I stood there for a moment, watching the remnants of her anger settle. After that, I calmly picked up her bag, returning the scattered contents—her makeup and her phone—to the coffee table. Then I turned back to the table and began clearing away the dishes that had never been touched.
Sacha had this habit of lashing out whenever she knew she was in the wrong. She’d wait for me to make an excuse for her behavior, to apologize for her. Then, graciously, she’d forgive me. It had worked for her countless times, but like any well-worn strategy, it was bound to fail eventually.
As I was gathering the plates to bring them to the kitchen, her phone chimed with a message.
[Craig: Sacha, you left your lipstick in my car’s passenger seat. Want to come get it tonight?]
I didn’t mean to look at it, but the preview flashed on the screen, too obvious to miss. Before I could react, Sacha burst out of the bedroom in a panic. “What are you doing?” she shouted, shoving me roughly aside as she snatched her phone from the table. Caught off balance, I dropped the dishes in my hand. They shattered on the floor, a sharp piece of porcelain slicing deep into my leg.