Chapter 7 Ace
Ace
I hate how quiet the house is when I come home on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I pull into the garage, glancing over at the empty space next to me as I put my car in park. My wife is at school tonight, and while I’m happy she’s doing what she enjoys and fulfilling her dreams, I miss the fuck outta her when she’s not here.
I let myself in and drop my keys on the hall table. Like always, the emptiness screams loudly, reminding me that I’m alone.
I didn’t get married to be alone.
In the shower, I let the water wash the day off of me. Veronica was on her bullshit again today, but my shoulders finally relax under the steaming hot drops that are cascading down my body. I stand in this spot long after I’ve washed, palms braced against the tile, breathing slow and steady.
After, I walk down to the empty kitchen and grab a beer out of the fridge. I plop down on the couch and take a long pull of the cold, sharp liquid. It takes the edge off, but it doesn’t soothe me.
Only Raya can soothe me.
I don’t think men truly understand the value of a woman until they have one and she isn’t there. Because when I was single, I did this every day and was good and content with my life. But now? I know exactly what I was missing.
And I’m missing her now.
Once my bottle is empty, I heave myself off the couch and head down to the basement.
The light flicks on with a faint buzz. I got it finished a few months ago, and it still satisfies me to see the space as it is now. But I didn’t come down here to marvel at the decor. I’m down here for my ritual.
Raya’s notebooks are right where they always are—in her cedar chest. All different colors, a few different sizes, most filled from edge to edge with her handwriting.
These are her books of grievances.
I found them when I was moving her out of her father’s house. I flipped through a few back then, but I didn’t snoop.
Now, I’m a full-blown investigator.
I found my notebook a month after we got married, and I’ve been reading it ever since.
I feel like it’s my duty as a husband. I know Raya.
I know she doesn’t always share her feelings.
In fact, more often than not, she lets shit simmer.
She holds onto slights like a life raft.
So as the man who vowed to make her happy, I need to know when I’m fucking up.
That’s the story I tell myself.
And it’s mostly true. But there’s a small part of me, way deep down, that needs to know I’m safe. I feel like a little bitch for thinking it, but my wife ain’t no ordinary woman.
So here we go: I open my notebook.
My chest hitches a little when my eyes scan the last page, wondering what I’ll find this time. Three weeks ago, there were three grievances; the toilet seat, me eating the last of the lasagna, and me dismissing something she said.
It’s honest. Hell, it’s human. She has the right to feel how she feels. I just wish she’d tell me instead of holding it inside.
I feel a familiar twinge of guilt. I know this shit is wrong. She’s entitled to her privacy. But I think I’m entitled to hedge my bets. I can’t be the husband she needs if I don’t trust her.
When I reach the bottom of the page, I smile.
No new entries.
I exhale as relief settles in. I should have known. We’ve been good lately. No arguments. Plenty of laughing and clowning. A whole lot of sex.
She’s happy.
Which means I’m doing my job.
I close the notebook and move to put it back where it was. I’m already planning dinner in my head when I notice something tucked underneath the bottom layer.
It’s a new notebook.
This one is black. It’s thinner than the other ones, too.
My pulse kicks up.
I wanna walk away and pretend I didn’t see it, but I’m not even gonna kid myself. I reach right on in and pull that bitch out, flipping it open to the first page.
One name sits at the top in bold, angry strokes.
SISCO
“So Professor Higgins is on my list,” Raya’s saying, half playful, half vengeful. “She got one more time to piss me off, and then I really don’t know what I’ma do.” She takes a bite of chicken parm and moans quietly. “Baby…you put your foot in this. Oh my God.”
I stare blankly at her pretty face like somehow that’ll help me read her mind. Like it’ll help me figure out who the fuck Sisco is.
I know good and goddamn well she ain’t cheating on me. I mean, it’s possible. Anything is possible. But that shit is highly fucking improbable. And since I know it can’t be that, I make the executive decision not to ask her about him. I’m not blowing my cover for a man she’s not fucking.
But she hates this person for a reason, and I need to know what it is.
The notebook only had one word on the page: Liar.