“Yes, but the solar charger was lost,” I reminded them.
“I’ll arrange for a different car and have a compatible charger placed under the driver’s seat. Give me an hour and we’ll touch base again. But I’ll need more time to send the message about the refinery, I’ll say you planted a bomb, but leave it vague, and channel it through the CIA. Hopefully this will distract them from the sentinel houses so you can grab the stashes of money.”
“Sounds good. We’ll pick up the new car and go to the sentinel houses, collect the money while they’re distracted.” Greg’s large hand moved in a slow, caressing, absentminded circle on my lower back.
Alex nodded his agreement. “Then we’ll leverage the money for the hostages, get Quinn and company out of Nigeria, and figure out how to get you two on a Red Star flight bound for the EU or Caribbean.”
I felt both Greg’s perfunctory nod and his pinch of my bottom as he said, “I vote Caribbean.”
***
“Do you need more time?”
I paused checking our weapons and counting the remaining rounds to meet my husband’s gaze. We were packing as we waited for Alex’s next call. Greg stood before me, dressed in another of his weird sports shirts, his hands on his hips. My gaze lingered on the text of the T-shirt, 2014 New York Rangers Stanley Cup Champions.
“More time for what?”
“Do you need more time? To think about that thing we discussed?”
“What thing? And I’m pretty sure the Los Angeles Kings won the Stanley Cup in 2014. What is with all the bizarre shirts?”
Greg glanced at his chest, his hand automatically coming to the letters. “Oh, don’t you know? Africa is where all the leftover clothes go from the USA. When sports teams play for a championship, both sets of T-shirts are printed so they’ll be ready immediately, to meet demand. When a team loses, the T-shirts advertising their non-existent win are sent to Africa.”
I did not know this random bit of trivia. “Huh . . .”
“I make it my mission to find all the alternate reality shirts I can find. It makes me feel like I’m living in a different dimension, where the Rangers beat the Kings and the Red Socks never won the World Series.”
“You’re the only person on the planet who wasn’t cheering for the Red Socks in 2004.”
“Not true. There are about one million St. Louis Cardinals fans who would disagree. But back to my original question—are we in agreement, about you freezing me out? No more making decisions without me? Yes?”
I considered my husband for a long moment while he stared at me expectantly, his hands on his hips. I hadn’t finished mulling over all the issues.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes it is. Just stop doing it.”
“I can’t. Not when you cause turmoil with your mandates.”
“I don’t cause turmoil. I cause only happiness rainbows and shoeboxes of delight wherever I go.”
I pressed my lips together and waited for him to recognize the ridiculousness of his last statement. When he continued to gaze at me blankly, I said, “You don’t want Jack to play soccer.”
“He can play soccer, if Grace also plays soccer. End of discussion.”
I started to wave my hand through the air, then remembered I was holding the gun. I lowered my hand, deciding that waving a gun around during an argument wasn’t the best way to encourage polite discourse.
“See? That’s what I mean. Why can’t Jack just play soccer? You make these decrees that make no sense and can’t be applied in real life.”
“They make perfect sense.”
I ignored that statement, because . . . because. Because it was patently false and deserved to be ignored.
“You don’t have to live it, Greg. You come home for weeks, a month if we’re lucky. You’re not there every day, watching Jack practice in his room, bouncing the ball all over the apartment, taking it with us to the park every single time we go. He watches soccer on television, rewatches matches on YouTube. He wants to play, and you’re being unfair.”
“Like I said, he can play. If Grace also plays.”
“Why?”
“Because she needs to be pushed beyond the boundaries forced on little girls by society. Our culture tells women they need to wear pink, and base their self-worth on looks, and need rescuing, and that’s bullshit. We have to rally against—”
“The modern machinery of patriarchal oppression, yes. Yes, I know. But she is five years old, Greg. And Jack is eight. Can’t we just let them be five and eight? Can’t we give them a normal childhood? Why does everything have to be a statement?”
“Is it the soccer you’re objecting to?” Greg’s gaze grew scrutinizing, suspicious. “Or is it something else?”
“I don’t object to the soccer, if she wanted to play then I’d be all for it. But she doesn’t and I don’t want to force her, or punish Jack as a byproduct.”
He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. Are you sure you aren’t making this about you?”
I frowned at him, waited for him to explain. He didn’t. He continued to examine me.
“What are you talking about?”