Trouble Won't Wait

by Autumn Piper

  “So what do you like on your pizza?”

  I follow him back downstairs and start munching from the bag of chips while he places the order.

  Adam shows me around the rest of the house: an office upstairs next to the studio, and a comfortably furnished bedroom beside his own very masculine one downstairs. In the unfinished basement is an impressive home gym. I look at his arms again. Today he’s wearing long sleeves, which outline bulky arms below broad shoulders. I move my focus back to his face.

  For just a minute, we seem to hold an orbit all our own, with a gravitational force pulling us closer. My head is nearly spinning when he steps back, breaks eye contact, mumbling something about Scout’s honor.

  Well, I’m not cold anymore! My heart races in my chest.

  The doorbell rings. Our pizza is here, a welcome distraction. I follow Adam’s fine rear end up the stairs. What the heck am I doing here? I feel like a teenager sneaking porn on the net while his parents are out. How long until I get caught? I haven’t done anything wrong, and yet, I long to. As a kid, I learned in church that wanting it, coveting it is as big a sin as doing it.

  We fall into easy conversation while we eat at Adam’s small pine table. I steer him clear of the wrong doctors and chiropractors in town, and tell him which dentist to use. I know a good plumber, electrician and tile guy, and add some stories I know about all of them, from school days, or talk around town.

  Adam seems to enjoy the small-town flavor, listening intently and smiling.

  Eventually tired of telling all, I demand, “Your turn, Mr. Adam. Pony up some juicy details about yourself.” The rum and Coke he served with the pizza is giving me courage to push where I would normally play it safe, be afraid of offending him.

  “Whatcha wanta know?”

  “Birthdate.”

  “May eleven, seventy.”

  “Mmm. Just as I thought. You’re a geezer.” He lowers his brows, tips his nose up a little, feigning insult. “Favorite color?”

  “Red.”

  “Mine too! Okay, favorite food?”

  “Campfire marshmallows.” That’s unusual, isn’t it? “Yours?”

  I have to think. I like a lot of foods, which was how I ended up pudgy before. “Cheesecake. You’re not supposed to be asking, only answering.”

  “Why do you get to make the rules?” His dimpled grin nears me as he leans closer.

  “I’m a mom. I earned it changing diapers. Now, let’s see. Favorite movie, and why?”

  “Thelma and Louise. Kidding, just kidding.” Ahhh, those dimples. “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, because Ferris gets away with everything. You?”

  Even though he’s breaking my rule, I answer. “Pretty Woman. I love fairy-tale endings. Favorite song?”

  He thinks hard. “Amanda, by Boston.” When I give him a dirty look, he laughs. “Okay, Mandy, by Manilow?” He cracks himself up. “If You Leave, by OMD and AC/DC’s You Shook Me All Night Long.” His eyebrows raise in question, urging me to answer, also.

  A favorite song is almost as hard to choose as a favorite food. “Dolly Parton’s I Will Always Love You, Sweet Child of Mine by Guns-n-Roses, and anything Billy Idol.” When he snickers about Billy Idol, I flip him the bird. Nobody messes with Billy and gets away with it on my watch! “What’s your pet peeve?”

  “Nosy women.”

  I lob a chunk of pizza crust at him for that.

  “People who are always late.”

  I nod in agreement. “People on cellphones when it’s their turn at the cash register.”

  “Rude cashiers.” Oh yeah, don’t get me started on poor customer service.

  “How ’bout fat people with their bellies hanging out? Or their backs? I always kept my fat covered up,” I add smugly.

  “You weren’t fat,” he says, as if he’s known me forever.

  “Fat enough,” is all he needs to know. Enough with the pet peeves. “Where did you live before this?”

  “Texas. You?”

  “This is it, except when I went to college in Fort Collins. Pretty dull, huh?”

  “It’s not dull. That’s how you know so many people, what their first car was, who their kids are, and who slept with whose wife.” Oops. He knows he messed up there. “What about you, Marathon? My turn to ask. What do you do at your house all day?” He changed the subject quick, huh?

  “I go through about a case of bon-bons a week, and keep my feet up while I view talk shows and soap operas. Oh, and file my nails.”

  He bestows the same tolerant look on me as I do with my kids when I ask if they’ve done their homework and they dodge by answering, “I only have a little…” He’s not letting me go with the joke.

  “I do Mike’s books for his business.”

  “Are you afraid of divorcing him because you’ll be out of a job?”

  I snort back a laugh. “He’d be hurtin’ so bad. He’s never had a clue about the business end of contracting.” Why can’t I tell him about my writing? I always feel embarrassed telling people about it, like they’ll read what I wrote, and judge me by it. “And I never said I was afraid of divorcing him.”

  “Are you?”

  It would be a lie if I said no. “Isn’t it time for me to get home? You must have, uh, sculpting to do.”

  “Mandy.” Now he’s using the tone I use with my kids. He’s impatient, wanting me to have this serious conversation. Who does he think he is, freakin’ Dr. Phil?

  Whatever. I might as well lay it all on the line. He’s sporting the interrogator mug. “Yes. I’m afraid. For my kids. I want them to be with both their mom and dad at night. And for me, because I want my kids with me all the time, not with their dad half the time, shuffling back and forth. I’m afraid I’m gonna get caught up in what else I could be doing with my life, who else I could be with, and make the wrong decision. How do I know if what Mike did was unforgivable, or if I just don’t want to forgive him? My first responsibility is to my kids, not myself.” I fixate on the dark outside his window, breathing fast and reeling my wild emotions back in. “I have to take my time and know I did the right thing.”

  Scout’s honor crumbles when his hand covers mine. My emotions race back out. I feel like crying now, which is not going to happen.

  “Sorry,” he says softly.

  His fingers are long, but not thin. His hands are large and clean. Before Mike had employees, his hands were always rough and splitting. Now they’re softer, but still scarred from lots of old accidents. Adam’s hand is smooth, but not soft. And it’s strong.

  “I should go,” I tell him. My outburst has cast a sour note on our little dinner. “I’m sorry. For dumping all that on you–it’s not your deal.”

  “Mandy.” He’s up, around the table where I’ve stood to go. “I asked for that. I needed to know. It’s all I’ve thought about since yesterday. Please, don’t go. Unless you want to.” He looks around, as if searching for a solution. “Stay and watch a movie.”

  With those blue eyes saying please, how can I refuse? I want to walk into that chest, and have Adam hold me and give me strength to stand up to my cheating husband, the man who told Lana our sex life was lousy.

  We end up watching stand-up comedy, very therapeutic. I don’t even know what time it is, just that it’s late, when my phone rings. It’s Mike.

  “Hello?” Why’d he call from his poker game? Or is he home looking for me? Guilty panic rises in my chest. It feels like acid reflux to the hundredth power.

  “Mandee.” He’s drunk, I can tell already. “Hey, baby. I love you.”

  I don’t return his sentiment, but roll my eyes, recalcitrant, instead.

  “Are ya there?”

  “Yeah. How’s the poker game?” Not that I care, but I have nothing else to say without being nasty.

  He hiccups quietly. Mike, like a drunk in an old movie, always hiccups when he imbibes. “Baby, I have somethin’ to confess.” Here we go. Is he going to tell me about Lana? Did he forget I know? “I brought home a girl from
the bar to Luke’s house here, but I started thinkin’ about you and the kids, and I took her back to the bar.”

  What the hell is he telling me? He was going to cheat again, but he suddenly got a conscience? “That’s great, Michael.” It’s always “Michael” when I’m pissed. “Congratulations on using amazing judgment.”

  Adam is looking at me, eyes wide, not even attempting to hide his shock.

  “You could be thankful, you know. I didn’t have to tell you, and I didn’t do nothin’ wrong. All’s I did was dance with her, and then I took her back.” Another hiccup. Yeah, just dancing, I bet. Son of a bitch.

  “Why were you out dancing? You said you’d be playing poker. You never dance with me anymore, you jackass.”

  “Bein’ such a bitch–” This last endearment is cut short by yet another hiccup. “Isn’t gonna solve our troubles, Mandy.”

  “Gee, I’ll make sure and get two medals of honor for you, Michael. One for not cheating tonight, and one for putting up with such a bitch for so long.”

  “Is this because of Lana? Is that why you’re so mean all of a sudden?”

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, after you get home. Goodnight, Michael.”

  After hanging up, I make a big point of running my hands over my forehead, asking Adam, “Is there a sign reading, Doormat on my head? Or maybe, Walk on me?”

  My phone rings again. Sigh. “Michael.”

  “I know it hurts that other women want me, baby. Are ya jealous?” He pauses to catch his breath and I can tell those hiccups are hurting now. Good. “Lana told me you’re lonely and depressed because nobody wants you.”

  “Lana doesn’t know shit from shinola. So you think nobody wants me? I’ll let you in on a little secret, baby. I’m sitting on a couch with this hot guy, watching movies, and I could be in bed with him in a minute.”

  Adam’s mouth falls open, then he looks at his watch, pretending to time me.

  “Who’s the guy?” Mike sounds suspicious. Good.

  “Somebody you don’t know.” Ha! Let him wonder.

  Adam’s eyebrows are still raised.

  “Yeah, right. You don’t hafta make up crazy stories, Mand. It’s me, Mike. Don’t start lyin’ to me now.”

  I throw up my hands in defeat, and shut my phone. I’d love to turn it off, but the kids might need me.

  “You were only joking about the minute, then?” Adam asks, feigning letdown.

  I elbow his ribs. “Remember your promise, Ferris.”

  I don’t get it, I just don’t. Mike’s not old enough to be having a mid-life crisis. What the hell is up with him? Purposely going out to a bar, and dancing, of all things.

  “Am I really so undesirable?” I hadn’t intended to verbalize that. I don’t go fishing for compliments. But first Lana, and now Mike. Just when I was starting to feel good about myself, they’re lobbing mud-missiles at my self image.

  Adam clears his throat. “No.”

  I’d forgotten I asked it out loud, and I turn to him in surprise. The “I want you” look is back. My mind is yammering Scout’s honor, Scout’s honor! but Adam is intent on showing me I’m not undesirable. He leans and pulls me against him, cradling the back of my head, tilting it up. My pulse thunders in my ears in anticipation, while he stares into my eyes.

  When his mouth finally meets mine, it’s like the first time I’ve ever been kissed. My hands are on his arms, and I know I’m not breathing, but maybe just being attached to him like this, I can absorb oxygen. His kiss is so different. Of course, it’s been like fourteen years since I kissed anyone but Mike.

  When Adam’s rum-flavored tongue enters my mouth, I feel like I’ll melt into oblivion. Nothing has ever felt this good, this right. Wrong, no, this is wrong! The tears I’ve been holding back since last night choose this moment to make an encore appearance. I’ll play hell stopping them now.

  Adam notices I’ve changed my mind and pulls back. “Damn it, I’m sorry, Mandy. Don’t cry, it’s not your fault, I’m sorry.” He gets up, then returns with a box of tissues.

  I want to tell him not to be sorry, but it won’t make any sense right now. I’d only be blubbering. I have to pull it together, for him. I have to make him understand; I don’t want him to feel guilty. I snuggle against his side, let his arm hold me while I pull my thoughts together. My legs are folded beside me on the couch, curled up tight. Maybe I could just stay here forever, warm and protected…

  When it feels like my voice will be coherent, I take his hand in mine and hoarsely proclaim, “You’re a really good kisser!”

  “You got a pretty good start there, yourself,” he murmurs against the crown of my head.

  “Adam?” My heart is lurching, skipping beats, from the feel of his breath in my hair.

  “Hmm?”

  “I think I need to go. Really.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He sounds resigned, but we both know things will go too far if I stick around. “I’ll drive ya.”

  He drives straight to my house without me telling him where to go. At my driveway, he clears his throat. “Uh. I sorta followed you home on my bike one day, right after I moved in.”

  “Stalker!” I laugh.

  With a sheepish shrug, he asks, “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Well, Mike’ll come home hungover, and sleep it off. The kids are supposed to go to his mom’s tomorrow night. After they’re gone, Mike will get up, be a real cranky bastard, and we’ll have it out, I guess. I’ll definitely need my walk. Will you be home?”

  He nods without speaking.

  I sense he’s yearning to touch me again, as I am him.

  “Adam.” I hope he likes when I say his name as much as I like when he says mine. “Thanks. For everything.”

  I open the door with one hand, to make a quick escape, then kiss my fingers and touch them to his lips. He grabs my left hand and kisses the palm, making my heart race the whole way up to the garage, where I use the keypad to open the big door.

  His engine idles outside until the garage door closes completely. Then he drives away.

  * * * *

  Inside, my house is crypt-quiet. A message awaits on the answering machine. Probably from Mike. Oh, nope. His great-aunt Clara. Aunt Clara is a hoot, and positively the most perceptive ninety-year-old alive. She’s worried about me because I didn’t sound “right” when she called on Thanksgiving. Well, Aunt Clara, you just might become my sounding-board with this whole Indiscretion thing. I’ll return her call in the morning, first thing. Or maybe I’ll go see her.

  My mind keeps returning to one subject, as if I’m a man. I can’t focus on anything else. Did he go home and go to sleep? Is he as keyed-up as I am? The streaks of guilt which earlier colored my vision of our kiss are fading. Compared to Mike’s antics of late, I’ve done little to fracture our vows.

  Now I’m outright loving the memory of the kiss. I allow myself a few minutes to relive it, then decide to have a bath and take my time with it. Twice, I must add hot water in order to keep it comfortable, before I force my water-logged body out of the tub and into pajamas. Since my mind has naturally progressed to fantasizing about more illicit activities with Adam, I provide myself a distraction by reading some more of the novel, in front of the fireplace in the den.

  Mike added another fireplace in the master bedroom “for ambiance,” and we did make use of the romantic nature of it frequently in years past. If nothing else, it made the room cozy-warm on frosty winter nights, which is always more conducive to making love than flannel pj’s being removed under the cover of electric blankets. I pause my reading to recall some of the better nights we shared on the carpet in front of that fireplace.

  In fact, for the last three years, we’ve made a tradition of lovemaking there on Christmas Eve, after the kids have gone to sleep and we’ve fulfilled our Christmas parenting duties out by the tree. Mike bestows a gift of some erotic toy or flavored massage oil, and we herald the new Christmas day in a most sensual fashion. I thin
k he gets a real kick out of hitting the adult bookstore during his Christmas shopping. Seeing his face as I unwrap our little secret gift is as precious to me as watching the kids open their number one items from their lists. God, we’ve shared so much. And dammit, I love him. How can he hurt me like this?

  We were only married a little past a year when Ben was born, but we’ve always made it a point to have date nights. We’ve taken trips alone ever since I weaned Rachel, and I was as excited as Mike to get back into the sexual swing of things after my postpartum check-ups.

  Together, we learned the quick way for me to have an orgasm, the way to make one more intense, the way to make him last and last…so many things we’ve done together, and he tells Lana he’s dissatisfied? We tried lots of new things together in bed, and were always able to laugh if they bombed. Even when I felt fat, we were good together. I never felt like he didn’t want me, just that maybe other men wouldn’t give me a second look.

  Come to think of it, I think he wanted me more when I was at my heaviest than since I’ve started dropping pounds. Is an element of insecurity at work here? Is he afraid of me becoming too attractive? Maybe he’s out to prove he can beat me to the punch by attracting other women before I attract other men. Why the hell can’t he talk to me, then?

  Tonight, I don’t want to read in front of our fireplace. I don’t even want to go in that room to access my closet, though I must. The pain is too raw, and I’m still trying to skirt it.

  So I read the story before me, knowing the heroine will find her happily ever after, even if mine is circling the drain.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday morning dawns in an uncharacteristically dreary way. Heavy cloud cover keeps both the morning and my mood a deep gray. I slept in Rachel’s soft bed in her muted pink room last night. The spare room downstairs seemed too pathetic and no way would I sleep in the master bed. Surrounded by Rachel’s multitude of stuffed animals and the baby dolls she has no intention of ever parting with, I didn’t feel so alone.