Always the One to Blame

Always the One to Blame

The leftover pasta stares at me accusingly from the shelf above, its lid smeared red at one corner. Cold light spills over the yogurt cups arranged in a perfect row on the spotless glass below. I grab the container and shut the fridge door. Reaching into the cabinet above the coffee machine, I carefully take out a navy Tommy Bahama bowl.

“How much longer until the food’s ready? I’m starving,” my husband shouts from upstairs.

We live in a two-story townhome, and he has a room of his own on the second floor. To save himself the trip down the stairs, he tends to raise his voice so I can hear him.

“In a moment,” I say.

One. Two. Three spoonfuls of pasta go into the bowl. Then I slide it into the microwave for three minutes, just the way he likes it.

Over the steady hum, I hear an electronic chime and assume it’s my phone ringing in the bedroom. I leave the kitchen and find that I was right. My mom is calling.

We chat for a few minutes before I remember Adam must be growing impatient as he waits to be called downstairs to eat.

A stab of guilt goes through me.

When I reenter the kitchen, though, I find him perched on a high stool at the island, scrolling through his phone, his brown hair still perfectly in place after a full day at work.

I hurry to take the dish from the microwave and set it in front of him. The moment I release it, a sharp crack splits the air. We both stare as the food spills onto the granite, red sauce spreading across the pale stone and dripping toward the seams. The navy bowl has split cleanly in two.

It takes me a moment for it to sink in. This isn’t the first time I’ve used a piece from this set to reheat food. Has it given out after just a few uses?

​​“Wonderful,” my husband says. “Another favorite set ruined.”

A slow burn moves up my neck.

“I don’t know how this happened,” I say, still confused and unable to meet his eyes.

“How long did you leave it in?”

“Three minutes. The way I always do.”

“Mm.” He looks at the mess before him. “And then?”

“My phone rang, so I stepped away for a moment.”

“So you weren’t really paying attention.”

“Only for a couple of minutes.”

He is quiet for a beat, as if the answer is obvious. “You probably set it for too long and didn’t realize.”

I look at the broken bowl again, at the sauce still inching across the granite. “I thought I did it the way I always do.”

He gives a small shrug. “Alexandra, melamine doesn’t just crack on its own.”

My stomach sinks.

“I must have gotten distracted,” I say.

“You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.”

Maybe he’s right. It happens more and more often. Like the time I chipped the edge of the sink with a heavy pot, or broke the plastic milk container from the coffee machine. I hadn’t even realized I’d done either one until Adam pointed them out to me.

This time, he doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. The house stays painfully muted around us, broken only by the hum of appliances and the occasional creak of settling wood. Regret presses against my ribs as I blame myself all over again.

*

The next day, I take the car and head to an early doctor’s appointment. The morning sun filtering through the window lifts my mood and reminds me I don’t spend enough time outside.

For the past six months, I’ve only gotten behind the wheel when I absolutely needed to be somewhere and Adam had no reason to come with me. Otherwise, I spend most of my days indoors. He’s always talking about how much it costs to keep a car, so when I told him I’d been offered a remote position, he urged me to take it. We’d save money, he said, if I stopped commuting every day.

The visit is brief. After I mention how long it’s been taking me to fall asleep lately, my doctor suggests drinking two cups of chamomile and valerian tea before bed. I decide to head straight home and order the tea bags online. When I come in through the garage door, I find my husband hunched over his laptop. Relieved that my appointment went well and nothing unexpected came up, I let some of that ease spill into my voice when I say good morning to him.

He doesn’t answer. It’s too soon to assume he’s already forgiven me for breaking yet another thing in our house.

I lower my head and pass his desk on tiptoe, worried I might interrupt whatever important task he’s working on.

*

I spend the rest of the day in my office, working on a few reports that should have been finished yesterday. When I lift my gaze from the screen, I catch the last of the afternoon light pouring through the window. Time flies when I’m deep in focus.

Around five thirty, hunger drives me into the kitchen. I shun the navy plates and take a yellow one from an old set instead. Before I have time to put any food on it, my husband comes in.

“Don’t bother with that,” he says, and I’m relieved he’s speaking to me again. “We’re going out for dinner.” His boss is in town visiting old friends, he explains, and wants to see him while he’s here.

*

We left the house about seven minutes ago, heading toward a restaurant downtown, and Adam already seems on edge. He’s wearing a dark blue suit and a white shirt, and he keeps tugging at his collar.

I chose a long black dress with a slit up the left side that keeps exposing my leg. My purse hovers over the bare skin in a useless attempt to cover it. I regret the impulsive decision. Worse, I feel bad for not matching his suit. He kept insisting I should put on the cobalt dress he brought back from one of his business trips two years ago, but it doesn’t fit me as well. Besides, I never liked the color.

Still, I should have listened to him. This one is giving me a headache as it is.

“Something’s wrong with the car,” Adam says after a while.

I look at him and find him frowning. A million thoughts scatter through my mind. What could be wrong?

“Did you hit a pothole this morning? It wasn’t pulling like this before.”

My stomach drops.

I didn’t. At least, I don’t think I did. I had music on during the drive back, and for a little while, I’d been enjoying myself. Did it happen while I wasn’t paying attention?

“The car was fine when I drove it the other day,” he says.

I shrink into the passenger seat, eyes burning. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice breaking. Tears are starting to gather. My makeup will all get smudged if I don't stop myself. I turn my head and wipe the tears away, carefully so he doesn’t notice.

“I’m sorry,” I try again. “Maybe I did, but I can’t remember.”

“We were supposed to fix the roof this month. Now I’ll have to reschedule with the repair team so we can fix the car instead.”

Another tear breaks free, and I brush it away, ashamed of it. I’ve never been a confident driver, which is why I never insisted on having a car of my own and let Adam drive whenever possible.

I smooth the dress over my legs, feeling even more exposed now. I should have pushed my doctor’s appointment back a few more weeks. This wasn’t the right time to drive anywhere on my own. I feel awful for getting behind the wheel and creating more problems for us.

By the time we pull into the restaurant parking lot, it’s 6:50 p.m. Adam parks the car and gets out, then walks around to inspect the wheel on my side. He crouches slightly, limited by the stiffness of his suit pants, and when he’s done, I watch him brush a hand over his dress shoes as if to polish them. Meanwhile, I linger beside the car, not knowing what to do with my hands, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I can’t shake the knot in my throat. I’m afraid I might start crying again and embarrass my husband in front of his boss.

The hostess greets us the moment we walk in. Adam gives her the reservation name, and she tells us the other party is already here.

We are led through the dining room to a spot near the back. The restaurant is warm and elegant, with dark wood, candlelit tables, and low amber light softening every corner. The air smells of butter, garlic, and seared meat, rich and comforting. Despite the way the evening started, I tell myself the night might still turn out pleasant.

Eugene stands when we reach him, smiling, silver at his temples, his jacket faintly rumpled, as he and Adam shake hands. I murmur my greeting, slide into my chair, and try to settle into the polite rhythm of small talk.

When the server approaches to take our drink order, Adam asks for a whiskey neat, and his boss orders red wine without even looking at the menu. I linger over mine a second too long before pointing to one cocktail.

“Can I have this one without alcohol?” I ask.

The server nods and takes the menus.

When the drinks arrive, mine is garnished with a slice of lime and filled almost to the top with crushed ice. I take one sip and know something is wrong. The burn is slight, but there.

Adam notices my expression. “What, Alexandra?”

“I think this has alcohol in it.”

He lets out a breath through his nose and looks at the server, who stays by the table to see if we need anything else. “She asked for the virgin one,” he says. Then he turns to me. “You have to ask for it properly, otherwise they won’t know what you mean.”

Heat rushes to my face. The server apologizes and reaches for the glass, but I can feel Adam’s boss watching from across the table, too polite to say anything, which somehow makes it worse.

Dinner moves on around me in fragments—plates set down, glasses lifted, Eugene telling some story about a restaurant he found on a recent work trip, then shifting to his daughter starting college in the fall. I nod when it feels expected, smile when Adam does, and keep my eyes mostly on my plate.

Much later, Adam reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a slim paper bag folded neatly at the top. He slides it across the table toward his boss.

“I almost forgot,” he says. “I brought you something.”

Eugene looks amused. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“You mentioned you liked Tabanero cigars,” Adam says. “And since you were in Tampa visiting friends, I figured you wouldn’t have time to stop by the shop in Ybor City, so I went there earlier and got you some.”

His boss smiles as he takes the bag, faint lines gathering at the corners of his eyes. “That was thoughtful.”

Thoughtful.

The word passes through me without settling. Something else catches instead. I went there earlier.

In Ybor City.

My fork stills halfway to my mouth. The appointment I had this morning lasted less than an hour, and I came home early. He was working on his laptop when I last saw him. I’d been too caught up in my own work to think much about how the rest of his day went. I had assumed he stayed home until we left the house together. That’s how the day had settled in my mind.

Something uneasy twists inside me.

He used the car today.

My fingers tighten around the fork handle. The wheel. The pothole. His certainty. The way guilt had rushed in so fast I hadn’t stopped to question any of it.

Maybe I hadn’t hit anything.

Maybe I had not done what he said I’d done.

Across from me, Eugene still looks down at the cigars inside the paper bag, while Adam moves on to another subject. His face gives nothing away. Not a flicker. Not a pause. He does not look like a man who has just let something slip.

My throat tightens around the words that rise and die there. I say nothing. I only sit straighter in my chair, pulse turning uneven, and feel something shift where my trust in him has always lived.

The check hasn’t come yet when Adam’s boss sets down his glass and looks at him with a seriousness that doesn’t match the warmth of the room. Until then, the evening has moved along in mannerly little circles—work anecdotes, travel complaints, the right amount of laughter. I have no reason to think this is anything more than a favor. Just a small performance of closeness between men who work together.

But the mood tilts. I feel it before either of them speaks.

“Adam,” Eugene says, quieter now. “The real reason I asked to see you tonight is that I wanted to have this conversation privately, before it becomes something else.”

Adam’s hand stills beside his water glass. “Something else?”

His boss exhales once. “I’ve had a few difficult conversations over the past month. I can’t treat this as noise anymore.”

For the first time all evening, Adam says nothing.

His boss continues. “There’s a pattern being described, and your name is at the center of it. Work goes wrong, and somehow the responsibility keeps landing elsewhere. People are starting to compare notes.”

The words seem to alter the air around the table. Even the candle between us looks smaller.

Adam lets out a short laugh, but there’s no ease in it. “That’s not what happened.”

“Then this is your chance to reflect on what you want to do next,” Eugene says. “Because once this becomes formal, it stops being a private conversation between the two of us. I asked you here as a courtesy. If you want to step away before that happens, do it while you still have some say in how this ends.”

An odd quiet settles in my chest.

I stare at Adam’s face, at the tightness gathering around his mouth and the sharp little flicker in his eyes, and recognize something I've seen there before, but never knew what it was. Beneath the quiet, something long buried and heavy inside me loosens.

The bowl. The car. The sink. The milk container. Just a few of the many small accusations that seemed harmless on their own. He delivered them with such certainty that I learned to doubt myself before I even asked a question.

I lean back in my chair and drop my hands in my lap.

For the first time in ten years, I see something truly broken, and it does not have my name on it.