20

No doubt a shift has occurred in the room with Buck’s arrival, specifically between Mia and me, but I cannot put my finger on it. Yes, Mia has invited the man across the street into our house, into our romantic evening together once again. But it’s more than that. I know it is, but I cannot figure it out.

And she isn’t drinking the brandy.

I stride into the kitchen and reach above the refrigerator, extracting a bottle of passable pinot noir. I don’t care if it’s a cheap bottle, it’s for Buck. I unscrew the top—yes, it’s cheap—and pour a glass for Buck. Mia has a drink, one she will enjoy with me. The same as me. Mine.

I walk through the dining room and stop for a moment. My wife and Buck are talking together, their faces close, close enough to have kissed while I was in the kitchen. He is sitting in a chair, one of the ones across from the couch. She is in the other one. Both chairs are blue. Both are being used.

I’m being used.

“Your wine, Buck,” I say, walking into the room. Mia stands quickly, as if she just realized she was nose to nose with another man in my family room. She comes to my side and we sit at the same time on the couch.

“Did you bring me a glass?” she asks.

“You have brandy, Mia,” I say, and I reach forward and hand her the tumbler. She hasn’t even had a sip.

“I really don’t think I can stomach it,” she says. “I’ll just go get some wine.” She’s up and out of the room before I can even react. With her, she’s taken the glass of brandy.

“Allow me,” I say, standing. As I begin to follow her, Buck stands. We are face-to-face, man-to-man. All I can imagine is shoving my fist into his dimple, or his nose, or—

“No, really, both of you sit. I’ll be right back,” Mia says.

Buck narrows his eyes, but a smile forms on his face. “Let’s do what she says, okay?” he says. “Far be it from me to refuse a lady.” He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he sits down on the edge of the blue chair.

“What are you doing here?” I say, sitting lightly on the edge of the couch across from him. The candles I lit for our romantic evening are flickering, contorting Buck’s anchorman looks.

“I came to warn you about the burglar,” Buck says. He takes a sip of the wine. “Lovely.” I can tell he knows it’s cheap, knows it is anything but lovely—the wine, the situation.

“Bullshit,” I say.

Mia walks back into the room, no doubt assessing our standoff. We are, us men, predatory. And we are protectors. Like the guard dog waiter at dinner, somehow Buck has caught a whiff of something, the scent of trouble, and he’s on the trail like a bloodhound. But he’s wrong. And the only person who can tell him how wrong he is would be Mia, the supposed prey, as it were.

My father—he was a wonderful role model as I mentioned—loved this game. The standoff. Come to think of it, I like it, too. I liked it when I had to pretend to police that I was shocked to discover my parents dead in their bed when I dialed 9-1-1. But by now you know pretending was easy. I simply reminded myself it was their fault. They should not have said no to babysitting the night before. It was their one role in life, supporting my children, treating them better than they’d treated me. How hard could that be? When I had to face Rebecca in the Thompson Payne office, I played the game. Amateurs. People try to look at me as a suspect, but I’m good, I’m not easy to catch. I honed my skills at an early age, allowing me to withstand the scrutiny of Donald Pilmer, although, truth be told, there was no stopping Mia from marrying me, no matter what her old man said or dug up.

I sat calmly on the other end of the phone line from Donald, a situation much like this, with this sort of underlying tension, and told him I was marrying his daughter. I didn’t so much ask for his blessing as tell him that it was happening. I didn’t flinch when he yelled about it being too soon, dishonorable and the like. My voice was calm and strong. I was confident. I was raised to handle tests, to outsmart everyone. My mom told me I was special, even when my dad tried to beat it out of me. So I thrive in situations like this one. The only problem tonight is, I don’t understand what is going on. Why is Buck here?

“Mia,” I say without turning to look at my wife. I hold Buck’s gaze. “This is not about a burglar, is it? Why is he here?”

“All right, Paul,” Mia says, and then I hear a drawer opening and I see out of the corner of my eye that she has opened the drawer of the coffee table. I didn’t even know there was one. Interesting. “I agree it’s time to talk. I should start by telling you I’ve made a decision.”

“And this so-called decision needs an audience, beyond me?” I ask. I’m still staring at Buck but I can feel Mia’s eyes on me.

“Yes, it does. Buck is here to support me, as a neighbor and as my friend.” She takes a breath, lets it out while an eternity seems to pass. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, soul-searching. But still, this is so hard,” she says.

Across the table from me, Buck smiles and then catches himself and clenches his handsome jaw. His hands are both flat on his thighs. His fingers still.

I don’t look at my wife. I stare into the candle flame reflected in Buck’s eyes.

“What are you trying to say, Mia?” I ask. I don’t turn my head to look at my wife. I continue staring at Buck.