turn to leave the room.
My feet stop moving but I don’t turn around.
“Okay, I’m sorry. I’ll do what I’m supposed to do. Please don’t turn in that video. I’ll rot in jail. My family doesn’t have the money to get me out of that kind of trouble. Please, I’ll do anything,” she begs.
Finally, I turn around, my mood suddenly lighter. “Anything?” I ask.
She nods. “Anything.”
“You’ll go to the gym and work out with your trainer?”
She nods.
“You’ll go to your classes and be on time?”
Again, she nods.
“You’ll continue to come to work and do your job to the best of your ability?”
She rolls her eyes but nods.
“And you’ll stop with this bullshit attitude?”
“I’ll do my best on that one.”
I’m speechless, waiting for her to explain.
She takes a breath and says, “I just think it’s probably best, in our situation, to keep our distance when we’re able. Lines clearly got blurred Friday night and I don’t want that to happen again. I don’t want to let my guard down and fall for this act you’re putting on. I’ll do all of the things you mentioned: I’ll do the family stuff and the other functions you need me for, but other than that, I’d really like to keep my distance from you for a while.”
I open my mouth but am not sure how to reply. That’s the exact opposite of what I want. I don’t want more space between us. I want to take the space away. I want her to see the real me—not the guy she sometimes brings out in me: a rude, cocky asshole. I’d hoped that this living arrangement would force us together and something would blossom between us. But now she’s pulling back? That’s not what I wanted at all. However, I’m not in the mood to argue with her any further. Instead, I let her leave the room and opt to give her the space she seems to be needing. We’ll readdress this in a few days after she’s had time to cool off.
Over the next few days, neither of us talks more than we have to. In the mornings, we eat breakfast in silence. At work, we only talk out of necessity. After work, she goes to the gym or I do. Dinner is eaten in silence, then we go to our separate rooms. If we bump into each other around the house, nothing is said—we only exchange looks. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells in my own house. I desperately want to talk to her, but at the same time, I don’t want to break first. I want her to come to me. Is that too much to ask?
It’s Thursday night: day four of the silent treatment. The only sounds in the dining room are forks scraping off plates, chewing, and breathing. The silence in the room is damn near deafening. It’s driving me crazy and I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Once upon a time, I prayed for the silent treatment from her. But now it feels weird after seeing how we could be. I suddenly want to ask how the gym is going for her. How she’s sleeping being away from home. If there’s anything she needs. I don’t want this to feel like a punishment, even though it technically is in her eyes.
I let out an exasperated breath and let my fork fall from my hand. It clatters against the plate loudly, getting her attention like I knew it would. “This is ridiculous, Poppy.”
“What is?” she asks, still eating and looking down at her plate.
“The whole silent treatment thing. It’s driving me crazy. Can’t we just go back to fighting?”
The corners of her mouth begin to lift slightly, but she catches herself and pulls them back down into place. “Well, I’m sorry if I can’t get along with a man who’s forcing me to do things I don’t want to do.”
“What don’t you want to do?” I ask, even though I kind of have an idea.
“I don’t want to be forced into going to the gym if I’m not feeling well. I don’t want to get yelled at if I don’t like the color of my nails and feel like changing them. I don’t want to have to argue to have basic human rights. Why is this so hard for you to understand? You don’t own me.” She levels her eyes on me, and even though my anger is sky-high right now, it’s covered up by the