Goodbye to a World | shane walsh

15 | survival instinct

She was curled up awkwardly on the couch, one hand on her pregnant belly, the other wedged behind her aching lower back. A heating pad hummed beneath her, though it's done little to ease the pressure. The TV is was on for hours but muted, casting soft, flickering light. Her eyes were half-closed when the front door clicked open.

"Jesus. Smells like nothing in here."

He stepped inside, dropping his keys on the table with a clatter. Nola didn't even need to swivel her head, the bitter tang of whiskey hit her before he even closed the door.

"You didn't make dinner?" He asked flatly.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, not bothering to sit up.

"No," She said. "I didn't, Wyatt."

He lingered there for a second, as if waiting for her to change her answer. Then he walked into the kitchen. Cupboards opened and slammed.

"You've been home all day," He called.

"I couldn't stand long enough to cook. My back's been in spasm since this morning and I've been light headed all day."

He scoffed from the other room, then returned with a drink in hand, the ice rattling like warning bells.

"You could've at least ordered something. I'm starving."

"I didn't think you were coming home," Nola said. "You usually text when you're out getting loaded."

That paused him, but only for a second. She could practically feel the anger radiate off him.

"Don't start with the passive-aggressive shit," He scowled. "I'm allowed to have a drink after work."

"It's never just a drink, Wyatt. You smell like a bar."

"And you smell like an excuse."

The words hit her like a slap, low and deep.

He noticed his words got to her, continuing on. "I go out and make a living," He paused, stepping over to face her. "While you're here acting like you're doing God's work just because you're pregnant."

She winced as she tried to sit up, every movement stiff and awkward, her front side so heavy that it was a whole workout. He stood over her now, casting a long shadow across the coffee table, watching her struggle to sit up, not bothering to help.

Nola fell back onto the couch in defeat, feeling frustrated and hurt. "I haven't slept in days," She snapped, not aggressive or upset, but tired and pained. "I can't eat without throwing up. I cry for no reason. I'm sore in places I didn't even know existed. And somehow I still feel like I'm not doing enough for you."

"You're not," He spat. "You think you're the only pregnant woman who's ever been uncomfortable? Millions of women go through this and they don't lie on the couch all day whining about it."

She stared at him, fury and disbelief simmering behind her eyes.

"You know what's wild?" She muttered. "You were the one who pushed for this. You said you wanted a daughter more than anything. That was you."

"Yeah, well, I wanted a family," He flared. "Not a hormonal, glass-boned version of my wife who turns every damn night into a guilt trip."

"Then maybe you should've gotten a doll instead of a wife," She snapped back. "Something pretty that doesn't bleed or talk back or exist outside your fucking fantasy."