Promises and Pomegranates by Sav R. Miller

I pinch my thigh, trying to steady my blood, reminding myself that she’s
just doing it all on purpose.
“You haven’t told her, have you?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll
give it to you, she’s a very pliant girl. Eager and willing, the way Rafael
brought her up to be. But I don’t think she’d forgive you for sleeping with her
mother.”
“Tell her, and I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
Clicking her tongue, Carmen turns away, walking back to the armchair.
She picks up her wine glass, taking a big gulp while taking a seat, crossing
her legs again. “As much as I’m sure you’d love to, we both know you won’t.
I know that look in your eyes, Kallum. You care about Elena. Moreover, you
care what she thinks of you, and I think we both know there’s no coming
back from something like this.”
When I don’t say anything to refute the matter, knowing she’ll just twist
my words anyhow, she laughs, throwing her head back like this is all some
big fucking joke.
“Well,” she says, taking another drink, wiping her mouth on the back of
her hand. “Guess you’d better get to her before I do, then.”
I contemplate the logistics of Carmen Ricci’s murder in three different
ways before I stalk out of her house, intent on finding Elena. She’s tucked in
the back seat of the SUV, scrolling aimlessly through her phone and
complaining to Marcelline about her mother.
The window is cracked, perhaps to cool the interior now after a brief rain,
and I pause before opening the door, listening quietly.
“...and honestly, she acts so prim and proper all the time, and then tonight
my sister tells me she had an affair? What the hell? My mother doesn’t even
like when men wear ankle socks because she says it’s immodest, but she was
screwing around on my father? And wants to judge me?”
She blows out a breath, and Marcelline sits in her usual stony silence,
punctuating Elena’s story with the occasional mhm.
Hooking my fingers around the handle, I yank the door open, revealing
my wife with her feet propped against the opposite window, lying on her
back as she stares up at her phone. She rolls her eyes toward her forehead,
looking at me upside down.
“Is she still breathing?” she asks, the question a stab wound to my chest,
proving Carmen right.
Elena probably won’t forgive me.