When he returns, I take a deep breath, ponder my good fortune, and grin like hell. “Sam’s expecting.”
“No shit! She’s up the duff? In the puddin’ club?”
“If all those things mean pregnant, then yes.” As we laugh, a vision of the worst day in my life explodes, clouding my vision.
Heart racing, I ease my vehicle to the shoulder.Fuck. Brothers-in-arms lie bloody in the sand and our jeep lies on its side while vacant eyes accuse me. Stuck somewhere between the past and the present, I get lost a full-blown panic attack.
Lucky’s cheery voice drones on. “Congratulations, mate. Being a pop is the bomb. So, what can I do you for?”
“Hold on a second. I need to take this call.” My white lie sounds unconvincing but it’s the best I can do. Not until my breathing returns to normal and I ease into traffic, do I unmute my phone.
“Sorry, about that.”I haven’t had a spell that bad in ages.
“If you have another one, you see the shrink, eh?” Shit, my pal is a fucking mind reader and he’s right.
However, I’m more of the wait-and-see kind of guy. I’ll deal with my emotional shit another day. “Good copy but that’s not why I called. Tell me, how do you and Callie balance babies and work life?”
“First off, don’t let your budgie smugglers ride up your ass at everything you read. You’ll make yourself bonkers. The best thing to do is chill out. You got six, maybe seven months to plan your strategies. For now, enjoy her big titties and enhanced sexual appetite. You hearing me?”
“Do I need to worry about hurting the baby? Unlike you, I have a massive cock.”
He chuckles. “You wish. You two can shag right to the end. Otherwise, why would men want more kids? Seriously, pal. Relax. We’ll have a sit down, order a cuppa, and I’ll answer all your questions. When did you find out?”
“About an hour ago. You’re the first I’ve told. Keep it on the down low until we make it official. …And, ah, what the fuck is a bungee snugger?”
“Budgie smuggler. It’s a tight speedo, mate.”
“Daaammnnn. Never use that term again. I mean it. I can never unsee the mental imagery.”
My friend and I laugh long and hard, then shoot the shit. By the time we’re done, I’m feeling more like myself. If my Aussie pal can survive kids, a brilliant wife, and wage war with PTSD, so can I.
He promises to send me a couple of helpful links, we say goodbye, and not long after, I park in front of a white Victorian mansion. Confused at the FOR-SALE sign, I double check the address, and text Sam a picture.
Me: Is this the place?
Waiting for her answer, I walk up the wrap around porch, cup my eyes to the windows, and peer inside. Ghostly white sheets cover the furniture as one might expect of a house long vacant. Circling the house, I locate the realtor’s box, break in and remove the key.
While I’m searching inside, my wife calls me back. “What’re you doing? I thought we’d go together. Gillian will-”
“She’s gone. The place is emptied out.” Done with the bottom floor, I climb the stairs with my cell phone to my ear.
“That’s strange.” I press the speaker icon, place my cell phone in my front pocket, and slide my revolver out of my holster.
Gun ready, I open one door after another. Empty bathroom shelves and medicine cabinet are a clear sign the place is uninhabited.
“Where did you say her room was?”
“Second floor, first door on the right.”
Is it possible my partner gave me the wrong address? Except for a disturbing lack of dust, it appears as if no one’s lived here for years.
I check under the bed and open the empty closets. “Babe? No one, nyet, nada.”
“Be careful.” Her overly-worried tone makes me laugh.
“I’m in the Hamptons, babe. The worst that could happen is they’ll throw me in jail for wearing cheap sunglasses.” Still smiling, I picture her snarky face.
“True. You probably should put them in your pocket. Are you wearing your Patten t-shirt?”
