Ithink we were standing outside the back door, out by the white pickup under the Big Dipper, when I turned and said it.
Said I hated him.
The dark can make you brave.
Or a fool.
But when you’re twenty-two and think you know everything, panic can tear up your chest like this howl that has to rip free.
“I hate it when you stand there all quiet.”
He kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, drives his hands deep into his Wranglers. Does he hear me at all?
“Hate how you just pull away. Hate how you always think I’m the problem and it’s never you. Hate it, hate it — hate y…”
There. There it is, spewn sick over everything. And the moment that ugliness wrenches free, I feel released — and wretched. Ill.
I want to fling that wedding band encircling my finger and everything. And I want to somehow hold on tight.
I want him to hold me tight.
He turns his back.