Wren
Dinner must be perfect.
Not good. Not just right. Perfect in the way that leaves no room for disappointment. I check the oven again, even though I checked it less than a minute ago. The temperature is right. The timer is right. Everything is right.
But my hands still shake anyway.
Some might say, "Why cook something that makes you second-guess yourself? Why not make something that would be easier?"
Well, the answer to that is simple. Easier wouldn't be good enough. If it's easier than I haven't made enough of an effort.
You see, Daniel likes elaborate meals, and because I'm an artist and I work from home, I have all the time in the world to cook an amazing meal. Every-Single-Night.
I haven't messed dinner up in three weeks. I don't know if that's a good thing or just the calm before the storm.
I take a minute to remember what happened the night I cooked beef for Daniel, his co-worker, and his wife. When it came to carving the beef, it was slightly overdone.
Daisy stood next to me in the kitchen and said it looked and smelled amazing. But all I could think about was what was going to happen later, after they left.
That night, I went to bed with swollen eyes from crying and being backhanded across the face, so I knew I would wake up with a black eye in the morning. Bruised hand marks around the top of my left arm and a cut lip.
He promised it would never happen again.
He always did.
I shake myself out of the memory, wipe my hands on the dish towel and force myself to breathe slowly. The kitchen smells warm and comforting — garlic, butter, rosemary — the kind of smell people talk about when they describe home. I've arranged the table twice already, nudging the plates so they line up exactly, folding the napkins into neat rectangles instead of the looser fold I preferred.
Loose things bother Daniel.
The clock on the wall clicks over to 6:58 p.m.
Any second now.
I straighten my sweater for the third time, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, and practice my smile in the dark reflection of the microwave door. Not too big. Not nervous. Just… happy. Normal.
The lock clicks.
My stomach drops, even though this is the part I like best — the moment before everything has a chance to go wrong.
"Hey Hunny," he says as the door opens.
I turn just in time for him to cross the room and pull me into his arms. His jacket smells like cold air and his cologne. He presses a kiss to my temple, then my lips, slow and familiar.
"Hi," I say, relief flooding me. For a second, I let myself relax into him.
He smiles down at me, warm and easy. The smile everyone else sees. "Something smells incredible."
"I made your favourite," I say. "Chicken, just like you like it."
"I knew I kept you for a reason," he jokes, squeezing my waist.
I laugh at the right moment.
He looks over the table and nods approvingly. "Looks perfect."
The word settles into me like a reward. My shoulders loosen. My chest feels lighter.
We sit. He tells me about his day — a long meeting, an idiot client, traffic. I listen, ask questions, nod in the right places. I've gotten good at this part. Dinner goes smoothly. He compliments the food. I pour his wine before his glass is empty.
Everything is fine.
So fine that I almost forgot to be careful.
Almost.
"I was thinking," I say lightly, cutting into my chicken, "about the Christmas party."
He looks up, still smiling. "What about it?"
"Your co-worker — Mark? The one I talked to for a bit? He seemed nice." I glance up at him, casual. "We should invite him and his wife over for dinner sometime. You said they're new in town."
The smile doesn't disappear right away.
It freezes.
Something cold slides into my stomach.
"Why were you talking to him?" he asks.
The tone is still calm, but I hear it — the shift. I always do.
"He came over while you were getting drinks," I say quickly. "We just talked about work with his partner, and he asked me what I did for work. I told him I painted, and he said his wife loved art, so I thought—"
"So, you liked him," he says.
It's not a question.
"No," I say, too fast. I slow myself down. "I just meant he seemed friendly. I thought it might be nice."
His fork clicks against the plate as he sets it down carefully. Too carefully.
"You don't think it's weird," he says, "that you remember him so well?"
"I just—"
"You don't usually remember people," he continues. His eyes stay on me now, sharp and focused. "Unless they make an impression."
My heart starts to race.
"I didn't mean anything by it," I say. "I was just making conversation."
He leans back in his chair, studying me like I've said something fascinating. Dangerous.
"You think I don't notice how you look at other men?" he asks quietly.
"I don't," I say. "I swear."
He laughs — soft, disbelieving. "You're really going to lie to me?"
The room feels smaller. The air is thicker.
"I'm not lying," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I just thought—"
"That's your problem," he snaps, the warmth gone now, burned away in an instant. "You think too much. You forget your place."
My hands curl into my lap. I stare at the tablecloth, at the tiny wrinkle in the tablecloth near my glass and fight the urge to smooth it out.
"I was just trying to be nice," I say.
His chair scrapes loudly as he stands.
The sound makes me flinch.
"You don't get to be nice to other men," he says. "You're mine."
The rest blurs.
Voices raised. Mine breaking. He's cold and controlled in that way that's worse than shouting. I remember the wall at my back. I remember the way my name sounds when he's angry — twisted into something ugly.
Later, I'm sitting on the bathroom floor with the door locked, my knees pulled tight to my chest. My face aches. My body feels wrong, like it doesn't quite belong to me anymore.
This isn't the first time.
But it's the first time the thought comes so clearly, so calmly, that it scares me more than the pain ever has.
He's going to kill me.
I lie in bed, and I wait until the apartment is quiet. Until his footsteps fade. Until the bed creaks and then stills. After more than an hour has passed, I quietly get out of bed and move silently through the bedroom, taking only what I need—my phone, my wallet, the cash I've hidden where he never checks, and a bag with some clothes inside.
I pause in the doorway.
He's asleep, sprawled across the bed as if nothing happened.
Like he didn't accuse me of things I would never do.
Like he didn't make me feel small enough to disappear.
I don't feel love.
I don't even feel hate.
I feel done.
I slowly walk down the stairs, avoiding the places they creak; I have practised this so many times just for this very moment.
I gently grab my car keys and shoes and open the door.
I slip out in bare feet and slide my feet into my shoes, the cold biting into my skin. The lock clicks softly behind me.
I get in the car, start up the engine and drive off, putting my seatbelt on, and I don't look back.
Because if I do, I know I won't leave.
And if I don't leave tonight, I never will.