Ellie’s hand hit my shoulder before I even understood what was happening.
One second I was standing in her kitchen. The next, I was stumbling backward, my hip slamming into the edge of the table.
My wrist bent hard against the corner.
Pain exploded up my arm so sharply I couldn’t breathe.
And then the entire kitchen went silent.
Ellie stood three feet away, breathing hard through her nose like she was trying to control something much bigger than anger. Her cream sweater was still perfectly clean. Her hair still neatly pinned.
As if nothing had happened.
I held my shaking hand against my chest and stared at her. My wrist throbbed so violently I could feel the pulse of it in my teeth.
Behind her, the Costco sandwich tray sat on the island. Half-eaten. The plastic lid hanging open beside a bowl of green grapes.
Bright afternoon sunlight poured through the tall windows of their new rental house in Naperville.
Everything looked cheerful. Normal. Almost peaceful.
That somehow made it worse.
I turned my head toward the staircase and called out, “Jacob?”
Nothing.
Not a footstep. Not a voice. Not even the sound of someone moving upstairs.
Ellie’s mouth tightened.
“Don’t do that,” she said.
I looked back at her, stunned. “Do what?”
“Make this dramatic.”
For a moment, I honestly thought I had misheard her.
My wrist was swelling against my chest. My shoulder still burned from where she had shoved me.
And she was looking at me like I was the one creating a problem.
“You put your hands on me,” I said.
Ellie folded her arms.
“You were crowding me.”
I stared at her. “I was standing by the table.”
“You always have a way of making yourself the victim.”
That was when something inside me shifted.
A minute earlier, Ellie had been yelling. Her face had been tight with anger, her movements sharp and impulsive.
But now her voice was calm.
