Written in the Scars(6)

I can feel the heat of his kiss lingering on my lips, even nearly seven years later, as my heart rapid-fires in my chest. He always let me have what I wanted, always made me feel like the only person in the world that mattered.

How did things go so terribly wrong?

The room feels empty, so barren, even with the knickknacks sitting on the counters and the dishes from last night’s dinner in the sink. It’s my home, but it doesn’t feel comforting. There’s no contentment to be found here.

It’s been this way since he left. Even though I’ve purged the room of all of his physical belongings because I can’t look at them without wanting to curl up in a ball and die, that or throw them into the fire pit out back and burn them to ashes, the little nuances of him still exist and still hit me at hard.

The oil stain on the floor beside the door is still there, a tarry looking spot made by his mine boots lying there after a shift. No amount of cleaner will remove it. I’ve tried them all.

The little basket that hangs under the cabinets is now filled with ink pens and highlighters, not for any reason other than to take the place of Ty’s keys and gum packets. Even though it’s technically not empty now, it feels that way. Because what’s in it isn’t what should be.

His face from only an hour ago pops in my mind, and I squeeze my eyes shut, like somehow that will make it go away. Like the action will barricade his rich, warm voice from echoing in my ears.

The door creaks again and I jump, my eyes jerking to the door, my breath automatically ceasing. I watch and wait for it to swing open, for a knock, for a certain voice to call through the air. Because only two people use that door. Me and Ty.

The wind rattles the glass against the wood and my hopes dash.

“Damn it, Elin,” I mutter, my spirits sinking faster than I can gather them. I don’t miss the defeat in my shoulders or the squiggle in my bottom lip as I glance into the living room. The little hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I stare at the back of the empty sofa.

“Guess what happened to me today?” I saunter around the sofa and stand with my hands on my hips, trying not to melt down. He looks at me again. “I went to the bank to take some money out of the savings to pay the house insurance.”

His face slips just a bit, the corners of his mouth dropping ever-so-slightly. Forcing a swallow, I suck in a breath and continue.

“There’s over a grand missing from our account.”

I watch him with bated breath, hoping to see him startle or confusion cross his features. He doesn’t look at me. He just watches the television like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“Ty?”

“Yeah?” His jaw is set, flexing under his grimace. “I took some cash. What’s the problem?”

“What’s the problem?” I exclaim, my head spinning. “It’s a thousand dollars! It’s the money to start our family! What did you do with it?”

He swings off the sofa, cringing as his weight settles on his leg. “It’s my f*ckin’ money too, Elin. I don’t have to explain shit to you.”

“If it were twenty or fifty bucks—hell, if it was a hundred dollars—I’d agree.”

Our heated gazes meet. Mine in disbelief, his in some state of defense that I don’t understand.

I think back on the past few weeks and a chill slowly twists itself through my body.

The hours he goes missing. The sudden secretiveness of his phone. The hushed conversations, the distance he’s put between us. The fights we have that start over nothing and the more than willingness on his part to sleep on the couch. My stomach hits the floor, my knees wobbling.

“Ty?” I ask, my voice shaking. “What did you do with that money?”

“It’s none of your damn business.” Although his eyes blaze, his tone is more uncertain now as the words drop, weighted with insinuations.

He stands, babying the leg that was hurt when a wall burst in the mine and snapped his fibula. He hasn’t been the same since—physically or mentally. It’s put a strain on our marriage as I’ve tried to keep up with him emotionally and financially.

“Ty?” I choke out.

He seems to understand my suggestion without me saying it, and I’m glad. I don’t think I could ask him out loud if he was planning on leaving me, if he had another woman somewhere waiting on him. I couldn’t handle that. I don’t care how bad things have been. I can’t stomach an affair. The thought alone sends bitter bile creeping up my throat.

“If that’s true,” I say, squeezing the words past the lump in my throat,“then get out.”

“Oh, you’re throwing me out now?” he asks, his voice rising. “Is that how it works?”

“Were you f*cking around on me?” I cry.

“Was I f*cking around on you?” he huffs. “Are you serious? What, you think maybe I wanted to have sex that wasn’t dictated by a calendar and thermometer?”

The laugh in his tone, the mockery he’s making of our attempt to have a baby incites me.

“Fuck you,” I say.

“I’d love to, but we haven’t checked the date yet,” he says, amping himself up.

“How dare you! How dare you throw that in my face!” I shout, tears stinging my eyes.

“A spade’s a spade, E.”