“I have to go in. What time is it?” He looked up at the dashboard, and I followed his eyes. It was ten o’clock.
“I have plenty of time.” He said relieved and tapped his fingers against his screen. Rolling my eyes, I huffed. Not realizing it was a loud sarcastic exhale, I was surprised when he turned his head. His eyebrows pulled together. “What’s wrong?”
Crossing my arms, I looked out the window. “Nothing.”
He blew out air. “Come on, Mia, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Arms still crossed, I turned my head to look at him. “Can you cancel today? I need to talk to you.”
His expression went from irritated to concern in a nanosecond. “What about?”
Looking anywhere but his eyes, I tried to come up with an excuse about why I wanted to wait. “I want to be alone, in private.”
“Mia, what’s going on? You’ve been quiet all day, distant even. Did I do something wrong?” He spoke nervously.
“No! No. You didn’t do anything. We just need to talk. It’s important,” I whispered the last sentence. It was important. I didn’t want to talk about this with Elle in the backseat, not knowing how he would react.
“Okay, let me see if I can get someone to go in for me tonight.” Grabbing his phone, he dabbed a few keys. I hope he can. I can’t keep this in any longer.
****
I woke up startled by the sound of footsteps in the bathroom. Instantly knowing that Marcus was home, I jumped out of bed. Apparently this job was too big to have some amateur handle it. He promised as soon as he got in, he would wake me so we could talk. The nightstand clock read three in the morning. How did he have so much energy to do anything?
Sliding my feet into house slippers, I made my way into the bathroom. The bright light in the bathroom caused my eyes to squint. When my eyes were finally focused, I caught sight of Marcus. He was slumped over the sink, washing his hands. His jacket was thrown on the floor beside him. He looked up at the mirror, feeling my presence. When he saw my reflection in the mirror, he rolled his eyes, and shook his head. I was taken aback…I never get this reaction from him.
Not turning around to face me, he snarled, “Mia, go to bed.”
“You said we could talk when you got home.” I muttered.
Adding more liquid soap in his hands, he continued to roughly scrub them. “Mia, tomorrow, it’s late. Go to bed.”
It took me a few minutes to process his demeanor. He’d never spoken in this tone with me. It’s like I was irritating him. I started analyzing today, wondering what I did or said to deserve his attack. The water stopped running, and meeting my gaze in the mirror, he didn’t move. His expression was unreadable.
“Are you okay, Marcus?” At my concerned words, he lowered his head. I took a few steps toward him, and he immediately shot his head up.
“Don’t come any closer, Mia, just go to bed!” He snapped.
My heart dropped, he just yelled at me—really yelled at me. What did I do? Has he found out what I’ve kept from him? Does he know? He couldn’t know. There’s no way he could have found out. Does he suspect that I am?
Trying so hard not to cry, I could feel my lips tremble. The hormones, lack of sleep, and exhausting day did not allow me to hold them in. I burst into tears. When he saw that he hurt my feelings, he quickly ripped off his shirt, throwing it into the sink.
Running to me, he wrapped his arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Mia! I just didn’t want you to see.”
“See what?” I asked sniffing. Pulling away from him, I looked at the white t-shirt he was wearing, it was spotted with blood. Rubbing his chest, I search to find his wound. “Oh my God, you’re hurt.”
Grabbing my wrists to stop me, he stepped back still holding my hands together. “No, it’s not mine,” he whispered.
It’s not his. It’s not his. Then whose blood is on his shirt? Pushing him aside, I walked toward the sink. Grabbing the collar of the button-up, I lifted it till it was at eye level. The entire front of his shirt was drenched in splattered blood. Gasping, I dropped it. The fabric slowly fell and landed on my feet. I could feel the dampness of fresh blood against my skin. Disgusted, I kicked it away.
I turned to face him. His eyes were filled with horror. Was it fear of what he’d done or what I would do once I found out what he’d done? “Whose blood is it, Marcus?” I asked, not able to hide the anxiety behind my tone.
He tried to make his way over to me. I brought my hand up, forcing him to halt. I couldn’t have him near me, not then, not when I needed answers. “Marcus, this is not one of those questions that you can avoid with a simple hug or kiss. Do not come near me! Whose blood is this?”
Lowering his head, his shoulders dropped. He was defeated. He knew there was no getting around this. He brought his hand up, pressing his fingers against his forehead. He seemed to be thinking. What was there to think about? Irritation began to possess every inch of my body. “Whose is it, Marcus!” I snapped.
Finally looking up, he pressed down on his lips. His breathing began to pick up, and I could see his chest heaving up and down through the thin cotton fabric, which was now covered in smeared blood. “I-I … it was a bad exchange. Mia … I … there was nothing else I could’ve done.”
I gasped, bringing my hand to my mouth. Looking in his eyes, I wanted him to say it, to clarify it. “You killed someone?”
His eyes were begging me to understand. I couldn’t stop staring at him in fear, in shock. He was standing there, my Marcus, the man I have grown to love and know, yet he was covered in blood and asking me to understand a “bad exchange.” I began to feel nauseated and lightheaded. Stumbling back a few steps, I leaned against the sink. Clenching my hand along the edge of the granite top and placing my other hand against my stomach, I glanced at the floor. I looked at his shirt beside my foot. It was covered in so much blood, another man’s blood. He could have been someone’s husband, or father, uncle, someone’s son or brother.
Tears began to flow down my cheeks. I began to sob, feeling sorry for a man I didn’t know, yet I could feel the sorrow of his loss, of his family’s loss. The picture of Marcus standing in front of a man and blowing his brains out came to mind: blood and skull splattered all over. The thought instantly brought vomit to my throat; not able to hold it, I ran to the toilet. Once I opened the lid, I threw up.
“Mia, baby.” Marcus was at my side, rubbing his hand along my back.