Page 59 of Two Couples

I nodded, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice. He wasn’t making eye contact with any of us because his thoughts were consumed with the points he wanted to make, with how wrong we’d been.

Emily pushed her chair away from the table. She stood and began clearing dishes. “I’m so sick of talking about this. And I’m tired of analyzing Jordan, and her mother. They’re both reclusive and slightly disconnected from reality. Can we please do something else? Talk about something or someone else?”

“When we were burying the rabbits she was muttering about too much death around here,” Patrick said. “I don’t think she was talking only about rabbits. If she was talking about them at all.”

I remembered Jordan’s comment to me about too much death. Was she baiting us, or just expressing unresolved trauma?

“Stop!” Emily said. “I asked you to stop. We’ve been talking about the same thing for three days. I can’t take it anymore. We came here to enjoy our new vacation home! To spend time having fun together. This is a nightmare.”

Patrick glared at her. “A nightmare taking place in our home. And it’s our responsibility⁠—”

Keith interrupted. “Em’s right. Let’s end this right now.”

“Good idea.” Patrick pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen.

“We said, no!” Keith lunged out of his chair. He rushed at Patrick, pounding into him as if he were making a football tackle.

FORTY-TWO

KEITH

Patrick was as immovable as a brick wall when I crashed into him. I grabbed the hand that was still clutching his phone as if he planned to use it as a weapon. Trying to extract it from his fingers was impossible. I’d never encountered anyone with a grip like his, and on some level, I knew I was going to get hurt, but I couldn’t stop. I needed to bring him down. This guy was a stubborn, self-righteous prick. Who put him in charge of law and order in every situation?

I knew how cops were. After all those years, I felt it in my bones even now. It was that memory embedded in my nerve endings of the rage and shame I felt when those cops not only didn’t believe me, they wouldn’t give me the courtesy of even listening to what I said. They talked over me. They made up stories and proclaimed—This is what happened. Just admit it.

They didn’t want to believe me. I don’t know if it was because that girl had changed her story, or they knew those other kids socially and favored them. All I knew was that they messed with my head, making me feel I was a habitual liar when I was simply trying to tell the truth. The truth was too complicated for them.

Letting go of Patrick’s fingers, I backed up, ready to charge him again. Eventually, he’d weaken. He had to. I was dimly aware of Emily and Samantha yelling at me, begging me to stop.

I punched him right in the gut. Before he could recover, I punched his shoulder. He grunted. The phone fell out of his hand, crashing onto the wood floor. I wanted to stomp on it, crushing the screen into oblivion, the same way I believed, or hoped, I could beat him into oblivion.

This guy knew nothing about me and my life, but he was trying to dictate our choices, trying to make it a moral issue. Sometimes, other things override the technicalities of morality. Like knowing your wife is cheating on you and wanting to take out your rage on all men—the guys who thought they were better than me, the ones who disrespected me enough to hit on my wife.

What had her lover done to make Emily want him? What had he said? Was he better in bed, a better listener, less controlling as I’d now learned I was perceived as?

I got in one last punch—to his gut again. Then it was over.

He grabbed my shirt, yanked me right up into his face where I saw his bared teeth, then shoved me to the side like I was an old jacket.

I went down hard. My hip slammed into the floor. Pain shot down my leg, my upper body lurched back, and my head hit the corner of the end table before I ended on my back, staring up at the exposed beams. Blood trickled down the side of my face and seeped into my hair. I closed my eyes, feeling like a fool. But none of the rage diminished in the slightest.

Everyone was quiet. Then, I felt Emily’s hand on my chest. “Are you okay?”

I wanted to nod, but lying on my back made that difficult. I mumbled something that I hoped she took as a yes.

I had to get up. I couldn’t let that guy think he’d won, or that I was so mismatched to his strength that he’d completely immobilized me. I shoved myself up to my elbows, then rolled away from my injured hip and sat up. I grabbed the table to assist me in pushing myself to my feet.

“Don’t stand,” Emily said. “You’re bleeding. And you might pass out. That was a bad fall.”

“I’m fine.” I wrenched away from her and wiped my hand across the side of my head. My fingers were streaked red, but it wasn’t gushing by any means. I went to the dinner table. I picked up my wineglass and swallowed the rest of it. I grabbed my water glass and gulped it down.

“You need to sit down,” Emily said. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

I heard her leave the room, but I remained standing by the table.

“Feel better?” Patrick asked.

“Fuck off.” I took another sip of water, then went to the couch. I didn’t feel great and sitting was better than keeling over.