In My Neighbor's Bed

Ch. 6: Trapped

I never knew the morning could be so beautiful. I couldn't even remember the last time I woke up so refreshed and well-rested. I skipped down the hall as I headed to the kitchen. I savored my cup of coffee as if it were the finest cappuccino in Italy. I smiled, and hummed, and danced while doing my housework as if I were auditioning to be the next Disney princess or something.

I barely even recognized myself as I caught a glimpse of my reflection. Who was this woman? This happy, cheerful girl with a bounce in her step and eyes shining bright. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd seen her.

Unfortunately, her time on this Earth was destined to be short. I felt as if I'd barely started to recognize her when the front door suddenly opened and slammed shut again. In an instant, she was gone, and the miserable, hollow face I was used to seeing quickly took her place.

Ah, yes. There was the Maggie I knew.

I sighed heavily as I went back to sweeping the floor. Right. Today was Friday, wasn't it? My question was answered as Phil trudged his way into the kitchen, tossing his jacket onto the counter. He reeked of cigarettes and stale alcohol as he passed me.

"You shouldn't be smoking," I commented, not bothering to look at him. "The doctor said you're already a stroke risk given your family history. Remember?"

He let out a dry laugh as he plopped down at the table. "Aw, what's the matter? Worried that it might kill me off? Or just that you'd be stuck looking after me if it didn't?"

"Do we really have to do this the moment you come home?" I huffed, tossing the contents of the dustpan into the trash.

"What? It's the truth. You obviously don't care about what happens to me," he snapped, turning towards me. "I checked my phone the second I got up this morning, and what did I see? Nothing. No text. No phone call. Not even a thumbs-up emoji or anything to acknowledge that I'd messaged you. And then what's the first thing I get from you when I finally get home? Not a hug or a kiss, not a shred of concern about my safety, just a half-assed comment about how I shouldn't be smoking."

Of course, the guilt trip. This had been his go-to ever since I gave up the concerned and apologetic wife act. If he couldn't make me worried with fear, he was going to leave me wracked with guilt. It didn't work much, of course, but that still didn't stop him from trying.

"Why should I be concerned?" I asked simply, shrugging. "You said you were going drinking. You hate drinking alone, so I assumed that meant you were with friends. Besides, I know you wouldn't do anything stupid while you were out. Even if you were hammered. Why would I need to check up on you if I believe you're being safe and responsible? If anything doesn't that show my unwavering trust in you more than a lack of concern?"

That left him fuming. He glared down at the table silently, stewing. We both knew he was right. I didn't give two shits about his safety. However, he couldn't exactly argue with any of the points I made either. And that's what he hated the most.

He couldn't bitch, moan, or complain to anyone about this. Not when all of my logic was perfectly reasonable.

I was a model housewife. In public, at least. Nobody knew about the hell we lived in at home. So, nobody had any reason to doubt me. And even if they did, I didn't really care what they thought about me anyway. Airing our dirty laundry would only really damage his reputation. And that was the last thing he would ever want to do.

To Phil, image was everything. His money, his position, his status in society. He couldn't stand to lose them. Which is why he was just as trapped in this shitty relationship as I was.

No disease in the world spreads faster than gossip does. Especially in places like suburban neighborhoods and boring office jobs. Divorce would be an ugly stain on his perfect, pearly-white record. Even an amicable one was likely to start a couple of whispers here and there, but a volatile one? It would be the death of his public image.