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WHEN I GET TO THE SHOP, the windows in the garage bay doors are dark. I pull around the back where Tim has a separate entrance for his office; I see a faint glow coming from the office window. I walk up to the glass, wipe away the dust, and peer in; I see him sitting at his desk, staring at the wall. I gently tap on the glass and watch him jump up, startled. He turns to face the window. I hold up the cylinder shape covered in foil, the sure sign of a burrito. He looks at me, no expression on his face. I try to smile and wave the burrito up and down, trying to make it more enticing. I try the door, but it’s locked. I have a key, but I don’t feel right about unlocking the door and barging in. I’d rather he let me in, figuring it’s a sign that he actually wants to talk to me.
At first, he doesn’t move to get up, just continues to stare at me. I can tell he isn’t just angry—he’s royally pissed off. Tears fill my eyes as I press my hand against the window pane. “I love you,” I mouth. He glares and shakes his head at me—not a good sign. What’s great about Tim is that, when we’ve fought in the past, he’s always been able to say he loves me, even when I’ve pissed him off. Not this time, though.
A mosquito buzzes by my ear; I swat at it then replace my hand on the window. I wonder how long he’ll make me wait out here. How long will he sit there and glare at me? How many mosquito bites will I get out here? I can’t read his poker face. Is he trying to decide whether he wants to let me in?
“Tim,” I call out, “will you please let me in?” He stands, walks to the door, and opens it. The orange glow from the sulfur light shines on him from above and makes his skin yellow. It casts a shadow on his eyes and makes them look even angrier. He’s not saying anything. Not a good sign.
I freeze in the doorway. I don’t think I can handle getting into a fight right now. There is a distinct possibility that our marriage could end tonight. Maybe standing outside the window and getting bitten by a thousand mosquitos is better than going into his office and getting divorced. I would do it for him; I owe him that much.
A moth flutters down from the security light and into the open door. I watch it fly straight into his desk lamp and hear its body click against the lightbulb repeatedly until Tim speaks.
“You’re letting bugs in,” he says. “Are you coming in?”
“That depends,” I reply. “Are you going to leave me?”
“No, Bren,” he says, sighing. “I am not going to leave you. Just come in.”
I step into his office. Even though I’m not convinced he’s being truthful, I feel a little relieved. At least he’s speaking to me, which is a start. It’s cleaner than normal in here. A mechanic’s office is always grimy. In the past, when I’ve commented on how grungy it always is in here, he’s asked me if I wanted him making money on the shop floor or working in here, cleaning his office. When he’s put it that way, I’ve had to agree. I’ve always had to fight the urge to clean when I came in here, though. He says that he doesn’t want me to, because he’ll never find anything I’ve put away. But really, I think that he doesn’t want me to feel like I have to clean up after him, and it’s sweet that he thinks that. Now, I see that all of the grimy fingerprints are gone, and his paperwork is filed. His desk is spotless, and the floor has been swept clean.
“Tim, I am so...”
“I don’t want to hear about how sorry you are,” he interrupts. “I just don’t. It’s a bullshit thing to say. I mean, would you be sorry if I hadn’t walked in?” He takes the phone off its cradle and fidgets with the cord. I watch him meticulously untangle it. He doesn’t look up when he speaks again. “The thing that bothers me the most is that I’m wondering if you would have told me about it, if I hadn’t walked in on you and Keith.” This time he looks up and makes eye contact. “Would you have told me?”
I open my mouth to answer and then close it again. I struggle to find the words so I can gently tell him the truth. I am pretty sure I would have kept the kiss to myself. I mean, what’s the point in telling him and intentionally hurting his feelings for no good reason? Talk about pouring gasoline on a fire. But then, if I tell him that I would have told him, I’d be lying to him. And I don’t want to lie to my husband. Any way I slice it, I’m screwed.
“So, you wouldn’t have told me?” he asks, looking up. He sets the phone back into the cradle, leans back in his chair, and crosses his arms. “Brenda? If I’d asked you whether you’d kissed Keith, would you have told me?”
Tears form in my eyes. What the hell am I supposed to do? What can I possibly say?
“Brenda!” His stern voice startles me. “Would you have told me?” His jaw is clenched; he is getting even madder, if that’s even possible. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this mad.
“No!” I blurt out. “No, I would not have told you, okay? Is that what you want to hear?” Well, at least I’ve told the truth. He can’t hold that against me on top of everything else at this point.
He leans onto his desk and rests his head in his hands, deflating right in front of me. I hate it when he gets this way; and it’s even worse when I know that I’ve caused it.
“I am not going to lie to you, on top of everything else. I owe you the truth.”
“Bren, you don’t owe me the truth. What you owe me is not going around kissing other men.”
“It was just one time, Tim. It’s not like I go around—“
“One time?” he interrupts. “And how the hell should I know that? It’s not like you’d tell me anyway.”
He has a good point. I look down at the chipped nail polish on my toes and try to formulate a response. What could I possibly say to make him feel better right now? Talk about a no-win situation.
“How can I possibly trust you now?” he asks.
“Tim, I’ve told you the truth—that’s gotta be worth something.”
“You told me the truth by telling me you’d lie to me. If I flat-out asked you, you would lie to me.” I hadn’t considered that. Good point, Tim. “I want Hydra out of my house by the end of the week.”
“Tim, if they leave early, we have to pay to accommodate them until they get into another house and we don’t get the money that they’re going to pay us.”
“I don’t care about the fucking money. It’s been way too much of a disruption to our lives and our marriage. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this. It was a stupid idea, one of the stupider ones you’ve ever had. I don’t have time for this shit right now. I cannot handle this. I can’t have my mother calling me to bitch at me about her fucking purse and her car, now, either.”
Great. Portia’s insinuated herself into the fight now, too.
Tears run down my cheeks again. He runs his hands through his hair. He hates seeing me cry, but I know he won’t comfort me. It’s my turn to comfort him, but there’s no way he’ll let me right now.
“I am not coming home until they’re out,” he says and gestures to the couch. He’s put away his pillow and blanket, presumably so the guys in the shop won’t know he’s staying here.
“Are you serious?” I ask. “That thing is filthy.” He raises his eyebrows in response, and I shut up. After a pause, I ask him, “Do you need anything?”
“No.” He points to the duffel on the floor—he probably went to pick up a few things while I was at work today. Great. Now he won’t even come into our house when he knows I’ll be there. He walks across the office, opens the door, and gestures for me to leave.
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll go?” I set his burrito on his desk and lean in to kiss him, but he pulls away.
“Don’t,” he says. “I just don’t feel that way right now.”
The door closes behind me. I stand at the window and watch him pace back and forth a few times. Then he takes the burrito and hurls it at the wall. It splatters and falls to the floor, landing in a puddle of sour cream and salsa. I get back into the car and put it into gear. As I am pulling around the side of the shop, I see a Mercedes pull in. It’s driving toward me, so I pull off to the side to let it by.
The driver pulls around back. I do not recognize this car, so I put my car into reverse and watch to see who gets out. The driver pulls down the lighted mirror in the visor, and I can see it’s Aria. She fluffs her hair then swipes on a coat of lip gloss and mascara. She gets out of the car, and I can see that she’s wearing a short skirt and stiletto pumps.
She pulls out a bag from the Gourmet Chalet, that same place where Portia shops. I can see a loaf of French bread sticking out of it. With her other hand, she retrieves a bottle of wine and her creamy leather tote. Where the hell does she think she’s going, dressed like that? Gee, why would Tim want a burrito served by his wife in jeans and a tank top, when he can get Gourmet Chalet delivered by tall, blonde, sleek Aria?
She enters his office, and I get out of the car and head to the window. I stand in a shadow, away from the security light, and watch as she spreads out the bread, brie, and fruit—Tim’s favorite snack. She sits on the couch, crosses her perfect, long legs, and dangles a shoe from her toe. She swirls her wine and takes a sip from the glass. She tilts her head back and laughs at something he said. As she laughs, her hair bounces on either side of her head, like a woman in a shampoo commercial.
Tim closes the file folder he has on his desk, sips his wine, and props his chin on his fist, intently listening to her as she speaks. Of course, I can’t make out what they’re saying. They could be talking about the campaign, or they could be talking about something else entirely. Whatever it is, Tim’s gaze is zeroed in. I can’t remember the last time he looked at me like that.
I can’t stand being here anymore. I can’t stand sitting here, watching Aria throw herself at my husband for another second. And I definitely can’t stand watching him lap up the attention. He’s got some nerve getting on my case about me and Keith. He’s been meeting Aria after work for months. God only knows what the two of them have been up to all this time. And to think I came here to make peace with him.
I feel my throat tighten, and I know I am going to burst out crying at any minute. What happened to our normal life? I knew that having Hydra move in was going to mean a huge adjustment, but I never imagined it would make our life into a soap opera. She’s sitting on the couch tossing her hair like she’s auditioning for a Pantene commercial!
I never could pull something like that off. But girls like Aria can. Girls like Aria can toss their hair and smile and get guys to do whatever they want. And Tim is that guy now.
Why doesn’t he look at me the way he’s looking at Aria? Is she really that much more interesting than me? Apparently so.
I think I’ve seen enough. I walk back to my car and get in. I immediately start the engine and drive home.