Chapter 3: The Doorway Between Us
Tasha didn't run.
She stood against the wall for several seconds, breathing through parted lips, her eyes fixed on the open doorway.
I kept my distance.
The space between us was no more than a few feet, but it felt like a boundary neither of us knew how to cross.
My hands hung at my sides.
I could feel the tension in my fingers, the stiffness in my shoulders, and the uncomfortable awareness of how quickly an argument could become something dangerous.
“Tasha,” I said.
She flinched.
That small reaction hit me harder than her earlier insults.
I had never seen her look at me like that before.
She lifted her chin, but the gesture didn't restore her confidence. Her eyes moved from my face to my hands, then back to the doorway.
“Don't come any closer,” she whispered.
I stopped moving.
“I'm not coming closer.””
“Stay right there.””
“Okay.””
She pressed one palm against the wall as if she needed it to remain standing.
I glanced at the handbag lying on the floor near the bed. One strap had twisted beneath it, and a small collection of items had spilled from the open zipper: a tube of lip gloss, a compact mirror, a set of keys.
Ordinary things.
Things that had been on the bed a minute earlier, before the room changed.
I looked away.
“I'm going to leave,” I said.
Tasha didn't respond.
“I won't touch you again.””
Her expression tightened.
“You already did.””
The words were quiet.
There was no insult in them, no challenge, no attempt to provoke me.
Just a fact.
I swallowed.
“You're right.””
She stared at me, apparently surprised that I hadn't argued.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Tasha pushed herself away from the wall.
She moved cautiously, keeping her eyes on me as she reached down for her handbag. Her fingers shook so badly that she missed the strap on the first attempt.
I remained where I was.
She picked up the bag and held it against her stomach.
“Move away from the door,” she said.
I looked toward the hallway.
I was still near the threshold, partially obstructing the easiest path out of the bedroom.
I stepped to the side.
The hallway was clear.
Tasha watched me do it, but she didn't leave immediately. Instead, she took one small step forward, stopped, and studied my face.
I could almost see the questions moving behind her eyes.
Would I follow her?
Would I change my mind?
Would another sentence send me back across the room?
I hated that she had reason to wonder.
“I'm staying here,” I told her.
She said nothing.
Then she crossed the bedroom, passed through the doorway, and stopped in the hallway.
I could see her from where I stood beside the bed.
She looked toward the living room, then toward the apartment's front door. Her right hand tightened around the strap of her handbag.
“Tasha?””
She turned sharply.
“What?””
I nearly told her that I was sorry.
The words rose to my mouth, but I stopped myself.
An apology would have been necessary, but it would not have repaired the damage by itself. And I wasn't going to use an apology as another way to demand that she calm down, forgive me, or remain in a conversation she wanted to leave.
So I said the only thing that mattered in that moment.
“You can go.””
Her face hardened again, although the fear remained beneath it.
“I know I can.””
She walked toward the living room.
I heard her footsteps cross the floor. A moment later, a drawer opened and shut. Then came the quick shuffle of objects being moved around.
I stayed in the bedroom.
My heart was still beating too fast.
The afternoon light had shifted across the bed, leaving the far corner of the room in shadow. I stared at the rumpled blanket and tried to understand how the day had become what it was.
I thought about calling my wife.
The idea frightened me more than I expected.
Not because I thought she would judge me unfairly. I knew her well enough to understand that she would want the truth, even if the truth hurt.
I was afraid of hearing myself explain what I had done.
My wife trusted me to be careful with people, especially when I was angry. She trusted me to come home to our daughter with the same patience I showed her when she was overwhelmed or frightened.
I had always believed that being a good father meant protecting my child.
I hadn't considered how badly I could betray that responsibility by allowing someone else's insult to turn me into a threat.
From the living room, Tasha called out.
“Where's my charger?””
I looked toward the hallway.
“I don't know.””
“You were in here earlier.””
“I haven't seen it.””
She appeared at the bedroom doorway a moment later, keeping several feet between us.
Her eyes moved quickly around the room.
Then she spotted the charger on the bedside table.
She walked over, grabbed it, and stuffed it into her bag.
Neither of us spoke.
As she turned to leave, her gaze settled on the photograph sitting beside the lamp.
It was a picture of my wife and daughter taken at a small park the previous spring. My daughter was laughing with her head tilted back, one hand gripping my wife's fingers.
Tasha stared at it for a moment.
Then she looked at me.
“That's what this is always about, isn't it?”” she asked.
I didn't answer immediately.
She gestured toward the photograph.
“Everything comes back to them.””
“They're my family.””
“And I'm nobody.””
“I didn't say that.””
“You didn't have to.””
Her voice trembled, but anger was beginning to return to it.
She looked at the photograph again, then at me.
“You always act like they matter more than anybody else.””
I felt the old urge to defend myself rise inside me.
I wanted to tell her that a wife and daughter were supposed to matter. I wanted to ask why she thought love was something that had to be divided into equal portions, as if caring deeply for one person automatically meant caring less for another.
But I stopped.
None of that changed what had happened.
“You can be upset with me,” I said.
“You can tell me you don't like me. But what I did in there was wrong.””
Tasha's expression shifted.
For the first time, she seemed unable to decide whether to believe me.
“You think saying that fixes it?””
“No.””
“Then why say it?””
“Because it's true.””
She held my gaze for a long moment.
Then she looked down at the charger in her hand.
“I don't want to be around you right now.””
“Then don't be.””
Her eyes snapped up.
The words sounded harsher than I'd intended, but I didn't take them back.
She walked toward the front door.
I followed only far enough to see that she had a clear path out of the apartment, then stopped near the living room wall. I did not approach her. I did not block the doorway. I did not ask her to stay.
She unlocked the front door and pulled it open.
Cool hallway air drifted into the apartment.
For a second, she stood with one hand on the handle, staring at the corridor beyond.
Then she turned around.
“Marcus.””
I looked at her.
“What?””
She gripped the door handle harder.
“If I tell somebody what happened in there, what are you going to do?””
The question was quiet, but it changed the atmosphere all over again.
I understood what she was asking.
Would I threaten her again?
Would I try to stop her?
Would I tell her that nobody would believe her?
Would I turn my anger toward her a second time because she refused to keep what had happened between us?
I looked at her frightened face.
Then I answered carefully.
“I'm not going to stop you from telling the truth.””
She watched me for several seconds.
“Even if it makes you look bad?””
“Yes.””
Her lips pressed together.
For the first time, she seemed to have no answer prepared.
She turned toward the hallway again, but she didn't step out.
Instead, she reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone.
I watched her thumb move across the screen.
A moment later, she lifted the phone to her ear.
“Hey,” she said, her voice suddenly steadier.
“Are you busy?””
She listened.
“No, I'm fine.””
The lie came out so naturally that I wondered whether she had already decided what she would say next.
She looked at me while the person on the other end spoke.
Then her expression changed.
“No,” she said.
“Listen to me. I need you to come over.””
She paused.
“Right now.””
I stayed beside the living room wall, my hands visible at my sides.
Tasha listened again.
Her gaze never left my face.
Then she spoke in a voice so quiet I almost couldn't hear it.
“Because Marcus just threatened to kill me.””
The words landed between us.
She wasn't shouting.
She wasn't insulting me.
She wasn't trying to win an argument.
She was telling somebody what had happened.
And I had no right to stop her.
Tasha listened for another moment, then gave the apartment number and ended the call.
She lowered the phone.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
I looked at the open front door.
Then at her.
“Who's coming?”” I asked.
She tightened her grip on the phone.
“My brother.””
I nodded once.
“Okay.””
Her expression remained guarded.
“You're not going anywhere near me.””
“I won't.””
“And you're not going to tell him I made this up.””
“I won't.””
She stared at me, waiting for an argument that never came.
Then she stepped into the hallway, leaving the apartment door open behind her.
I remained inside.
A minute later, I heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
They were fast and heavy, growing louder with every step.
Tasha moved farther into the corridor.
I stood beside the wall, watching the doorway.
Then a man's voice rang out from the hallway.
“Tasha? Where are you?””
“I'm right here,” she answered.
The footsteps stopped.
A shadow crossed the open doorway.
May you like
And as Tasha's brother appeared in the hall, she pointed toward the apartment and said the one thing that made my stomach drop.
“He's still in there.””