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SEVEN

BOB MILLER

My house doesn’t feel like home anymore, and that’s probably because I’m not welcome here—even when I come bearing gifts like the bouquet of red roses clenched in my left hand. The seat at the head of the kitchen table as well as the recliner in the living room are no longer inviting. I shake my head in dismay, noticing that Sarah’s taken down all the photos I was in, replacing them with ones of Summer or ones with Sarah and Summer together. My footsteps echo like they’re taunting me as I walk to the big bay window that overlooks the lake. This view used to bring me peace, but now I don’t know what it brings me. With no wind today, the water looks like a sheet of glass, fragile enough to shatter if I just dipped a finger into it. The clouds are dark and heavy, almost ready to fall apart. I could say the same for myself. First, my marriage. Then, these clouds. And then me.

They should be home any minute, and I’m sure my wife won’t be pleased to find me here, but my daughter will. Sarah and I agreed to keep up appearances for Summer’s sake, at least until everything’s settled. For Sarah, that means divorce and going our separate ways—that’s what she tells me. For me, that means fighting for our marriage.

A sharp pain radiates in the palm of my hand. I wince, realizing I’ve clutched the thorny stems too tightly, and switch the flowers to my other hand. A drop of bright-red blood seeps from the wound. Bringing it to my mouth, I suck on it until the bleeding subsides. This is the fourteenth bouquet of roses I’ve brought Sarah. She does the same thing with them every time, but I hold on to the hope that one of these days she’s going to trim the stems and place them in a vase full of water.

The front door opens, and Summer sprints through the house, straight down the hall toward her bedroom, without even noticing me. A moment later, my wife appears, carrying a bag of groceries.

I move quickly, attempting to take the bag, but she refuses, tightening her grip on the handles and jerking away. “I don’t need your help, Bob.”

Sarah’s favorite conflict style is a full-on attack, but her second favorite is obstinance, which I find to be extremely annoying. She thinks if she allows me to help her, then she’s caving and her anger is subsiding. So, she won’t accept anything from me—not a gift, a helping hand, a compliment, a suggestion, nothing.

Kill her with kindness , I remind myself as I force a smile and extend the flowers to her. “These are for you.”

Sarah rolls her eyes and begrudgingly takes them. Maybe this is the day, the day they get fitted for a vase. She sets the groceries and her purse on the counter and moves around the island. I think she’s heading for the sink and that they’re finally going to get trimmed, watered, and rehomed. But no, she stops right in front of the trash and presses the toe of her stiletto against the garbage can lever. The lid pops open, and she tosses the bouquet into the bin, smashing the flowers down to make a show of it.

I can’t help but sigh in frustration as I unpack the groceries. They’re mostly ingredients for what I assume will be tonight’s family dinner, spaghetti and meatballs, which she knows I hate. And I’m sure that’s the exact reason she chose it. Sarah fills a pot with water and places it on the stove, sprinkling a palmful of salt into it.

“Can we talk?” I ask.

“We probably shouldn’t without our lawyers present,” Sarah says, igniting the burner.

“Don’t give me that. We are lawyers. They’re just there to make sure we don’t kill each other.”

She swivels her head in my direction, raising a brow at my choice of wording. Other than that, she doesn’t react. At the island, Sarah pulls a large kitchen knife from the butcher block. The globe pendant lights above the counter catch the blade, making it gleam.

I exhale, letting the air out of my puffed-up chest, and lower my shoulders to present a calmer demeanor. The macho-tough-guy act has never worked on Sarah. If anything, it only further pisses her off—which is the last thing I need if I’m ever going to make this work.

With a cutting board and knife in hand, Sarah gives an ahem —her passive-aggressive method of telling me to get the hell out of her way. I step aside, giving her the space she demands.

“I just want to talk,” I say, leaning against the counter opposite her.

She sets an onion on the chopping block and readies her knife. The blade slices through it with ease, thudding against the wood.

“You never even let me explain,” I add, trying to get her to talk to me.

Sarah rocks the blade back and forth, quickly dicing the onion. She meets my gaze, wearing an expression so tense, it appears she’s made of stone. The knife continues to slap against the cutting board, growing louder as she puts more force behind each chop.

“That’s because there’s nothing to explain.” Her voice is emotionless, like she’s reading from a legal document rather than discussing our broken marriage.

“Yes, there is.”

“Like what, Bob?” She tilts her head. “Aside from you calling it an ‘accident,’ what other explanation do you have for fucking some girl in a hotel room?”

I let out a deep sigh and move toward the island so I’m standing straight across from her, staring into her hardened eyes. “It was a mistake, the biggest one I’ve ever made, and I swear it didn’t mean anything. You are the only one that matters. It was a big night for me, and I was wasted. I don’t know what happened. One moment, I was giving a speech, and the next, well... I don’t remember, and I don’t remember her either.”

“Is your lack of memory supposed to comfort me?” The onion has practically turned to mush due to her incessant hacking, but she keeps going anyway. I’m sure she’s picturing me under that knife—or some delicate part of me.

“No, not at all. I’m just saying that it... won’t ever happen again, ever .” I lean over the counter, reducing the space between us, hoping my proximity will break through to some small understanding part of the emotionless statue before me.

“You’re right about that, Bob, because you can’t cheat on an ex-wife.”

“Sarah, come on.” I reach my hand out for hers, but she jerks away, and the knife slashes across my palm. Blood oozes from the fresh cut, and I clench my fist, yelling, “Jesus, fuck.”

“Sorry,” she says coolly. “It was an accident.” There’s no sincerity in her voice, and the faintest smile settles on her face.

She puts the knife down on the cutting board and plucks a hand towel from the drawer beside her, extending it to me. “Make sure you wipe up all your blood.”

I hesitate for a moment, my eyes locking on her. They say there’s no difference between a scorned woman and the devil himself, and I believe it—because I can’t tell which one I’m looking at.

I take it from her and mumble, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” she mocks.

Sarah continues with dinner prep like nothing happened while I wipe up the drops of blood from the counter and tightly wrap the towel around my hand. She grabs a frying pan from the cupboard and places it on the stove, turning on another burner. It clicks several times before an open flame dances beneath the pan, licking at the metal. I need to keep her talking because if we talk, maybe we can find our way back to one another.

“Please don’t be so rash. When you found out what... happened, you didn’t even confront me. You didn’t question me. You didn’t yell at me. We didn’t have a single conversation about it. You just quietly filed for divorce. Come on! Who does that?”

“I do,” she says, adding a drizzle of olive oil to the pan, followed by the mushy onions.

“We have a daughter. I know you’re pissed at me but think about Summer.”

Sarah sifts through the spice cabinet, collecting an array of seasonings. “That’s exactly who I am thinking about and why I filed for divorce rather than taking some other course of action.”

My wife only has two forms of aggression—passive and completely and utterly destructive. I guess I should feel lucky that she’s chosen to use the former since she can’t stop reminding me of that. Her reflection in the microwave mounted above the stovetop is a warped version of the woman I know. Maybe it’s who she’s always been, but I just can’t believe that.

“I’m not giving up that easily,” I say, squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin to convey my fortitude.

Sarah sprinkles thyme onto the simmering onions, then turns to face me. She angles her head in a condescending manner. “Eventually, you will.”

“Mom, Dad!” Summer calls out as she barrels into the kitchen, dressed in a one-piece swimsuit and a pair of shorts. She’s slender with long blond hair and bright-green eyes, and she looks more and more like her mother every day. I just hope her appearance is the only attribute she takes after Sarah.

Our attention goes to our nine-year-old daughter, the one thing tethering Sarah and me to each other. And perhaps the only reason my wife slashed me with the knife instead of completely gutting me.

“Can I please, please, please go swimming?” she begs.

The water boils over, hissing and simmering against the hot stovetop.

“Shit,” Sarah groans. She quickly tends to it, reducing the heat on the burner and laying a wooden spoon across the pot to dispel the rising foam.

“That’s a bad word, Mom,” Summer teases. “You’re not supposed to say bad words.”

“I know, sweetie. Sometimes adults accidentally do things they’re not supposed to do,” she says, briefly glaring at me. “Dinner will be ready soon, and your father hurt himself, so why don’t you help him set the table.”

Summer gives me a sad look when she sees the bloody towel wrapped around my hand. “Dad, you’re bleeding. What happened?”

“I slipped up,” I say, my eyes darting between my wife and my daughter.

Sarah pays me no mind, busying herself with dinner prep, while Summer tries to get a better look at my injury. I unwrap the towel, revealing the bloody slash across my palm, two or so inches in length.

“That’s gnarly, Dad,” she says with a mix of intrigue and disgust. “You need a Band-Aid. No, more like five of them. I’ll get the first aid kit.” Before she even finishes her sentence, Summer’s already bolting toward the hall.

“At least someone in this house still loves me,” I say, hoping my wife will admit that she still cares about me, but she doesn’t. Sarah adds premade meatballs one at a time to the frying pan, pretending like I’m not even in the room.