepped out. The car door creaked as she pushed it closed. She walked to the sidewalk, no emotion on her face. I had learned to stay calm during an argument, but America was emotional, and any effort to mask her feelings was never a good thing.
Growing up with my cousins had turned out to be a great resource for handling someone as tenacious as America, but falling in love with a woman who was self-confident and strong sometimes required battling my own insecurities and weaknesses.
She waited for me to climb out of the Charger, and then we walked to our downstairs apartment together. She was quiet, and that only made me more nervous.
“I didn’t have time to do the dishes before I went over to Abby’s,” she said, walking into the kitchen. She rounded the breakfast bar and then froze.
“I did them before I went to pick up Travis.”
She didn’t turn around. “But I said I would do them.”
Shit. “It’s okay, baby. It didn’t take long.”
“Then I guess I should have had time to do them before I left.”
Shit! “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t mind.”
“I didn’t either, which is why I said I would do them.” She tossed her purse on the bar and disappeared down the hall.
I could hear her footsteps enter our room, and the bathroom door slammed.
I sat on the couch, covering my face with my hands. Our relationship hadn’t been great for the past few months. I wasn’t sure if it was because she wasn’t happy with living with me or if she wasn’t happy with me. Either way, it didn’t bode well for our future. There was nothing that terrified me more.
“Shep?” a small voice from the hallway called.
I turned, watching America step out from the darkness into the dim living room.
“You’re right. I’m overbearing, and I expect you to give me my way all the time. If you don’t, I throw a tantrum. I can’t keep doing this to you.”
My blood ran cold. When she sat beside me, I instinctively leaned away, afraid of the pain she would cause when she said the words I feared most. “Mare, I love you. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m sorry,” she began.
“Stop, damn it.”
“I’m going to be better,” she said, tears glistening in her eyes. “You don’t deserve that.”
“Wait. What?”
“You heard me,” she said, seeming embarrassed.
She disappeared back into the hall, and I stood, following her. I opened the door to our dark bedroom. Just a sliver of light bled from the bathroom, revealing the made bed and the side tables weighed down by gossip magazines, textbooks, and black-and-white pictures of us. America peeled off her clothes, one piece at a time, leaving each one like a pathway to the shower, before turning it on.
I imagined her standing outside the curtain, reaching in, the soft curves of her body shifting slowly with each movement. The crotch of my jeans instantly resisted against the bulge behind the denim. I reached down and readjusted, walking toward the door bordered with harsh florescent light.