I stared at Richard’s number for almost five minutes.
We had been divorced for eleven years. We spoke from time to time. Birthdays. Holidays. Family emergencies. Nothing beyond that.
I hated the thought of calling him.
But I hated what had just happened even more.
Finally, I pressed dial.
He answered on the third ring.
“Rebecca?”
His voice was thick with sleep.
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
Then I forced the words through the lump in my throat.
“Brandon hit me.”
Silence.
Total silence.
For several seconds, all I could hear was his breathing.
Then his voice came back.
Calm.
Controlled.
Dangerously calm.
“I’m coming.”
The call ended.
I did not sleep.
Instead, I cleaned.
I cooked.
I thought.
By four in the morning, bacon was sizzling in a skillet. Eggs were staying warm in the oven. Fresh biscuits cooled on the counter. Coffee filled the kitchen with a rich, dark smell.
I took the embroidered tablecloth from the hall closet.
The expensive one.
The one saved for holidays and special occasions.
I polished the silverware.
Set the plates.
Folded the napkins.
Everything looked perfect.
Because this was a special occasion.
Not a celebration.
A turning point.
Just before six, headlights crossed the front windows.
Richard had arrived.
His hair was grayer now. His shoulders seemed broader. His expression was harder.
He stepped inside carrying a leather folder.
One look at my face told him everything.
His jaw tightened.
“Where is he?”
“Upstairs.”
“Asleep?”
I nodded.
