Stand Your Ground: A Novel by Victoria Christopher Murray

hung in the air—right next to the loneliness that Tyrone had left with me.
    After only another moment of thought, I scrolled through the last calls, and saw it— Private .
    I’d forgotten. Now how was I going to call Caleb back?
    Was he calling from the cell that he had three years ago? Even if he was, I didn’t have that number, having deleted it on the night that Tyrone and I reconciled. Maybe I could call him at the church.
    But I shot that thought down. I didn’t need to be talking to my ex-lover, my ex-pastor.
    Especially not now.

Chapter 9
    I was sipping coffee. Alone. Then I heard his car, probably Raj’s truck, when it rolled into the driveway. In the past, whenever one of us heard the other coming home, we’d meet at the door. But this morning, I didn’t even move. Just sat there sipping mocha. Because . . . the past had changed the present.
    I listened for his movement, heard his footsteps on the walkway, his key in the door, the lock click, and then a few more moments and he stood next to me.
    “Hey, babe.” He spoke and then kissed my forehead, as if his staying out all night was normal, an acceptable thing. As if he didn’t remember all that had happened when he stayed away like this before. Yes, the present was different from the past. But . . .
    I wanted Tyrone to know I was pissed without saying it because it seemed so petty to be mad when we were dealing with all of this. But I couldn’t help it. I was mad. Because Tyrone didn’t want to spend his nights with me.
    Now, of course, he could say that I didn’t want to spend my days with him, but my position seemed much more sound than his.
    “Did you sleep well?” he asked.
    I took a long sip of coffee, the coward’s way of not speaking.But after I swallowed, I said, “I did.” What good would it do to let him know that this was the first night that I hadn’t closed my eyes? That I had lain stretched out on the sofa in the family room, staring at the recliner where Marquis should’ve been sitting. And that I had kept my eyes open, hoping and praying that Tyrone would come home to me, even if it had been just for an hour.
    “We’re not doing much sleeping,” he told me as if I’d asked him. “But we’re getting things done.” He didn’t even pause. Just kept on talking as if this were a normal morning. “I hope Wilma stayed with you for a while. You didn’t answer my texts last night, so I just thought you were asleep after Wilma left.”
    “Wilma?”
    “Yeah, Wilma. When she came over yesterday. I hope she stayed for a while,” he said as he popped a K-Cup into the Keurig.
    I was so mad that I wasn’t even going to cover up that lie. I just nodded—that was going to have to be enough of an answer for him. And then, when he just nodded, I got even more pissed. That was enough for him. It was like my husband didn’t even care about what I was going through, what I was going through alone.
    When his coffee cup was full, he took a sip, then turned back to me. “I really hate that you were here by yourself last night.”
    Well, at least he did care. Kind of.
    I put my cup down on the counter and willed myself to keep my voice steady. Even though I was angry, an argument was not what I wanted. “I just don’t understand why you have to be out all night.”
    He sighed as if he were tired of explaining it to me, but then responded as if he were trying to be patient. “We’re getting things done.”
    “You still need to rest.”
    “I can’t.”
    “You have to.”
    “I can’t,” he said, his voice a bit louder, his patience dissipating. “I can’t close my eyes. Because every time I come close to sleep . . .” He shook his head and began a new thought. “I wasn’t there for Marquis on Monday, but I’m damn sure going to be there for him now.”
    I didn’t want to soften, but how could I not? I could hear the anger and the misery and the grief all rolled into his voice every time he spoke. Now my anger was