I would normally do everything in my power to squash this tension so as to avoid the shitty feeling of a fight—especially on mybirthday—and the two day silent treatment that follows it. But today, instead of trying to play peacemaker, I just feel angry.
Angry that I'm constantly walking on eggshells around his feelings.
Angry that I'm made to feel guiltyevery timeI have a drink.
Angry that I'm being asked to bend my willon my birthday.
Yet somehow, I still can't bring myself to throw my anger in his face. Even though he has no problem shredding me to ribbons with his fury, I can't manage anything more aggressive than a furious glare.
I finally step into the bedroom, forcing myself to crush some of the distance between us. "I'm allowed to have a drink with family," I manage to spit. "The first legal drink doesn't have anyone's name on it, so it shouldn't matter who I was with. It was just Remy and Jax. It's not like I was out with random guys."
"Iwas the one you made plans with for your birthday.Ishould've been the one you had your first drink with." He's still angry, but he's not yelling. He never yells. Sometimes I wish he would, just so we could get into a screaming match and I could get everything out in the open.
"I didn't realize it was such a big deal." And even though I hate myself for saying it, there's a need ingrained in me to appease him that forces me to say, "I didn't know it was so important to you. I'm sorry."
It does the trick. I watch as some of his anger deflates and he lets out a heavy exhale.
"I just hate when you drink," he says through clenched teeth. "I hate when you drink, and I especially hate when I'm not around when you do it."
I stiffen. I've heard this spiel so many times, and it's baffling every single time. Yet, I've never quite worked up the nerve to face it head on.
"It was one drink," I force out. "On my 21st birthday. I'm hardly shitfaced right now."
"You weren't shitfaced that night in high school that you decided to act like a whore, either," he snaps.
My eyes widen and I actually take a step back in the suddenly too-small bedroom. Steve shakes his head with a look of pure disgust before turning back to the closet and pulling his clothes on.
I feel my blood begin to boil in my veins. That’s the second time he’s called me that in a matter of minutes, which is a personal best for him. He usually waits to drop it as a singular conversation-finisher, since he throws that fucking word around like it’s my main descriptor and the worst thing a person could be. Thank God I figured out early on that he only uses it because it’s the easiest way he knows to make me feel like shit, and it’s not actually something I should feel bad about. His go-to of name-calling says more about him than it does about me.
Of course, that doesn’t mean that his obvious attempt to lash out at me doesn’t hurt and piss me off at the same time. But even with the fury simmering under my skin, I still can’t bring myself to defend myself.
He must feel the moment my anger deflates because he lets out a sigh and takes a seat at the end of the bed, dropping his head into his hands. But annoyance still laces my voice when I ask, "So, what, we're just going to ruin tonight because I had a drink with my sister on my21st birthday?Is that really what we're doing right now?"
His head snaps up, fury glittering in his eyes. "Don't act like I'm being unreasonable. You know exactly why your drinking bothers me. And I would've thought you'd be smarter than to glorify the cliché 21st birthday bullshit."
My eyes widen. "You didn't expect me to have a legal drink today? Seriously?"
His glare darkens. "I expected you to have it withme. I'm the one that's been there for you. I'm the one you should be celebrating your birthday with. I don't even feel like going out now. You ruined it by celebrating without me."
"We're not going out anymore? I ask incredulously.
He sighs again and drops his head into his hands to rub his temples. "We'll still go out," he concedes. "Even if it's not the same, I still want to celebrate you tonight. I’ll do that for you." When he looks up at me, I can clearly see the hurt in his eyes. "I just wanted to be the one you want to celebrate with."
Something inside of me cracks. I walk over to where he's sitting on the bed, gently pushing his hands out of the way so I can straddle his hips. He continues looking at me with that same pained expression, making my heart twist.
"Of course, I want to celebrate with you," I whisper, brushing his hair out of his face. "I love you. You're the one I want to spend tonight with." I wince and drop my hands into my lap. "I'm sorry, I went out today. I didn't think about how it would make you feel to be left out."
Steve wraps his arms around my waist, burrowing his face into my neck. "It's okay," he mumbles against my skin. "Let's just forget it happened and spend tonight the way we planned." He pulls away and gives my ass a light smack, aiming a small but genuine smile at me. "Go get dressed. Wear that red dress I love so much."
I nod eagerly, relieved to be back on firm ground with him. I hate the tension that arguing with him brings, and it's always a huge breath of relief when we come out on the other side. I climb off of him so I can go grab my red dress and finish getting ready.
Dinner that night is wonderful. Our conversation is easy and fun, and Steve laughs more than he has in a few weeks. He's in such a good mood that he doesn't even aim his usual sour glance at my mojito when the waiter sets it on the table in front of me. We’re happy and everything is perfect, like it used to be when we first started dating.
Like I want it to be again.
Our earlier fight is completely forgotten.
4