Page 2 of Drift

I plated the rice and baked chicken, keeping the portions even. Close enough. The details mattered less than finishing.

Footsteps approached, each measured step resonating with an ominous click of his dress shoes on the hardwood floor.

Something felt off, like I’d forgotten something. I glanced from the table to the sink and lost the order of things. The sequence slipped. Crossing to the counter, I gathered the cookware, pushing it under the sink, next to the damp towel. The utensils clinked against the pot as I tucked them inside the cabinet.

The cupboard door closed just as Ben stepped into the kitchen, already rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt.

“How was work today?” I asked, pulling out a chair for him.

Ben didn’t answer. He took in the kitchen slowly, his gaze moving from surface to surface. I waited, holding myself completely still.

Finally, Ben smiled, clearly satisfied. “Great. How was your day, sweetheart?”

He leaned in and kissed my temple, casual, practiced, as if nothing had been suspended in the air moments before.

My stomach tightened.

“Great.” I gave the only answer Ben wanted to hear.

The truth was the day had been miserable. The copier had jammed before lunch. After, my supervisor handed me a project package and asked for a dozen copies. I’d spilled tea down the front of my blue dress shirt and spent the rest of the day wearing the stain. My computer froze just as I sent off the work schedule, ten minutes before the deadline. And one of my many bosses had informed me I’d need to work late Friday.

I wasn’t sure how to explain that I wouldn’t be home to make dinner.

I can’t do this anymore.

“Good,” Ben said, already sitting down. I waited until Ben was seated before taking my own place.

Halfway through the meal, the tension eased. My stomach settled. The headache lingered but would pass once I was in bed.

Then Ben’s fork hovered mid-air. His head angled slightly, focus locking onto something over my shoulder. The thing I’d forgotten but still couldn’t think of what it was.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Whatever Ben had noticed would announce itself soon enough.

The change in Ben’s expression was subtle, a tightening around the eyes, a hardening of the jaw, but to me, it might as well have been a siren.

The fork lowered to the plate with a soft clink. I drew a silent breath as the chair legs scraped against linoleum, a sound that stretched into eternity.

Ben rose to his feet. The backhand exploded across my face with a crack that rattled my teeth. My body skidded across the floor until my skull cracked against the cabinet, vision fracturing into white starbursts. Before I could recover, Ben’s fingers clamped around my windpipe. The room dimmed at the edges as Ben dragged me toward the sink, forcing my gaze to the dishtowel tossed aside. The forgotten detail that would cost me dearly.

I’d used two towels while cooking dinner because the pan had been hot coming out of the oven. I hadn’t hung it back on the hook.

“Why must you always test my patience?” His whisper cut deeper than any shout.

My lungs screamed for air. My fingernails clawed at Ben’s wrist, drawing blood neither of us acknowledged.

He hauled me up by the neck, forcing my gaze toward the sink. There it was, the second dishtowel draped over the faucet.

The counter edge dug into my lower back as Ben slammed me against it. My lungs emptied in an involuntary gasp before I could trap it behind my lips.

That sound was all it took.

I can’t do this anymore.

“Since you want to act like I’m really hurting you—”

The words trailed off, but my body already tensed for what would follow, my muscles remembering what my mind tried to forget.

Veins bulged along Ben’s neck. There was no way to brace for this level of violence. It just wasn’t possible. No amount of begging would work, and any signs of weakness, pitifulness, only made Ben angrier.