Ava'sPOV
Smash.
The sound was so much louder than the cheerful Christmas carol playing from the speaker. It wasn't just glass breaking. It was the sound of the last good thing inside her shattering.
Ava stared at the floor. A thousand pieces of her grandmother's silver star ornament glittered on the dark wood like cruel confetti. She had been reaching for it when Mark's angry arm swept across the table. She saw it spin in the air, a tiny, beautiful planet knocked out of orbit, before it met the floor and died.
"Now look what you made me do," Mark's voice growled above her.
She didn't look up. She kept her eyes on the glittering mess. If she looked at him, she might scream. Or cry. And crying made everything worse. Her chest felt tight, like someone was sitting on it. This was supposed to be a good night. She'd made his favorite pasta. She'd put up the tiny tree, even though money was tight. She'd wanted a little bit of light.
Mark, her boyfriend of three years, the star defenseman for the city's hockey team, saw it differently. He saw a waste of money. He saw clutter. He saw her trying to be happy when he was stressed, and that made him angrier than anything.
She slowly knelt down, ignoring the pain in her knees. She started to pick up the pieces, one by one. They were sharp. Each one felt like a little piece of her heart, broken and dangerous to touch. Her Nana had given her that star the last Christmas before she passed away. "For when you have your own home, my Ava," she'd said with a wink. This wasn't the home Nana had dreamed of for her.
"I said, look what you made me do," Mark repeated, his voice closer.
"I'm cleaning it up," she whispered. Her voice sounded strange, far away.
"You should have been more careful! Putting expensive junk right on the edge of the table." He was pacing now. She could see his feet moving back and forth in her blurred vision. Big feet, in socks. He'd just gotten home from practice. The ice and sweat smell of him filled the small apartment, mixing with the pine scent of the tree. It was a horrible mix.
"It wasn't expensive. And it wasn't on the edge," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
The pacing stopped. His feet were planted right in front of her. She could see a drop of melted ice on the cuff of his sweatpants.
"Are you arguing with me?" The question was quiet. Deadly quiet.
This was the moment. The tipping point. She could say no. She could apologize, mumble something, and the storm might pass. The pressure in her chest built. She thought of the pasta going cold in the kitchen. She thought of the way he'd frowned at the twinkling lights. She thought of the little star, now gone forever.
She kept picking up glass. "I'm just stating a fact."
A hand shot down and grabbed her wrist. It wasn't a gentle grab. His fingers dug into the bones, hard. He yanked her upright. The pieces of glass she was holding fell, tinkling back to the floor.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
She finally looked up. His face was flushed, his dark eyes narrow. This was the face the sports reporters never saw. This was the face he kept behind closed doors. Handsome, but twisted with an anger that was always looking for a target. Lately, the target was always her.
"I spent all day getting slammed into walls by guys twice my size," he spat. "I come home, my head is pounding, I've got contract talks hanging over me, and what do I find? A circus. You're turning our home into a stupid, glittery circus."
"It's just a tree," she said, trying to pull her wrist back. He held on tighter. "I wanted it to feel like Christmas."
"Christmas?" He let out a harsh laugh. "You know what I want for Christmas? A little peace and quiet! A girlfriend who isn't a child obsessed with lights and tinsel! A girlfriend who has a real job and contributes instead of playing on her computer all day!"
Each word was a hammer blow. The old arguments. Her freelance graphic design work wasn't a "real job." Her wanting a home that felt warm was being a "child." She felt herself shrinking, getting smaller and smaller under his glare.
"My work pays for my half of the rent," she said, her voice trembling now. "Just last month, the logo I did."
"One logo!" he shouted, shaking her wrist for emphasis. "One job in six months! I pay for everything else! The food, the utilities, the car insurance. And you waste what little you have on this garbage!" He waved his free hand at the tree.
Tears finally spilled over. She couldn't hold them back. They were hot and shameful on her cold cheeks. "Please, Mark. You're hurting my wrist."
He looked down at his own hand, as if surprised to find it there. For a second, his grip loosened. Then his eyes darkened again. "You hurt my head with all this nonsense. We're even."
He let her go with a shove. She stumbled back, catching herself on the arm of the couch. She cradled her throbbing wrist against her chest.
He turned away, running both hands through his hair in frustration. The room was silent except for her sniffles and the perverse cheerfulness of "Jingle Bell Rock" still playing from the speaker. He walked to the kitchen island and picked up his phone, scrolling through it, dismissing her and the broken pieces of her heart on the floor.
Ava stood there, trembling. The pain in her wrist was bright and sharp. The pain in her side from where she'd hit the bookshelf earlier was a deep, scary ache. But worse was the hollow, empty feeling inside. This was her life. These screaming fights, these careful walks on eggshells, this constant, tired fear.
She looked at the tree. It looked stupid now. Pathetic. A tiny, bright light in the corner of their dark apartment.
Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.
Mark's phone vibrated and played his team's goal horn ringtone. He answered immediately, his voice changing. It became smooth and confident, the voice he used for the world. "Yeah, Coach. What's up?"
He listened, turning his back to her. "Uh-huh. Yeah, I saw the footage. I can adjust that." He was talking about hockey. His real love. His only love.
Ava sank onto the couch, pulling her knees to her chest. She watched his broad shoulders, the easy way he talked to his coach. The angry monster was gone, locked away so quickly it made her dizzy.
The call ended. He put the phone down on the counter. He didn't turn around right away. He just stood there, looking out the dark kitchen window at the city lights.
The cheerful music finally ended. The room was plunged into a heavy, waiting silence.
Slowly, Mark turned around.
The smooth, confident mask was gone. The anger from before was gone too. What was left was something colder. Something worse. His eyes found hers, and they were flat and dark, like stones at the bottom of a deep lake.
He didn't look at the broken glass. He didn't look at the tree he hated. He only looked at her.
A slow, cold smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes.
"We," he said, his voice so quiet she had to strain to hear it, "are not done talking about this."
The words slithered across the room and wrapped around her heart, squeezing tight. The fight wasn't over. It had just been paused. And the look in his eyes promised that when it started again, it would be worse. Much worse.