by K T Morrison
Think of the girls you brought in, buddy.
He growled, rubbed at his forehead. None of it was worth it. Fucking Chelsea Cunningham was not worth the tiniest iota of his wife’s pain. “I’m such an asshole,” he said, stumbled to the kitchen, ground fresh coffee and filled water into the percolator. It was boiling as he swiped up his phone and opened it. Dialing, he looked at the time, figured Chelsea would be awake.
On the third ring, she picked up. “What’s up, Benji?”
He gritted his teeth. “I told her.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her everything.”
“No way,” Chelsea said, and he could hear breathy disbelief in her voice.
“I did. She was lying to me, but I know I’m the bigger liar. I can’t be mad at her for doing the same thing I do.”
“That’s what got us here,” she said, dishes clinking like she was loading the dishwasher.
“I couldn’t take it anymore. The guilt was crazy.”
“How did she take it?”
“She’s gone. She left me.”
“Aw, shit, Ben. You think she’ll be back?”
“I think so. I just don’t like to think of her hurting.”
“Well, you probably shouldn’t let me suck your dick.”
“Yeah, I shouldn’t have done that. Finn’s been hanging out with her before you and I ever hooked up so you can stop the innocent game. You had a plan.”
“Lib didn’t sleep with Finn, you know that, right?”
“I know it now. I slept in the hallway last night, a lot of things became obvious.”
“Did you believe me?”
“Your timing couldn’t have been better.”
“That makes me so happy, Ben.”
“Consider it a birthday gift,” he said, wondering on his banter with the girl who’d purposely stuck a stick in the spinning spokes of his marriage. Why wouldn’t he explode with rage on her? She was just so fucking beautiful he was still afraid of her.
“Thank you so much, Ben.” Chelsea was moving around the kitchen now, he could hear the fridge door open. She said, “So what happens now?”
“Well, you and I will never talk again. That’s for the best. And, shit, Libby’s going to want to move. So I imagine I see couple’s therapy in my future, a lot of crying, a lot of apologizing—which I’m not ashamed to do—a lot of nurturing and probably some more nights sleeping on the couch, but I know I’ll do whatever it takes…”
“Hold on,” she said.
He could hear Chelsea’s footsteps in the hallway now, knew she had bare feet. He heard her front door open. There were mumbled voices, one of them raised higher, it sounded like a woman. There was a scuffle of some kind, feet banging on the floor, a sneaker’s squeak, a bright and loud smack. It sounded like the phone scattered out of Chelsea’s hand and across the floor. He bolted forward, listening...
Now he could hear two women shrieking and growling, sounds of a struggle. A bright cry of a woman’s pain. More smacking, loud and wet, fists on face. He heard screeching. Bitch, Whore, Hate You... and when it hit him, he couldn’t believe it took him so long. It was Libby.
He dropped his phone, ran to the stove, slapped off the burner, ran to the hall, grabbing his keys where they subsequently fell out of his hand and clattered against the door. He lunged forward stooping to pick them up in a hurry, banged his head on the glass, making the doorframe rattle. Jumped up, fell against the door, his mind racing a million miles an hour. He darted back into the kitchen, checked the oven again, making sure the house wasn’t going to burn down while he was out saving his wife.
He was in his truck before he knew it, not even closing the house door behind him, screeching backwards out of his driveway then roaring down Sarah Ashbridge, rolling through the stop sign, yanking hard, pulling a hairpin that swung the truck’s back end out, the rear wheel drive’s screeching behind him and sending up puffs of smoke.
The truck’s motor growled as he raced down Chelsea’s Street...
Afterword
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