I pull up outside in front, almost bursting from the heavy wagon as I make a beeline for the front door. It opens before I begin to hammer on it, and I’m not sure which of us is more shocked. Him, probably, judging by the way his smile freezes, then drops. He has another stupid chequered shirt on and an apron tied around his waist. Something to strangle him with should the need arise.
“Where is she?” No need to indulge in the preliminaries. Give me back my woman before I break your neck.
“I don’t—”
“Yeah, me neither.” My ribs rattle with an empty-sounding laugh. “I don’t fucking get it.” I press my forearm to his chest to push him back and out of the way. “I don’t understand it one bit,” I say, stepping over the threshold.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he splutters, almost tripping before his shoulder hits the wall. Oops!
“I would’ve thought that was obvious, Drew.” My fingers retract from his chest as I stride down the hallway, my head swinging left and right. “I’m looking for my fucking wife. My wife, Drew. You know what that means?” I pivot to face him, my hand on the door to what I presume is the kitchen. A warm kitchen, one redolent with the aromas of beef and wine. In the back of my mind, I wonder who’s cooked for who. She barely gave me a chance to cook for her, and I make a mean carne asada. “It means I’d kill anyone who laid a hand on her,” I grate out, pushing open the door.
“Kennedy isn’t here!” he yells, thundering after me. “You have no right to come barging in here.”
Fuck you. Did I say it or only think it as the kitchen door bounces off the adjacent wall? I catch it with my foot as it bounces back.
“I heard you were looking forward to tonight.” I hope you’re prepared to eat your dinner through a mouthful of broken teeth.
For a moment, I’m not able to process what’s in front of me, thanks to the cloud of rage swirling through my head. Wooden chair legs screech across the floor as I take an inventory of the scene. Dinner set for two. A basket of bread and a half-decent bottle of wine. Plates and silverware. And Annie standing stock-still on the other side of the table with a napkin scrunched in her hand.
“Drew was looking forward to tonight,” she says softly. Putting down the napkin, she smooths her hand down the sleeve of her mulberry-coloured dress. Her black hair curls in waves around her slim shoulders, and she’s wearing makeup, along with the kind of disappointed look reserved only for mothers.
“We both were.” Drew shoots me a glance full of contempt.
36
Kennedy
PRESENT
BAR FLY
Cupping my hand around the bowl of my glass in a bar in Bay Town, I nurse my second wine. I’m not too far from home, but no place I’m likely to be found. If someone cared to look, that is. I’m not really in the mood to drink, but I can’t face going home, even if it does feel weird to be sitting here and not at a table. What I didn’t realise was, on Saturday night, a woman sitting alone at a bar seems to mean only one of two things to the opposite sex.
1. She’s a pity case. Maybe she’s been stood up by her date or her friends dropped her at the last minute. Poor girl, alone on a Saturday night. She must be so sad. It’s the only reason I can find for the bartender’s ultra-attentive service.
He’s not wrong. I am sad. I deserve to be.
2. She’s looking to get laid. Poor girl, alone on a Saturday night. She must be so horny. Let me dazzle her with my witty repartee before relieving her of her panties.
I should’ve brought a book. Or headphones. Or wore a T-shirt with the slogan I don’t feel like a conversation. Better still maybe I’m not interested in your penis. Maybe the key is to look busy because lost to your own thoughts seems to easily be confused as sexually available to the male species. But I didn’t bring headphones or a book because I wasn’t expecting to be sitting at a bar, nursing a glass of wine as a way of being anywhere but at home. I guess one thing is for sure, the fact that the stool to my right is still empty means my resting bitch face still works when applied.
“Is this seat taken?”
I drop my head with a sigh, then turn, preparing for the delivery of a withering look, when I rear back and mutter instead, “Why ask if you were just going to sit there anyway?” So rude. So frustrating.
“I like a woman who’s feisty,” my new (and already very annoying) companion says with a smile. He probably considers it a cute smile, and it might be for all I know. But I can’t tell because my heart is currently shrivelled and aching because I didn’t heed the warning signs again.