Shawn Mendes Imagines

Gone Wrong

"Mom, can I go over to Lexie's house?" your six year old daughter begs, tugging at the hem of your sweater as you stand over the sink and scrub the dishes.

"Um," you sigh, "I guess that's fine if her parents are okay with it. Be home for dinner at six, alright?"

"Okay!" she exclaims, detaching herself from you and already racing towards the front door.

"Look both ways before crossing the street!" you yell after her, and her second okay becomes muffled as the door shuts in the middle.

You lift a glass bowl full of water from the middle of the sink to scrub the inside of it-- which had leftover batter from this morning's pancakes stuck to it-- but your soapy, slippery fingers slide on the edges and it falls, drenching your shirt and shattering all over the floor with an ear-piercing break.

You suppress a groan as you shut the water off, the level of annoyance bubbling up inside of you suddenly increasing so greatly that it became a challenge not to scream at the top of your lungs.

Just then, the garage door opens and Shawn, your husband, steps through it. He was clad in a dark t-shirt and jeans, his motorcycle boots dragging across the kitchen floor as he sets down his bag and looks up at you.

"What happened to you?" he asks quietly, eyeing the thick, doughy substance smeared across your shirt and broken glass strewn across the floor.

You were too frustrated to speak to him, so you just crouch down and begin picking up pieces.

Shawn just stands there, by the counter, and you could feel his eyes on you, his gaze distant.

"Are you still pissed at me about her?" he questions, and at the mention of that woman, your throat constricts and your eyes begin to well up with tears. Luckily, you didn't look up at him, so he couldn't see.

"Are you, Y/N?" he asks again, but you disregard him, your mind elsewhere, focused entirely on getting the pieces of the bowl gathered and thrown away so you could ignore your marriage issues for now.

"Talk to me," he begs.

You shake your head. "We'll talk later."

"So you are still mad, then?"

"I don't know what you expected," you say, as calmly as you could manage. "Did you want me to just forgive you and pretend like none of this ever happened? Because I can't do that, Shawn."

"We have Amira's birthday party this weekend," Shawn points out, and you still struggled to keep your gaze averted. "Are we really in a place to be hosting some big party when we're not even speaking to each other?"

"She'll be crushed if we bail," you say, no emotion to back up your words. "You already promised her a bouncy house and cake, we might as well suck it up for one day."

"I don't want to suck it up, I want to talk about this."

"There's nothing to discuss, Shawn," you roll your eyes, even though he couldn't see you, squatted behind the counter.

On a normal occasion, he might ask you how your day was, and help you clean up the living room and finish cooking dinner while you laughed together and listened to your favorite music-- but you knew such privileges have been stripped away, replaced by your worst nightmare come true.

"I have told you a million times, she means absolutely nothing to me! She is a girl at work who--"

"Who kissed you, and you didn't kiss her back, and you told her that you love your wife and left the office, yes, Shawn, I've heard your side of the story a million times!" You yell, your voice crescendoing with each word, standing up and placing your hands on your hips.