“One of his friends, I guess.”
“Which friend?” The good mood that settled over her last night, courtesy of her perfect sister’s perfectly reasonable explanation for the cookie drama, is rapidly evaporating. “You didn’t ask?”
“You know me when it comes to questions.” Jake shrugs. “I never ask enough, do I?”
No, and he and the kids are always saying that she asks too many. Which, she suspects, is precisely why Mick waited until she was in the shower to head to school.
She lifts the bacon from the pan and presses it between layers of paper towels to blot the grease.
“Did Mick eat before he left?”
“I don’t know.”
“His medicine upsets his stomach if he doesn’t eat.”
“I’m sure he did, then.”
“I doubt it. Did he say why he had to go early?”
“I think he had to take a test.”
“For which class? Never mind. I know you didn’t ask. I just hope it wasn’t math, because if it was, it was probably a makeup test for something he missed or failed and I guarantee he didn’t study last night.”
She’d kept a plate of gravy--smothered meatloaf and mashed potatoes warm for Mick, but when he got home after work, he said he was too tired to eat and was going straight to bed. When she looked in on him twenty minutes later, she found him tucked in and sound asleep.
Remembering that incident, and how preoccupied he’d been yesterday when she dropped him off, she asks Jake, “Have you noticed that something seems to be bothering Mick?”
Expecting a no, she gets a yes.
“He was definitely quieter than usual over the weekend,” Jake reports. “Maybe he’s in love.”
“That’s what I thought. I bet he’s meeting her before school. Did he seem . . . you know, giddy?”
“He’s not Katie. He’s Mick. He seemed grumpy and gloomy. Definitely not giddy.”
“Maybe it isn’t a girl, then.”
“Or it is, and he knows she’s not interested.” Jake pours a cup of coffee and adds a warm--up splash to the one she was sipping.
“That doesn’t explain why he left early, unless it really was to take a test.”
“It might be. Some -people do tell the truth, you know.”
Jolted by the words, even if he was just kidding, she busies herself dishing up omelets, bacon, and toast.
Sitting at the granite counter, mindlessly eating the hearty breakfast she intended for Mick, she makes conversation with her husband, worries about her son, and wonders about Rick.
He never did return her phone call last night. If he had, she was prepared to let it go directly into voice mail. It was a relief to put aside a week’s worth of toxic stress and get a good night’s sleep for the first time since the box of burnt cookies arrived.
I don’t want to go back to that, she thinks as Jake puts their breakfast things into the sink and she steps over Doofus to look around for her car keys.
Not on the counter, not in her bag, not in the door . . .
“Here they are.” He puts them into her hand.
“Where did you find them?”
“Same place they’ve been every time you’ve lost them for the past twenty years. In the pocket of the coat you had on last night. You’re welcome, and I know, you have no idea what you’d do without me, and you love me. I love you, too. Go, you’re late. I’ll walk Doofus. See you tonight.”
He kisses her on the cheek, and she’s out the door with a grateful grin, calling back, “Oh, and I’m making chicken Marsala for dinner.”
“You’re on a roll, babe. I’ll be here.”