Page 170 of Holiday Hire

"Apparently, you do, because you're talking in some poetic language that I can't understand," I insult.

She glares at me. "Don't act dumb."

"Then speak English," I snap, harsher than I should.

Hurt fills her expression. She blinks again, and her eyes turn watery.

"Don't cry," I say, meaning it sincerely, but it sounds nasty.

She rises and picks up the bowl and rag. She goes to the sink, tosses the water down the drain, then steps into the laundry room. She reappears without the rag and then leans against the wall, crossing her arms.

I don't say anything.

She continues to glare at me, which angers me further.

"I'm still waiting for you to tell me what you're so mad at me about besides hitting your boyfriend."

"Stop it! He's not my boyfriend," she claims.

"He seems to think he is," I repeat, knowing I'm digging myself deeper in the hole, but I can't stop. All I can see is that bastard waving her photo in front of everyone.

"This isn't going anywhere," she states.

I think she's talking about the conversation, so I reply, "I totally agree."

Sadness washes over her face. She swallows hard, then blinks and turns toward the window again, muttering, "Good to know."

"Exactly," I say, still thinking we're talking about our fight and not realizing she means something else.

More time passes. All I hear is the ticking of the clock.

I break the silence, upset with myself she saw me hit Lance. I know Phoebe hates violence. She's a teacher, after all. Plus, I'm frustrated we're fighting. I soften my tone, repeating, "You shouldn't have left when I told you to watch the boys."

She snaps, "Your mom was watching the boys. They're perfectly fine. You can dock me some pay if you want."

I shake my head. "Don't make this about money."

"I'm not making anything about money. Isn't that what you're insinuating, that I'm not doing my job?"

"I didn't say anything of the sort."

She huffs. "But didn't you? Is there anything else you want to get off your chest about how I perform my duties?"

I grind my molars.

She takes deep breaths, her chest rising and falling faster, not looking at me, continuing to stare out across the yard.

I don't know what to do. I want to turn back the clock to when we were painting and having fun—before she got those phone calls. Now that we're in this argument, I can't seem to find my way out of it.

I've never felt so helpless. I need to make this right, yet right now, I can't see straight.

She walks toward the door, announcing, "I'm going to go see how the boys are doing. You can punch me back on the clock."

"I didn't mean that, Phoebe."

She spins to face me. "Yeah, you did. In fact, I think you meant a lot of things that you said."

Tense silence builds between us once again.

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