Page 11 of Weather the Storm
“Not the point,” he yells as he slams my face into the solid marble countertop. At the feeling of my head bouncing off the cold, rock-hard surface, I lose the fight, my sobs falling freely, pissing him off more. “I didn’t have to even come home, but I did. I made time for you, and this is the thanks I get? You should be able to anticipate my needs by now. I don’t know why I even married you. Useless.” He releases me, and I fall to the floor. “I’m going out. Clean up this mess.” He punctuates his words with a hard kick to my abdomen before turning and storming out of the house.
My pulse is racing as the memory fades, my breathing erratic and choppy. It seems like every time I take one step forward, I take five back. The very fact that I was comfortable sleeping in Simon’s home was a milestone, yet now, here I am cowering, strolling down bad memory lane.
“You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.” I whisper the words aloud, letting them wash over me and sink into my skin. “Simon wouldn’t hurt you. He’s not Grant. He’s not, he’s not, he’s not.” I repeat to myself that I’m safe here and Simon would never hurt me until my eyes drift closed and I fall asleep.
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I must have slept way longer than I thought, because when I wake, it’s pitch black in the room, save for the slight hazy light filtering in through the cracks in the blinds. Sitting up in bed, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and listen for any signs of Simon moving about.
Satisfied when my ears are met with silence, I slide from under the covers and pad out to the living room to retrieve my phone…only, it’s not on the coffee table where I left it.Huh. Wonder where it is.
Changing course, I head into the kitchen to check the time. The digital display on the microwave tells me it’s just past five thirty in the morning.Did I really sleep that long?
I flip on the light and sure enough, my phone is plugged into the charger on the counter. I guess Simon must have moved it for me. With that mystery solved, I start a pot of coffee, and begin rummaging through Simon’s fridge to see what I can whip up for breakfast. I’m starved, which makes sense seeing as I went to bed without lunch or dinner. Luckily, it looks like he has all the makings for Southwestern omelets.
After whipping the eggs until they’re perfectly frothy, I pour half the mixture into the sizzling hot buttered skillet. I sprinkle a generous handful of cheese over the eggs, along with two spoonfuls of salsa and fresh cilantro leaves. I fold my omelet as I slide it from the pan to the plate, set it aside, and immediately set to work making Simon’s.
I manage to plate it just as he shuffles into the kitchen. He watches, his eyes trained on me like a hawk circling its prey. Quickly, I grab his plate, along with a fork, and rush it over to the dining table.
“What’s all this?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep.
“Breakfast.” I paint a hopeful smile across my lips.
“I can see that,” Simon states plainly, still not moving toward the table.
“Aren’t you going to eat? Do you not like omelets? I…I can make something else. J-just tell me what you want.” My hands begin to tremble as I worry that I’ve upset him again.
“I like omelets just fine, Magnolia. What I’m trying to figure out is why you’re up before the sun making me breakfast.”
“I was…I was up, and figured you to be an early riser, what with you teaching and all. So, yeah…” I trail off, watching as he lowers himself into his chair. I dip my head when he picks up his fork and scoops up a bite, and I only blush a little when the fork disappears between his full lips.
“It’s delicious.” I watch as he forks more into his mouth.
Pleased by his comments, I go about filling the sink with water to scrub the dishes I’ve dirtied, but Simon calling out stops me. “Aren’t you gonna join me?”
“I need to clean up this mess. A clean kitchen is a happy kitchen.” I recite those words more from memory than belief, words Grant basically beat into me.
I cringe at the sound of Simon pushing his chair back from the table and start to shake when I feel him come up behind me. “What are you doing?” he asks, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck.
“Cleaning.”
“Once again, I can see that. What I mean is, why aren’t you eating with me?”
“Because I need to—”
Simon cuts me off. “Clean, I know, you’ve mentioned that, but here’s the thing, Goldilocks: you cooked for me, so I’ll be doing the cleaning, and I’m sure as shit not going to sit at the table and eat the food you made me while you let yours get cold because you’re washin’ the dishes.”
With his hands on my shoulders, Simon guides me around to face him. I stand stock-still as he reaches past me and snatches my plate off the counter. “Now, let’sbothgo have a seat and enjoy this delicious breakfast you made us, and when we’re finished,I’lldo the dishes.”
“Okay,” I agree, not wanting to upset him.
“Good girl, now go have a seat.” I make to take my plate from him, but he holds it up out of my reach. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, almost as if talking to a child. “You go. I’ve got your food, and I’ll pour your coffee.”
Resigned, I situate myself in the chair across from his, fidgeting and fighting the urge to finish cleaning. If I’d ever joined Grant at the table with dishes in the sink, he would’ve… I shudder to even think about it.
The clink of my plate against the wood of the table shakes me out of my thoughts, and two seconds later, a steaming mug of coffee is placed next to it. “Thank you,” I say, keeping my eyes on my plate.
“You’re very welcome.” He sits and scoots his chair toward the table, and then we both begin eating. “Got two things I want to say. First, I’m sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. I was out of line, and I’d like to explain myself, if you’ll allow it.” I nod between bites, and he continues. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just upset when I saw your apartment. The thought of you living there and not being safe made me a little crazy—don’t ask me why, because I’m not entirely sure I can explain it, but, Magnolia,pleasestay here, at least until we can find somewhere better for you.”
