Chapter 20: The Backpedal
333 words
The guard’s grip didn't loosen until Richard was fully seated, his face pressed against the vinyl booth, breath hitching in humiliated gasps. The silence in the coffee shop was deafening, broken only by the espresso machine hissing in the background. My heart should have been racing, but it beat with a slow, heavy rhythm. I wasn't afraid. For the first time in thirty years, the fear was entirely on his side of the table.
Richard rubbed his shoulder, his eyes darting around at the onlookers before locking onto me. The rage evaporated, replaced instantly by a practiced, pathetic whimper. He reached for my hand again, slower this time, stopping short when the guard cleared his throat.
"Loretta, baby, tell him to back off," Richard pleaded, his voice cracking. "I... I didn't mean to snap. The stress, Lo. It's killing me. The company is riding me, and Tiffany... God, she's a nightmare. She means nothing to me."
I watched him construct his reality, brick by lying brick. "Tiffany is moving into my sewing room, Richard. You evicted me for her."
"I was confused! I can tell her to leave right now," he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead as he thought about the four million dollars vanishing. "We can fix this. Counseling. A cruise. Just you and me, like the old days. I never stopped loving you."
The audacity sat heavy in my stomach, distinct from the nausea of financial terror I used to feel. I pulled my phone from my purse, tapping the screen.
"You love me?" I asked softly. "Is that what this is?"
I pressed play. The recording was from the day Dad died, a voicemail Richard had left while I was at the funeral home. His voice, tinny and cruel, echoed between us: "Stop crying over that dead loser and get back here to cook dinner. He did us a favor by dying, maybe now you can get a job."
Richard’s face went the color of curdled milk.
End of Chapter 20
