Erika
Jason and I love to binge watch TV series in bed. When we first got a television in our bedroom, it felt decadent. Up until then, we only had the TV in the living room. “What kind of TV addicts are we that we need to have a television in every room?” Jason had said. But we got the television, and it was a flat screen that was just as big as the one in the living room. And we watch it all the time. I can’t think of a purchase we get more mileage out of than this TV. Even our cars.
Jason has stripped down to an undershirt and boxes, and he puts his arm around me while I snuggle up against him to watch episode five of season two of BoJack Horseman. It’s this television show about a drug- addicted horse who was on a nineties sitcom. Don’t judge.
But it’s hard to focus. Frank is supposed to be talking to Olivia tonight. He’s supposed to text me when it’s done. So until I get that text, I can’t entirely relax. There’s a knot in my neck that’s throbbing.
“This is the best show on television,” Jason says. His eyes are on the screen, and he’s completely oblivious to way I keep tapping my fingers against the bed. My nervous habit.
“Even better than Stranger Things?” “Okay. Both good in different ways.” “Hmm.”
My phone starts ringing on the table by our bed and I practically jump out of my skin. But it’s not Frank—he’s supposed to text, not call. I pick it up and see my boss’s name on the screen. I look at my watch and see the time is nine-thirty. Still a respectable time to call an employee.
“It’s Brian,” I say. “Can we pause BoJack?”
“I suppose,” Jason grumbles. “But make it quick. This show isn’t going to binge watch itself.”
I pick up the phone and Brian’s nasal voice fills my ear. Brian is my age, but he hates technology and avoids texting or emails if he can help it. He doesn’t even have a smart phone yet. He’s been running the Nassau
Nutshell for ten years, and he has a very rigid idea of how things should be done.
“Erika.” He has an inpatient edge to his voice, which is fairly typical. “Where is my article on the pie contest?”
As part of my incredibly exciting journalism career, I was assigned to cover a local pie baking contest. It wasn’t that bad, honestly, because I got to sample some of the pies. But it’s not exactly what I dreamed about when I majored in journalism.
“I thought it wasn’t due until tomorrow morning.”
“So you were planning to wait until the very last second of your deadline?”
Jason reaches for my belly to tickle me and I swipe him away. “Brian, if you need me to have it by a certain time, why not make that the deadline?”
“Erika, just please get me that article.” “I’ll have it first thing tomorrow morning.” “Erika…”
“First thing tomorrow morning. I promise.”
Brian grumbles, but he has to accept it. There would be some nights when I would get on the computer and bang out the article for him on the spot, but I’m not in the mindset right now. All I can think of is Frank. Part of me was tempted to hide in the bushes outside Olivia’s house to see it all go down.
After I hang up the phone, Jason raises his eyebrows at me. “You good to go?”
“Yeah. It’s fine.”
“You know,” he says, “now that the kids are older, you could go look for a better job. One in the city.”
I snort. “How am I supposed to do that when I end up having to drive them to school every other day?”
“Liam will have his license soon. He can drive Hannah.” Jason blinks his blue eyes at me. “You should think about it. I know you’re not happy at the Nutshell.”
I take a deep breath. “I’d like to. You know I would. But the kids… They just need me too much right now.”
His brow furrows. He doesn’t get it. I love my husband—he’s been an amazing partner for the last twenty years. But he isn’t around as much as I am. He commutes into the city every day and has to travel frequently for work, and that means he misses a lot. When something bad happens, he has to hear it secondhand from me. And he’s always certain I’m exaggerating.
He has no clue what our son is capable of.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, noticing a text message has popped up on the screen. I see Frank’s name and the following text:
I spoke to her. It’s taken care of.
The tension drains out of my shoulders. Thank God. Disaster has been averted once again, if only temporarily. Olivia Reynolds has been spared, and she doesn’t even know it. I shudder to think of what might have happened if I were rushing into the city every day for a job. I might never have found out about this girl.
“I’ll think about the job,” I lie, as I reach for the remote control.
