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twenty-eight f

A Wasted Trip

I dreaded confronting Jack. What would he say about Colombia? How could I tell him our marriage was over?

Jack was passed out on the couch with his entourage of stoners scattered around him. He had expected me home the night before. Was he worried about me or so detached from reality that he didn’t realize what day it was? I suspected the latter.

I tiptoed up the stairs and fell into bed. I wanted to sleep for a month.

The next morning Jack gently shook me awake.

“You finally made it home,” he said. “What happened?”

“Mike had a seizure at the airport. They wouldn’t let him fly.”

“You could’ve come home. You could’ve called.”

“It would’ve been wrong to leave him,” I said.

“Ava, this whole thing is wrong. I’m not stupid.”

“Jack, you’re a sweet guy, but I think we both know our marriage is over.”

He stared out the window and ran his hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know.”

Once we exposed our truth, we both relaxed. He told me he’d left Colombia safely, but when he got home half the cocaine was ruined. I told him about my brush with the DAS agent.

“Do you have someplace else to live?” Jack asked.

“No.”

“This is my grandfather’s house, so I’ll be staying. I don’t want bad feelings between us. You’re welcome to stay till you find a place.”

“Thank you.” Despite his faults, Jack had a heart of gold.

That evening I went to Mike’s apartment, anxious to learn about Adam and to tell Mike I’d be filing for divorce.

Adam laid on Mike’s bed with his legs curled into his chest. Sweat glistened on his flushed face.

“He can’t shit out the condoms,” Mike said.

“Jack’s came out but half of it was ruined,” I said.

“Yeah, we heard.”

“I gave Adam a double dose of ex-lax. We hope that does the trick before the condoms break open,” Mike said.

“I shoulda swallowed instead of stuffed,” Adam said.

“Kinda late now,” Mike grumbled.

Mike wasn’t particularly compassionate toward his friend. He seemed more concerned about retrieving the stash.

I sat up with Adam most of the night while Mike slept on the couch. Around five in the morning, Adam sprang up.

“Gotta go. Get Mike!”

I turned off my imagination while they did whatever they had to do in the bathroom.

Adam hobbled out, leaning on Mike for support.

“It’s ruined. All of it,” Mike said.

“Never again.” Adam, pale and exhausted, climbed back into bed.

“At least you’re alive,” I said.

“Barely,” Adam mumbled.

Mike and I went into the kitchen. I made coffee.

“All that time and money wasted.” Mike stared into his coffee. “The hotel, airfare, food. And for what—the scraps Jack shit out?”

“Adam almost died!”

“That, too,” Mike said. “Maybe one day we’ll look back and laugh.”

What was there to laugh at? I almost spent three years in a Colombian prison, Mike had a seizure, Adam nearly died, and my marriage was over.

I spent the next day and night nursing Adam back to health. Once I knew he’d be okay, I left for Jack’s. I needed to file for divorce and get back to work.