The Toughest Choice to Make

TW: domestic abuse

“What do you want for dinner tonight, Liv?” Ryan asks me without even looking at me. 

“I don’t know. Whatever you want.”

“We could try that new place down on 5th. I think it’s Italian. You love Italian, right?”

“Yep, love Italian.” I hate Italian. 

“Are you hearing me, babe?” he’s starting to get annoyed. 

“Yeah, sorry, I’m just distracted.” I glance up from my phone for just a second before scrolling back through the message, willing it to change. 

“Well put your phone down so we can go have a romantic meal together, come on.” I quickly shut it off as he comes over to grab my arm and walk me to the door. I stretch my arms back for him to put my coat on. 

I stay silent the whole elevator ride down into the garage. I don’t say anything until we get into the car. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to-” 

“Do you like this shirt? I don’t know how I feel about the all-black button down.” 

“Yeah, it looks nice, so anyway-”

“I feel like it makes me look super pale. Maybe we need to go on vacation or something. Or-”

“Can you just shut up and listen to me for two seconds?” I yell. I immediately pale and look out the corner of my eye to see if he’s pissed. He looks too shocked to say anything. I hurry on before he can retaliate. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I just had a really shitty day. I don’t mean to take it out on you.” I hold my breath while I wait for him to respond. 

“It’s fine,” he says tight-lipped. “What did you want to say?”

I swallow. I shouldn’t be doing this right now. “I just was going to say that my boss probably wouldn’t let me take any time off during tax season. It’s crazy in the office.”

He shakes his head, “I still don’t know why you insist on working. You don’t have to worry about the bills or anything; I’ll take care of you.” 

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “I know you would, but I like my job. It’s nice to be able to get out of the house and hang out with my friends in the office.” I shrug. His fingers tighten on the steering wheel as his knuckles turn white. I turn my head to look out the window at the multitude of cars we’re passing, their headlights shining through the dense rain. I feel his hand on me and flinch. “Sorry, what?” His hand goes back on the steering wheel. 

He heaves a sigh. “You know, Liv, I always listen to you whenever you talk. Why can’t you give me the same courtesy?” I swallow. “No answer?” My throat feels like it’s closing and like I couldn’t talk even if I wanted to. “Well, if you’re going to act like this, then why are we even going to dinner?” He slams his right hand on the steering wheel. I still can’t seem to say anything. I just try to keep my heart rate down and not start hyperventilating. 

I tilt my head down so some hair falls from behind my shoulder to shield my face. I stare at him through my cover. He’s clenching and unclenching his jaw, staring at the cars on his left when he suddenly brakes and turns the wheel all the way to the left for a U-turn. I can’t help it, I start to scream because a car is coming directly for my passenger side and doesn’t seem to see us. About a foot away from my door the driver makes eye contact with me and slams on his brakes and honks his horn for nearly 30 seconds. We’re already in another lane by the time he lets go. 

I force a few deep breaths. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset,” I plead. 

“You never mean to,” he says quietly. I sit back in my seat and don’t say another word for the rest of the drive home.

I stay a few feet back while he unlocks our door. I don’t want to risk bumping into him if he stops short. 

As soon as I’m through the doorway I make a beeline for the kitchen. I stand with my back to the living room and grip the sink between my fingers, trying to figure out the best way to go about this when he’s already upset, but it’s my fault for leaving it to the last minute. 

I hear the floorboards creak and turn around in time to realize he’s right behind me. I stifle a gasp. He reaches for my hand. I ask, “Do you want me to order something?” His grip tightens on my hand. 

“I’m not really hungry anymore.” I can start to feel sharp pains shooting up through my hand. I refuse to let it show on my face. “Why did you have to act like that? We could’ve been having a nice, romantic meal right now, but no. You had to go and ruin it, like you do with everything.” 

I don’t know why I do it, and I can predict exactly what’s going to happen when I say, “I didn’t do anything wrong! You were the problem. You freaked out on me for no reason.” I lose steam at the end when I see his face. I manage to pull my hand out of his grip and start to walk out of the kitchen. But then I feel him grab my forearm and yank me back over to him. I know it’s coming, but I still feel shocked when he slaps me across the face. 

My cheek burns, and I know there will be a mark tomorrow. I stay there looking down at the floor until he releases my arm. “I am not the problem here,” he calls over his shoulder. I straighten and turn to watch him walk into our bedroom and slam the door. 

I will myself not to cry even though I can feel the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I inhale and shakily exhale. I woke up this morning swearing I would tell him. I had put it off long enough, and I felt like he deserved to know. It was his, after all. But then I realize, I don’t owe him anything. He would just force me to keep it, and I’m not subjecting anyone else to this kind of treatment. 

I close my eyes for a moment. When I open them again I quietly take off my heels and slip on my sneakers. Then I quickly unbolt the door and sprint for the stairs, without looking back.