Apricot Glazed Chicken with a Side of Frustration

I hovered over the kitchen sink, scrubbing an egg-crusted breakfast dish with unjustified vigor. He’d called an hour ago, insisting he was walking out the door to head home.

On a slow, driving Ms. Daisy kind of day it took me fifteen minutes to get home from the office. My husband believed in obeying the speed limit, so his drive home took a reasonable twenty-five minutes.

Magic punched my chest as he finally drove through the protective wards surrounding the family property. I scowled at the sudsy water in the dish-free sink. The magical barrier felt clunky, so I made a mental note to reinforce it over the weekend.

Yet again, my husband and I didn’t exactly have any plans for our two days of freedom.

 I listened to the metallic clank of the garage door opening and a moment later Bjorn strolled in through the mudroom, his ever-present cell phone pressed against his ear. Given his growling, yet another business-related problem had reared its ugly head.

“Just make the call, Philip,” he snapped. “We’ll sic Rebecca on them if they try to back out of the contract.”

I walked over to the bar and poured him a respectable measure of Jack Daniels.

“Thanks, babe,” he muttered when I handed it to him.

“Dinner ‘ll be ready in about twenty,” I informed him as he dutifully pecked my cheek. “Time for a shower. Or a little adult something else to help you unwind.”

Truth be told, I needed a little adult something else to unwind myself.

Bjorn downed his drink and set the glass on the counter. “Shower sounds divine right now. Be back down in a few.”

Well, all right. Muttering to myself, I started pulling plates from the cabinets and silverware from the drawers, all the while pretending that I wasn’t desperately in need of my husband’s physical attention. As much as I wanted to slam the doors and drawers, all of them sported soft-close hardware. Three teenagers banging doors open and closed at all hours of the day pushed us both to the brink of insanity.

As did the weekend we spent installing the damn special hardware. Neither my husband nor I were particularly patient individuals when it came to mundane things like reading instructions. That little near-apocalyptic project ensured we’d hire a contractor for any future home improvement plans.

I stacked two plates and accompanying silverware on the soapstone counter before checking on dinner. An arid blast of bacon-scented air greeted me as I checked on the roasted Brussels sprouts. Everyone in the house professed to hating that vegetable, at least until I drowned it in greasy delicious bacon.

“I smell bacon,” Bjorn said hopefully as he strolled into the kitchen. “Looks good babe.”

I grunted and yanked the vegetable laden sheet pan out of the oven, eyeing the sprouts and the twice baked potatoes for a minute before depositing the whole thing back in the oven.

“Needs a couple more minutes,” I muttered.

Bjorn nodded as he regarded the smaller than usual stack of plates on the counter. He eyed me with obvious curiosity.

“Kids are at Lagatha’s making The Dinner Plan for Thanksgiving.” I threw up my fingers, classic air quote style as I referenced the massive annual family celebration. “They’re staying the weekend. Unless they drive your sister nuts, of course.”

A not-so-subtle hint. As was the lacy black lingerie I’d ‘accidentally’ left out on my side of the bed.

“Ah, right. So, we don’t have plans this weekend?”

“Nope. Just two adults alone in a giant house.” I grinned at my husband only to find him pawing at his phone. “Not that we’d find anything exciting to do,” I grumbled under my breath.

“Okay, how long till dinner?”

“About five minutes. Why?”

Bjorn stared at his phone, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. A spark of hope glowed within me. Perhaps he was whipping up his own something special for us. I could only hope.

“I’m going to have to fly out tonight,” he muttered. “Head over to Boston and help Phillip with this client. They’re giving him fits and Rebecca can’t get there till tomorrow. Want me to set the table or you wanna eat at the counter?”

I pivoted away from him without answering and nearly yanked the door off the oven as I opened it. Dragon strength and an estrogen infused temper stoked by male ignorance was occasionally hard on the old appliances. On a positive note, I didn’t throw the food-heavy sheet pan at his bald head, though I did manage to burn the ever-loving crap out of my hand since I forgot to grab an oven mitt first. Swearing furiously, I slapped the tray down on the stove top before yanking the apricot glazed chicken breasts out of the air fryer. Without burning myself a second time.

Go me.

“Erin?”

“Counter’s fine,” I snapped as I slid the steaming food onto a serving platter.

Without looking at him, I dropped the platter on the counter and stomped over to the bar to pour myself a drink. By the time I finished, he’d already seated himself at the counter. I clenched my jaw hard enough it popped, inducing an instant headache.

Super.

I drained my drink as I walked back to the counter and grabbed his glass, repeating my trip to the bar so I could refill both glasses. Because alcohol would only make the situation better, right? When I returned, I saw he’d at least taken a moment to fix my plate for me. Given his stiff shoulders, I figured Bjorn had finally noticed that his wife was ticked off.

I sat on the chair next to him, pushing my food around like a disinterested toddler. A hundred different conversations raced through my brain, each one leading down the one-way street to a huge, unpleasant marital argument.

“It’s an emergency, Erin,” he said quietly between bites of chicken. “You made the glaze?”

“Yeah,” I huffed. “Thought we’d have a nice, quiet dinner tonight. Spend a nice evening together. You know, married life things.”

“The Boston thing dropped on me right as I walked out the office door. It’s one of our dark ops clients, we can’t afford to mess around with it.”

“Yeah,” I repeated bitterly.

Bjorn sighed and refocused attention on his plate, methodically cutting his chicken breast instead of resolving the brewing thunderstorm with me. Such behavior had become standard procedure over the past few months. We both were guilty of taking the avoidance route, I couldn’t deny that. He rested his fork on the edge of his plate and reached out to drape an arm over the back of my chair. I pushed forward, avoiding his touch.

“Damn it, Erin! I’m trying to tie everything up before the holidays,” he groused. “It’s no different than you sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night when that Magistrate calls for help.”

Oh hell no. He did not just go there!

I pushed my chair back, creating a dangerous space between us. We’d been sniping at one another for weeks, slowly building up to the thermonuclear meltdown that was about to destroy my soft-closing drawer-filled kitchen.

“Steven has called me three times in the last six months, all bona fide Level III arcane threats. Since the Magistrates Office holds an open contract with EKI, I kinda gotta take those calls in the middle of the night,” I snapped. “Or should I send your daughter out by herself to handle those emergencies?”

Bjorn gave me an annoyed side eye as he retrieved his fork and viciously stabbed a mangled piece of chicken.

“Fine,” he huffed. “We both have our professional crap to deal with. Do we have to fight about it right now?”

“I dunno, Bjorn. Can you manage to pencil a discussion with me into your busy schedule?”

Bjorn slammed his fork down, growling. “What the hell do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can right now!”

“When was the last time we went on a date?” I waited, impatiently tapping my fork on the counter. “Almost six months since we’ve even sat and watched a movie together. Six months, Bjorn! We haven’t even had sex in nearly two weeks.”

I bit off an angry stream of words as a horrid, paranoid thought reared its ugly head in that dark, miserable corner of my brain.

“I’m tired, okay. I’ve been picking up the slack since O’Brian retired and left the business without a contract manager. And honestly Erin, you haven’t exactly been Ms. Attentive yourself recently.”

I snapped my head to the side, vainly trying to hide the furious tears building up. I needed to move, to do anything to keep my vicious paranoid streak from showing its wicked colors and blowing an argument into a potentially marriage-ending brawl. Wordlessly, I collected my plate and stomped around the counter. Bjorn went back to jabbing his food while I packed my uneaten meal into a plastic container.

The stupid chicken was good. I didn’t want to waste it just because I’d lost my appetite in a temper.

“Look,” he said as I started cleaning up the kitchen. “I can probably be out of there by tomorrow afternoon. We can still spend time together this weekend.”

“It’s fine.”

The direst words any knowledgeable man can hear during an argument with his partner.

“Fine,” he snarled back as he picked up his mostly clean plate.

We slammed around the kitchen, each of us tending to our usual post-meal chores with as little interaction as humanly possible. Every movement added fuel to the vicious, hurt-filled inferno burning in my chest. When he slid his plate into the sink, my hurt and ire reached a critical level.

“Who is she?” I surprised myself with the accusation.

“Are you kidding me, Erin? You are unbelievable!”

“You’ve been on four business trips in the last month alone. We haven’t been intimate in weeks.” I counted out my evidence with my wet fingers, sending dish soap suds flying in every direction. “Who. Is. She?”

Bjorn surged forward, filling the space in front of me with six and a half feet of frustration. I wasn’t afraid of him. Bjorn would never physically harm me, not in a million years. But I sure as hell noticed his exasperated presence in my personal space.

“I’m not seeing anyone, Erin. What about you, huh? Spending a lot of time with Steven these days, no?” he fired back hotly.

I made a strangled noise and turned away from Bjorn, not wanting to see the look on his face. I’d taken it too far with my baseless accusation and my equally hot-tempered husband fired back with the salvo he knew would inflict the maximum amount of damage.

Silence filled the kitchen, weighing down the air until it was nearly unbreathable.

I grabbed the counter, trying to steady myself as I came to understand just how screwed up our marriage was. We’d shot past choppy waters and sailed directly into a Category Five freakin’ hurricane.

“I have to pack,” Bjorn forced out.

He was gone by the time I worked up the courage to turn around.