My concentration dipped due to my relationship life. I didn’t want to believe I was in the wrong, and I’d somehow deflect the blame onto him. I led myself to believe he was the cause for our fighting, and thus the cause for why I was so depressed.
I performed poorly on my exams, and because of that, I lashed out even worse than before. The first week after my second academic year had ended for summer I went full time at the bar, and I was even taking double shifts so I wouldn’t have to go home. When I’d get back to the apartment in the early hours of the morning, I’d sleep on the couch suppressing the violent anger at seeing Jaxon’s things littered everywhere in disorganized fashion around the place.
Jeez, I couldn’t even remember the last time we made love. There was fucking, which we still did occasionally, but not making love. My only goal was to reach my orgasm as quickly as possible. I stopped pleasuring him, and stopped letting him pleasure me orally.
There were days I was semi-happy and we’d spend it together out and about. I found that doing things outside of the apartment distracted us from fighting. He took my temper tantrums even in public in stride, and he tried to be as understanding as possible. But I could see the weariness in him, and the sharp intake of his breath when I lashed out in anger. He was always trying his hardest to cool his anger and prolong his patience.
The last straw was at work one night. Jaxon still came around every now and then, and that pissed me off because he would always look at me and expect me to just abandon my work for a few minutes to pay him attention. I was particularly angry at him this day because he’d ruined my brand new blouse by throwing in his freshly grease ridden work shirt into the washer before I turned it on. That was a bitch fit that resulted in me kicking the washer and cursing him off despite his promise to buy me the exact same one.
“It’s not about getting another one!” I’d screamed at him, feeling the swell of that anger in my brain. “It’s the fact you just don’t fucking think, Jaxon.”
So with that rage still coursing through me, I did something I would later regret for years to come. A few tables away from Jaxon, I allowed a man to chat me up. I was used to flirtation, and some guys had the audacity to reach over and grab my backside when they were drunk, but I’d never ever given them the time of day. I hated the sleaziness in every encounter of flirting at the bar during my shifts, but knowing that this night in particular Jaxon was watching me carefully, I couldn’t help but want him to get jealous.
I don’t even remember what the guy looked like, except that he had dark eyes and black hair. When he said, “Hey, beautiful,” I smiled a charming smile in return and responded with, “Hello, stud.” What ensued was a night of fun flirtation.
“You usually talk this way to your customers?”
“Only the lookers.”
“Well, I certainly feel lucky tonight.”
He’d stop me when I walked by, make suggestive remarks about what he wanted to do to me, and all the while I encouraged it. Then he began following me around, meeting near the front of the bar, touching me lightly on the arm, at one point sliding his hand down my back and stopping just above my ass. It felt wrong even then, but I wanted to rile Jaxon up.
There was a storm in his expression as he helplessly watched on, but he never got up and sorted the man out. He just watched me, brokenly taking in my borderline cheating right in front of him. Surely something like this couldn’t get me angry. But it did. How could a boyfriend watch on and not intervene? Why didn’t he get up and sort this obviously intoxicated guy out, or at least threaten him to back off?
He did nothing but watch with dead eyes, ignoring everything around him. At some point he’d gotten up and left, but I hadn’t seen it. I turned after a while to the table he’d been sitting at only to find it occupied by other customers.
I ignored the guy entirely after that. When I went home, I was unsure of what I’d find. Would he silently stew and ignore me? Would he start an argument? What was I coming home to?
There was unease in my footsteps to the front door. A gut feeling told me to turn around and walk away, maybe go and see Lexi and spend the night at her apartment to blow off some steam. Jaxon had every right to be pissed off, and I didn’t want to be in the midst of it. This was ironic since he was always my target during my rage fits.
When I walked into the apartment, I threw my purse on the kitchen counter and looked around. All the lights were still on, and I could hear the sounds of the bathroom pipes bellowing. Jaxon was in the shower.
I strolled to the living room, taking in the strange look of cleanliness. In fact, now that I’d taken notice, the whole apartment was sparkly clean. No dishes in the sink, no laundry on the floor, no clutter of mess on the lounge coffee table, no food or crumbs on the couch. When had he done this?
In the middle of my contemplation, he walked out of the bedroom in nothing but a towel draped around his hips. I hated that I never stopped to take in his beauty in that very moment. He was hotter than the burning embers of hell, and I hadn’t complimented him in what felt like an eternity. His wet hair, now over an inch passed his chin, was dripping in water, and when he stopped in a strange stiff stance to regard me, it started pooling into a puddle at his feet.
“I’ll clean it up,” he said quietly, noticing my gaze on the puddle. His voice was strangely cool and his face reserved, hidden in an emotion that I couldn’t put my finger on. The air was heavy with uncertainty. It made my chest constrict. This was the calm before the storm.
“When did you clean up?”
“Been cleaning up for days actually, but you never noticed.” His voice now sounded accusatory. I immediately went into defensive mode.
“What, am I supposed to notice everything you do?” I retorted.
“You seem to notice every single tiny thing I don’t do.”
“What’s your point?”
“You drag me down for my wrong doings and never praise me for what I do right.”
“What, do you want a cookie, Jaxon?”
“No, Sara, I don’t want a cookie.”
I rolled my eyes at him as I walked past him, but he grabbed my arm gently and turned to me. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“You know what.” His eyes searched my face, and his pain now had broken through his reserved countenance.
“Why didn’t you stop it?” I bit back, glaring at him.
“Is that what you wanted? You wanted me to react violently? What do you get out of that, Sara?”
“A demonstration that you care.”
“I demonstrate I care about you every damn day.”
I ripped my arm out of his grip. “Well, don’t you worry, nothing happened because I’m not like you. I wouldn’t let a random person kiss me, and whatever the fuck else you did with her.”
“You know I did nothing,” he angrily rebutted.
“Whatever, Jaxon.” I made my way into the bedroom and he followed, stopping at the doorway as I took off my flats.
“Do you enjoy hurting me?” he asked, gripping each side of the door frame so tightly, his knuckles went white.
“Oh, here’s another sob story,” I grumbled.
“You do, don’t you? Why? What have I done?”