Creep

Andrea expected him to come home at any moment now. She did not need a clock; her body kept time for her. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest. She set the plastic fork on a paper towel and hurried to the sink with the coffee pot. The pipes groaned; no water. Panicked, she grabbed a water bottle hidden beneath the sink and poured it into the pot. Rick hated bottled water, but maybe he would not notice it today. If something was off, he would launch into a tirade about how idiotic it was to buy water. He despised the metallic taste of silverware. She recalled the hour-long lecture on romaine versus iceberg lettuce and another on the perils of not using fluoride toothpaste, which he would not concede until she replaced all the tubes in the house.

Andrea knew the monster all too well.

She braced her hands against the counter, pressing her palms into the cool surface. Her mind was too foggy to compose a candy-coated reason for why she did not remind him about the water bill. She looked around the room, her shoulders drooping. The faded, hospital-green paint curled back from the kitchen walls, as if it had given up. The gas stove clung to life with one working burner. The refrigerator bled out another puddle onto the floor. Tiles buckled beneath her feet, warped from years of leaks no one cared to fix. The whole house, it seemed, was ready to surrender. She sighed and gripped the counter a little tighter. She was the queen of this dysfunctional kitchen.

Andrea paused at the hall mirror. Still young, but dark circles and a slumped posture aged her. She twisted her hair into a ponytail. Her gaze landed on a photo—a younger Andrea in khaki shorts and a navy "Patsy’s Café" polo, cradling an infant. Same uniform today. Same job.

With coffee in hand, she glanced out the window, then eagerly sat down with a tabloid magazine, losing herself in the lives of the celebrities she served at the café each day.

Outside, a rusty blue pickup bearing a “Stop ‘n Go Auto” logo pulled into the drive, spitting gravel. Rick’s appearance matched the lawn; overgrown and neglected. His stringy hair looked as though it had missed a couple of oil changes. He stepped out and kicked the door shut. He lowered the tailgate and swung a push mower to the ground with one hand. Gas spilled all over the place. He trudged through the knee‑high grass to the porch, flashing a shit-eating grin at the next-door neighbor. It was always a pleasure to wreck someone else’s day.

He tossed a pile of mail on the table. “Who’s the idiot who left the mail out last night?”

“Rick, please wipe your feet.”

“Because it really matters.”

He slid into a chair across from her and kicked off his muddy shoes.

Evie looked older than her fourteen years. She entered the kitchen, heart pounding, braced for battle. No makeup, just a black shirt and pants—a uniform for disappearing. Her face was blank, every muscle tense. She only wanted to be invisible.

Rick couldn’t resist. “Did you get dressed in the dark?”

Evie answered with her middle finger, which Rick found comical.

Andrea carried a bowl of cereal to the table and slid it in front of her daughter. Heads down, Andrea and Evie moved through breakfast. Regret stabbed Andrea every time she saw her daughter. Once bubbly, Evie now stayed silent around Rick; somewhere along the way, she decided it was safer not to care.

“Baby, I’m taking you to school today—remember?”

Evie shot her mother a cautious glance.

Rick looked up. “Where’s your idiot boyfriend?”

Furious, Evie stormed out, slamming the door.

Rick lit a cigarette and tossed the lighter onto the table. “What’s wrong with everybody?”

Andrea’s eyes dropped to the tabloid. She studied a photo of Celine Avery, a young starlet she'd met at the café. Celine always asked, with kindness, for what she wanted. Her partner listened attentively; she always left a generous tip—money Andrea hid from Rick for the day she could no longer hide from the truth.

Andrea looked up to find Rick staring at her like a tiger-for-hire. She set the magazine down. “I’m late for work.”

Andrea walked out. Rick shoved the mail across the table, scattering it to the floor.

“Who’s the idiot that lost my Range & Rifle magazine?”

She moved quickly down the hall and stopped at the narrow closet. It was August—no wonder she forgot the coats. She slipped a hand into a pocket, relieved to find the money she’d hidden. Pressing the bundle to her chest, she headed for the door.

“It’s ninety degrees outside.”

She froze. “I’m taking them to the cleaners after work.”

“You too good to take mine?”

Moments later, she returned with Rick’s coat and headed straight for the front door.

In the oppressive heat of the garage, Evie shivered in the passenger seat, clutching her backpack. Andrea tossed the coats onto the pile of belongings in the back seat and pressed the remote. She always backed into the garage, anticipating what this day might require.

The door lifted, revealing a stretch of clear blue sky. Andrea breathed deeply and pulled onto the street.

They drove on for several miles. Evie’s hands fidgeted, her gaze darting to the rearview mirror over and over.

“We’re never going back?”

Andrea kept her eyes on the road. “No, baby. You can stop looking back now.”

As she drove, Andrea could picture the monster, sitting at the kitchen table, turning cigarettes to ashes. Cursing about the water. He would express out loud that only an idiot would want to leave him. He would be enraged at what Andrea had taken from him. It was not the clothes that mattered. It wasn’t the cabinets she had stripped bare except for a few crinkled fistfuls of his Range & Rifle magazine used for packing.

She chose a life without him.