Page 79 of Caught A Vibe

“I didn’t see you come in!”

“So I gathered,” I say as I turn to grab paper towels in the kitchen. I blot the stain ineffectually before stripping to the waist so I can pre-treat the stain and get it right into a delicate cycle. It soaked through to my bra, so I take that off too.

“Are you okay? Did it burn?” Dash tries to stop me as I stalk into the bedroom to grab a new shirt and a different bra, so he can inspect my bared skin.

But I’m so frustrated, I’m not having it. I don’t need another obstacle this morning. I need support. I need something, anything to go right.

The fact that my bra won’t match my underwear is irrationally irritating.

Everything is irritating this morning. It’s going to be one of those days. I can feel it. I just have to start it so I can get through it. “I’m fine,” I mutter tightly, not wanting to unleash the temper simmering just below the surface.

I rush past him again so I can finish getting the laundry in before my call. When I open the washer to find a funky-smelling load of towels still sitting inside, my last thread of patience snaps. The walls start closing in on me, and rage and panic form a toxic sludge in my throat, ready to flow when I open my mouth. Every failure, every set-back, every loss presses against my brain, telling me I’m not good enough to succeed, and I refuse to hear it. I can’t hear it or I’ll lose myself. And when caught between losing myself or someone else, my self-preservation instinct kicks in hard. Pushing Dash away is the only logical conclusion. My heart tries to step in and protest, but I can’t afford to listen to that bitch right now. She’s the one who got me in this mess. And the bees in my head are buzzing so loudly I can’t hear her anyway.

“How am I supposed to do this?”

“Do what?” Dash asks warily.

“Function in a space that is falling apart at the seams? I can’t be a badass boss bitch if I’m constantly distracted and having to clean up after you!”

“You don’t have to clean up after me,” he says quietly, not meeting my eyes.

“Apparently I do,” I say, swinging my arms wildly. All of my frustrated rage comes flooding out. “Food on the counters, dishes in the sink, stinky laundry in the wash. If the kitchen is going to be my office, I need it to be tidy. I can’t work with your stale beer and bags of chips all over my desk. And yet this is what I walked into this morning!”

I shove the bag of chips into his hands forcefully, spilling some on the ground.Great. Fucking perfect. Something else to take care of.I let loose a growl from the back of my throat and my temper revels in the loss of control. I’ve kept it on such a tight leash for so long, refusing to lose control. Now that leash has snapped, and my anger is running free and wild, trampling everything in its path.

“You’re sure you’re not burned?” he asks quietly.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Go get ready. I’ll take care of this.” He takes the damp clothes from my death grip, and turns away, eyes on the ground.

Damn it.

I’d kept my frustrations over work and the pandemic and our relationship bottled up inside me, like a can of soda left in the trunk, shaking and bouncing against every turn and bump. Now, even letting a little pressure out triggered an explosion.

I’ll fix it later, but I’m due on camera in five minutes, I’m pissed off, and I haven’t managed more than a sip of coffee. How can I be living with someone twenty-four hours a day and never have a good time for a conversation?

Back in my bedroom, I take a moment to center myself in front of my mirror. Deep breath in, deep breath out. “I can do this. Today is not the day I fail. I can overcome any obstacle in my path.” I look into my reflected eyes and nod.I can do this.

Slicking on fresh lipstick, I whirl back into the kitchen, ready to work. The washer and dryer are running and the dishes are rinsed and stacked in the dishwasher. Counters have been wiped down and food put away. A fresh, hot mug of coffee sits next to my laptop.

I breathe a sigh of relief. My entire body feels calmer in this clean and functioning space.

Five minutes. It had taken him less than five minutes to get things tidy. Why can’t he do that without me having to blow up at him?

“I didn’t want to start the dishwasher too. Figured it would be too noisy. And I will rewash the towels when they come out of the dryer.” His voice is still low and devoid of emotion. Maybe he needs some time before we broach this conversation as well.

“Were you up all night?” I ask.

“Yeah, I powered through my deadline and was still wide-awake at two a.m. I peeked in, and you were sound asleep and Callie had claimed my pillow. So I came out and started a new game that I got pitched for a freelance review. It’s really good, and I got caught up.” He fiddles with the pen is his hand, rolling it back and forth across his knuckles.

“You should go take a nap this morning. You look exhausted.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

He leaves the kitchen without another word. No “have a great day,” or “you’ve got this.” No kiss on my head or cheek or lips. No acknowledgment of the blowup we just had.

It bothers me, but I don’t have time to hash it out right now.

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