Page 96 of How (Not) To Raise The Dead

“We are,” I manage to choke out, my eyes locked on the rain-slicked road. “I’m glad you had a good ti⁠—”

The whole chassis jolts as we slam over a pothole deep enough to swallow a coffin. The sound is sickening—metal grinding on stone, a bone-jarring impact that reverberates straight up my spine and snaps my teeth together. The car lurches to the left, tires screaming a high, desperate wail against the wet asphalt for a heart-stopping, gravity-defying second before finding purchase again.

The tapping on the window stops. Instantly. His hand vanishes from my neck. The sound and oxygen is all-but sucked right out of the cabin, replaced by a pressure so intense it feels like the roof is crushing down on my skull.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“I work all week,” he sighs. “I break my back for us. I’m exhausted. We’ve been at your stupid sister’s party all damn night, pretending to eat that dry quiche and smile at people I hate, and now...” He turns his head slowly, the doting boyfriend mask sloughing off completely. “...and now you can’t even drive us home smoothly?”

A cold wash of shame prickles over my skin, tightening my throat until it feels like I’m swallowing glass.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, the apology spilling out on a reflex arc I can’t seem to sever. “It’s just—it’s really dark, Matthew. I didn’t see it, and I’m tired, and⁠—”

“Don’t make excuses,” he cuts in. “It’s unattractive.”

I snap my mouth shut and bite down on the inside of my cheek, until a faint sheen of iron coats my tongue.

“Are you going to sulk now?” he asks mockingly.

“I’m not sulking. I’m focusing on the road,” I say, forcing the words through the constriction in my chest. “The visibility is really bad, Matthew.”

“There you go again,” he sighs, picking a piece of invisible lint off his trousers. “Deflecting. I’m trying to have a mature conversation about safety—about how you put us in danger because you weren’t paying attention—and you’re making it about the weather.”He shakes his head. “You’re so sensitive lately. It’s exhausting.”

“I just hit a pothole,” I plead, the steering wheel groaning under my grip. “It happens.”

“It happens to you,” he corrects gently. “Because your head is always in the clouds. You’re all over the place.”

He brushes his sleeve vigorously, nose wrinkling as he sniffs the air. “And God, the car stinks. It smells like ammonia. Have you been looking after the cat properly?”

“Vesper doesn’t… she’s clean,” I say. “I cleaned the box this morning.”

“She’s a shedding, neurotic mess,” he counters, inspecting his fingertips as if checking for contamination. “I don’t know why we keep her. She scratches the furniture, she stares at me like she’s possessed, and honestly? It’s unhygienic.”

I swallow against the bile at the back of my tongue, my eyes burning. “She’s your cat, Matthew.”

“I know,” he says, and he sounds so sad for me. “But she likes you more, doesn’t she?”

I stare at the wipers slashing back and forth, fighting the urge to sob.

It wasn’t always like this. God, the first year feels like a fever dream now, a hallucination I can’t quite wake up from. I remember thinking he was just… intense. I thought he was a whirlwind, a force of nature, and I mistook the turbulence for passion. I used to tell my friends he was ‘a lot,’ but I said it with a smile, like it was charming.

I used to think it was so sweet, so endearing, when he’d perform those random acts of service—like the time he insisted on carrying the neighbor’s shopping bags until he inevitably dropped them, scattering oranges down the stairs. Back then, I told myself his apology, his shaking hands, his spiraling anxiety was proof of his heart—that he cared too much.

But recently, the lens has shifted, revealing the cracks in the film.

It was never about helping. It was a performance. He needed the audience. He needed to be the ‘Good Man’ so badly that he made a scene of it, forcing me to comfort him about his mistake until I ended up carrying the heavy bags myself just to make the monologue stop.

When did that line blur? When did the ‘Good Man’ start rotting from the inside out?

Maybe it was the dinner party last Christmas at my parents house. I was telling a story, and everyone was laughing. All I felt was warmth and happiness until it was replaced by his hand the small of my back, pressing hard enough to bruise, grinding against my spine while he offered that perfect, porcelain smile.

“You’re talking too much, babe,” he’d whispered against my ear. “You’re being loud. It’s embarrassing.”

“Look at you,” he sneers, gesturing at my trembling hands. “Curling in on yourself. acting like I’m some kind of monster because of something you did. You love this, don't you? Making me out to be the bad guy? You think you’re such a victim!”

“I don’t think I’m the victim!”

The scream rips out of my throat before I can stop it, and then, his hand connects with my face.