Mind Over Marriage

Trigger Warning: This story contains mentions of lost loved ones and other dark themes that may not be suitable for all readers. Please read at your own discretion.

“Careful, Brie. You’ll cut your hand like that.”

Brianna Millington looked up, knife poised precariously above the carrot, and grinned. “You’re one to talk, Robby. Remind me who in this room we had to take to the ER last summer? Because I’m fairly sure it wasn’t me, and there’s only one other person in this room, so. . .”

His lips twitched. Robert Millington turned his back to her, not letting the petite, fiery woman see his smile. No need to encourage her more.

He poured the milk he was holding into the measuring cup, careful not to spill. “And I’d rather not have to make that trip again this year, love. We were there for four hours, and I think that brown-haired nurse was hitting on me last time,” he added with a shudder, setting the carton down.

Brie chuckled, finishing the carrot she was oh-so-carefully chopping away at. “Hey now, I thought he was pretty cute.” She waved the blade around, making her husband wince. “In a. . . Mick Jagger kinda way.”

Robert turned back around, mock disbelief on his face. “Well then, maybe you should’ve married Mick Jagger instead.”

Brie rolled her brown eyes, sliding the lopsided, chopped carrots from the plastic cutting board and into the large pot simmering on the stove. “Yeah, yeah. He’s a bit out of my age range, unfortunately. His singin’ is certainly better than yours, though.”

Robert put a hand over his heart. “How dare you. My singing is outstanding,” the construction worker exaggeratingly denied.

“Outstandin’ly bad, sure,” Brie muttered.

Robert huffed and crossed the small kitchen to the fridge. After finally finding a place to put the milk carton in the jam-packed fridge, he frowned. “Hey, baby?” He called over his shoulder, still searching. “Where’d you put the—”

“Daddy? Who’re you talking to?”

Robert stood up and shut the fridge door, spying his four-year-old girl in the doorway. “Princess? I was just talking to your—” He turned around fully and stopped.

The kitchen was empty, save for some un-chopped carrots and a few scattered ingredients.

Robert said nothing for a moment.

“No one, baby girl,” the thirty-three-year-old finally replied softly. “I wasn’t talking to anyone. I thought you were playing with your brothers?”

Clad in a polka-dot dress and a pink mini bow, Poppy pouted, jutting her bottom lip out adorably and crossing her stubby arms. “They’re fightin’ again.”

Robby blew out a breath. He scooped her up, and she squealed. “Let’s go stop them, then, hmm?”

He tickled her, making her squeal again and squirm. “Daddy,” she laughed. “Stop it!”

“Stop squirming, or I may drop you,” he laughed, climbing the carpeted stairs to the second floor of their condo. “You’re getting a bit big for this anyhow, darlin’.”

She huffed and slumped against him. “You’re just gettin’ old and weak, Daddy,” Poppy mumbled, blowing a bubble in her cheek.

Robert grimaced. Some days, he almost wished she’d go back to just cooing and crying instead of talking. He was glad she was good at forming sentences for her age, but she was a little too good. “Are all four-year-olds this savage to their parents?” The father sighed out.

As he neared the top, Robert could hear raised voices. His daughter was right about one thing—the two boys were definitely fighting.

“It was mine first!”

“Was not! It was mine first!”

“Was too!”

“Was not!”

Robert heaved another long-suffering sigh and toed the bedroom door open. The two boys’ heads jerked up, and the bright red truck clenched between their hands clattered to the wooden floor. They were both quiet for a long second.

“Dad,” James started sheepishly. “We were just—”

“James started it!” Simon pointed and yelled, immediately throwing his older brother under the bus—or truck, as the case may be.

“Hey!” James cried, big brown eyes widening in shock at the swift betrayal.

Simon shrugged, not appearing very broken up about tattling on his brother.

“Alright, boys. That’s enough,” Robert began after a breath, already feeling a headache starting to form.

“Snitches get stitches,” James sneered, small fists clenched.

Robert blinked.

Simon huffed and rebutted without even missing a step, “Bitches get stitches.”

“Woah! Hey, okay! Time out! Time out!” Robert barked out, accidentally jostling his daughter slightly and eliciting a squirm in reply. “James, don’t threaten your brother. And Simon—for the love of all that is good—we don’t use that type of language in this household.” He heaved a sigh. “I don’t think I even wanna know where you heard that.”

“Billy,” Simon said proudly, answering his father’s not-question.

Robert resisted the urge to groan. He’d figured as much. “And that’s why I didn’t want to know. I’ll call Billy’s parents in a few minutes.” Robert used his free hand to pinch the base of his nose tiredly. “Just. . . watch what y’all say and get along, please. That’s all I ask.”

“Yes, sir,” the two brown-haired lads apologized, looking everywhere but their father's face.

“Sorry, Dad,” James continued softer, downcast. He scuffed his foot against a floorboard.

Robert just shook his head. “And clean y’all’s room while y’all are at it. At the very least, downgrade this mess from a Cat Four to a tropical storm, please,” he added before he left.

Dealing with kids alone certainly wasn’t a simple task.

“Why’d you do that?” James hissed, voice pitched low, from inside the boys’ shared room. “You know Dad has been stressed since Mom—”

The boy’s voice faded as Robert reached the stairs.

Poppy wriggled in his arms, diverting his attention back to her. She tugged on his blue polo shirt and asked innocently, “Daddy, what’s snitches? And bitches?”

Robert grimaced, almost tripping down the next step. He just couldn’t catch a break today. “Nothin’, honey. Just your brothers being foolish again. You don’t need to repeat any of that.”

“Okay, Daddy. I won’t,” she promised, already distracted and fidgeting once again in his hold. Robert took the hint and set her down gently at the bottom of the stairs.

“Daddy has to finish cooking dinner, so why don’t you go play again with your brothers, princess? They could certainly use some adult supervision.”

Poppy giggled, even though her father was sure she didn’t know what supervision was.

“Sure, Daddy. They’re bitches, anyway.” His youngest spun, blond hair swaying, and hopped up the stairs humming “Stitches, and snitches, and bitches,” in a sing-song voice.

“Wha—” Robert started after her but then stopped and shook his head. That was a problem for another day.

Robert dragged a hand down his face and plopped down heavily on one of the three gray barstools in the kitchen. He rested his head against the cool granite countertop, letting the chill lull him to sleep.

A tickling in his throat woke him up in what could have been seconds or hours later. He sat up with a groan, eyelids drooping, and reached for the glass of water he had placed on the counter earlier that morning.

But when he put the cup to his lips, his dark eyes shot wide open. The liquid was not cool, quenching water but hot and burning and bitter.

Much more like. . . coffee.

“—obert? Robert? Hey, man. Earth to Robbie. Dude, can you hear me?”

“Huh?” At the hand waving in front of his face, Robert startled away from the miracle cup of water-turned-coffee still clenched between his now-white fingers.

He blinked at his friend and then at his altered surroundings, belatedly realizing they were in Carol’s Coffee and Cookies, a quaint little local coffee shop near the edge of town. “Oh. . . sorry. I must’ve just. . . zoned out for a second or somethin’.”

Marcus Rayonn frowned, concern lighting his blue eyes. He softened his voice, “Look, I’m a bit worried for you, Rob. I know it’s only been a few weeks, and that car crash was probably terrifying, but still—you can’t keep doing this. You’re always welcome with Linda and me, you know?”

Robert stared down at his steaming coffee, his reflection distorted by the dark liquid. “No, I don’t want to impose. Especially with y’all’s newborn there.”

“No, Rob,” his coworker shook his head. “You wouldn’t be imposing. I don’t want you staying in that house alone.”

Robert sipped his coffee, letting the bitter, boiling liquid scorch his tongue and throat before settling like a hot coal in his frozen stomach.

His friend wasn’t wrong. The dead silence in his once-lively house could drive any sane man crazy.

Good thing Robert wasn’t sure he fit in that category anymore.

“Thanks, Mark, but I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me, and just take care of your wife and kid. Treasure them while you can.” Because you never know when you’ll lose them. The unsaid words fell from his lips like a thirty-pound weight between the two men, making the air heavy and tense.

Robert coughed in a blatant attempt to clear the tension he’d inadvertently caused and checked his watch.

Only to realize he wasn’t wearing a watch.

Could he make it any more obvious?

Mark took a long gulp of his own black coffee, tacitly ignoring his coworker’s faux pas.

Robert cleared his throat. “Anyhow, I better get going. I left some chicken out to defrost, so I need to cook soon.”

Marcus blew out a breath but—once again—didn’t say what they were both thinking. Robert had been subsisting on ramen and food from the funeral, and this was the first time he’d been out in the past two weeks. He definitely did not have chicken out and defrosting, much less any present in his house at all.

“Alright, Rob,” he said, not acknowledging the deflection and not wanting to push the already broken man. “We’re all here for you, man, if you need anything—anything at all. Just let us know, okay?”

“Yeah, I really appreciate it,” Rob accepted half-heartedly, draining his cup until only the meager dregs sat small and lonely in the white mug.

He stood up, his chair scrapping back slowly, only to feel cold metal clamped tightly around his wrists. He glanced down, realizing with surprise that his hands were shackled. His eyes traveled past his hands to his bright orange jumpsuit.

A booming, authoritative voice caused him to look up from his odd apparel. “Members of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

The voice belonged to a white-haired, older man, sitting elevated behind a raised desk and clothed in a black robe and small spectacles. His gaze was drawn right when a middle-aged woman stood up from what he presumed to be the jury box. Around her sat eleven other people in the stand-like section, all of varying ages, races, and genders.

He clearly wasn’t in Carol’s Coffee and Cookies anymore.

The jury foreperson spoke up. “We have, Your Honor.” The dark-skinned woman cleared her throat, voice loud and assured. “We the jury, in the case of The State of Alabama versus Millington, find the defendant—in the question of the first degree murder of wife Brianna Millington, and minor children James, Simon, and Penelope Millington, along with the defendant’s subsequent plea of insanity—guilty but mentally ill.”

Murmuring echoed in the gallery behind him.

Robert couldn’t help it. He tipped his head back and laughed.

Guilty? Mentally ill? Maybe this was a joke. Everything was funny, and yet nothing was. If this was a joke, it was in poor taste. Why else was he chained and standing trial for the murder of his own family?

The courtroom erupted, and Robert turned to see the gallery filled to the brim. An older lady shot up, face bright red and veins popping. “Mentally ill, my ass! He slaughtered my daughter and my grandbabies!”

The room spun.

Or was he was spinning?

His heart thudded. No, he realized, that wasn’t his heart—it was the judge pounding his gavel down, again and again and again.

His heartbeat was perfectly calm.

Gavel pounded against wood once more. “Order! Order in the courtroom!” More pounding. “Sit down, ma’am, or Mr. Harven will escort you from my courtroom and the surrounding premise.”

Insane.

He was insane. He was insane. He was insane. He was—

“—sentenced to life in prison, without the possibility of parole.”

Pound.

“This court is now adjourned.”