I tossed and turned all night until sleep took me over without me realizing.
I turn over to look over at him. His back is toward me. He hasn’t said a word to me. My pulse pounds in my ears from the lack of sleep or the anger that’s rising inside of me.
“Zay!”
“Hmmm.”
“It’s six in the morning and you’re just coming home?” I ask, still staring at his back.
“Yeah. Lost track of time.”
“Did you not get my phone calls or text messages?”
Soft snores escape him, as if he’s unbothered, as if nothing is wrong. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that he didn’t even bother to come up with an excuse or the audacity of him falling asleep like he didn’t just spend the entire night ignoring me. This isn’t like him. He’s never done this before. A sharp mix of anger, disbelief, and hurt rises inside me, tightening like a knot in my chest. I let out a slow breath, then I press my hand against his back and give him a slight shove.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? I was up all night worried about you, and you couldn’t have the decency to call me back?”
Again, silence.
“Zay!” I yell. I sit up and scoot a little closer to him. I’m sick of being the one that keeps quiet so we don’t argue.
My words catch beneath my breath, and for a moment, I think maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe it’s nothing. There is a scent lingering around. I take a sniff.
I pull my pajama shirt up to my nose and sniff harder. My heart sinks. That smell is not from me. I lean down closer to Zayn and sniff again. A sweet smell is coming from him. Not any sweet smell. A sweet scent that smells like a woman’s perfume. I grab his shirt and bring it to my nose. The scent lingers on his shirt.
“What are you doing?” he says, turning over to face me.
My chest tightens. “Who the fuck were you with?”
He sits up and pulls his shirt out of my clenched hand. “What are you talking about?”
“You smell like a woman’s perfume!” I yell.
His body stills for the briefest moment before he turns to me, his expression unreadable.
I swallow the lump in my throat, forcing myself to hold his gaze. I shake my head, scooting closer to him, searching his face for any guilt, any sign of something, anything.
My voice is sharp. “Who were you with?”
His jaw tightens. “What are you talking about?” His tone is shaky. “It’s probably yours.”
“How would it be mine? I wasn’t with you all night.”
My mind races as my gaze sweeps over him, looking for any traces of another woman. I search his face, neck, and every inch of his shirt for lipstick stains or any other sign that he was with a woman last night. My throat tightens, becoming a thick, unshakable lump.
“You know your perfume gets on my clothes.”
“How?”
He gets up from the bed. “Your perfumes is in our closet. When you spray it.” He reenacts me spraying my perfume on myself. “It gets on my clothes. I smell your perfume on me all the time.”
“I’ve never smelled my perfume on you.”
He slumps his shoulders. “I don’t know what to tell you then. I can smell it all the time.”
It feels like I blinked, and he’s someone I don’t recognize. The way he is looking at me is something I can’t explain, but it makes me feel like I’m a burden to him. He doesn’t speak to me the same as he used to either. His words are shorter with me, short and clipped.
