The Man I Married Out of Spite
I smelled it before I saw anything.
Sawdust. Fresh paint. And under that, garlic and onions frying in butter.
I stood in the doorway of my apartment with my keys still in my hand and my work bag sliding off my shoulder. For a second, I honestly thought I’d walked into the wrong unit. I even stepped back into the hallway and checked the number on the door.
4B. Mine.
When I stepped through the front door that evening, I’d expected to find things just as I’d left them. Maybe Stan lounging on the couch, doing what he’d been doing for the past few weeks: not much. I had no real expectations for him. We’d agreed that this was just a show. An arrangement to keep my parents off my back.
But what I saw when I walked in made my jaw drop.
The living room walls, which had been a sad, scuffed beige since I moved in six years ago, were now a soft gray-blue. The kitchen cabinet that had been hanging by one hinge since last winter was fixed. All of them were fixed. They’d been sanded and painted white, and they had new brass handles.
The pile of books I kept stacked against the wall because I never got around to buying a bookshelf was gone. In its place stood a bookshelf. A real one. Wood, stained dark, with every one of my books lined up on it. Even the ones I’d forgotten I owned.
The leaky faucet wasn’t dripping.
The dining table was set. Two plates. Two glasses. A candle in a jar.
And standing at my stove, stirring something in my one good pan, was my husband.
He was clean-shaven. His hair was cut short. He was wearing a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and he had a dish towel thrown over one shoulder like he’d been doing this his whole life.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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