Tiebreaker (It Takes Two 2)
The thought of her married to someone else is like taking a bullet to the chest. It’s instant and painful and game ending. And before today it never even occurred to me. Fuck knows why, she’s been dating that guy forever.
“Shit, I’m flattered you even answered my call,” Dane continues.
“Figured it was the only way to get you off my back.”
Popping the top off my beer bottle, I take a long pull. I seldom drink anymore. Not after it cost me everything. Only on rare occasions that warrant a drink. Like when the woman I planned to spend the rest of my life with tells me she’s gonna be doing that with someone else.
“Speaking of sexual positions. You assume one lately?”
Falling into the armchair in my living room, I put my feet up on the coffee table and run an exasperated hand through my hair. “Is there a point to this phone call?”
“What’s up with Maren.”
“She’s still with that British dude.” I take a deep breath before forcing the words out, each one as sharp as a razor blade and just as painful. “He asked her to marry him.”
Dane whistles loud enough that I’m forced to pull the phone away from my ear. “Does he have papers?”
“What?”
“Papers. Does he have ’em? Cuz if he don’t have papers, it ain’t his.”
“Does your wife hear the shit that comes out of your mouth?”
“Telling it like it is, bro.” In the background, I hear him shutting a door. “And she’s in the other room. Remember those words of wisdom you cheerfully imparted not so long ago when I was fucking things up with Stella?” Dane doesn’t wait for an answer. He loves the sound of his own voice too damn much. “This is what’s called a rhetorical question, dickhead, so keep your mouth shut and your ears open. Time to heed some of your own advice. The roosters have come home to roost––”
“Chickens.”
The front door swings open and Jana walks in. She waves as she heads for the kitchen with her grocery bags.
“What do chickens have to do with this conversation?”
“The phrase. It’s chicken have come––”
“Dane!” I hear in the background.
“Comin’, Shorty,” he shouts. “Gotta run, bro. My turn to change the dirty diaper.” I catch Stella’s muted voice in the background, saying something I can’t make out. “I said I’m coming…no, it’s my turn…mine. No, you took the last one, woman.”
“Look at you––fightin’ over a dirty diaper.”
“He’s at the stage his shit don’t stink. It won’t be fun for much longer.”
Pride hangs on every letter when he speaks about his family and for a moment I envy him. Not the shitty diaper part. The part where he’s content with his life.
There was a time when Dane would’ve chosen swallowing broken glass over marriage, but after meeting Stella all that changed for him. He’s found his sweet spot. Nothing’s missing in his life.
He doesn’t wake up every morning with only a fraction of time where everything seems all right. Only for it all to come crashing down around him when reality sets in. When he remembers the nightmare he’s living has been going on for years and he isn’t likely to wake up from it any time soon.
“Noah––you there?”
“Yeah.”
“Stop sittin’ around with your dick in your hand. You gotta tell her.”
“I can’t.”
“And cheat yourself out of the life you deserve? Don’t be stupid.”
I give what he said some thought. Despite appearance, Dane is one smart motherfucker.
“You think…I can make amends for what I did?”
“I don’t know, man. It’s gonna be hard, that’s for sure. But I guarantee you it’ll be easier than watching her become someone else’s wife.”
* * *
Maren
As soon as I get home I shuffle into the shower, too tired to even think about making dinner. Listless, I stand under the hot water and let the jet spray beat down on me. No matter how emotionally drained I am, I can’t seem to shut off my brain. It’s working overtime to make sense of the fight with Noah. For whatever reason he seems determined to dredge up the past and it’s exhausting. My emotions feel tied to the end of a yo-yo with his name on it.
As I step out of the shower, the doorbell rings. It’s 8 p.m. and I’m instantly wary. No one in my family would come by this late.
I run downstairs in my robe and look out the window to find the porch empty. It takes me five minutes to muster up the courage to open the front door. There’s not a soul in sight, only a thermo bag sitting on the doormat. I take the bag and lock the front door.
The smell of freshly roasted chicken wafts out of the cracked open bag and my stomach growls. Thank you, food fairy. Sinking into the couch, I start pulling out containers and placing them on the coffee table. The chicken. A baked potato. Steamed broccoli.