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“Nothing’s wrong. I mean, something’s wrong, but it’s not that big of a deal. There’s a raccoon around the salon where your guys installed the alarm system. His name is Rocco and he’s kind of like the village terror, you know?”
“Okay…” Did she call this late to talk about a raccoon?
“Anyway, your alarm system keeps mistaking Rocco for an intruder. This is the third time my phone’s gotten alerted to a potential ‘break in’ when it’s actually Rocco sneaking around the garbage cans.”
“Our systems are extremely sensitive. We’ve got recognition patterns in place to prevent dogs, cats and other animals from tripping the alarms.”
“No, you see, Rocco isn’t like other raccoons. He’sbuilt. You get me? I’m talking six feet, six pack abs. If he were a human, he’d probably be making six figures too. That’s how alpha he is.”
Her description causes a laugh to trip in my chest. As I shake and hold back the chuckle, Anya’s album goes sliding off my leg. It thumps to the rug.
I sober and stare at it.
It’s open to our wedding photo.
Anya’s piercing blue eyes look back at me.
“Clay?”
“Yeah, I’m here.” I clear my throat. “I’ll make a call and adjust the system to recognize Rocco’s particulars.”
“Thanks.” Island’s breath rushes over the line. “What were you doing? Were you sleeping?”
“No, I was looking at photos actually.”
She goes quiet. And then she says, “Of your wife?”
I don’t deny it.
Her voice turns strained. “Sorry to interrupt.”
I want to tell her she didn’t interrupt. I want to tell her that I meant to call. That I missed her. Wanted to hear her voice.
I want to tease her about the raccoon and ask if she had any nightmares or negative effects from the mission today.
I want to tell her how sexy she looked holding a gun. I want to hear what she thought of the experience. I want to share my concerns and struggles with Abe. I want her to make light of my worries until they feel as heavy as a cloud. I want to ask her on a date so I can hold her hand and maybe even kiss her at the door.
Instead, all I can do is let the silence stew.
Too desperate to end the call.
Too burdened to say any of the things I’m thinking.
“Well,” she says, her voice scratchy and hoarse. “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Clay.”
I swallow hard. Inhale deeply. Let the weight settle on my chest in the way a man would settle into his favorite armchair after a long day of work. “Goodnight, Island.”
* * *
I didn’t thinkthings between me and Abe could get any worse.
Yet here we are.
Stewing in silence after dropping Regan off at school.
My son won’t even look at me, speak to me, or eat the food I made for breakfast. Our relationship just went from mildly rotten to a flaming pile of dog crap.
I look back over my shoulder, noticing Abe’s rapt attention on his phone.