Fuck.
I can’t remember.
And now, it’s all I can think about for the rest of the day.
I don’t call and check on Veronica. Obviously, she’s alive and well. Or alive, at least. But I don’t wanna talk to her. I’m sure she doesn’t know shit anyway, because if what I think happened is what actually happened, the person made sure she wasn’t seen.
Fuck my life.
After we close up the site, I walk to my car in a fucking daze. I sit in it for a minute just to get my bearings, and then…fuck it.
I open my glovebox.
And then I blow out a sigh of relief.
My gun is where she’s supposed to be, looking all shiny and black like she’s supposed to. But just as I raise my hand to close it back up, I stop.
After a breath, I reach in and grab it, wrapping my hand around the grip. It’s cold to the touch as my fingers settle against the grooves. I thumb the release, and the magazine slides free in my hand. One by one, I pop the bullets out like it’s a fucking Pez dispenser, counting in my head until I get to the last one. The last time I went to the shooting range, I left with fourteen.
There are thirteen.
Maybe I miscounted.
I count again. One by one, the little metal pieces chill my palm as they drop into it, and my anger grows more and more palpable.
She did it.
Raya fucking shot at Veronica.
I’m not even a little bit confused about how she knew about her. Let’s face it, she was gonna find out sooner or later. She probably watched me at work and spotted her. Followed her home. My wife’s M.O.
This shit gotta stop.
I refill the magazine, load it, and put my gun back where it belongs, then I head to the home I share with my beautiful, loving, out of control, psychotic wife.
Christmas was cool this year.
It was my first holiday season with a wife. I still can’t believe that shit is real sometimes.
I woke up her up with a cup of hot chocolate and a breakfast of pancakes, an omelet, honeydew and cantaloupe, and bacon cooked crispy just how she likes it.
Then I got the fire going in the fireplace and we opened gifts. She was so excited about the two Yves St Laurent bags and the red bottom boots she wanted, among other things.
She got me new golf clubs and leather seat wraps for my car, which she put on the AMEX she’s an authorized user on, which I pay monthly. But it’s all good. She took the time to get me shit she knows I’ll like, and that’s the best gift to me.
There’s another gift coming for me, but thewhenpart is up in the air at the moment. Hopefully soon.
Now I’m headed to my parents’ house by myself. Raya was gonna go, but she started spotting and cramping this morning. I hid my smile when she told me, because I knew exactly what it was. I believe it’s called withdrawal bleed. That’s what Google told me, anyway. The hormone drop causes it when a woman stops taking her birth control pills.
Or when she starts taking placebos.
I’m bobbing my head now, but not because of the music. It’s because I don’t have to give her up. I mean, let’s face it, I wasn’t leaving that woman. For better or for worse, or for her who's theliteralworst, she’s stuck with me. But now, I can slow her ass down and reel in some of the crazy.
It’s for the best.
Even after I got the pills out of the safe deposit box the other morning, I was wavering. Getting a woman pregnant against her will isn't something you take lightly. But after the shit with Veronica, I said fuck it. She ain’t playing fair, so why should I?
And now, we wait.
