Page 30 of Unexpected

He knew which final it was—women writers—he just didn’t think it was an actual class. I recall a moment when he told me if there was a class about women writers, then there should be a mandatory class about men writers. I didn’t argue the topic then, but sometimes I wish I had. Maybe I would have learned the truth sooner if I had.

I don’t interrupt him now, either.

“... and I thought to myself, ‘I’m going to marry this woman.’ So, I told you right then, in the middle of the silent library, that I wanted to marry you…”

He proclaimed his intentions so loudly that there were a few gasps and several hushed shushes throughout the floor. We had discussed the topic before but not at length until that day.

“... I couldn’t hold back anymore. I knew I wanted to marry you from the moment I saw you at orientation before freshman year. You seemed so different than the girl I’d grown up with. Then you told me, ‘I want to marry you, too.’ That was one of the best days of my entire life…”

If only I had known then what I did now, sitting on the couch under his dominating, constricting hold.

“... then do you remember what we talked about?”

I nodded as I tried to simultaneously push the memory away. We were so damn happy. I was deliriously happy to know that the boy I had loved so fully, that had turned into a gorgeous, charming man, wanted me.

Not once during this entire story did Michael’s eyes move from my own. He knew he had a powerful pull over me. He would look at me with a fondness I didn’t usually see and drag us back to those happy times and try to conjure those feelings once again. He would use it to erase all the bad and start fresh with the old feelings leading the way.

Except it was temporary every time. Every single time we would revert to our new normal. A normal that didn’t include abundant happiness and jaded hope for the future.

He brushed a few pieces of hair that had fallen into my face behind my ear and cupped my cheek. “We talked about what we wanted from the future and what that would look like. We agreed that we wanted a big house with three kids and a backyard for a dog. We wanted barbecues in the summer and a pool. We dreamed up our own happily ever after, and I’m trying to make that a reality for us.”

I finally pulled my eyes from his, but he used his grip on my face to pull them back once again. Like he always did.

“I don’t want anything to stand in our way of having what we want. That’s why I do what I do,” he finished and searched my eyes for my understanding.

“You forgot one thing,” I said before I could even think about the words. They just tumbled out of my mouth like I was going to die unless I said it.

When he didn’t respond, only continued searching my eyes and raised his eyebrows like he was curious about what I had to say, I said, “Our vision for our future included happiness, but I don’t think you’re happy with me anymore.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth and his jaw ticced. A new sheen of sweat covered his forehead and just under his nose as his lip quirked up on one side. “What makes you say that, baby?”

The question was a test. It was a test I had grown ever more familiar with, and it was a test I had begun to fail more and more. It was also a side effect of our new normal.

When I didn’t respond immediately, the tips of his fingers dug into my cheek and my lip, where he held my face. His opposite hand was still wrapped around my much too boney hip, and its grip also tightened. He hated it when I went quiet, especially when he expected an answer.

A small yelp escaped through my clenched teeth and my eyes widened when I caught the small upturn of his lips. My pain was his pleasure.

“Tell me, baby…” His voice was low. “Why don’t you think I’m happy?” As he spoke, he used his thumb to pull down my jaw and aggressively rub my lower lip.

Worried that he’d inflict more pain, I said, “You don’t act like you’re happy with me.”

I failed the test. I failed it miserably, and I knew I had when his smile widened and his hand flexed around my jaw. He inched closer, sweat dripping from his forehead down his cheek and through his short stubble at his chin.

I tried not to react to his proximity and the rage and excitement billowing off him, but I knew he could feel my rapidly building pulse underneath the pressure of his fingers.

“Baby, if I’m not happy, then that’s your fault,” he said simply.

I didn’t believe that. I was the best fiancé I could be. I was understanding, doted on him, and gave it up every time he asked. I couldn’t be the problem. I knew I wasn’t. Each breath I took before responding resulted in his grasp tightening.

“No.” I knew he was wrong and that I couldn’t be the reason for his unhappiness. It couldn’t be my fault when I tried to be perfect for him, but as his hand pulled back, I knew he didn’t agree.

I think I heard the impact of his palm against my cheek before I felt the sting of the slap. My head whipped to the right, but I didn’t have time to recover as he wrapped his fingers around my jaw and yanked me closer to him. His hand was a flame against my sensitive skin.

Our faces were only an inch apart, and he was seething between clenched teeth. “If I’m unhappy, then it’s your fault, Hazel. And you damn well fucking know it.”

He released me with a push but didn’t pull back. The cushion behind me had slid down a little and my head hit the hard back of the couch. The sting of my cheek and now the dull ache in the back of my head were painful yet not unusual.

I thought he’d be done, that he made his point that I was the problem, but he didn’t leave. I thought he’d get up, look at me with disgust in his eyes and make himself another drink. I’d then apologize profusely and try to mend the broken situation before it broke us. After I’d taken the blame for everything, he’d agree to give me another chance.

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