by M. E. Carter
Aputi looks over at Greg. “This is gonna be a fun few years.”
“At least she’s not dating yet,” he responds, patting Aputi on the shoulder. “Hope you’re enjoying that.”
Aputi groans. “Don’t remind me. It took everything in me not to pound the shit out of the loser Amber brought home for dinner the other day.”
“Who brought home a loser?” Callie asks, walking in with a giant cake box.
“Amber,” Aputi responds.
Callie carefully slides the box onto the counter. “You say that every time she’s dating someone new.”
“It’s true every time she’s dating someone new.”
The cake box is opened, revealing a two-teared, black and white cake with Fiona’s name written in beautiful calligraphy icing, a giant 13 candle at the top. It’s beautiful. And over the top. Some things never change.
“Well,” she responds, as she steps back and inspects the cake for any flaws that need to be fixed. “Get used to it because she’ll probably marry a loser the first time around. Look at all of us.”
We all look at each other and kind of shrug like “She’s not wrong.”
Despite her dig, Callie and Ben are still married and spend most of their time arguing. I’m convinced she gets some sort of sick pleasure out of thinking up creative ways to get him back when he pisses her off. For instance, the time she gradually weaned him off caffeinated coffee all the way to decaf. He kept increasing the number of cups of joe he would drink to make it through the day. Then one day, she added back the full-strength version without telling him. He was strung out and jittery as hell. I’m still not sure how many hours he stayed awake before he finally crashed.
That’s when I realized it’s all some weird form of foreplay they enjoy, so I stopped even asking about it. Now, when she bitches, I just laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. If it works for them, who am I to judge?
Suddenly, Christopher and Trevor go racing by, Max and Peyton hot on their heels. No telling what they’re up to, but judging by Fiona’s scream, it’s not good. Yet, we’re all so used to it, none of the adults even make a move to go investigate.
Christopher is still a death trap waiting to happen. We can’t figure out how he hasn’t broken any bones yet, but there are wagers floating around our group of friends about concussions and teeth being knocked out. At nine years old, Christopher has been playing pee-wee football for a while and he loves it. I’m convinced he’ll play through college and maybe even beyond. Aputi practically foams at the mouth when anyone mentions Christopher’s potential.
I look around the room as Deborah walks in and realize, it’s all done. We’re ready for tonight. All we need now are a dozen teenagers to walk through that door and the party will officially begin.
Suddenly it hits me… I have a teenager. The memories of my own teenage years are so vivid, and that’s the stage my daughter is now in.
Wow. It’s like her life is just beginning. What a strange revelation.
Greg puts his arm around my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. Whispering in my ear, so as to not interrupt the conversations around us, he asks, “You ok?”
I squeeze my arms around him and nod. “Yeah. Having a moment, I guess.” He holds me tighter and we enjoy watching our friends and family laugh and be together.
It’s been fun building this big group of friends. I’ve always had only one or two close-knit people to lean on, so having an entire tribe that helps take care of each other has been an unexpected joy in my life. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have expected this.
Rubbing my hands down his stomach, I look up at Greg. He looks back, a contented smile on his face. “I love you, you know?”
His grin only gets bigger. “I know. And I love you, too.”
Kissing me, I realize how happy I am in the moment. In my life.
I’ve still got flab. He’s still got abs. I still make him laugh. He’s still great at oral.
I had a second chance to find my one great love, and here it is.
And it’s a Perfect 10.
THE END
Little Miss Perfect:
How Deborah and Aputi Came To Be
by M.E. Carter
Chapter One
Deborah
“I… I don’t understand.”
Rick grabs an armful of socks and underwear from the drawer of our heavy oak dresser that has been passed down through five generations of Miller women. It’s been sanded and re-stained a time or two, making it impossible to tell that it’s over a hundred years old. The solidness of the wood is obvious when Rick slams the door shut, making a bang that echoes through the room.
“What’s not to understand?” Tossing the clothes into a suitcase, he refuses to make eye contact with me. It’s been that way since he started packing. I’m not really sure if the lack of eye contact is indicative of guilt or because he’s revolted by me. “Our marriage is over. I’m leaving you. The end.”
He keeps saying those words, but none of it makes sense. “But why? Is it something I did?”
He snorts an unattractive laugh, which is unlike my very proper husband. A deep chuckle or even a chortle is more his personality. Maybe a haughty laugh. But nothing about this situation even remotely resembles normal behavior for the quiet, placid man I married. “Something you did?” He sounds condescending, but I’m still not clear why. “It’s a lot of things you did. And a lot of things you didn’t do. I can’t take living with your neuroses anymore.”
I actually know what he’s talking about. He wouldn’t be the first person to call me neurotic. Tight-wad. Uppity. OCD. I’ve been called all of them. None of which is true, at least in the clinical sense. I just like order and lists that can be checked off. Things run like a well-oiled machine when there is a plan that can be adhered to.
Speaking of well-oiled machine, I need to take the SUV in for its three-thousand-mile maintenance.
That can wait. The situation at hand is more important, and figuring out what my husband is so angry about is priority because I’m very confused right now. Rick has never complained about how organized I am before. I thought he appreciated how smoothly our home runs. I’m very quickly finding out I’m wrong, but he’s not giving me the answers I need.
“What are you talking about?”
He looks up at the ceiling, seemingly exhausted by my lack of understanding. But really, does he blame me? Up until ten minutes ago, I thought we had the perfect life. The perfect marriage.
Rick is a junior partner at Watson and Sons law firm. He’s not a “son” but had an impressive internship, and he was hired over a dozen other final applicants eight years ago. He’s on track to become a senior partner at some point, but a few Watsons probably need to retire before that happens.
His generous salary has allowed me to stay home with our son, Trevor, who is arguably the most perfect six-year-old in the world. He’s sweet, kind to others, smart, and loves to read. He’s every mother’s dream for a child and has given me another purpose in my life beyond taking care of my husband.
The three of us live in a wonderful four-bedroom home in one of the more affluent neighborhoods in town. We eat healthy, attend church weekly, and make sure Christmas cards are sent out by December tenth every year. We donate to the ASPCA as well as various local programs for children.
Together, we make a picture-perfect family that the Jones’s would be proud of. Which is why this news is so hard to understand.
Finally making eye contact, Rick gives me a look I’ve never seen before. It’s… exasperation. Or maybe frustration. I can’t tell. But for the first time since he started packing, I’m starting to think this isn’t a bluff. “I can’t live in a house that is as spotless as a museum, Deborah. You know how stressful it is to be afraid to track dirt into my own home?”
Blinking rapidly, I try to wrap my thoughts around what he’s saying, hoping to figure out a way to fix this. “So, you want more dirt in the house?”
He huffs
. “It’s not about the amount of dirt, Deb. It’s about the amount of effort. There is no relaxing around here. No being real. You know I haven’t seen your face without makeup on ever? Not once. Not even since we’ve been married.”
My hand comes to my face. Of course he’s never seen me without makeup. Uncovered, he’d see the blemishes I painstakingly conceal every day. Thick, full hair was gifted to me by my mother’s genes. Flawless skin was not.
“So you’re leaving because of my makeup?”
“You’re not understanding me.” He slams another drawer after emptying all the crisp, white T-shirts and dumping them into another suitcase. His lack of care means they’re going to be wrinkled, and I’m beginning to think he deserves it. “It’s the rules and guidelines and regulations. We can’t have sex with the lights on, or God forbid I see you naked. I can’t use the bathroom if you’re in there painting on your, whatever this is,” he says in an ugly tone, gesturing to his face. “I didn’t want a plastic Barbie doll for a wife.”
I skip over the nonsense he’s spouting at me. Rules, regulations, and order are what keep this house flowing smoothly, but he clearly isn’t understanding that. Maybe he’ll understand more direct logic and consequences of a situation like this. “But what about the house? We have a lot of equity built up. It would be unwise to sell it in a buyer’s market.”
“Keep it.” He zips up the small suitcase, places it on the floor, and pulls the handle. “My girlfriend and I already signed a lease on a beachfront property.”
I gasp. “Girlfriend? You have a girlfriend? Have you been sleeping with her and me at the same time? Do you know how many diseases we could all be at risk for now?”
He rolls his eyes, clearly not caring about the horrific position he’s put me in. “I’m not discussing this with you. I’ll draw up the divorce paperwork tomorrow and have you served within the week so we can get this process started. In the meantime, I’ll pick Trevor up on Thursday night for dinner. I’m sure you’ll never let him visit my house since it’ll probably have sand on the floor sometimes.”
I watch him stalk out of the room, sure he’s going to turn around and say he’s changed his mind.
Any minute now.
The door slams and still, I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
And then it hits me—Rick is gone. He’s really left me, left our family, left our life for some other woman who probably doesn’t even know she needs to be checked for diseases now. I’d feel bad for her, but instead I find myself wondering what I should do.
What does this mean? I never planned on being a divorcée. I don’t know what all that involves. Do I need to stock up on box wine and guacamole? Do I need to find a Bunco night?
Elena would know. Her husband left her because she wasn’t good enough for him too. But then she ended up getting a job and meeting Greg, her daughter’s gymnastics coach. Now they’re married and have a happy life, so she knows how to handle things like a husband leaving unexpectedly. She’ll be able to tell me what to do.
Checking the clock, I calculate the amount of time I have until I need to pick Trevor up from school. Thankfully, Rick decided to leave me in the middle of the day which doesn’t throw off our schedule too much.
Two hours and four minutes until school pickup. Good. That gives me enough time to sort some of this out. Although I’ll have to push off vacuuming the wooden blinds until tomorrow…
No matter. This is more important.
Climbing into my clean white Subaru that was detailed at Pirate’s Booty Car Wash yesterday, I check the air freshener to make sure it’s still working to its maximum capabilities. Then I drive exactly four miles over the speed limit to Elena’s house. Fast enough to get me there quicker, but not fast enough that the ticket would be worth a police officer’s time to pull me over.
It just takes a few minutes to get to her neighborhood. Turn onto the main road and cross the railroad tracks by looking left, then right, then left again, all while ignoring the honks behind me.
Pulling up in front of her house, I realize there are no cars in the driveway. That’s weird. Elena doesn’t work outside the home either. I’m not sure what exactly she does all day since her baseboards could use a good wipe down. But that’s neither here nor there. Maybe her car is in the shop.
Oh please, let her car be in the shop. I’ve stayed very calm and collected for the last however long, but I have under two hours to come up with a plan for my new single life, and we’ll need every minute to get it all straightened out.
Carefully walking up the sidewalk, I knock on the door and wait.
When no one answers, I knock again and wait.
Still no answer so I knock again and wait.
Panic begins to set in. She’s not home. Elena’s the only one who will know what to do, and she’s not home. Turning to lean against the door that could use a good power wash, I realize how shattered my life really is.
For the first time since I can remember, I have no husband, no plan for the foreseeable future, and no idea how dirty the back of my shirt is getting.
What am I going to do?
Chapter Two
Aputi
With my hands on my hips, I look around the room and nod at my progress.
“Not bad,” I say to myself. Especially since I’ve only lived here for just over twenty-four hours. There are only a few boxes left to be unpacked and the house has been deep-cleaned. I have to give Greg and Elena credit for that, though. There wasn’t much dirt left after he moved out. It was just the icing on the proverbial cake that was this house.
Grabbing the empty boxes, I drag them out to the garage and begin breaking them down for recycling pickup tomorrow. Yet another perk of the move. I’ve never lived in an environmentally conscious neighborhood before.
Just a month ago, when my daughter’s mother told me they were relocating here, I panicked. No, my daughter doesn’t live with me full-time and no, San Antonio isn’t that far away. But I’m hardly a part-time dad. I’m the guy who has coached all the pee-wee sports. The dad that shows up at every school orientation. The man that coordinates doctor’s appointments. Sure, Chrissy and I were way too young when we had Abigail, but that didn’t stop either of us from making her a priority, even when we realized we would never make it as a couple. The reality hit us about a hot minute after I dropped out of college to provide for them.
No shock there, right? That was sixteen years ago, and Chrissy and I still work together to give Abigail the best life we can, and that meant uprooting when Chrissy’s job transferred her here. It’s not like anything was really tying me to San Antonio anyway.
Even before Abigail was born, I’ve never been one to live to work. It’s always been about experiencing life to the fullest. That’s probably why quitting college at twenty-one years old didn’t really bother me. Sure, it meant the end of my football career and frat parties. But in my mind, there was no other choice. Regardless if their parents are college graduates or not, a baby needs diapers and food. It was hardly a sacrifice.
So, I ditched my scholarship, got forklift certified, and went to work for a distribution warehouse. The work pays relatively well, being that I’ve continued to get certified on various machines. And I’ve been promoted several times because of my work ethic and ability to be a team player. It works for me, and I’m happy with my life.
Plus, it meant finding a decent job here before even putting in my two-week notice in San Antonio. Finding a place to live, however, was a much more stressful process. Well, until I called Greg.
Carrying the official red recycling container down to the curb while balancing several broken-down boxes on top, is no easy feat. But I’ll gladly do it, grateful I’m not having to haul all my trash across a parking lot to a dumpster. Easy access to my own trash cans is yet another benefit of living in an actual house.
Greg’s house. It should be weird, but it’s not.
Greg and I knew each other when I lived
with his ex-wife and daughter for a short period of time. I really liked Libby and was hoping things would work out, but almost immediately upon them moving in with me, I realized it wasn’t going to last for long. Libby was nice at first, but she was more interested in having someone provide for her than being in an actual relationship. Plus, she was a bit of a drunk. I’m all about drinking a beer or two while watching a football game or going to a barbecue, but I draw the line at being smashed daily.
The only reason I didn’t cut things off sooner was because of their daughter Peyton. That little girl was just a baby, and Libby barely paid attention to her. It didn’t bother me that I was doing most of the care for someone else’s kid. I’d already raised one, so it was almost like second nature. Libby never noticed I was suddenly the parent, but Greg did. The last time I saw him before they all moved away, he shook my hand and thanked me for taking care of his daughter when he couldn’t be there.
That spoke a lot to me about the kind of man Greg is. I have a lot of respect for him being able to recognize I was part of the village surrounding that child, even if it was only for a short time. So, when I found out where my little family and I were moving to, Greg was the first person I called. Not knowing anything about the area, I wanted an opinion I trusted to help me figure out the safest places for me to live. I’ll have a sixteen-year-old over on a regular basis. Need to make sure she’ll be safe here.
As fate would have it, Greg was just back from his honeymoon, and they were trying to decide what to do with his house. Now, here I am, moved into the nicest home I’ve lived in since I left my mother’s house almost twenty years ago, and I’m leasing to own it within the next year or two.
As an added benefit, I’ve seen Peyton a couple times as well. It took her a second to remember me, but once she did, the hugs began. Man, I love that little girl. It seems like everything is finally falling into place.