Page 76 of Dear Debbie

I leave the sauce to simmer and return to the living room. I left my phone on the sofa, and I see a new text message on the screen. I hope it isn’t Debbie canceling. Obviously, it isn’t necessary to tell her tonight, but I got myself all psyched up for it. It’ll be disappointing if we don’t get to do this.

But when I get to my phone, it’s not Debbie after all. The text message is from Cooper.

We need to talk.

Hmm, what does that mean?

We need to talk. Is that a good type of talk, like he wants to take things to the next level and leave his wife? Or is it the bad type of talk? I really, really like you, but this just isn’t working for me anymore. I can’t keep sneaking around like this.

Ugh, I hate that kind of talk.

I type back a message to him:

You’re still coming for dinner, right?

The conversation with Debbie is going to be difficult, and she might not believe me. She might think I’m making the whole thing up or at least exaggerating. But if Cooper is here, then that will force the issue. When Cooper shows up at the door, she will understand everything immediately. She’ll probably kick him out on the spot. And whatever he wants to talk about will suddenly become moot.

I smile at the thought.

Yes. I’ll be there at 6:15.

See you then.

63

COOPER

When I get home, I’m tempted to go right for the garage. But first, I need to check on the girls.

To my surprise, they’re sitting together on the sofa, talking quietly. It’s nice to see them leaning on each other in a difficult time. I’m glad they have each other, because there could be a day when that’s all they have.

That day could come sooner than expected.

Both of them jump to their feet when they see me. Lexi’s eyes are still swollen like she’s been crying intermittently the whole time I’ve been gone.

“Did you talk to Mom?” Lexi asks.

I shake my head. Not for lack of trying. I have been texting and calling Debbie nonstop. She’s not answering.

“Not yet,” I say. “I just… I need to check something in the garage.”

“What?” Izzy asks.

I can’t tell her. I can’t even begin to let my two daughters know what I suspect. “I’ll be right back,” is my answer.

The garage is empty, because Debbie has her car and I’m parked in the driveway. I have a worktable in the garage, although I don’t use it that much because I’m not exactly handy. I do try to fix things around the house to save money on our repair bills, but it’s not my greatest skill. Everyone has things they’re good at. I’m good with numbers, and Debbie is good at everything else.

I crouch down below my worktable. Debbie bought a six-pack yesterday for reasons I still don’t understand, and the only one still left in the pack is on the floor. For a moment, I’m tempted to grab that beer and crack it open. I have never needed a drink more in my entire life.

But no. I can’t. I have to stay clearheaded.

There is a toolbox down there too, and I lift it off the object it’s on top of, which is covered in a blanket. I pull off the blanket to reveal a small gun safe.

Like I said, Debbie adamantly did not want to buy a gun. She pointed out that you’re more likely to shoot a member of your family than a burglar, and I pointed out that I’m not naive and that I would take precautions. In the end, she couldn’t stop me. The gun is in my name, and she just had to deal with it.

One of the precautions I took was keeping the gun in our garage, inside a gun safe. So far, I have only taken it out to go to the firing range. There hasn’t been a burglary in a while, so I considered getting rid of it, just to ease Debbie’s anxiety. But I enjoy firing it on the occasional weekend.

The gun safe is small enough that I can pick it up off the floor and lay it on the worktable. It opens with a four-digit combination that I chose because I knew I’d remember it—our wedding anniversary—and my hands are shaking so badly that I’m having trouble punching it in. I finally hear the click that means the safe is unlocked. I pull it open and…