“Get the fuck out of my house!” my husband yelled.
“Excuse me? I fucking live here!” I screamed. “Plus, I don’t have a car!”
But it was his house—a penthouse condo on the water. As for me? I was his wife, paid help, a squatter.
Standing inches from the door and my husband, I felt myself pulling away from myself. There was me: paralyzed, flooded, hateful. There was me: witnessing, weighing, straining to make sense of the scene and this stranger. The one who’d declared his love after only four days. The one who’d saved the day by whisking me away to south Florida.
Somehow, we were here. Somehow, we’d become monsters.