Work Text:
The stale scent of microwaved popcorn hangs thick in Reba Hart's cluttered Houston living room, January sunlight slicing through blinds onto a worn sofa. Barbra Jean, perched precariously on the edge, practically vibrates with misplaced excitement, her heavily pregnant belly straining against a bright pink Juicy Couture tracksuit. She thrusts her left hand towards Reba, who’s scrubbing furiously at a stubborn coffee stain on the laminate countertop. A cheap-looking diamond solitaire glints on Barbra Jean's finger.
"Lookit, Reba!" Barbra Jean chirps, her voice high-pitched and breathless. "Brock got me this engagement ring! Ain't it somethin'? I bet it was real special, belonged to some old lady who kicked the bucket. Practically an antiquity, eBay called it! Like somethin' outta them museums!"
Reba freezes mid-scrub, the damp rag clenched in her fist, dripping onto the floor. Slowly, she turns, her eyes narrowing to slits as they lock onto the ring. Recognition hits like a physical blow, draining the color from her face. Her knuckles whiten around the rag.
"Barbara Jean," she grinds out, her voice dangerously low, a tremor of fury beneath the surface. "That is my engagement ring."
Barbra Jean’s eyes instantly widen into enormous, startled saucers. Her lips form a perfect, trembling 'O', cheeks flushing crimson. It’s a full-blown, cartoonish 'UwU' face – innocent confusion mixed with dawning horror. She instinctively curls her fingers inward, trying to hide the offending ring. "Oh," she squeaks, her voice barely a whisper. "Oh, Reba, I... I didn't... Brock didn't..."
Reba’s nostrils flare. That ridiculous, clueless expression doesn’t soften her; it ignites a fresh wave of white-hot anger. Seeing her own past, the symbol of her shattered marriage, flashing on Barbra Jean’s finger while she wears that idiotic look of wounded surprise, is the ultimate insult.
"Didn't what, Barbra Jean?" Reba snaps, her voice sharp enough to cut glass. "Didn't think? Didn't ask? Or did you just figure dead old ladies and discarded wives make for convenient accessories?" She throws the wet rag onto the counter with a loud, wet slap, making Barbra Jean flinch.