by BJ Knapp
“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.
Chapter 20
“BRENDA, YOU SIGNED A CONTRACT,” Erik grouses. “We’re not leaving here until the record is complete. Moving is absolutely out of the question.”
“Erik, I understand that,” I say to him. “But my marriage is on the line here.”
I didn’t sleep a wink last night. All I could do was picture Tim and Aria cozy in his office. I went through the different scenarios, but really, my seeing them together in Tim’s office last night was nothing like Tim seeing me kissing Keith.
Around three in the morning, I decided that I really need to keep some perspective here. Why am I inventing more problems? I already have enough to deal with. There was no contact between Tim and Aria. Really, all they were doing was talking. Sure, she did spend some time in the car primping before going in, and sure, she did bring him food and wine. But did that mean he’s been sleeping with her? Honestly, probably not. That’s not Tim’s style. Above all, Tim is a loyal guy. If he wanted Aria, he’d probably come to me first and tell me what was going on.
Really what it boils down to is that I saw Tim enjoying a conversation with a woman who was not me. When was the last time we sat down and had a conversation where we really listened to each other and laughed? I am jealous as hell that Tim was having such a nice time with her, just like he was jealous as hell, watching me kiss Keith so passionately. When was the last time Tim and I shared a kiss like that? How did our marriage get to this point, where we are seeking flattery from other people?
I promised Tim I’d try to get Hydra out, and I will. At this point, I’m going to do just about anything I can to get him home. My first task is to try to appeal to Erik’s good nature, though I don’t know if he has one.
“Well, you should have thought about that before your tryst with Keith, darling.”
“Oh my God, it wasn’t a tryst. It was just a kiss. Erik, we’ve been more than accommodating...”
“I’ll say,” he drawls. “Is that what you Yanks call it? Accommodating? Look, Brenda, I cannot have the boys uprooted right now. We’re in the middle of recording an album. Having them move is too much of a disruption to their process, and I will not have it.”
“So that’s it? You won’t leave?”
“Not until this record is done, and not a moment sooner.”
“And how long will that take?”
“I don’t know. It could go a few more weeks. Could be a few more months. Judging by the crap they were putting down today, I just don’t know.”
“What do you mean, ‘months’?” I ask, incredulous. Erik shrugs in response and turns his attention back to his iPhone—that habit of his now infuriates me. He dismisses me with a few swipes of his thumbs, and the conversation is over.
I stand there for a moment longer and wait for him to look up. He’s too engrossed in whatever is on the screen. For all I know, he’s playing Angry Birds. I fight the urge to yank the phone out of his hand and instead walk toward the stairs. I call out to Vito, who’s perched on the cushion on the back of the couch, watching the window that faces the driveway. He likes to hang out there to wait for Tim to get home. He looks at me for a moment and then returns his attention out the window—the doggie equivalent of the iPhone. He’s ignoring me now, too?
“He’s not coming home, Vito.” I face Erik. “And he’s not coming home until the rock stars leave.” Vito cocks his head at me as if he understands then hops down to the floor and follows me up the stairs.
***
In the morning, Vito is under the covers and curled up against the back of my knees. Normally, he would have cuddled with Tim, but in the beagle world, desperate times call for desperate measures, so any source of body heat will suffice. I stretch out my legs, which he takes as a sign to commando-crawl out from under the covers. He slips out at the foot of the bed and shakes his body; his ears flap, and the tags on his collar jingle. I reach my hand out and feel the cold of Tim’s side of the bed. Tears fill my eyes. Vito senses my sadness, scoots upward, and rests his head on my stomach. He sighs and thumps his tail gently, as if to say, “It’s okay, Bren. Tim will come home, the rock stars will leave, and everything will get back to normal.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and stroke his velvety ears. I remember when he was a puppy and his ears were too big for his head. They dragged in the grass when he sniffed around in the yard; the tips were perpetually wet from the dew. Tim used to joke about tying them back to keep them dry. I smile at the memory while tears continue to stream down my face.
I put on my robe and look out the window onto the back yard. The Hydra army is stirring; crew members emerge from their tents and walk toward the house. Toni and Erik are walking together; she looks up at me and smiles sympathetically. I don’t hav
e to guess what they are talking about, and I suspect she’s trying to convince him that they need to leave. I hope she’s getting further than I did last night; but then Erik whips out the iPhone, and all hope of him listening to Toni is lost.
“Time to start our day, pal.” I sigh and Vito thumps his tail faster. I pick up the phone and dial Tim’s cell. It rings twice, and I hang up—I don’t know what I could possibly say to him; I need time to think it through a bit.
Vito springs onto all fours, barks, and wags his tail harder. I take it as his way of cheering me on and press the redial button. Tim answers on the third ring. I can hear the noise of the shop floor in the background and feel guilty because he has to drop what he’s doing to get the phone.
“Hi,” he answers in his “I don’t have time to talk to you right now” voice.
“Hey, I just wanted to say good morning to you and that I miss you.”
“Are there still rock stars in the house?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not like they were going to move out last night.”
“Did you at least talk to Erik?”
“Yes, last night. He got bitchy with me about the contract.”
“So that’s it? You’re letting them stay?” I can hear the irritation in his voice.
“Tim, I just got out of bed. I haven’t had the chance to talk to Erik again.”
“I have to go, Bren.” He clicks off the call before I have a chance to say anything. Okay, so maybe today is not the day for us to be fully engrossed in conversation with each other. Maybe I need to show up at his office in a short skirt and flip my hair around to get his attention. I can feel my body tense up, and I need to stay positive. He told me nothing is going on with Aria, and I need to believe him. It’s only fair, right?
I shower and dress for work. When I get downstairs, Keith and Erik are at the kitchen table.
“Just the men I wanted to see,” I say and sit down. “We need to talk, guys.”
Erik stops me before I can even appeal to his nice guy side. “Brenda, I thought we talked about this last night. You signed a contract. If we move, then you are responsible for all of our expenses. Not only will you be out the fifty thousand we would have paid to you, but you will have to pay for alternate accommodation, cars, food, housekeeping... Need I go on? Never mind the disruption to the band. It’s more than you can afford, love.”
Keith intently stirs the honey into his tea, pretending that he isn’t part of the conversation. I try to do a bit of math. They are paying us $50,000. How much are they paying for cars, for Angela’s services? What it basically comes down to is: what is the price of my marriage?
“Erik, come on. Be reasonable. There’s no way we could afford that.”
“Brenda, we’ve already spent thousands of dollars to be here. Do you think we can afford that?” he asks, sniveling.
Toni walks in with her clipboard; the first time I saw her with it, I joked about her being a rock-and-roll cruise director. But now, it lends her some credibility, and I hope that it will convince Erik to change his mind. “Erik,” she begins, “if you’d allow it, I’d like to research other accommodations. Maybe just for Keith?”
“Out of the fucking question. The band stays together.”
“Erik, would you please just consider it?” she asks.
“No. We’ll lose out on a lot of work if the band members are not under the same roof. I am not going to sacrifice this record because this hussy wants to get into Keith’s knickers.”
“Erik! It was Keith who kissed me.”
“Oh, and you had nothing to do with it?” Keith looks up from his tea. “Come on, Mrs. Dunkirk, you had your chance to make out with a rock star. And I distinctly remember you kissing me back.”
He’s right: I did kiss him back. Not that it’s an excuse, but I guess I was just caught up in the moment. And I admit, it was nice to feel—to know—that someone wanted to kiss me. I don’t think I can ever justify kissing another man in a way that anyone who believes in monogamy can understand. But Keith is right: I was just as responsible. The difference is that he isn’t married. I am, and my husband and I agreed that we wouldn’t go around kissing other people.
It was such a stupid thing to do. What was I thinking? It’s not like kissing me is going to help him fix his public persona. To think I could have helped him change who he is. Now I know that that will never happen. Once an arrogant rock star, always an arrogant rock star.
“Keith, stop,” Toni pleads.
“No, Toni. It’s okay. He’s right. I kissed Keith and messed up my marriage. And for what?”
“Gee, thanks, Brenda,” Keith grumbles. “You’ve done wonders for my self-esteem.”
“Keith, right now this isn’t about you. This is about me and Tim. And the only way he’s going to come home is if you guys leave.” I pound my fist on the table in frustration.
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Erik says. “We made an investment to be here. If we have to move, you’re paying for it.” He stands up from the table and raises his chin. “So, are we done here? The lads need to get to Del’s.”
At least I was dismissed by his words instead of his iPhone.
I sigh and stand from the table myself. I push my way past Erik to the fridge. I slam a few containers on the counter and pack my lunch. “I have to go to fucking work, and then I will come home to a house where my husband doesn’t live anymore. And it’s fucking Friday, so now I have an entire weekend without him here and with you guys here. Great. Just fucking great!” I stomp out of the kitchen and into the garage, get into my car, and head off to work.
Instead of listening to the problems of the world on NPR, I switch off the radio and will myself to come up with a solution to my own difficulties. I pass a few roadside motels and write down their names on the back of a gas station receipt I find wedged under the seat. Maybe I can convince Erik to let Keith stay in one, if it’s not too expensive. If that fails, maybe I can convince Tim that we should stay in one. Either way, it’s the beginning of a plan, right?
Chapter 21
WHEN I GET IN TO WORK, I barrel past the crowd of co-workers congregated at the coffee machine. “Brenda,” one of them asks, “where are you going? It’s bagel Friday. It’s your turn to buy—did you bring them?”
Great, just some more people I’ve let down. I’ve forgotten to bring bagels for our Friday tradition. But I can’t be bothered with that right now. When I get around the corner from the conference room door, I hear another one of them say, “What is her problem lately?” Gee, where should I begin?
Work is escaping me. I have got to figure this out. I want to be the one Tim looks at with rapt attention. I want to be the one standing beside him when he gets elected. I have got to get Hydra out of my house. Think. I have got to think.
Joy pops her head into my cube. “Staff meeting, three minutes,” she chirps. I check my calendar on Outlook: three back-to-back meetings today. How the hell am I supposed to solve the Hydra problem if I’m stuck in meetings for three hours? I need more time.
The meetings blur by. I have next to no idea what was said. For all I know, I’ve agreed to a salary decrease. After the third meeting, Amanda calls me on my extension—she called into the meeting while en route from JFK Airport to a pitch meeting in New York City. I can tell she’s still in a car: I can hear honking horns in the background.
“Brenda,” she says, “what is going on with you lately? After your big fuck up with the brochures, I thought for sure you’d be trying to redeem yourself, but you barely participated in those meetings. The last few press releases you wrote were absolute crap. I had to rewrite a few of them.” She pauses. “Is everything okay?”
I hold my fist against my forehead and try to come up with a reason why my work sucks lately. It’s not like I can tell her that my home has been taken over by rock stars and that Tim has left me. I hate the sound of that: Tim left me. Is that really what he did? Tears fill my eyes and my chest feels like it’s f
illed with ice. I can’t get air into my lungs, and I gasp, trying to fill them. I duck my head onto my lap and try to breathe for a moment, but I feel like I am collapsing from within.
“Brenda? Are you there?”
I stand up and feel light headed. “I have to go. I’m taking the afternoon off.”
Before I hang up the phone, I get to listen to how angry she is. “Wait a minute!” she barks. “Where are you going? Weren’t you paying attention in that meeting? We have to redo the whole campaign for the Baxter account. Baxter is pissed about those brochures, and we have to eat the cost. You’re not going anywhere, Brenda. You do, and you’re history.” I leave her with the dial tone.
“I don’t fucking care anymore,” I mutter to myself. I grab my keys and my bag and head for the door. I sprint down the stairs to the parking lot with tears streaming down my cheeks by the time I make it out to my car. I run the stop sign at the end of the block and then realize, as I’m squinting into the sun, that I’ve left my sunglasses on my desk.
It is a bit liberating, at first, to just leave my job in the middle of the morning. Most people in their right minds would be terrified, receiving that kind of threat from their boss. Normally, I would be too. But right now, I am not normal. I’ve forgotten what normal feels like. Life right now is nowhere near normal. It’s amazing how drastically things can change in just a few short weeks, and how many complications can arise in that time. Problems are always fast to develop but seem to take forever to solve. I can’t imagine living without Tim for however many months until Hydra leaves. It seems impossible.
I turn on the radio for a little distraction. “In case you are wondering where they are now,” the announcer drones, “they’re recording a new album at an undisclosed studio right here in Rhode Island. Look for it to hit the stores and iTunes next summer. It’s Hydra...” The opening chords of “Battleground Zero” blast out of the speakers.
“Fucking hell!” I snap and click off the radio; the knob comes off in my hand, and I toss it out the window. I pound my fists into the steering wheel until my wrists ache. I ride in silence and come home to an empty house. I pace through the house, trying to find something to occupy me, but I am too keyed up. I dial Tim’s phone; he answers on the second ring.
