Page 54 of The Awful Truth

Standing, Charlotte felt a distinct urge to run. Just move one foot in front of the other until she found Ted. Only she didn’t. She moved to the chair in the shade and plunked herself down again, ready to talk.

11:48 A.M.

MIGUEL

“Winslow, come out of there, please.” Miguel pressed his forehead to the en suite door. His confession had come pouring out of his mouth in one long barrage of words, jumbled together and nonsensical (and some in Spanish) as he told Winslow what a mess he’d made of things and how none of this would have happened if Winslow would have just listened and considered the idea. In an ill-advised moment of indignation, he told him that he didn’t have a voice in their marriage. And he deserved a voice.

And now, his head pounded with emotion and his eyes were puffy, red, and sore.

On the other side of the door, the intro to “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones started up, followed by the sound of the shower turning on.

“Oh God, not The Stones,” Miguel groaned.

The first evening aboard, when they were sharing each other’s quirks, Miguel had left out one key detail—that Winslow only sang like Mick Jagger when he was furious. And how, after years of his husband blasting their songs when they were in a fight, Miguel had grown to despise their music. It was the same with the sound of vacuum cleaners. His mother was a rage-cleaner, and every time that damn Hoover was turned on, it meant there would be hell to pay.

He knocked on the door, knowing Winslow wasn’t likely to hear. “Please come out soon so we can talk. I love you.”

Miguel walked over to the mini-bar and got himself a bottle of water, then stretched out on the bed. He wouldn’t put his noise-canceling headphones on to block the sound. Not this time. This time, he deserved to have his body tense up and his skin crawl while he listened to every muffled beat, strum, and word. He had hurt the person he loved the most in this world and would force himself to take whatever was coming to him. Even the electric sitar.

He closed his eyes for a second, only to be tortured with a flash of Winslow’s stoic face earlier. There was no yelling. No chastising him for being impulsive. Just a calm, measured response as if they were disagreeing on what color of curtains to hang in the guest room. But that shouldn’t have been a surprise. In all their years together, Miguel had never heard Winslow raise his voice. He was quiet, controlled, and careful with his words. But if he wanted to wound, he would. He’d do it swiftly, with surgical-precision. But he hadn’t done that either. Instead, he said, “It appears as though our lives are about to take us in very different directions.”

There was no way Miguel was going to simply agree to call it quits. Yes, he’d done something stupid, and had been hiding it for weeks, but they were in love, they had history together, and he knew in his heart of hearts that Winslow didn’t want a divorce. And this was his only chance to stop it. He just needed to get him out of the bathroom so they could talk. Really talk for once. They needed to dive deep into their relationship and how to salvage what was left of what Miguel had blown up.

He wanted Winslow to fight with him. To fight for them. And the fact that he hadn’t even tried caused a flash of anger to tear through him. It took every last bit of Miguel’s willpower not to get up and kick the door down so he could confront him. (Logically, he knew he couldn’t actually kick the door down. It was solid-core, and, based on the high-quality finishings, the hardware would hold up.) He imagined himself screaming in his husband’s shocked face while the water poured down on him. How can you give up, you old bastard? Do I mean nothing to you?

Unlike Winslow, Miguel had a quick temper, and still struggled to stay calm during disagreements, despite his best efforts. But no amount of deep breathing or counting to ten stopped him from making a complete fool of himself. The truth was, he secretly blamed Winslow for drawing out so much anger. After all, there was nothing on this earth more irritating than an overly calm husband when you were upset.

The song ended. Then, a moment later, it started up again, which was the worst-case scenario. Playing this particular song on repeat was a clear signal that Winslow meant what he said about their lives going in different directions. He’d done it the day he and his business partner of twenty-eight years parted ways.

Oh God, was that really what they were doing? Parting ways? The thought caused him to let out a string of curse words in Spanish, then he forced himself to slowly inhale again. By the time Winslow walked out of that bathroom, Miguel would be ready for round two. Yelling, pleading, or begging wouldn’t work. Neither would guilt trips or excuses. He had done what he did and he had to be a man and face it.

A sickeningly loud, wet thump on the other side of the wall caused Miguel’s heart to stop momentarily. He jumped off the bed and crossed the room in two steps, then banged on the door. “Winslow?! Winslow! Answer me! Are you hurt?”

No reply. Only the sound of the water and the blaring music.

“WINSLOW!!!! ANSWER ME! For fuck’s sake,” Miguel called. He tried the handle in case it wasn’t locked, but of course it was. He pressed his ear up to the door but couldn’t make out any sounds that would indicate Winslow was still showering. No squirt of the shampoo bottle, no changes to the flow of the water hitting the tile floor. “ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW OR I’M GOING TO GET HELP!!”

Only Mick had the decency to answer him back. “My love will laugh with me before the morning comes.”

That awful thump played out in his head again. It sounded like wet flesh hitting the floor. He must have passed out and fallen. Or worse. Winslow would never ignore him when he was shouting like that. He wasn’t cruel. “ALL RIGHT. I’M GOING FOR HELP! I’LL BE RIGHT BACK, MY LOVE!”

Miguel sprinted down the hallway calling for help. “Somebody! Anybody!! I need a doctor!”

Only maybe he didn’t need a doctor. Maybe he needed a fireman. Or several. “Emergency! HELP!!!”

The hallway led to a lounge area, where Indira was doing a designer’s karate chop on a large navy throw pillow on the white sectional. Miguel’s first thought was that she did it wrong. It was a weak chop when a powerful one was needed. His second thought was fuck the chop, the love of his life might be dead. Or about to die. “Help! I need help!”

Ignoring him, she moved onto the next pillow, where she gave it a similarly lackluster attempt. God, how could she screw up something so simple? More importantly, why wasn’t she answering?

He ran over and reached out with his clammy hands. “Help me! I need help!”

She jumped and pulled away, then seeing his face, she took out her earbuds. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my husband. He fell. He’s trapped in the bathroom of our suite!”

“All right,” she said, sounding far too calm for his liking.

“Do something, you pendejo!”