“No, I fucking quit that bullshit job,” he said.

“Wait. What?” Tiffany asked, her voice suddenly shrill.

Careful. Oh God, be careful.

I moved my wet things from the washer one at a time into the dryer, wishing truly that I were anywhere but that laundry room.

“What happened?” Tiffany asked, obviously strained.

“It was bullshit. The whole thing. Supposed to be such a hotshot, but that dude was just an asshole like the rest of them.”

“Phil, we need that money—”

“Jesus Christ, Tiffany, I just got here and already you’re ragging on me?”

“I’m not…I’m not, I’m just saying, we’re already behind on everything—”

“Maybe if you wasn’t spending money on shit like this?”

“Don’t! Phil!” Tiffany cried, and I jumped at the sound of a balloon popping.

I wiped my hands under my eyes because I was crying. Terrible stress tears.

Desperate, I looked for a back door or something, some way to get out so I wouldn’t have to walk by them. Wouldn’t have to see them.

“It’s Danny’s birthday,” Tiffany breathed.

“Where is the little shit?”

“Please,” Tiffany begged. “Please don’t ruin this—”

“Ruin it? The fuck you talking about, Tiff? I’m paying for this shit. Your mom sure ain’t giving you enough to pay for jack.”

“You’re right. Phil. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But we’re having a nice party. Look, there’s cake, honey. Why don’t you have some cake?”

This conversation was engraved on my heart, beaten into my brain. I knew exactly how this was going to go.

Tiffany would keep apologizing. Over and over again, swallowing all her anger so that this man wouldn’t raise a fist to her. To her children. So he wouldn’t demolish the small bubble of normalcy she’d so painstakingly blown for her children with all the air and hope she had in her.

But in the end it wouldn’t work.

It never worked.

Because guys like Phil—like Hoyt—they walked into the room knowing what was going to happen. Whether they would smack a person around or not. They had all the power. Her apologies were for naught. Her pain and fear—irrelevant. All that mattered was what that man wanted to do to her and he’d made that decision way back in his lizard brain—miles ago. Maybe years ago.

I have to leave.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t sneak out, that I had to walk right past them and their awful domestic drama, the miserable unhappy end of which I knew too fucking well. Gathering up my book and laundry soap I ducked out the door, my head down, hoping not to garner any attention. This was the last situation I wanted to get pulled into or bear witness to.

Holding my breath, I got past the rhododendron bush and ran smack into someone.

“Careful,” Joan said, picking up the book I had dropped. Joan wore a pair of short cutoffs and a tee shirt with the neck and sleeves ripped out, the ties of a bright pink bikini visible underneath. She had her eyes over my shoulder, trained on Phil and the blooming catastrophe.

“You shouldn’t go over there,” I said.

“I shouldn’t?”

“No. It’s…they’re fighting.”

“And you think we should all just stand around with our thumbs in our asses while he beats her up?”

That was what was going to happen. That was exactly what was going to happen and I was walking away. Head down. Eyes averted. Thumb in ass. “No…but—”

“Get out of my way, kid,” she said, clearly through with me. Joan brushed past me, stomping past the rhododendron, making the leaves quake as she went by.

“Hey, a birthday!” Joan cried, out of sight. “Sorry I’m late, Tiffany. Hey, Phil—”

“Get the hell out of here!” Phil yelled. “You fucking bitch.”

“Honestly, Phil, you should dress up like a clown for birthday parties. You’d be great,” Joan said. “Is there assigned seating or can I sit anywhere?”

“You’re not wanted here!” Phil said, low and mean, and I could just imagine him saying that through his teeth, right in her face.

“Joan,” Tiffany said. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

“Bullshit it’s fine,” Joan said.

“You know something?” Phil yelled. “Fuck this shit. I don’t need this. Later, cunts.”

A car door slammed and the Dodge revved back up and drove away.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Tiffany snapped in the silence after the car’s deafening departure. I could see, through the leaves, Tiffany yelling at Joan, who stood up slowly from her seat, looking older. Looking pained.

“Saved you from another black eye, so…you’re welcome!”

“We have no money! Oh my God! What am I going to do?” Tiffany cried as she collapsed onto one of the seats at the picnic table.

“I can float you—”

“I don’t want your fucking money!” Tiffany yelled and I knew what she was doing, how Tiffany had all this anger and rage toward herself and her husband and her life and it was only because Joan was standing there that she got it smeared all over her.

“Fine,” Joan said without any heat. “If you need help—”

“You’ve done enough,” Tiffany said, low and defeated.

Joan came back around the bush before I could get my legs to move. I stood behind that bush like a gaping coward, and when Joan saw me she didn’t even spare me a sneer, she just walked on by, head up, shoulders back, armored in her righteous bravery.

“Come on, kids!” Tiffany yelled, her voice just a little broken. A little worn. The fake amount of cheer she had to put into it nearly hiding the trauma. Nearly. She’d clearly had lots of practice. “Let’s open presents!”

The kids came back from the playground, more subdued. Their eyes wary. Their smiles gone.

“Did he leave?” Danny asked.

Tiffany nodded.

“Good,” Danny said, his chin up, and Tiffany sagged against the picnic table.

Enough, I thought, feeling sick and wrung out and worse, so desperately glad I’d never had kids with Hoyt that the guilty relief made me nauseous.

I went back to my trailer and hours later, when it was dark and silent, I went back to get my dry clothes.

And there on the counter, the sprinkles glittering silver and blue in the moonlight, was the piece of birthday cake the little girl had brought me. I picked it up to take it back to Tiffany—I didn’t want it, and there were three kids in that trailer who’d probably love another piece of cake.

Outside the door, Tiffany’s trailer was quiet. The balloons drifted slightly on the breeze, dark bruises against the lighter sky.

“Take it.” Tiffany’s voice made me jump. I saw one of the shadows by the rhododendron shift and detach and Tiffany walk over toward the door of the laundry room. She had a garbage bag and was dumping a handful of paper plates into it.

“Is everything…okay?” I asked, lamely.

“Define okay.”

I didn’t know how. What did okay look like to her? To any of us?

“He’ll come back,” Tiffany said. “He always does.”

“Would it be better if he didn’t?”

Once Smith had taken me out to check a trap he’d set for a coyote that had been harassing the animals, eating chickens and killing the barn cats. And we’d found the coyote, caught in it, crying, its strength nearly gone. Tiffany’s laughter sounded like that coyote crying.

“I have three kids under the age of six,” Tiffany said. “I can’t do it without his money.”

I thought of the three thousand dollars I’d taken from Hoyt’s safe and knew that was the truth sometimes. Sometimes, a woman’s freedom all came down to money.

“Take the cake,” Tiffany said. “We’ve got lots. My kids will be eating it for breakfast.”

Dessert for breakfast.

“Thank you.”

Tiffany nodded and went back to cleaning up what was left of the party in the dark.

I took the cake and my dry clothes and headed back to my trailer.

Birthday cake for breakfast.

It felt all wrong, and not in a good way.