Trouble Won't Wait (23 page)

He surely noticed the bed was made up and clean sheets are neatly peeking out of the fold beneath his pillows.

I can tell he’s nervous about asking what this means, because he’s got his hands jammed into his Levi’s pockets. It’s his anxious stance. The way he stood when he asked me to not date other guys at college. When I looked down from a hotel window above, and saw him waiting at the altar for me to come out in my white dress, he had his hands jammed in his tux pockets. It’s the way he stood when we listened to the message from the mortgage officer saying we were approved, and the way he stood in the hospital delivery room while the nurse fetched the doctor to come in and deliver Ben. Is he hoping I might return to his bed?

He helps himself to another cookie.
Gonna lose that boyish figure, Mikey
.

“I ordered pizza, so the kids can eat in the den and they won’t interrupt your game,” I tell him. How thoughtful of me, he must think.

He moseys into the living room and turns on the tube, hands still in pockets, pacing the floor between the coffee table and the TV. He wants to ask, but he’s afraid of getting burned again. He’s emotionally invested in this. Good.

“Thanks for making the bed.”

I’m still thumbing through sale flyers. “No big deal,” I say with nonchalance.

He’s got to know something has changed with me. A week ago, if those sheets got crusty and lice-ridden, I still wouldn’t have changed them for him. He probably expected to be sleeping on them until he moved out of here.

“I love you, Man.” It’s heartfelt when he says it, I know.

I reward him by looking up and taking in his eyes searching mine. I let myself melt into them just long enough, then pull them reluctantly away. They
are
great eyes. And even though he hasn’t shaved since Saturday–no coincidence there–a girl would have to be frigid to find him unappealing. He saw the flicker of want in my eyes, I’m sure. He’s always been able to read me like a book. Let’s hope he’s too caught up now to notice the fine print.

“What time is our appointment with Dr. Bangs tomorrow?” I ask. I’ve always been the one who set and kept track of every appointment for anything, but I’ve made him be responsible for this counseling.

He looks at the calendar, where he sees his note of
MC 9:00
–marriage counseling, initials to be discreet. Naturally, he also notices my sticky note for
HI LITE & WAX 10:30
.

I knew what time our counseling was, but this was my way of making certain he noticed
my
little appointment.

He’s breathing a little faster now, mouth hanging open, and he clears his throat to speak. “Um, nine. Got a hair appointment, too, huh?”

“Yeah.” I know he’s hoping I’ll provide some details about the wax, but I’ll let him think it over. There’s only one place I could be waxing. I wage daily war with my increasingly thick brows, tweezers being my weapon of choice. I’ve tried the fiasco of waxing my legs a couple of times, but always in the spring. So he knows
exactly
what that appointment is for. “Gotta get all dolled up for the New Year’s party, ya know.”

Mark and Kenna’s party is a huge deal every year, the one event we go all-out to dress up for, the one time we usually get blitzed together, since their house is walking distance from ours. The kids are usually visiting my parents like they will be this year, and Mark invites nearly everyone he knows, most of whom show up. His neighbors all attend, so there aren’t any complaints about the racket, which usually lasts until around the time the year’s first newspapers are delivered.

Mike doesn’t know it yet, but this year he will not be a welcome guest.

He nods at my excuse of getting ready for the party, and his dumb man’s eyes wander back to my note.

My smile over Mike predictably thinking with his smaller head is bestowed on the pizza guy.

Mike helps me carry the pizzas, and stays in the kitchen to get the kids served, suddenly Mr. Helpful. When the kids have gone with their food, he hugs me against him, without a word, just sniffing me and holding me very tight. This is too easy. Get a guy thinking with his dick, and you can lead him anywhere, I swear. Guess that’s how Lana operates.

I tense at the thought of her, which is fine. It’s time to get him off me anyway. There’s no way I would have been over my anger this suddenly.

With a gentle shove from me, he steps away and we plate our pizza. Rather than sit in front of the game like I’d expected him to, he switches the TV off and eats with me at the table. We chat amicably about the progress of the jobs in Aspen, and the pushy twits who live there.

One of his employee’s wives is due to deliver her baby this week; I volunteer to get a gift for them.

He gives me a grateful smile. “You do so much for me, for all of us. You hold everything together, baby. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I really don’t.”

You’ll find out soon, bud
. “Thanks,” I answer cautiously. It’s amazing what guilt will inspire a guy to think, isn’t it? All these years, and now he thinks he might lose me, he realizes I’m not only napping and grooming myself all day.

Leaning forward, he covers one of my hands with his. “Baby, if there’s anything, and I mean
anything
, I can do to make you happy again, please tell me. I can’t lose you. You’re my life, you know that? My
life
.”

I allow myself to feel confused, undecided. Those are powerful words, and he means them. He really means them. I’m his life. He’d do anything to get me back. Even return to monogamy?

“Do you think you could keep a promise to never bend another woman over the hood of Brad’s Camaro?” That was quick and mean. It felt great!

As if snakebit, Mike jerks back in his chair. Fury, then guilt, flash crimson across his face, before his dumbass lying voice answers me. “That was a once in a lifetime mistake, Mandy. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

I close my eyes, because if he saw how much I hate him right now, he’d run scared, and never return without police escort. My nails bite into my fists under the table.

How can he lie like that? I’d like to knock his
teeth
out for it! My faith in everything we’ve ever had together just vaporized. Has he cheated on me before now? Only a seasoned cheater could lie like that, right?

A tear slips from the corner of my eye, and one of his filthy fingers–I keep thinking where he’s been shoving them–wipes it away. Half-goosebumps rise on my skin. I feel like I’ve been touched by a Dumpster rat. I want to wipe away the germs with an alcohol pad, spray myself with Lysol.

“Why should I believe you, Michael? How can I trust you again?” I thrust my chair back from the table and leave the mess, taking a bottle of wine and a glass to the bath.

As I soak and drink, thinking becomes harder. I can’t believe it’s possible to despise my husband as much as I do right now. Even a week ago, I wouldn’t have thought it could happen. There was still love then. Since finding out what he’s still doing, still willing to lie about, the only warmth in my heart for him comes from jets of anger.

I
will
harness this anger, and use it to make him hurt. He’ll hurt so bad he won’t be able to
get it up
for Lana! Maybe he’ll get a complex, and he’ll become impotent, never again to enjoy illicit pleasures of the flesh. Oh, how happy I’d be!

Okay, I’m feeling a little better now. Revenge is a fine thing, a therapeutic thing.

* * * *

Out of the bath, I call Mark and ask him to come pick up his kids, since I’ve been drinking.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I will be soon, Marko. Soon. Your wife swore in front of me today. I almost wet myself laughing.”

“Yeah, she does that once in a while. I think she likes the shock effect. I’ll be right over.”

Mark scowls menacingly at Mike from the entryway, while the kids get bundled up. Mike suddenly needs to use the bathroom.

It’s snowing outside now, and the kids are excited about the prospect of sledding tomorrow. My nieces and nephew thank me for having them over, and leave with their dad.

I’m in no mood for dealing with Mike any more tonight, so I quickly kiss my kids goodnight and head downstairs. Rachel knows I’ve been sleeping in the spare room, but she thinks I’m working late at night on my book. At least, I hope she believes that story.

As usual, I find an email from Adam. He sends me something every day, if only a joke or link to a funny discussion group. There’s actually a group which debates what the all-time best flavor of Lifesavers is. I didn’t know, but Adam educated me.

I intend by week’s end to personally occupy the time he blows surfing the net for useless things. To that end, I envision myself perched nude on his keyboard, with my knees pulled to the side in mermaid pose.

Today he has a new nickname for me. Always a joker, Adam.

Speedy Gonzales,

Hey, have you crashed yet? Was that an insulin reaction, or just a crack-buzz?

Do you know how many hours it is till Friday noon?–I assume your kids will be gone by then.–Ninety, from 6 PM today.

Rascal climbed the miniblinds somehow today, and got scared at the top. He was perched on the little valance thing, howling for his life when I got out of the shower. I dread what he’ll do to my Christmas tree tomorrow.

Check out this website.

Sylvester

It’s a link to a site with a bowling game. The pins are elves, and the ones I miss moon me. They all heckle me while I’m aiming the ball. Mark is going to love Adam.

* * * *

“Hellooo,” Adam drawls when I call.

“Hey, good lookin’.”

“I’m not cookin’ anything, and it’s past dinner time.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry if I was obnoxious today.”

“Did you go home and take your ADD meds?”

“Whatever. I like the Elves’ Bowling. One of their little bottoms looks just like yours.”

“Uh-huh.”

Got him again. Seeing him naked when he was sick was such a
coup
!

“You’re finally getting a Christmas tree? What happened, get a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Lame?”

“You’re still full of piss and vinegar, aren’t ya?” He doesn’t explain why he’s getting a tree
now
, but it must be because of me harassing him.

“Adam?”

“Hmm?”

“Only eighty-seven hours.”

“I know. You drunk?”

“Mmm, no. Just enough wine to relax. I can’t wait, Ferris. I really can’t.”

“We have to, and we will. You and your sleepy personality go to sleep now, okay?”

“Okay,” I yawn. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I luh–I mean, goodnight.”

Chapter 14

Today is the last day I’ll have to look at Baldwin and try not to laugh. The kids are staying home while we go to our appointment. Mike and I decided Ben was mature enough to make a call if there’s an emergency. I’ve left the kids alone for short times while I ran to the grocery store and such, so I guess they’ll be fine. I think Columbo Ben has an idea where we’re going, but Rachel assumes we’ve got last-minute Christmas shopping to do.

The waiting room in the mental health office is empty, as is the receptionist’s nook. It appears the other shrinks took today off, leaving Baldwin here solo. Since nobody is around to critique his apparel, Baldwin’s dress code has slipped a little further, settling a notch below ridiculous and just above obscene.

I can’t tell exactly what he’s wearing, but the best single word to describe it would be
kimono
. It’s deep green, with a gold sash and trim, and I’d bet the farm he’s naked underneath. Such a weirdo! I hope to God the sash holds tight.

Baldwin is the victim of random swatches of dark body hair. Even on his legs, no symmetry. He looks like a one-man
Saturday Night Live
skit, where they’ve pasted clumps of fake hair all over some guest actor.

He’s asking me a question, and now I need him to repeat it.

The room smells a lot less like candles and incense today, and much more like marijuana. In fact, I may be feeling a little giddy from residual fumes.

“Amanda.” Baldwin taps impatiently with his pen on the mini pad. I think he doesn’t like me since my comment about his lack of romantic experience. That makes me feel mean. But I like it. “Michael was stating that things seem more comfortable around the house lately. Does this mean you’re embracing the forgiving spirit?”

Just what the hell does that mean?
Embracing the forgiving spirit?
As opposed to what? Kicking its stupid ass? I guess so, yeah. Why hurt the forgiving spirit, when it’s the jerkoff on the loveseat next to me who deserves the stomping?

I need to smile and play along here. But I can’t overdo it. Mike knows I would never, ever, take this kook of a mental health quack seriously. “Yeah, me and the forgiving spirit, we’re like this lately, Baldwin.” I twist together my index finger and the one I’d like to have in the air solo right now. “We’re two pushed over, walked on, used-and-taken-for-granted peas in a pod. I’m thinking of
sleeping
with the forgiving spirit, just so the spirit of broken vows will take a hike and quit giving me wet willies whenever Mike tries to kiss me.”