Rebel comes downstairs around 11, looking like hell. I’ve been stacking Junior’s colorful plastic cups into towers so he can knock them over for the last 45 minutes, and his interest in the activity hasn’t diminished a bit.
“Hey,” she greets us in a raspy voice, beelining for the fridge.
“When did you get in last night?” I ask as she opens an energy drink.
“Around two.”
“Hmm. Who did you ride with?”
“Claw.”
I glare at my wife disapprovingly, but she grimaces like I’m being unreasonable. After she takes a few sips of her drink, she goes and sits on the couch.
“You know there’s a cum stain on there?” I ask.
Rebel raises her eyebrows at me, so, in order to explain how I noticed it when I went to change DJ yesterday, I lead with the poop story.
I expect her to be in stitches at my descriptions of the whole thing, but all she says is, “I guess we forgot to clean up the other day.”
Sometimes, I get this niggling suspicion that Rebel doesn’t actually like kids, and thinking that always makes me feel like shit.
Sure, Marissa was always smiling at babies and kids, even before she was pregnant, but that doesn’t mean anything. She never made snarky comments if a child was throwing a tantrum at the supermarket. I remember thinking she was weird at first, but later I thought it was kinda nice.
Stop, I catch myself, stop comparing. You always do this. What is wrong with you?
But the truth is, I’d probably be happiest with some Frankenstein’s lover combination of the two women. Marissa to nurture and coddle me and my children, and Rebel for the crazy addictive emotions she inspires in me.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” My wife asks, interrupting my shameful thoughts.
“I’m gonna take DJ to Mom’s for lunch, and then Marissa’s gonna pick him up there at four. You’re welcome to join us. You know Mom goes all out.”
My mouth waters as I think about the feast that awaits us. I've been craving a home-cooked meal.
“I can’t, sorry. I have to sketch this intricate piece I’m doing tomorrow.”
“Can’t you do it in the morning?”
I hate this. How are we back here again, back to me begging for her time, attention, affection?
Rebel seems to read my face correctly, so she comes over and sits on my lap. Her lips touch my forehead.
“We both know your mom doesn’t like me. Why ruin her day with the grandson she sees so rarely?”
My stomach unclenches. “You’re right.”
Rebel smiles and gets up. “I’d better go take a shower and wash this raccoon makeup off.”
“Can you strip the sheets and put them in the washer?”
“Sure thing.”
High on my victory, I decide to take DJ outside and to call Claw. I still stand by my claim that his services are no longer necessary, but Rebel has repeatedly stated that she doesn’t trust Carlos’s word and that she feels safer with Claw around when I’m not there.
As soon as DJ and I are back inside, I smell it immediately.
“Shit,” I mutter as I dial Buzz. “Hey man, can you ask your brother to come to my house? The burnt rubber smell is back, and I’m worried it’s an electrical fire.”
“Boss, Pooh said he checked all the wiring twice and didn’t find anything.”
