Rick finally tore his eyes away from the football game, pointing a greasy finger at me. “And don’t think you can boss us around and make us do your chores. We’re guests in this house. Treat us like it.”
I felt the blood roaring in my ears. I turned slowly toward the kitchen archway just as Caleb, my husband of three years, walked out carrying a tray of sodas. He stopped when he saw me, his face instantly flushing with guilt.
“Caleb,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “Care to explain?”
He avoided my gaze, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Babe, I… I meant to call you. It all happened so fast. They needed a place to crash, and this house is huge. It’s just temporary.”
Temporary. The universal lie of the chronic freeloader.
I looked at him, waiting—praying—for him to step up. For him to establish a boundary. For him to tell his mother to take her shoes off my table, to tell his sister that adults pay rent, to tell his stepdad to respect my home. But Caleb did none of that. He just stood there, shrinking into himself, terrified of his mother’s disapproval. He had thrown me under the bus to save himself the discomfort of an argument.
A white-hot anger flared in my chest, threatening to consume me. But years in a male-dominated corporate world had taught me one vital lesson: never react when you are angry. Plan instead.
I swallowed the rage. I let out a soft breath and flashed a bright, blindingly fake smile.
“Okay,” I said lightly, tossing my keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. “No problem! Lol.”
Caleb let out a massive, audible breath of relief. His shoulders dropped. He actually thought I had agreed. He thought my smile meant submission. He didn’t know that my smile was the starting gun of a war, and he had just allied himself with the losing side.
