Chapter 6 The Earl Has To Die
THE EARL HAS TO DIE
DELILAH
The Earl of Auto is located at the end of Main Street in Fox Hole, right across from the liquor store and a couple hundred feet away from the town’s Methodist church and the high school where Earl and I met all those years ago.
Back then he’d been cute, I think. He had the typical early aughts spiky hair and puka shell necklace combo that made the girls go crazy.
His wardrobe, ripped straight from the dark, over-cologned racks at Abercrombie and Hollister, gave him the ultimate Laguna Beach, The O.C.
, One Tree Hill vibe that had me dreaming of him every night after I finished my calculus homework.
It wasn’t until I’d returned to Fox Hole after four years at the University of Knoxville that Earl noticed me, though. Probably because I was a super late bloomer who didn’t get boobs until I was twenty-one, but I digress.
By then, Earl had taken over Fox Hole Auto Body Shop, owned by his father, and rebranded the garage and himself as The Earl of Auto.
When he bought me a Bud Light at The Dugout one Saturday night, I’d fallen for his charm, his cheese, his one-liners ripped straight from the pages of every corny romantic comedy script. He had me hook, line, and sinker.
I blame my mother and her collection of bodice rippers.
Maybe if I hadn’t been reading historical romances at such a young age, I wouldn’t have fallen for the lie so often spewed in those pages hidden by a bare-chested Fabio and a swooning blonde with heaving bosoms. Sorry, Julia Quinn, but reformed rakes do not make the best husbands.
And maybe if my brain wasn’t rotted by regency romance, I would’ve realized how stupid referring to a man as ‘The’ anything really is.
I mean, jeez. I could have at least fallen in love with some guy who likes to call himself ‘The Duke’. Everyone knows that’s where the real money and power is at.
I guess at the very least I’m lucky that his name is Earl and not Viscount.
Now as I sit in my SUV outside The Liquor Barn and watch the man I once loved bend over the hood of an electric blue sedan, I can’t help but want to go back in time and slap young Delilah for being so na?ve.
I don’t regret the choices I made—if I never married the Earl, I wouldn’t have Sadie and Little Bean in my belly, but that doesn’t mean twenty-something me doesn’t deserve a bop upside the head, anyway.
The nausea burning in my gut and throat has almost become like an old friend at this point. I’m so used to it, I barely notice. But it’s not Little Bean that has me wanting to wretch in the street at the moment; it’s the prospect of speaking with their sperm donor.
Rolling the windows all the way up, I take a quick look around and make sure no well-meaning but nosy small-town folk are passing by to bear witness to my pep talk to myself.
“You are strong. You are brave. You will never allow a man to let you down again.”
Then I hit the volume button on my steering wheel, turning up 4 Non-Blondes a little bit louder. As the lyrics suggest, I take a deep breath before screaming at the top of my lungs.
Because, really, what the hell is going on?
With that out of the way, I take two more deep breaths before getting out of the car and half-walking, half-jogging across the street. All three garage doors facing the street are open, and a Kid Rock song that I can’t stand plays through the speakers as metal clangs against metal.
“Hey Mrs. Booth, I didn’t know you were stopping by today.
Did you bring jam?” Artie, an older-than-dirt mechanic who has worked at this shop since the Ford Pinto was still on the road, greets me.
The formality of his hello grates on my nerves, not only because I’ve told him a thousand and one times to call me Delilah, but also because I never changed my last name to Booth.
Something deep in my gut told me to keep putting it off and putting it off, and now I couldn’t be more grateful that I never made that trip to the Social Security office.
“Not today, Artie. But tell your wife to swing by the farmer’s market this weekend and I’ll load you up with a couple of jars.” I give him a two-finger salute in lieu of the greasy handshake he offers. “I’m just here to—”
“Delilah, honey! Isn’t this a pleasant surprise?” The Earl hugs me from behind, the sickening scent of gasoline and his gross, overpowering cologne singing the hairs in my nostrils.
“Honey? Seriously? That’s the game we’re playing?
” I ask as I yank myself out of the Earl’s hold.
As if everyone in Fox Hole and half of the neighboring counties don’t already know that I’ve moved into Grandma Millie’s place?
Damn small towns and their gossip, but fuck if it ain’t efficient.
It seems Artie was left off that particular prayer chain, because he glances between me and my husband with a look of concern and confusion on his wise, wrinkled face.
“Delilah.” The Earl says my name through clenched teeth, both a demand and verbal smack.
“Earl,” I counter, arching a brow. His jaw twitches, and I preen inside. Cocky son of a bitch and his stupid ‘the’. Fuck him and his ‘the’. He no longer gets a definitive article from me.
“Why don’t we step into my office, sweetheart?”
“Let’s,” I smile, my demeanor as sweet and cloying as I can muster. The Earl—no, just Earl. He’s just fucking Earl—stomps towards his office, and I follow, calling to Artie over my shoulder.
“Ivy Crowe is in town too, Art. I’m sure if you swing by some time and smile real nice, she’ll make you one of her famous ham and jam sandwiches.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t miss one of Ivy’s HJs for the world,” the old man says with a wink.
I stride past Earl into his office and perch myself up on his desk without shuffling any papers out of the way.
The prick outsources all his clerical and administrative work, he only keeps his desk messy so he looks too busy to help when he doesn’t want to be bothered.
Judging by the ever present bottle of lotion and the tissue box he keeps by the computer, I can deduce how he really spends his time back here.
I’m surprised there’s no mirror for him to stare into while he jerks off to his own reflection.
If I cared enough to worry, I might think Earl is a sex addict. As it stands, I don’t care who or what he fucks anymore and whether or not its good for him. All I care about is my children and how his presence or lack thereof will affect them.
I watch as Earl closes the door behind him, a smarmy look on his face that has me rolling my eyes.
“Delilah honey, I’m so glad you came to your senses.
This temper tantrum of yours has been cute, but it’s time to come home.
I miss having a lovely, feminine presence in the house.
” He steps in close, trying to cage me in by planting a hand on either side of thighs on the desk.
I lean away instinctively, uncrossing my legs just in case I need one to knee him in the junk.
“A lovely feminine presence? You mean someone to wash your underwear and suck your cock? Because I’m pretty sure you have Mindy for that now.”
Earl drops his head, letting out a long sigh before looking back up at me, a pained expression on his face that I might have once mistaken for guilt but now I recognize as exasperation with me not following his script.
“I told you. Mindy was a mistake. I had a slip. It was a one time thing. You are my wife.”
“No, what you said was sex is a biological necessity and what did I expect for withholding it from you?” Earl rolls his eyes, pushing back from the desk and running a grease-stained hand through his thinning hair.
“Jesus, Delilah. Do you always have to be so fucking argumentative? Or is it just because that bitch friend of yours is back in town, spewing her bullshit in your ear again? You know she never liked me.”
Yeah, her and everyone else in my life. I must’ve fallen out of the dumbass tree and hit every branch on the way down
“This isn’t about Ivy or Mindy or being argumentative. I have something important to tell you, Earl.”
“Hey,” he turns, pointing to the embroidered name tag on his coveralls. “It’s the Earl to you. Especially here. Have some goddamn respect.”
“Respect? Are you kidding me? I’m not referring to you as “the” anything anymore, Earl.
Expect maybe “the asshole I used to be married to”.
” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. My boobs are tender to the touch, and I fight back a wince.
Dammit, how did I go so long without realizing I was knocked up?
“This,” he says, gesticulating wildly around us at the greasy walls of his office. “Is my kingdom. In my kingdom, you call me by my title. Got it?”
“Fine. You want the title? Go to war. Become a tax collector. Own some fucking land and take care of your tenants. I’ll even call you the Earl if you can tell me where Earls lie in the peerage.
Better yet, tell me what the word ‘peerage’ refers to and I’ll start calling you the Earl again.
You have to earn it, asshole. You can’t just make people call you a stupid title because it has your name in it. ”
Earl works his jaw back and forth, his cheeks reddening with fury (and I hope a little embarrassment) and I know I’ve got him.
That’s right bubble gum brains, I remember you flunked European History in high school.
“Whatever. You wanna call me Earl, do it at home where no one can hear you. Because it is time for you to come home, Delilah. A man needs his wife to stick by his side.” He drops to his knees in front of me, an act of submission that could easily be mistaken as anything but a falsehood to lull me into a false sense of security.
Swiping his palms up my thighs, he smirks.
“Come home to me, Delilah. No one will ever treat you as good as me, you know that, sweetheart.”
I scrunch up my nose, unable and unwilling to hide my disgust.
“Earl. I’m pregnant.”