“It would be funny if this guy hadn’t shown up thinking he was going to screw my wife.” Ron yanks his arm away and glares at Don.
“Hey, whoa,” says Don. “That’s not why I came.” He puts his hands up and starts to walk backward. Not a great idea as he only has about two feet before he falls over a planter filled with super-tunias and lands flat on his back.
“Are you okay?” I start toward him, but Ron holds me back.
“He’s fine.” He leads us both into the restaurant. I mouth, “I’m sorry,” to Don as I’m pulled through the door.
“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Dixon.”
Irina greets us from behind her podium. I call her the hostess with the moistest because her hands are always wet. She is one of our favorite people at Garozzo’s, and normally I would ask how her kids are and take a few moments to chat, but tonight I don’t dare do anything except give her a quick smile and nod.
Ron takes the wheel.
“Irina, can we get the table in the back by the small window?”
She gives him a puzzled look, but only says, “Sure thing, follow me.”
She gathers up a couple of menus and leads us through the half-full restaurant to what is generally known as the crappiest table at Garozzo’s because it has the distinct honor of being both by the bathroom and near the place where the waiters congregate to place their orders. If Ron is trying to punish me, mission accomplished.
As we sit down, I open my mouth to start explaining, but Ron, who still has my phone, is busy scrolling through my texts with Don. Oh, shit. He finally looks up at me.
“What the fuck is going on?”
Uh-oh. Ron never drops the f-bomb. This is bad.
“Sweetie, I’m sorry. You saw the texts. You know it was a mistake.”
“For you, it was. But he thought it was real. Why the fuck would he think you’d invite him to screw you at a restaurant?” He pauses. “Are you having an affair?”
“No!” I say as emphatically as I can. “No. No. Never. I would never do that.”
“Oh, come on, Jen!” Ron snaps at me. I look over his shoulder and notice we’re drawing looks from some of the customers. “You’ve been texting with this guy since the beginning of the school year.”
“Yes, but it’s just texting. Stupid, mindless texting that means nothing.” I’m trying to remember just how bad the flirting got.
“Why would you write ‘Do you mean coffee or COFFEE’ in capital letters? If some woman texted that to me, I’d think she was coming on to me.”
“Would you like to hear the specials?” Our waitress makes an untimely entrance.
“Can I have a glass of red wine?” I ask.
“Me, too.” Ron rubs his hands over his eyes.
She nods and walks away. I look at Ron, and he takes a deep breath.
“I just meant to be funny, I wasn’t coming on to him. You need to believe that.”
Ron shakes his head and looks at the table.
The wine arrives, and we both take a huge gulp. I can tell Ron doesn’t know what to say, so I keep going.
“You know, it probably wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t told him I had a crush on him in high school.”
“Oh, please, he already knew that.”
“Trust me, he had no idea.”
“What about your big hookup in the P.E. laundry room?”
“We didn’t hook up!” I suddenly realize I’ve never told him the story. “I walked in on him going down on the girls’ volleyball coach.”
Ron raises his eyebrows.
“Really?”
“I was in detention and they used to make us help out the custodial staff. I was given a bunch of uniforms to wash. So I went to the P.E. building, walked in the laundry room, and got an eyeful of Don having a box lunch.”
“Wow. Did they see you?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Did the teacher get fired?”
“I don’t know. The only real conversation Don and I ever had in high school was when he asked me not to say anything. He said they were in love, if you can believe it.”
Ron smirks, and I think I can see a thaw coming. But then his brows come together again.
“But none of this explains why he came here tonight.” He runs his hands through his hair and scratches really hard. “I mean, Jesus. He thought he was going to have sex with you. There must be something else.”
“Well, technically, he says he came here not to have sex with me, so…”
Ron scowls at me. I heave a deep breath trying to slow my heart beat down. We drink our wine in silence until Ron finally says, “I’ve lost my appetite.” He gets up and puts some money on the table.
“I’ll see you at home.” As he walks away, I can barely see him through the tears welling up in my eyes.
*
I finish both glasses of wine at the table by myself. I have a headache from trying not to cry, so when I get to the minivan I let loose and sob for a good ten minutes. Ron has never walked out on a fight before. That’s usually my job—I’m the runner, he’s the chaser. I have no idea how to make things right. I’m really hoping he just needs time to cool down.
I drive home in a fog. My stomach is queasy and my head is still pounding despite my sobfest—most likely because I haven’t had anything to eat since two o’clock. As I pull up to our house, I see about five cars in the driveway; all are familiar, and I’m immediately panic-stricken. I leap out of the minivan and run to the front door, where I’m greeted by a burst of laughter coming from my living room. WTF?
When I walk into the room, my family and friends are sitting in a circle playing Apples to Apples. My mother looks up at me.
“Well, finally. We thought you guys would never get here.”
“What are you all doing here?” I ask with no social grace whatsoever.
“Ask your husband,” my mom suggests.
“Is he here?”
“He’s supposed to be with you.” Nina stands and walks toward me. “What’s wrong?” She knows me better than anyone. Not to mention my eyes probably look like I’ve gone five rounds with Muhammad Ali.
“He left the restaurant before me, that’s all. What are you guys doing here?” I ask again.
“We came to talk to you,” Laura says as she starts to clean up the card game.
“About what? What’s wrong? Why are you two not at school?”
“We’re heading back tonight, don’t have a cow.” Vivs frowns. “Why isn’t Ron here, is the real question. He called this powwow.”
“I need some water,” I say, and head to the kitchen. What the hell are all these people doing in my house? I’m so not in the mood for this. Chyna walks in as I’m chugging my drink.
“Max is on your bed watching TV,” she tells me. “Do you want me to stay with him?”
“Would you mind, sweetie? I need to deal with what’s going on in my living room.”
“Sure, good luck.” She gives me what looks like a pitying smile and heads back upstairs.
I start for the living room, but my mother cuts me off in the hallway and drags me back to the kitchen. She backs me up against the counter and looks at every square inch of my face. Finally she speaks, in the kindest voice I think I have ever heard her use.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“Oh, Mom.” I dissolve into tears and throw my arms around her.