Chapter 19
COOPER
The house is dark when I get home.
I had thought Debbie would be in the kitchen, working on dinner, and I’m relieved that she isn’t. I didn’t want to be bombarded with questions the second I walked through the door. Although there likely won’t be that many questions. Only one.
What happened with your boss?
The thought of it makes a cold sweat break out along my hairline. It’s a familiar feeling, one that I have grown to hate. All I can think is that there’s only one thing that will make me feel better. There’s only one place I can go right now.
I’ve got to get out of here.
Before I can bolt, I hear the garage door crank open. Damn, I waited too long. I brace myself, knowing that Debbie will be here in another minute. My whole body tenses up.
“Cooper?” Debbie’s voice fills the living room before I even see her. “Why are you standing there in the dark?”
“I, uh…” I don’t have a good answer for her question. Debbie flicks on the light, and I blink a few times as my eyes adjust. “I just got home.”
“Sorry I’m late,” she says. “I was at the grocery store, and it was a lot more crowded than I expected.”
Except she’s not carrying any groceries. That’s weird.
She looks good though. She’s changed out of the clingy dress she was wearing this morning, but she looks great in everything.
I still remember the first day I met her, over twenty years ago now, and it was like a bolt of lightning hit me.
I hadn’t been thinking about marriage before that, but I knew right away I wanted to marry Debbie.
This was a woman I’d never be able to get out of my head.
“How was your day?” I ask her before she can ask me. “Oh, hey, how was the photo shoot?”
She was so excited about it. I’m sure we can kill at least fifteen minutes going over the details.
“It went great,” she says in a chipper voice. “I can’t wait for you to see the pictures.”
I can’t wait either. I’m not into gardening like Debbie is—the truth is, I find plants boring in the same way that other people find tax codes boring—but I’m excited because she’s excited.
Maybe I can get one of the photos professionally framed so we can hang it in the hallway.
I can do it as a surprise when the article comes out.
I wait for the rush of details about the photo shoot. Debbie loves to tell me all about her day, and I’m usually happy to listen, but right now, she’s strangely quiet. I guess she’s worn out from all the excitement.
“So, uh,” I say. “Anything else happen today?”
She taps her chin as if thinking about it. “Not really. Just an ordinary day.”
“Oh.”
“So…” She grins at me. “How did the conversation with Ken go?”
Well, that didn’t take long.
“It didn’t go…great.”
The smile fades from her lips. “What do you mean?”
I can’t bring myself to tell Debbie that I didn’t get the promotion and then decided to quit. Christ, what will she think of me? So instead, I tell her a version of the truth. “The partnership isn’t going to happen. It’s off the table.”
Eventually, I’ll have to admit to her that I quit.
Even worse, I’m going to have to find another job without the benefit of a reference, although my last boss from a decade ago might still vouch for me.
If I don’t find something quickly, we’ll have to move.
Hingham is expensive, and it’s barely in our price range as it is.
We are pretty screwed right now. The thought of it makes me feel like there’s a noose tightening around my neck.
At least we’ve got Debbie’s newspaper job to tide us over. It’s not much, but it’s something. Worse comes to worst, I can beg for my job back—probably with a pay cut.
“Did he say why?” Debbie presses me.
“Not really.” I avoid Debbie’s eyes and instead look at our clock mounted on the wall. “Hey, are we going to have dinner soon?”
The question throws her off. She obviously doesn’t have a meal prepared, because she just got home. From wherever she was, which definitely wasn’t the supermarket.
Where could she have gone? And how is it possible that she doesn’t have dinner ready? Debbie has dinner ready at six thirty on the dot every night. You could set a clock by it.
“It will be a little while before dinner,” Debbie admits. “An hour? Sorry about that—busy day.”
“You know what?” I rest a hand on my belly and pretend to wince. “I’m starving. Do you mind if I just run out and grab some fast food? Is that okay?”
Debbie is a stickler for family dinners, so I expect her to protest. But instead, she smiles at me. “Of course. I’ll probably just throw together some sandwiches for me and Izzy. Lexi is having dinner out with Zane tonight.”
Debbie makes a sour face the way she always does when she mentions our daughter’s boyfriend. I have to admit, I don’t think much of the kid either. But I realize my opinion won’t mean much to Lexi.
“So anyway,” she says, “go out and get something greasy. I’ll hold down the fort.”
My shoulders sag. It’s becoming harder and harder to come up with excuses to slip out in the evening. “Do you want me to bring you back anything?”
She tilts her head thoughtfully, and she looks so sweet at that moment, I can’t help but feel a jab of ice-cold guilt. “I would never say no to french fries.”
“You got it.”
As if fries would make up for lying to her face.
Before I leave, I tap out a quick text message on my phone. Then I snatch my car keys from where I left them on the mantel in the living room and head out the front door.
Last year, Debbie—who I might have mentioned is a genius—installed an app on our phones called Findly.
It’s sort of like Find My Friends, but with much more impressive accuracy.
Jesse was shocked when I told him there was a tracking app on my phone that allowed my wife to know where I was at all times.
He announced that I must be pretty whipped to allow her to install something like that.
At the time, I couldn’t imagine anything I would be doing that I wouldn’t want Debbie to know about.
And now, as I walk out the front door, I toggle off Findly. If she asks, I’ll tell her I must have been in a dead zone, but I’m sure as hell not sharing my location with her for the next couple of hours. She can’t know where I’m going.