She was coming with him. Foreman started in surprise. He had no illusions about what a shitty mood he was in, and Amber had to see it, but she still wanted to waste her time with him? Why wasn't she just throwing him out? Five minutes ago she hadn't even believed him that going to the gym was the best he could do right now and now she was getting ready? Foreman caught the look on her face, set and angry. Not happy, so why? Christ, he'd hurt her somehow, and he didn't know what he'd said. Or was it just that he'd pulled away? Not everything could be solved with a damn hug. She'd yanked out of his grip before, and physically pushed him away, too. Not that it mattered; he didn't want the hug. Didn't want to be touched. "Okay," he said, voice low. "I'll wait."
Head down, he walked out of the bedroom. It'd be simple to just keep walking, out the front door, start his car and drive. Keep going until the road blurred. Turn off his brain. An hour, just an hour without thinking about any of the screw-ups in his life, the places where nothing could be shined up and shown with pride, and he'd be fine again.
The remains of their breakfast--that he'd been so proud of and that she'd barely touched--still sat out on the table. Foreman bent down slowly and righted the chair he'd tipped over when he'd picked Amber up. Took the dishes into the kitchen. He felt like he was moving through water, everything taking more thought and effort than it should. He found saran wrap to cover the egg yolks and the leftovers, and pushed them into the fridge. However long Amber took to get ready, he could spend the time in the kitchen, cleaning. Hiding.
He'd meant to rinse the dishes at least, but it all seemed so fucking futile. Instead of making himself useful, or making up in any way for the foul mood he'd unleashed on Amber, Foreman leaned back against the fridge and stared, unseeing, into the distance, his mind about a million miles away.
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Head down, he walked out of the bedroom. It'd be simple to just keep walking, out the front door, start his car and drive. Keep going until the road blurred. Turn off his brain. An hour, just an hour without thinking about any of the screw-ups in his life, the places where nothing could be shined up and shown with pride, and he'd be fine again.
The remains of their breakfast--that he'd been so proud of and that she'd barely touched--still sat out on the table. Foreman bent down slowly and righted the chair he'd tipped over when he'd picked Amber up. Took the dishes into the kitchen. He felt like he was moving through water, everything taking more thought and effort than it should. He found saran wrap to cover the egg yolks and the leftovers, and pushed them into the fridge. However long Amber took to get ready, he could spend the time in the kitchen, cleaning. Hiding.
He'd meant to rinse the dishes at least, but it all seemed so fucking futile. Instead of making himself useful, or making up in any way for the foul mood he'd unleashed on Amber, Foreman leaned back against the fridge and stared, unseeing, into the distance, his mind about a million miles away.