6

I turn right and, lucky us, find a parking spot, the universe making up for the croissants. This is the way this day is supposed to go, smoothly, joyously. Now that we are finally here in Lakeside all will be well. Except for the fact that it’s crowded. This is unexpected. I imagined we would find Lakeside deserted, like an old Western town after the gold rush. But that isn’t the case.

I can see from the street that Sloopy’s Sports Café is bustling with midwestern vacationers, no doubt mostly from Ohio, enjoying the first sunny weekend in May. On the surprisingly busy main street of town I see men wearing sports shorts and T-shirts, T-shirts that will change to wifebeater tank tops when the weather heats up. Many of the guys who vacation here love the Cleveland Indians and the Ohio State Buckeyes. They’ll tuck a football they carried to lunch onto the seat of the booth beside them, and play pass with their kids after lunch. They will be upset, very upset, if their sons don’t throw a perfect spiral by age ten. I know from experience, trust me.

The women wear stretchy yoga pants or tennis clothes, although I don’t agree with that look unless you are thin. If you aren’t a thin woman, you should wear a dress. A loose-fitting dress that will cover all your excess, that will hide your sins. The kids are hyper, just like my boys are when they’re here. They’ll agree to sit with their parents only long enough to gobble a pizza slice and then they’re off, enjoying the freedom of youth in a place where nothing bad ever happens. The smattering of youngsters I see on the sidewalk look sticky and sweaty, like they could use a long shower.

I cover my disdain for my fellow Ohioans behind my poker face and sunglasses. I shouldn’t be surprised that Mia and I aren’t the only ones hoping for a peaceful weekend getaway, but I am. I’d relied on my memory of last year’s preseason visit, but perhaps it was in April. But it’s fine. I’ll adjust.

You have to be nimble if you want to get anywhere in life, that much I’ve learned. Take my early courtship of Mia, for instance. Sure, the first date had gone well, but I was aware that I needed to step up my game. Mia Pilmer was accustomed to the best money could buy and I knew she could smell a pretender deep in her soul. I waited a whole two days before I asked her out again, let her memory of our first date, our first chaste kiss, settle in her heart. And then, when we “just happened” to find ourselves on the elevator alone, I asked her to dinner at the finest restaurant in town for Friday night. Of course she said yes, and of course I surprised her by ordering foie gras. “My favorite. You are full of surprises, Mr. Strom.”

I like to think I still am. It’s a gift, this ability to anticipate people’s needs. I can’t say I didn’t enjoy being one step ahead of my young wife-to-be. Soon enough, everything Mia enjoyed when she listened to my stories of foreign travel and television shoots in exotic locations, everything she liked that she thought she saw in me, I became. It’s who I am now, with her. It’s who we are together.

Sloopy’s is located in downtown Lakeside, nestled on a corner of Second Street, part of a quaint block of storefronts in an old brick building. I pull open the forest green–framed screened door and usher Mia inside in front of me. There’s a crowd standing in the doorway. She shrinks back into me, away from the large, muscle-shirt-wearing man in front of her. It’s nice to feel her body against mine. My heart surges with love. I wrap my arm around her waist and hold her tight. As I inhale her familiar floral scent I can imagine us making love as soon as we get to the cottage.

We will hold hands as we walk up to the front door and I’ll hurry to unlock the door, pulling her inside our second home behind me. It makes me hot just thinking about it. I’ll slip my arms around her waist, pull her close to me as I lean in for a kiss. She’ll press against me, opening her lips, as I feel her knees buckle. I’ll swoop her up in my arms and carry her to the couch in the family room. It’s new, we haven’t even broken it in that way, the way we would have when we first met, when the attraction was stronger than common sense. The thought makes me smile.

A sweaty guy in a white tank top and green apron waves some plastic-coated menus in the air in our direction, and says, “Over here.”

I squeeze Mia’s waist and whisper in her ear, “Do I know how to wine and dine my wife in style, or what?”

Mia laughs, perhaps her first genuine laugh of the day, as I walk behind her to a corner booth, perfect for two. Perfect as long as you’re both thin, I should say, trying to slide into my bright red seat, barely clearing my stomach under the Formica tabletop bolted to the wall and draped with a green-and-white-checkered plastic tablecloth. I’ll breathe shallowly and be fine. I like this corner booth, even though it is sized for tweens, my back to the wall. I can see everyone coming and going. I might not be sporting a tank top revealing my guns, but don’t worry. I can protect my wife from whatever could possibly come our way.

The walls and ceiling are painted green and someone has hammered a white lattice checkerboard pattern on the walls. The place is dripping with sports memorabilia. Ohio State football dominates, alongside mementos from any other Ohio sports team the Sloopy’s staff deems worthy. They know their customer here, that’s for sure. Ohio State and the rest of the pennants are a vibrant and colorful scarlet and gray contrast with the green-and-white decor. It’s a look that couldn’t be replicated but somehow works in this small restaurant. It comes across as quaint and, at this moment, extremely cozy—especially around my midsection. I should listen to Mia more when it comes to my diet.

“Good call,” Mia says, seeming to relax. She smiles her big smile and looks at my belly. “Are you okay in this booth? You look a little snug.”

I’m going to consider her comment a show of concern, not snark. “I’m fine. It was nice holding you. We should do that more often,” I say. I almost believe I see the circle blush on her cheeks, almost.

“Mmm,” she says as a specials menu is dropped on the table. The waitress who tossed it appears to be a student from an area high school. Charming hot-pink stripes streak through her long brown hair. She has a tattoo circling her right wrist and a shiny round nose ring in her left nostril. I wouldn’t let her come home looking like this, not if she were my daughter. I wouldn’t let her come over if she was a friend of one of my sons. It’s a good thing I just had boys. Yes, I know boys can get tattoos, dye their hair and pierce various appendages. Mine won’t.

“What can I bring you two to drink?” she asks. If she were chewing gum, the whole effect would be complete.

“An iced tea, please,” Mia says. “No sugar. No sweetener.”

“Same for me,” I say, although what I really want is a Tito’s Vodka on the rocks, no fruit. But alas, Lakeside is dry, so I must wait until I’m inside my cottage to have a drink. Yes, it’s a dry community filled with drinkers. We just carry our roadies around in plastic cups and pretend it’s Coke. The hypocrisy is amusing, and somehow, right. Unfortunately, it’s only noon. Back in the heyday of advertising, long after Mad Men, but before the advent of more human resources–driven rules, hours-long liquid lunches were the name of the game. It was what you did to entertain clients, land accounts or just hang out with the other guys. Those were the days.

Of course, if you were trying to work your way up, as I was in the early days of Thompson Payne, you never actually drank as much as you seemed to be drinking. No, you made sure your boss’s glass was never empty, you were quick to light the end of his cigar and you always told the funniest jokes. I kept John laughing up until the door swung closed on his face. It’s just what you do in advertising.

“How old do you think she is?” Mia asks, clearly referring to the pink-striped creature fetching our tea.

“Likely only in high school, still living at home, terrifying her parents, who have lost all control of her. Scary, right?” I say. I’m finding it harder to breathe in this booth, the more I think about teenagers and tattoos and project both onto my little boys. My boys as teenagers is something I’ve imagined with an equal mix of hope and dread. They already know, even at six and eight, they would never be allowed to come home with a tattoo. They know my rules, at least as much as I can impart at these ages. No tattoos. No girlfriends who have tattoos. No swearing. No back-talking. Ever. Throw the football like a man, a perfect spiral. Always. They live in a dictatorship, not a democracy. End of story.

“I don’t think she’s scary, Paul. Just finding her identity. She’s portraying her individualism through outward expressions, like tattoos and unique hair color. I wish I had been bold enough to do that in high school, or well, ever,” she says. We are silent as the girl places the plastic cups of tea in front of us. Mia is lost in thought, thinking of all the small rebellions she should have taken part in during her youth. Hopefully, she is forgetting the ones she alluded to during the drive. She really should just let all of those ideas go. For both of us. For the best day ever. She tosses her sticky, plastic-coated menu on the table.

And adds, “I was such a good girl. Always trying to please. First my parents, then you. I never got to rebel.”

“I just don’t see you with a nose piercing,” I say. I’m trying to sound breezy, carefree, but in my head a little bell of alarm is ringing again. Of course you were the good girl, that’s why we connected so strongly, at the cellular level. We were perfect for each other, still are in many ways. My alarm bell is in overdrive; I’m overthinking everything because Mia spoke to John. I need to settle down, yet the prickle of pre-Lakeside unease remains. Why, I’m not certain. It doesn’t matter, not really. It’s just mildly disconcerting, this defiance Mia is verbalizing, has been demonstrating during our drive and continues now. Her little rebellion, stirred up by my former business associate, I suppose. How sweet. How frustrating.

Mia says, “It isn’t about piercings or tattoos. It’s about not being a reflection of what someone else wants you to be. You probably don’t understand what I’m saying. You’ve always been so sure of who you are, what you want.”

“I couldn’t imagine living any other way, actually,” I say. I wonder if she is asking me for something, for some understanding. Some type of compassion or empathy. I’m not good at those emotions, or, if we’re being honest, any emotion except anger. Rage lurks deep inside me, ready to lash out whenever it’s needed. But for those other, more feminine feelings, I have to fake my expressions. I taught myself how to imitate the look people have when they are feeling sad, for example. The corners of the mouth droop, the eyes fill with water. Back when we were first getting serious, when I’d convinced her I was the one, Mia told me I sometimes seemed to be on a five-second delay, like a live broadcast where the director thinks something censor-worthy might happen so they leave room for the bleep.

She was being funny, of course.

“Mia,” I explained at the time. “There’s a difference between not expressing things and not feeling them. Remember me, Poker-face Paul? It’s a blessing and a curse. I’m a guy. It’s how we are, genetically. You know, hard on the outside, soft on the inside. The delay, honey, is all in your pretty little head.”

We were out to dinner, another rather fancy place that has since gone out of business, French I believe. Mia looked at me over the flickering white taper candle and said, apropos of nothing, “You don’t seem to be listening, Paul.”

I was stumped, of course. I had been listening, listening closely, but what I hadn’t been doing was showing her I was listening. A mistake. But I had no idea what had brought this up. Everything was wonderful. Sex, dinners, everything. What I’d been reflecting on, when she’d surprised me with her random observation, was the fabulous sex we’d had just that morning. It was amazing, once I’d unlocked the key to her sexuality, so to speak. The physical passion she’d been missing in her sterile, privileged upbringing, well, it was to be expected of the rich. They’re nothing if not stiff. But now, behind closed doors, my Mia was free of all those silly inhibitions, at least most of them. But why this?

“What, is something wrong?” I’d grabbed my wineglass, taking a big gulp.

“Remember, I told you my mom’s best friend died this morning? She was like a second mom to me.” Yes, yes, I remembered, but mostly I remembered the sex. It had started out as my way of providing comfort, but it’s safe to say I’d successfully distracted her from any focus but me. At least, I’d thought I had.

I noticed Mia’s eyes filling with tears. She was sad. I hadn’t remembered to carry that emotion with me all day at the office, on her behalf. I should have cradled her lovingly after sex and told her how sorry I was about that woman who died. I should have walked into the restaurant with a frown on my face, my head tilted down with sadness. “I’m sorry, Mia. I completely forgot.” I reached across the table and patted her hand. On cue, my eyes glistened with sadness.

She seemed to consider me, tilting her head. The sadness had been replaced with something different, something I couldn’t read. I needed to change the subject. “Hey, so when is the funeral? I’d like to go with you.”

Mia snapped back to sadness, leaned forward, and reached for my hand. I’d said the right thing. Of course I had. “I’d like that. It’s this Friday. And you can meet my mom and dad, too.”

Shit. I’d convinced her of my hidden emotional depths, but now I had agreed to fly home with her. I’d known I had to get that over with one way or another. Maybe a funeral would distract them all. I liked the focus to be anywhere but on me in these types of situations, when I was setting the bait but hadn’t yet hooked my prize catch. The fewer people involved the better, I’d learned, but it was too late. I was headed to a funeral in New York, and an encounter with her parents. Remember, I am nimble, always in control. I played it to my best advantage, as always.

At home these days, I am king of our castle and my queen needs to fall back in line. It’s a bit late for Mia to be contemplating finding herself. What could she possibly find that I don’t already provide? She knows that I’m all about a traditional family and that I will take care of her and the boys. I’m all about action, like a superhero. I’m about planning, achieving and success. And protection. I protect her and the kids from any harm that could come their way. From grandparents and babysitters, from stray dogs and jealous neighbors. We’re superior. They know that, Mia and the boys. Especially my boys. I’ve told them since they were tiny. They are my life, my future.

Across the table from me, my wife’s hair looks almost white in the bright sunlight shining through the Sloopy’s window. She’s lovely. But something’s wrong.

“All this talk of rebellion. Are you trying to tell me something, Mia?” I ask. I watch as she drops her eyes, suddenly fascinated with the menu. She’s hiding something. Her eyes give her away. After a moment, she looks up at me.

“No, Paul. I was just having a friendly conversation, that’s all. And speaking of friends, have you talked to Richard or Tony lately?” she asks. She has flipped over the shiny menu, no doubt on the hunt for the lowest calorie offering. Why is she asking about old high school and college friends? It’s strange. These days, I don’t have friends, per se. I’m a family man now.

Mia adds, “I mean, whenever I see Ohio State stuff, I think about them. You and Richard were tight back in high school, you told me. Same with Tony during college. I remember both of them being at our wedding. I don’t think we’ve seen them since. My old friends and I manage a phone call now and then. I know it’s hard, with kids, to keep really connected. Most of my friendships have suffered since we married. But do you guys talk, catch up? Does Richard still live in Grandville? Is Tony in Nashville?”

In high school and college, you’re supposed to hang out with friends. Act like buddies, do guy things together. When you graduate, you get a job and get married. That’s what you do. Until your bride-to-be tells you that you need groomsmen for the wedding and then you pull a couple out of the past like a pop-up retail store, only open for a small window of time.

“I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of them,” I say. “Why could this possibly matter? That was the past. This is our perfect now.” She is stirring the pot. It’s not wise.

“Just wondering,” she says as the scary waitress appears at our booth. She taps her pencil on her pad of paper, the noise an annoying beat on my temple.

Why hasn’t my wife shown any interest in my so-called friends before now? Why do they matter? They never did. High school is something to get through, get past, to get on with life. College fraternities, like where I met good old Tony, well, let’s be frank, they are a means to an end. Get into a good one, despite your lack of legacy, and you’re set. At least I was. The “guys” all had some notion that I was a legacy Sigma Chi. Suddenly I was one of the top rushees—me, a guy from nowhere, from no one. Insane. I have no idea how they got that idea in the first place. Well, maybe I do. But it worked. I used it to my benefit for four years and when I graduated, I was more than happy to leave that whole drunken mess behind me. All except what I picked up in one of my favorite classes, Greek Mythology, that is. Some things in Nashville were very good, at least in the beginning.

“What’ll you have?” asks our waitress, the Ghost of Teenagers Future. She terrifies me.

“The Cobb salad. Dressing on the side. No ham, no turkey, no bacon. Just the tomatoes and eggs and no cheese,” Mia says.

Pink hair and I both roll our eyes. I discover I like her a little.

“I’ll take a small pepperoni pizza, extra cheese,” I say and my stomach growls appropriately. “Make it a medium.”

I wonder again why Mia brought up my friends from another life. I’m concerned about all these questions. They are throwing me off. So far today, she’s asked me about my former boss, John, a coworker, Caroline, and now Richard and Tony. Something is up.

“Why all the questions today, honey?” I ask. Best to address the elephant in the booth. And then I’ll tackle this ridiculous notion of my wife getting a job and working for John, of all people.

“Oh, I didn’t realize I was asking that many, actually,” Mia says with a smile. Not the orange slice–smile of happiness, though. She’s bothered, troubled. Is it the way my stomach is dented by the booth or is it something more, something deeper than my visceral fat? I’m not certain, but I know I’m once again on guard. Mia dabs her eye with a thin paper napkin. “Sorry. It just seems like it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

Has it? I believe we talk frequently. It’s hard, with the boys, but still, we talk. I try to hurry out the door in the morning, true. And then, when I’m home for dinner, it’s more kid talk at the table. In bed, we both read, or watch TV. Maybe she’s right. We speak in surface pleasantries, but there’s nothing wrong with that. I feel her watching me.

“Honey, we talk more than a lot of couples,” I say. But I wonder if that is true. I do know that lately I have been attempting to talk very little, to be helpful manually, physically with the boys, but to maintain distance emotionally. That is not hard for me. I would never share what is in my busy mind with anyone, most especially Mia. I don’t enjoy reflecting on how much I do or don’t communicate with anyone. The less said the better; the less that is repeated about you around town, the fewer things the gossips have to share. It’s inevitable, though, that people will talk about me and my family. We’re enviable: the successful businessman, his beautiful younger wife and their two cherubic sons, living on the best street in the best suburb. It’s a shame, really, because when your life gets enviable it stirs up those gossips.

Mia looks like she’s about to give her rebuttal when Teenage Nightmare appears and drops Mia’s salad in front of her and my pizza, with a plunk of tin, in front of me. It smells heavenly. Pepperoni pizza is the scent of happiness and escape. It’s what you get to eat when you’re having fun, when you don’t have worries about weight or money or anything more than what’s on television tonight. Pizza is bliss in my book.

I take a big bite of bliss. I feel grease dripping down my chin. This pizza tastes so good I’m tempted to keep eating instead of using my napkin. Sloopy’s chef won an international award, traveled to Italy to compete over this pizza. I savor the bite but I do wipe my face.

Mia picks up where we left off. “How would you know if we talk more than other couples? What friends of yours would you measure that against?” she says. She has a black olive stabbed on her fork, poised in the air like a miniature hammer. She puts the olive in her mouth and chews slowly. She is implying I don’t have any friends. This is a theme she has been pushing all day for some reason. She knows I don’t have time for friends. I am focused on family. This is my role right now. I am tired of this entire discussion. It’s time for a pivot.

“Actually, I’d say it’s the opposite—other couples measure themselves against us and come up lacking. We are blessed. Handsome, healthy children, the best home on the street.” I set down my slice of pepperoni heaven and watch her eye it with distaste. Together we watch as the greasy cheese oozes onto my plate. “Anyway, I’m starting to think this is a silly conversation. We’re in our favorite vacation place in the world. It’s time to relax and enjoy ourselves. In fact, there’s really only one issue I’d like to discuss before we officially commence our vacation and that’s to talk about this so-called job you think you’re starting on Monday. Isn’t that what I heard you say, honey?” I’m smiling, tilting my head with sympathetic understanding, like when you discover your child has accidentally wet his pants. They’re embarrassed it has even happened so you treat them with compassion, not anger. That’s what I’ve learned to try to do. It’s not easy, feigning care.

Mia’s face gathers into a storm, blue eyes narrowed, chin pointed at me in anger. “Yes, Paul, that is what I said. I am starting my job Monday. I’m a virtual employee, and I am excited about this new opportunity. You should say congratulations.”

Lacking any other idea, I shove the remainder of the slice of pizza into my mouth, cheese strings cling to my chin before I wipe them away. I chew slowly. My wife does not work. That is not our situation. No matter what. She stays at home and cares for the house and for the children. Optimally, she learns to cook, but at the very least, she sets a nice table. This is what we talked about, what we agreed to, even on our very first date.

How different is the face looking at me across the table from that night with the crème brûlée more than a decade ago. That magical evening, we’d arrived at Diamond’s restaurant at almost the same time, and as I held the door open for Mia, I fought the urge to lean forward and kiss her. I smelled the fresh floral scent of her hair, I noted the way her black dress hugged her body, and I saw her blue eyes sparkle in the dim restaurant light as she looked over her shoulder, tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled back at me.

We’d spent almost three hours at dinner, talking and laughing, getting to know each other. Her expressions were loving and warm, never challenging. She shared her dreams and I followed suit. So of course she discovered we both wanted kids, and how we both longed for the traditional American family. She didn’t exactly articulate the whole working dad, stay-at-home mom part of the dream. But that was fine, it would take time and gentle persuasion. I knew I’d fallen for a working woman, but she didn’t really need the job, not with me providing for her. Not with the trust fund she came with. It was so endearing, though. Many of the wealthy are lazy; they don’t even attempt to prove their worth. Not Mia. She was a hard worker, a skilled copywriter. She was. The job was valuable to her, for her, for that moment in time. It brought us together, because otherwise, our two worlds never would have collided.

“So, your goal is children and a white picket fence?” I asked over the flickering candlelight. My heart was beating with excitement. She was my perfect woman.

“Yes, of course. The whole suburban dream.” She smiled. “I mean, after I work for a while. I love my job. I’m not in a hurry. And fortunately I’m young.”

Yes, she was, but I was smart. Work was only fun if you were assigned good projects, if you were praised, learning. I could stop all her momentum at Thompson Payne with a few well-placed words to the partners. And once she was pregnant, she wouldn’t need an office to make her feel important. She’d have me. And a baby.

“There’s no more important job than being a mom,” I said, leaning forward and fighting the urge to reach for her hand. It was too soon. There were certain steps one must take when reeling in the object of one’s desire. It was time to listen, to continue to research her family, her past. But I did have a few more discoveries, like what she wrote in her high school yearbook as her “biggest wish.”

“There’s another dream, too, right? There must be a bestselling novel floating around in that pretty little head. You can write during naptime.”

Her eyes twinkled in the candlelight. “You’ve thought of everything. How did you know I want to write a novel?”

How indeed. “Most copywriters are frustrated novelists, I’ve found.”

We agreed, it seemed, on everything. I am not revising history. I’m not. She dreamed of a husband. Check. Traveling the world. (I told her we would, but we wouldn’t.) She dreamed of a home in the suburbs and children. Check. She dreamed of being a working mom. (No way.) She dreamed of finding an older, more sophisticated man who could provide for her and teach her the meaning of love. Check.

It was all pretty easy, really. I didn’t even have to charm her that much. And when I walked her to the valet line outside Diamond’s that night, I’d slipped my hand around her waist, sending a bolt of electricity straight through me. She leaned against me slightly as we waited for her car.

“See you tomorrow. Thank you for a wonderful night,” Mia said as she slid behind the wheel of her car, a VW Rabbit of all things, while I tipped the valet. I held the top of her car door and leaned forward, hoping for a kiss, my head literally dizzy with desire and the bottle of wine we had shared.

“I had the best time, thank you for coming,” I said. Mia tilted her head and then lifted her face toward me as I leaned in and gently brushed my lips against hers. After a moment, I pulled away. I had confirmed we both wanted more, needed more.

“See you tomorrow, beautiful.” I closed the door and waved as she pulled away, wheels bumping along the brick streets of this historical part of town. I didn’t really need to sabotage her career at the agency. As soon as she found out she was pregnant just a few weeks after our honeymoon, she had one foot out the door. I mean, she had been complaining for months. Soon after our first date, she’d been assigned to the boring electronics account and as everyone knows, technical copywriting is the worst. She hated that account. I have no idea why she was assigned to it. Well, maybe I suggested it. But still, it helped her see where she belonged: at home. It all worked out, she agreed.

But now, right now, we aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything. Not food, not the kids, not about her working outside the home. I know, you’re thinking, given most couple’s circumstances in general, and mine in particular—and you don’t even know the whole story—I should be grateful she wants to bring in some extra money to the household. Perhaps I’ll consider it. But not if it means she’ll be working with John. No way. Together, they each know too many pieces of me.

“I can’t congratulate you, Mia, because I forbid it,” I tell her now. In my lap, my hands are clenched into fists. I’m furious. I know what happens at workplaces. I’ve shredded my napkin and white bits sprinkle the ground around my feet like snowflakes.

Mia’s face cracks into a smile and then she begins to laugh. It is not a happy laugh. Our pink-striped waitress appears and refills our iced tea with a quick, sloppy pour from a plastic pitcher.

“Glad to see somebody is having a good time. What’s so funny?” the girl asks. She’s quite sure of herself. Millennials have no respect for private conversations. I’m about to swat away Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle when Mia says, “Him.”

Mia points her index finger at me. “My husband doesn’t want me to go back to work. I’m trying to convince him I’m bored all day, with our boys in school. But he doesn’t think women should work outside the home once they marry. He’s so old-fashioned that way. It’s charming, I suppose. I guess he wants me all to himself.” Mia winks at me, smiling. I don’t believe the smile is sincere, however.

Ghost of Teenage Future says, “That’s sort of awesome. I mean, I guess if you want to work he should let you. Everybody should be able to do what they want but it sounds like you have a pretty sweet deal. Me, personally, I’m marrying a rich guy, staying home and having babies.”

I’ve found an unlikely ally, one with a ring through her nose and black eyeliner soaring like bats from either eye. I guess you could say she has her own style. “Yes, my wife is living the dream, the perfect scenario, just like you will one day.” I nod at Mia, who is staring at me and shaking her head back and forth in a slow, measured no. “Can we have the check, please? And a to-go box for my last slice.”

“Sure,” says the waitress, hurrying away. I wonder if we now scare her more than she scared me.

“You’re one of a kind, Paul,” Mia says. She slides out of our booth with ease. I feel as if she is running away from me but that’s ridiculous. We arrived here together. She has nowhere to go. “I’ll meet you at the car. I need to make a call. To Claudia.”

“Tell her the money will be in the account in half an hour,” I say. Mia turns and walks to the exit, pushes with both hands and bangs her way out through the screen door. I watch her walk down the sidewalk until she disappears. I need to fix this tension, calm her down. My wife shouldn’t be running away from me, she should be standing by my side. I’m good at this, I remind myself. I’m typically calm and in control, hiding the fire deep inside. The past six months have been tough, and I’ve lost a bit of my power around the home—it seems apparent by this display, by the car ride conversation, too, that Mia isn’t pleased with me. But I’m not worried. I know Mia, my empathetic, sweet wife. And of course, I have my plan.

I briefly consider making a call, too. It would be nice to speak with someone kind and loving, someone still enamored with me. But I counsel myself against it.

There will be time later for that.