She huddled on her couch, spooning the last of a nearly-expired yogurt into her mouth. Two weeks. It had been two weeks since she’d seen Ryan, and it seemed like neither of them would give in.

Will’s name lit up her screen. Poppy looked at the short message without tapping it so he wouldn’t know she’d read it. Email me doc, it said. She rolled her eyes and shoved the phone away. I’m not your assistant.

Ever since he’d been cooped up in downtown D.C. with his new business partner, he'd texted her short, snappy messages like she was his secretary or something.

Her phone stared at her from the next cushion, taunted her. She picked it up again and scrolled to Ryan’s name. But every time she thought about texting or calling him, she couldn’t think of what to say.

I’m sorry? I wish things were different? Obviously, but what was the point in saying it? It wouldn’t do anything, wouldn’t fix anything. She sighed and tossed the empty yogurt cup onto the coffee table. The spoon slid out and banged against the glass, spraying little droplets across it.

“Stupid,” she told herself.

She didn’t even know what was true anymore. Will’s ring hung heavy like the ball and chain it represented on her hand. She twisted it around, but it was no use. It seemed like she’d never get used to the strangeness of it.

Whatever. If she couldn’t figure out a way out of this mess, she might as well check out for awhile. Poppy stood up and padded into the kitchen where she pulled a full bottle of white wine out of the fridge. She poured a glass and downed it in just a few swallows. Instantly, her head lightened. She poured another.

As she walked back to the couch, she pulled off the ring and let it rattle onto the table next to the dirty spoon. Curled back on the couch with her feet tucked under her, she sipped this glass a little more slowly. This was more like it.

Halfway through this glass, she heard the familiar engine of Will’s Volkswagen outside. She glanced around her apartment and could instantly pick out everything he’d complain about. That her shoes were kicked off at the door instead of placed neatly in the closet. The pile of clean, unfolded laundry on the chair. Who cares? It’s not like it’s his place.

She counted each of his heavy steps outside. There would be thirty-four of them before he reached her door. Poppy had done this countdown so many times it was nearly meditative.

“Why didn’t you answer my text?” he asked as he walked inside. He made a show when he pushed her shoes out of the way.

“Oh, I didn’t get it,” she said. He looked at the phone just an arm’s reach away from her.

“You should keep your phone where you can hear it,” he said. “It might be an emergency.”

“You’re absolutely right,” she said, and took another sip.

“Poppy, you seriously need to start picking up after yourself,” he said with a big sigh as he picked up the discarded yogurt container. “You can’t live like a kid—what’s this?” He picked up the ring, which had landed in one of the bigger splatters of yogurt.

“Ring,” she said.

“I know that,” he said slowly. “Why is it on the table covered in shit?”

She bristled at the word, but liquid courage flowed through her. “Because that’s where it belongs.” The words surprised even her, but they emboldened her. She felt invincible.

A darkness fell over his face. Without saying anything, he turned and slapped her. It was quick and sharp, the kind of surprise that took her breath away. Poppy jerked away from him and pulled her knees against her chest like a shield.

Will laughed, but it was unfamiliar. Mean and hard. “You know, when I found out what kind of family you were from, I admit, I was surprised. I thought I’d have to break you in… but it was clear from the second I stepped into your house that you know exactly what’s expected of a wife.”

She was confused. What is he talking about?

“And what happens when you step out of line. It was written all over your mother’s face… and neck. And arms. Is she always so badly behaved, or did I just stop by at the wrong time?”

The shame that coursed through her was overpowered with sheer rage—and protectiveness of her mother. “How dare you,” she said, and jumped onto the couch to leverage herself above him. She watched her hand toss what was left of the wine in his face. It wasn’t much, barely a splash, and it didn’t bring on the reaction she expected.

Will smiled.

The next hit was with his fist, far from a slap, and it knocked her off the couch. “You stupid bitch.”

She felt her knee twist at an odd angle. From the floor, he looked ten feet tall. “Will—”

“Shut up. You want to know something? You want to know why I don’t really care if you’re a frigid prude or not? I’ve been fucking whoever I want, and you’re too fucking stupid to even know.”

She knew she should feel something. Jealousy, or anger, but she was numb. There was nothing. “Penny?” she asked bluntly. She didn’t even care at this point.

“Among other people,” he said with a laugh. “She’s not really my type, but you know. Low-hanging fruit. Seems like you knew about her.”

Poppy shrugged.

“And guess what else? She’s not the only one, and that’s exactly how it’s going to be. Before we’re married, after, all of it. And we will get married, Poppy, don’t doubt that.” He kicked her in the shin and she moaned as the sharp toe of his shoe shot pain through her entire body. Her pain lit up his face like Christmas.

“Will—”

“And you’ll have my children, like a good wife. Just like your mom.” The thought of having Will’s children sickened her. For all these years, she’d thought she just didn’t want to be a mom. Or wouldn’t be a good mom. Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe she’d just been protecting innocent children from a nightmare like Will as a dad.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you after all.

“And you’ll learn to clean, and cook, and there won’t be any more of this doctoring bullshit.” Images of her mom flashed in her mind. She saw her on her hands and knees as she cleaned the baseboards religiously. Tucked into the tiny laundry room as she folded her dad’s dingy underwear. Hunched over as she scrubbed at a worn-out pot crusted with the morning’s breakfast. No.

“As soon as my script is picked up—”

It was like someone else moved her body. When Will bent over her with his fists clenched, she kneed him between the legs and felt the softness give. Even while her knee screamed in agony, a savage force tore through her. “You fucking bitch,” he whispered, doubled over in pain. He clutched at his crotch and dropped to his knees. “Fucking crazy, white trash whore.”

She overrode her own aching leg and the bruises surely already formed on her cheek, and pushed herself up. Poppy surveyed the room while instinct took over. You have a few seconds. Just a few seconds. People always ask each other what they’d take if the house was on fire and they only had one chance. But that wasn’t fair. Adrenaline decides what you take, not your mind or your heart.

Everybody always said either their most expensive possession or their most sentimental. But that wasn’t true. She reached from behind the couch, used it as a barrier in case Will suddenly recovered, and grabbed her phone and purse from the chair. It was her only hope, her only connection to the world without a monster.

As she raced down the stairs, she didn’t care about the nosy neighbor who leaped out of her way. Or that she only had on boxers, a T-shirt and no shoes. “You okay, baby?” the woman called, but she was already halfway to her car.

Poppy only made it a few blocks before she pulled over to calm down. Tears tore down her cheeks, but she was already almost cried out. She looked in the rearview mirror, but for a second all she could see was her mom.

Her phone was almost dead, but there was enough battery left for a phone call.

“Poppy?”

“Sarah,” she said. It was all she could get out.

“What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

“I… Will… he—”

“Did he hit you?” How did she know?

“Um. Yeah.” She felt a release, just telling Sarah.

“Where are you?”

“In my car.”

“Fucking prick,” Sarah said under her breath. “I knew—come here. Right now.”

“Sarah, I don’t want to bother—”

“I said come here.”

She hung up, pulled a makeup wipe out of the glove box, and wiped her face. Suddenly, she realized why this all felt so familiar, and she was five years old all over again.

When she was really little, her mom would grab her and take her out of the house at seemingly random times. Poppy was always terrified, with her mom’s eyes nearly swollen shut and bruises already evident. “Come on, baby,” her mom would say as she picked her up with superhuman strength.

They’d drive for what seemed like miles, but was probably only a couple of blocks. Her mom would clean up her face as best she could and turn up the oldies station on the radio. Poppy would sit in the back seat, scared until the soothing sounds of The Shirelles or Elvis lulled her into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up, she’d always be back in her mother’s arms, being carried into the house.