Chapter 2

The next evening, I tried. I really did. My freelance article on urban gardening had been a beast, but I finished it. I even got a compliment from my editor at "NYC Green Spaces." On the way home, I walked ten extra blocks to that cult-favorite hot dog stand on Bleecker Street. The one Jake raved about. They had a limited-edition "Atomic Fire Dog" he’d been desperate to try. I waited in line for twenty minutes, the smell of grilled onions and spicy relish making my own stomach rumble. “One Atomic Fire Dog, please,” I said. “And make it a double on the pickled jalapeños if you can.” “Sorry, hon,” the guy at the cart said. “Fresh out of our special cheese sauce for that one today. Everything else is good, though.” Damn. Jake was a stickler for the cheese sauce. But the jalapeños were his main thing. “Okay, still good. Double jalapeños, then.” I got back to the apartment. Jake was on the couch, scrolling through his phone. The TV blared some reality show. “Hey,” I said, holding up the grease-stained paper bag. “Guess what I got?” He glanced up, uninterested. “What?” “Atomic Fire Dog. From Bleecker.” A flicker of interest in his eyes. “No way. Did you get the double cheese sauce?” My stomach tightened. “Ah, they were out of the cheese sauce today. But I got double jalapeños, just like you like.” I put the bag on the coffee table. He stared at it. Then at me. His face darkened. “No cheese sauce?” “They were out, Jake. It’s not a big deal. The rest of it is…” “Not a big deal?” He stood up. His voice rose. “You know that’s the whole point of the Atomic Fire Dog, Emily! The specific combination! The cheese sauce balances the spice!” “I know, but they didn’t have it. I still got the hot dog.” “So you just… settled? You didn’t even try to ask them to make more, or check another stand?” My patience, already thin, snapped. “It’s a hot dog, Jake! I went out of my way after a long day…” He wasn’t listening. He grabbed the bag. “This is what you think of me? That I’ll just eat any slop you bring home?” Before I could react, he swept his arm across the coffee table. The hot dog, the bag, my half-read library book, the remote – everything crashed to the floor. Our favorite matching ceramic mugs, the ones we bought at that little shop in Brooklyn on our first anniversary, went flying. One shattered near my feet. A sharp pain. I looked down. A shard had sliced my ankle. Blood welled up, bright red against my skin. “You… you don’t care about me at all!” Jake yelled, his face flushed. “You don’t listen! You don’t even know how I like my goddamn hot dog!” The words appeared, shimmering over the mess. 【He’s just hangry, poor guy. And so passionate about his food!】 【It’s cute how much he cares about the details. She should appreciate that.】 【Totally a foodie power couple moment if she just understood him!】 I stared at the blood on my ankle, then at Jake’s furious face. Cute? Passionate? The doorbell rang, sharp and insistent. Jake froze. I looked towards the door, my heart pounding. I limped over and opened it. David Lee, the owner of the small grocery store downstairs, stood there. He was a burly man, ex-Marine, always kind to me. His expression was grim. “Heard a crash. Everything okay up here, Emily?” His eyes took in the scene: the scattered food, the broken mug, my bleeding ankle. His gaze sharpened when he saw my ankle. “Emily, are you hurt?” He looked past me at Jake, who stood stiffly by the couch. “It’s… it’s nothing, David. I just dropped a mug.” My voice trembled. David’s eyes didn’t leave Jake for a long moment. Then he looked back at me, his voice low and serious. “Do you need me to call the police, Emily? A man who loses his temper like that… it can be dangerous.” I shook my head quickly. “No, no, it’s fine. Really. An accident.” The "audience" chimed in, louder this time. 【LOL, this busybody neighbor needs to mind his own business.】 【Police? For a broken mug? Get real, dude.】 【Some people just don’t understand passionate relationships. #CoupleGoals】 David looked unconvinced. He gave Jake one last hard stare. “You need anything, anything at all, you come get me, Emily. Day or night.” “Thank you, David. I will.” He nodded slowly, then left. I closed the door, leaning against it. My ankle throbbed. The apartment was a wreck. Jake hadn’t moved. He was staring at the floor, at the mess he’d made. He didn’t look at my ankle. I looked at the floating comments, then at the wreckage of our evening, of our mugs. A deep, cold doubt began to settle in my heart. Maybe David was right. Maybe this wasn't just passion.