Trouble Won't Wait (6 page)

“Nah, just know this–sooner or later, he’s gonna run into a nasty spider of a woman if he keeps foolin’ around in dark corners, but it’s time to kick him outta
your
nest. Let the other female kill him when she finds him cheatin’ on her.”

Hmm. “What you’re saying is that if he’s cheated once, he will again, and the one he strays with will find that out on her own?” When she nods, I have to carry on the what-if game. “But what if it really is only one time?” Why am I even asking? Mike was on his way to doing it a second time only two days after the first. Maybe
getting some strange
is addictive.

“You don’t believe that, child.”

I rub my eyes, aggravated she saw through me.

She’s put her arms akimbo and is staring me down. “You want Benjamin to grow up thinkin’ it’s okay to do that?”
No!
“You want Rachel to think she has to put up with it?”

My stomach tightens. Now I have guilt if I leave Mike, and guilt if I don’t. How did I end up here? I must be at fault for letting it get to this point, right?

“You take your beautiful young ’uns and protect them like a mama bear does, and they’ll grow up just fine, whether their daddy lives with ’em or not. Keep them from ever hearin’ you talk bad about their daddy, and tell Michael his Aunt Clara will see him gelded if he ever talks bad about you in front of your children. You hear?” A gnarled finger wags at me to stress her orders. No question where Aunt Clara stands on what my decision should be.

* * * *

When I get back to my house, Mike is home, sleeping, as I expected. I slip down to my office to write for a few hours until the kids show up. I hope I’ll get to see them a little before they leave for their Grandma’s. I need to see Ben’s unconditionally loving blue eyes under the dark hair he got from his dad. And Rachel, mini-me, with her sapphire eyes and blond hair, who still thinks Mom and Dad are an accessory to her, a satellite to the ten-year-old center of the universe. How would I make it if they were gone this much all the time? One day they’ll be teenagers, tearing around with friends and having part-time jobs, but that’s a long way off. I hope.

My cursor blinks mockingly in the same position. I’m having something of a dry spell, inspiration-wise. Probably with all the emotions and possibilities bumping around my head, there isn’t room for stories. I spend some time composing the family newsletter to send off in Christmas cards. This might be the last one.

A few times, we’ve taken a family photo in front of the Christmas tree to send out with the cards. Most years, it would be only the kids in the pictures. Since we got the digital camera, I take pose after pose until I get the perfect one, just before the kids go berserk from sitting still and smiling so long.

This makes me remember the day we came home from the hospital with Ben. Mike took an entire roll of film of me holding Ben. I thought I looked horrible in the pictures, but Mike loved them and carried one of them around in his wallet for years. He always insisted on having me in the pictures with the kids in his wallet.

Why doesn’t he love me like that anymore? I want to go upstairs and pummel him with my fists until he gets back to normal. I want to grab him by the balls and squeeze and twist until he cries like I am now.

Mike’s mom calls. She’s on her way to get the kids, which means I’ll have to go pick them up now from their friends’ houses.

My mother-in-law, thankfully, is the least perceptive woman I know–mostly because she’s too busy thinking of herself all the time–so she has no inkling I was sobbing my heart out when her call came in.

* * * *

I’m back with the kids in twenty minutes, and helping them pack for another night away. The ruckus wakes Mike, and he staggers out to the living room to watch whatever hunting or fishing program he can find on TV.

When his mom shows up, he doesn’t acknowledge her presence, and she refuses to speak to him. Just as well. No words means no hurtful words with them.

My kids both hug me and I kiss them. Dreading the upcoming afternoon, I watch them drive away.

It’s only noon. I have two hours to stall before I go on my walk, unless I just split now. Or maybe Mike and I could have it out and then I could go walk. That puts a time limit on it, but how will I get out of here if we’re involved in a heated discussion? How long can it take to tell Mike I’m not forgiving him for The Indiscretion, and I want to end our marriage? Twenty seconds? Thirty? Is it too early for me to drink some liquid courage?

Those rum-n-Cokes last night were pretty good, so I head into the kitchen to concoct one for myself.

While I’m standing on my tiptoes trying to reach the Captain Morgan, Mike is suddenly standing behind me, against me, reaching it for me. After he’s put the bottle on the counter, his arms come around me, and he nuzzles my neck.

At first, the familiar hug is welcome, comforting, but the Polo-scented nuzzling nauseates me. My nerves stretch. I want to pry his arms from me and run, screaming, away. Instead, I shudder, exactly the same way I do when I look for too long at a snake in a zoo exhibit. I’m enduring his touching only because I don’t know what to say to make him stop.

When he cups my breast, I know. I shove his hand away, and step past him. “How many other boobs have you had your hands on this week?”

He sucks in his breath.

My drink ends up half rum, but I guzzle it anyway.

Mike demonstrates an astounding grasp of the obvious. “You’re still mad.”

I slam my glass down, mostly only ice left, and turn to face him. “What the hell do you expect?”

Mike looks guilty, and penitent. Of course. His physical advances were his dumb male way of trying to make up. He often makes up by giving me an incredible massage, gradually pulling down my anger while building up my need for him. When we get up to the actual intercourse, it far surpasses the hype about make-up sex.

Damn, did he really think he’d get off so easily? My heart aches with the memory of how easy it always is for him to make me forgive him, no matter what he does. I guess that’s what love is. But not this time. My love isn’t unconditional.
Surprise, Mikey!

Now he looks a little afraid. He must finally realize he’s messed up big-time, and it’s not that simple this time. “Mandy, I’m sorry. Really. Please, baby. I didn’t want to hurt you. I don’t know why. God, I love you so much. Anything, tell me anything I can do to fix this?” His eyes tear up. “I love you so much,” he repeats.

He hugs me from the front this time, and I let him. Why I should be standing here allowing my body to give him comfort, I cannot guess. But I am. Those damn tears are sliding down my own face now. “Imagine how I feel, when every time I close my eyes, I can see you, with her…” I’m sobbing too much to talk. How can I paint this picture for him? God, they couldn’t even be discreet when they did it! One of the
kids
could have walked in on them!

Their stupidity angers me enough to smother the hurt again and I’m ready to rip him a new one. “And then you talk shit about me to her. Do you have any idea how rotten she was to me yesterday? What right do you have to tell other people about our sex life? Which, I might add, gave you plenty of satisfaction until recently. Did you say those things to make her feel sorry for you, so you could score with her? Jackass!”

I yank myself away from him, and down what’s left of my drink. “And then,” now I’m on a roll, jabbing a finger at him, “that business last night. That was
planned
, wasn’t it? Even if I could forgive what you did Wednesday, your one shot was blown by what you did last night. I’m finished, Michael.”

“Mandy!” He bawls my name like he’s just found me dead after an accident, as he follows me to our room. “Please, let me fix it.”

Looking at him, the disdain I feel is so full of cold hate, it gives me goosebumps.

“Mandy.” He sobs into his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed, while I’m in my closet, dressing for my walk. “You look really hot now, you know? You’re, like, better than when we got married.”

“Too little, too late.” And he’s not being sincere. He’s saying what he thinks will work, not what he feels. I can tell by his Schmooze Voice. It’s the same one he uses with his customers in Aspen when he assures them they’re his number one client and their project is his top priority. I’ve heard him tell three different clients the same thing in one hour. Hearing him use it on me makes me feel like throwing up my drink.

“Hey, I know,” he says when I come out with my running shoes on. “How ’bout I come out with you on your walk?”

Just what I need. Not. “I haven’t ever asked you to come along before, have I? Why would I want you with me now, you, you,
cheating bastard
!”

I leave him there with his pathetic sobs, and slam out the front door. I’m putting in my earbuds, already down the driveway, when he comes out yelling.

“Mandy!”

God, the neighbors will hear.

I stop, walk back to where I can see him, still holding the left earphone. “What?” I bark, wondering what more he can do to infuriate me.

“Let’s go to counseling. Please, just try it, then if it doesn’t work…”

A nasty, sarcastic laugh erupts from me. What the hell is a counselor going to do for us? Mike cheated, and I don’t want him touching me ever again. How will a counselor help with that? God, I just want to lambast him. Good thing the kids are gone so they don’t see it.

The kids... Christmas is coming, and after this year, they’ll be the children of a broken marriage. I can’t spoil it for them.

“One month, Michael. After that…” I move my index finger across my throat, as if slicing it with a knife. “It’s over.” I turn on my heel and stalk away, cranking up my music so I can’t hear if he tries to get my attention again.

It’s early still for my walk, but I’ll extend the loop a little up a county road and back, then kill the extra time in the cemetery.

Even though I arrive there a half-hour early, Adam comes out right away. There’s a question in his eyes as he hands me a bottle of water. I’m not sweaty today; I just couldn’t muster the gumption to run after the rum on an empty stomach. Still, the water is welcome.

“You gonna start boozin’ it up every day before you walk now?” It must be easy to smell the rum on me out in the fresh air.

I drink more water. He doesn’t have to be a detective to figure out why I was drinking. He’s dying to know what happened, I can tell, but I’m not ready to put it into words just yet.

“I thought of you for a long time last night,” I whisper, all but purring. Hopefully my flirting will distract him, and me, from my news. I don’t know Adam well, but it’s a safe bet he’ll be disappointed to hear I agreed to counseling.

His pupils widen and his nice chestnut brows lower as he frowns. “That’s not why you’ve been drinking,
heavily
,
this early in the day
.”

I’m thinking,
duh
! I’m also thinking he’s pretty pushy and maybe I don’t want to be involved with a guy who’s so persistent about leading conversations I find painful.

“What happened?” His voice is low and kind.

The kindness wins me over. “Textbook betrayal dialogue. I’m angry, he’s apologetic, contrite, promising anything to make it better. I’m more angry, I tell him I’m finished, it’s over.”

Adam looks pleased, his face is lighting up.

I raise my hand to stop him. “He begs me to go to counseling, and I accept.”

“What?” It’s a small word, in a smaller voice. His face gets red and he’s looking at me like I’m the biggest fool to walk upright.

It’s
my
marriage,
my
decision whether to end it, and when. Adam barely knows me. And what he feels shouldn’t matter at this juncture. After all, what
can
he possibly feel after knowing me only two days? Yet a part of me likes that he’s upset by this. This same part of me cares about his feelings. I need to explain.

“It’s
Christmas
, Adam. I’m not kicking him out now and making my kids suffer through that. I gave him a month of counseling, that’s it. One month. I know the counseling’s not gonna help, but it will delay things ’til after the holidays, okay? It gives me time to figure out how to tell the kids.” I search his face, trying to tell what he’s thinking.

“It gives you time, and it gives
him
time. You’ll cool off and start to forgive him. The first thing a counselor will tell you is to sleep in his bed again. He’ll get you back.” He sounds defeated, and
pissed
.

“It won’t be that way, and I’m not going to bed with him. I felt sick when he–”

“What? When he what?”

This has gone too far already. “Look, Adam, I like you. I like you
a lot
, okay? But I’m still a married woman. I told you last night my first responsibility is to my kids. I’m ending it with Mike, but not for a month. I’ll understand if you don’t wanta wait around. If there’s somebody else you–”

“Somebody I what? Wanta sleep with? Do you think this is all about getting laid for me? You think I took two months to muster the nerve to meet you, because I want a piece of
ass
?”

Now I have no idea whatsoever what to think. We’ve known each other for two days, for God’s sake. Maybe he’s some obsessed whack-job. Maybe I should high-tail it out of here and change my walking route.