The slap came so fast I didn’t even see her hand move. One second I was standing in the narrow space between our thrift-store dining table and the kitchen counter, one palm pressed against the hard swell of my belly, trying to breathe through the smell of burnt coffee and Sandra’s perfume. The next second, my cheek exploded with heat, my shoulder hit the wall, and the little framed photo of Marcus and me at our courthouse wedding jumped crooked on its nail… Continue reading…
The apartment tilted, then settled back into place in pieces: the chipped mug in the sink, the grocery list under my magnet from Fort Stewart, the envelope of cash on the table that was supposed to buy protein shakes and prenatal vitamins, and Brett’s muddy boots on the rug Marcus bought me before he deployed. Monica stood by the table with my wallet open in her hands. She was wearing white jeans in February, which felt like exactly the kind of choice Monica would make before walking into someone else’s home and calling them disgusting. Her nails were glossy pink, her mouth pinched into that little smile she used whenever she knew she had an audience. “Gold digger,” she hissed. Then she spat on me.