Trouble Won't Wait (2 page)

Now when he sees me jog past his house, the one he indicated over his shoulder with its back facing the cemetery, he can say to himself, “There goes Mandy, running her butt off.” Has he noticed my butt is smaller than it used to be? It would be great if
somebody
did. Twenty pounds shed, and not a word from my supposed soul mate.

Since I still haven’t contributed to the conversation, Adam tells me he bought the house about two months ago. He’s a supervisor for one of the companies drilling all the new natural gas wells around here. “I’m sorry, did you come here because you wanted to be alone?” he asks.

Not anymore! I laugh, a tittering,
flirty
laugh I’m surprised to still have in me. “Not alone, just away from family.” I instantly regret my words, thinking this guy is all alone, and probably wishes he wasn’t. At some point, he must’ve let go of my hand, because now I’m fidgeting, trying to figure out where the heck to put it.

“Mmm. Yours, or the in-laws?”

I feel myself blushing, because I’m married and this cute guy knows it. How would he not? I’m wearing a ring, for Pete’s sake.

“In-laws, and the guy who’s related to them,” I admit. “I just, well, needed to think. It’s quiet here. My house is…not.” I’m gazing, embarrassed, at the 1905 stone again.

“How many kids do you have?” The softness in his voice brings my eyes back to his. Great. I must
look
like a mom, even out running alone. It’s okay, the kids are worth it.

I smile. “Two. Twelve and ten, boy and girl. How ’bout you?”

“No.” He looks away, then back at me.

Why do I suspect there’s a story? It feels like an opening, a tiny doorway leading into a subterranean cavern of sad darkness. Some people might press for more, but I can’t do it, can’t deal with his big sadness. Not today.

Out of anal habit, I look at my watch.

“Do you need to get back?” he asks. “Will somebody be looking for you?”

Is he worried for me, or maybe a crazed stalker calculating how much time he has to kidnap me? I go with the optimistic scenario, and chuckle. “Not as long as the Broncos are on.”
Probably not ’til dinnertime
. I kick a pile of leaves and watch them scatter over 1905, which lies flat, rather than standing erect.

“You shouldn’t tell a strange man nobody’s coming looking for you, when he has you in a place like this.” His voice is even, low with warning.

My heart races. Fear, or anticipation?
You can’t rape the willing
, as the saying goes. I swallow the fear, hoping he’s just protective. Of what? He barely knows me.

“You don’t look strange.” My flirty voice is on again, and his dimples reappear to reward me. He doesn’t
feel
strange to me, not at all. It feels good talking to him. “I’m glad you came out here to meet me. Come on, I’ll show you my grandparents.”

Adam follows me over, without a word. Could be he’s dreaming up a way to knock me unconscious before he drags me home under the cover of darkness. At least now we’re visible from the street. When I stop, he comes to stand beside me, very near. I can smell him, his cologne. Drakkar. I hope to God he can’t smell me and my sweat. I hope I smell like pumpkin pie or yams.

I peek sideways at Adam, whose arms are
big
. He’s looking at me. “You work out,” I say as casually as possible.

He gives a smiling nod. There’s a look in his eyes: the I-want-you look. I haven’t gotten it in a long time, but it feels like I’m returning it! Okay, where is this going? I’m flirting like a fool with a guy who openly admitted to watching me run by his house every day, and made it a point to come introduce himself.

He’s either a stalker, or a guy who finds me totally irresistible. Yeah, that’s a laugh. Or is it? And who am I? I’m angry and lonely, that’s what I am. Angry, yes, but a cheater, no. I won’t have my kids thinking their parents divorced because their mom was a cheater. I just won’t, though I guess it’s not a major concern for their dad!

Anger flares at thoughts of Mike, and I suddenly need to tell this guy, this
Adam
–
You don’t know him from Adam
comes to mind, and I almost laugh at the thought–what I saw last night.

When I’ve finished my bitter, furious tale, he folds his arms over his chest, and gazes at me. “What are you gonna do?” The question anybody would ask, but when Adam asks it, I can tell he has a stake in it. He
cares
what I do, because it might affect him.

I shrug, tears threatening. They’re easy to blink back. I’m still mad enough to postpone the pain. “Um,” I reply, my voice wet with swallowed tears. “Clandestine meetings in the cemetery with the town’s hottest new bachelor?” My banter draws a small smile, but only from him. I’m still remembering, still seeing the betrayal.

With my hands digging hard into the pockets of my windbreaker, I swing a good kick at another pile of leaves, and we start walking toward the street. I have it pretty much together again when we hit sidewalk. Shadows are getting long; it’s time for me to get home.

He fidgets, crosses his arms, then shoves his hands in his pockets. “Want me to walk you partway?”

Nice of him to offer. I imagine the talk getting around town. I imagine doing things with him, things worth talking about.

Swallowing hard, I decline the offer. “Better not, but thanks. I guess I’ll see you…around?” Our eye contact makes it hard for me to breathe. I start backing away, hands laced together behind me, all teenager inside. God, I hope to see him around.

“Mandy?” His voice stops me in my tracks. When he says my name, it sounds
pretty
. “I’m here. Just remember that…when you decide.”

When I decide. Yeah, I’ll remember, count on it. But I also have to remember two kids and thirteen years of marriage. Not all bliss, to be sure. But not hell on Earth, either.

I nod, then resume walking. Halfway to the corner, I wonder if I imagined this whole thing to console myself. Will he still be there if I turn to look for him? If he’s not there, does it mean I dreamed all this up, or that he simply went home? If I don’t look, I’ll always doubt he was real.

Compelled
, I stop and look back. He’s standing there, in the same spot, watching me go, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. My heart does the little lift-and-flip it does in a descending elevator. He’s there, like he said he’d be.

Tonight when I lie down and search for sleep, he’ll be there. I can think of him, instead of Mike and Lana. If I hadn’t seen them together last night, would Adam matter this much? I think the answer is yes. Looking back at him watching me, I feel what he must have when he saw me running by. The same feeling that propelled him out of his house to meet me.

He’s there, and I won’t forget.

Chapter 2

When I walk back into my house, it feels like I’m returning from another dimension, or maybe an episode of
The Twilight Zone
. My family is exactly the same as when I left an hour ago, but I’m all new.

Our house still smells like gravy and pumpkin pie. The comfy, overstuffed khaki furniture faces the fireplace and the TV beside it. It’s an open floor plan, so the kitchen, decorated in green with red strawberries, is visible from the small foyer. Our dining room sits in the corner, filled to capacity with a large oak table Mike made when we were first married.

The master suite and kids’ rooms are upstairs, along with both bathrooms. Downstairs is a walk-out basement, which means it’s built half in the hillside and half out. The lower level consists of a den, my office, and a spare bedroom. My office is also the utility room, home to the furnace and water heater. Once, it housed the washer and dryer too, but Mike built a new laundry room upstairs when I was pregnant with Ben, so I wouldn’t have to haul laundry up and down the stairs. To Mike’s credit, he did this without my requesting it. He’s always been thoughtful and caring toward me. Until recently, that is.

I purposely avoid looking at Mike when I walk in. He’s awake again, talking on the phone. Sounds like he’s planning to hunt tomorrow with one of his buddies.

Ben hugs me hello. “Hey, Mom. Have a good walk?” Such a sweet boy.

Breathing in the smell of his strawberry-scented shampoo, I pray he won’t be like his dad when he grows up. “Yeah, honey. It was nice.” His hug makes me happy to be home again, makes me want to keep our family together just to preserve his innocent joy. I want my kids to come home every night to both parents, to have two parents who love each other. They should see marriage as a lasting agreement between a man and a woman, not something easily stepped out of.

Can I stick it out, forgive Mike, forget what he did? Now is probably not the time to make this decision. I’m too angry. I need time, much more time, to make sense and think rationally. How long will it take ’til I can think rationally about my husband stealing a quickie with a friend while I’m only a room away?

And now there’s another factor. I’m no longer the undesirable, frumpy housewife I was when I left for my walk. There’s
possibility
out there. Possibility is a burden. It will be harder still to make a decision for my future, for my family’s future, knowing I shouldn’t let my own wants be a factor. Yet, when anyone decides to end a marriage, isn’t the chance of a future with a new spouse always there? Even the churches consider infidelity grounds for divorce. Why shouldn’t I?

I make soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for dinner, but only pick at my food. Ben and Rachel both have plans for sleepovers with friends tomorrow. Mike will leave to hunt early in the morning, and I’ll have the long, quiet day to think. Just what I need. I can’t
stop
thinking, as it is.

If I let Mike slide this one time, is it because I believe he was weak and I want to give him another chance? Can I live with a man if I think he’s not strong? Looking across the table, I simply don’t see him as weak. A jackass, yeah. The way he fought with his mother and sister today sure wasn’t weak. But was Lana just too big a temptation?

That’s a cop-out. If someone’s truly in love, no temptation is great enough to make them cheat, right? Maybe.

When dinner is cleared away–Rachel helped, without being asked!–I hole up in my office downstairs, under the pretext of working. Mike is a building contractor, and I do the books for him. But I also write. About four years ago, a story just started running out of me. Whenever I wasn’t busy with bookkeeping, I was tapping the story on the keyboard.

Some nights I went to bed with Mike, then got up, returned to my office after he was asleep and plunked away all night. I’ve had two novels published, and my editor seems to expect a new one to arrive about every six months now. I’m not independently wealthy or anything, but each book pays more.

Tonight, writing is only an excuse to get away from Mike and hide my emotion-ravaged mood from my kids. I want to protect them from this, if at all possible. Besides, all the turmoil in my head right now has stymied any creativity.

I manage to keep my cool by doing some online Christmas shopping until the kids kiss me goodnight. Once I know they’re in bed, I let myself go. Last night I was in total shock. Today I was busy cooking, putting up a front for the in-laws and playing referee. Now, I’m ready to cry those postponed tears.

One of the kids’ beanbags from the den is in the corner of the office, and I give it a really sound, frustrated beating. Wouldn’t it feel good to beat Mike like this? Big chickenshit still hasn’t come down looking for me. Maybe he’d rather not talk about it either. Does he think I’ll ignore it and go on? Or does he
want
me to find it unforgivable? Maybe he wants out, and this is his passive way of letting me know.

Way
too much time to think.

I finally zonk out in the spare bedroom downstairs, next to my office. I’ll get up in the morning before the kids, and make up the bed. They’ll never know Mom isn’t sleeping with Dad anymore. And I don’t think I will be, ever. I can’t see myself wanting him again. Knowing where he stuck
it
last night, how could I? Ick.

* * * *

With muffled thumps and bumps, Mike stumbles around upstairs, at the buttcrack of dawn. He’s probably trying to find all the hunting crap he usually rouses me to help him get together. What do I care if he doesn’t have an insulated vest today? Or his precious hand-warmers?
If you wanta be warm, don’t go out in the cold before dawn
. No rocket science there. I wait until the garage door is closed and his truck rumbles away, then I rise and hide the physical evidence of my failing marriage, and go upstairs to shower.

The kids are gone by mid-morning. I could go shopping, but I’m not a Black Friday person. One is either really into the crazy shopping thing, or far away from it. Nobody
dabbles
in shopping the day after Thanksgiving.

Mike’s mom calls me. She’s a really-into-crazy-shopping person. She’s at the mall and needs everybody’s sizes, pronto. I rattle them off, but tell her, as always, not to worry about me, and she tells me, as always, how she really can’t afford all this Christmas expense this year.

She wants to discuss their big ruckus yesterday. For the first time ever, I staunchly refuse to defend or blame a single one of them, or even try and console her.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell her.

“Okay. Yeah. Well, sorry for leaving you with the mess yesterday.”