Stages of Grace - By Carey Heywood Page 0,21

of not having to deal with anyone evaporate the second I am in my car. Just like that morning, it seems like the other commuters are purposely trying to aggravate me. I consider road raging on the Lexus that isn’t paying attention and honk my horn to let him know the light has changed to green. Counting from one hundred isn’t working either. By the time I pull into my parking spot, my body is humming with energy. Great time to finish my conversation with Jon. I am actually looking forward to laying into him. Jon is in the kitchen making dinner when I walk in, not in his beloved armchair.

"Hello, Jon."

"How was your day?"

"Just great," I huff sarcastically.

"Ahhh…"

"We need to talk."

"I know."

He knows? I breathe in and out of my nose, short bursts of air that almost feel heated. It’s nice that he knows and just took off while we were mid conversation yesterday. Is he just going to do the same thing today?

Jon watches, he hesitates "Grace?"

Not able to hold myself together, I scream. "I am so mad right now!"

"Why? Did something happen?"

Wrong question, mister. "I've been holding everything in for so long about what you have been doing and how you have been making me feel and how ashamed I am at myself that I never said anything. I just let you. I let you put me down, and I felt bad when I annoyed you, and I made myself feel like it was me, like I was the problem. Like if I did something you would be nice again. I did everything I could think of just for you to be nice to me. How sad is that? How pathetic am I? And what did you do? You take my car and go God knows where with God knows who and you dent it. You dented my car! How did that happen? Were you ever going to say anything to me?"

Jon stares at me open mouthed, his wooden spoon frozen midair since he had been about to stir something on the stovetop. I put my hand on the back of one of the chairs of our small table to hold myself up. I feel short of breath, as though I had spoken that entire stream of words without stopping to breathe. I drop my head to look at the ground while my heart stops thumping. After a couple moments, I look back up at Jon who still looks dumbstruck.

And there is that feeling again, anger. "Say something!"

"I…I…I…"

"You what?"

"God, Grace. Calm down—"

I cut him off, bringing up the hand that had been clenching the back of the chair to point at him. "Don’t tell me to calm down. I am so fucking sick of your shit."

I was never much of a cusser. In fact, that’s part of the reason it really bothers me when Jon cusses at me. Jon looks dazed as he raises both hands, palms out. I lower my hand and pace randomly around our front room. I want to hit something. I come close to punching the wall but do not want to hurt my hand or have to explain any damage to the landlord. Jon takes whatever he is cooking off the stove and follows me into the front room. I look out the window to the courtyard below. Jon is standing a few feet to my side.

Keeping my body facing the window, I look at him out of the corner of my eyes. "You talk."

Jon sits in his armchair. He drops his head into his hands and runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head and nervously tapping one foot. He looks over at me a couple of times, trying to meet my gaze, but I keep my eyes on a small bird sitting on the back of a bench. While I wait for Jon to speak, I wonder how the little bird is faring out in the cold. Part of me wants to rush outside to save it. Instead, I watch as it flies somewhere out of sight. Jon still hasn’t said anything so I clear my throat as I wait for him to get to it.

He sighs before straightening back up. "I'll admit I've made some mistakes."

I mouth the word “some.”

"I just am under so much stress, and yes, I may not have handled it well."

I mouth the word “may.”

"I just don’t know how to deal with this and…"

He seems to have lost his train of thought at that