Wednesday (2 page)

I found out I was pregnant in the
spring; Alex and I married in the summer; we moved to Iowa for his football
scholarship in the fall. By Christmas, Cade was born and we were a happy family
of three.

Until we weren’t.

Since I didn’t work, I was
responsible for Cade one hundred percent of the time. As in everything, every
second of the day. Alex needed his rest and his workouts. He had to study and
do important things
–
like most of the cheer
team, apparently.

Cade and I were too loud, too
annoying, too…
there
. Soon, Alex wasn’t. He began spending his days and
nights and weekends away from us. This past year, since he declared for the
draft, has been the worst
–
we’ve hardly seen him. It’s
been workouts and interviews and traveling all over the country. I should’ve
known it was coming, seen the writing on the wall, but I couldn’t let go.

I’d like to say I hung on just for
Cade, but it was for me too. I held onto the hope that Alex’s change of heart
was a phase or adjustment because I couldn’t stand the thought of breaking up
our family. But when Alex was confident he’d be drafted by an NFL team,
something that was questionable after a wrist injury last season, he decided
he’d make our new separate living situation permanent.

It was all very orchestrated. He
must’ve been planning it for quite some time. The papers were delivered well
before the draft and before he signed any paperwork with the Packers, before
I’d be entitled to any of the money. It hurt that he’d even think any of that
mattered to me.

I signed the papers forfeiting my
right to any compensation
–
for myself or for Cade. But
at least that way, I would have full custody and permission to take Cade across
state lines.

So at the ripe old age of
twenty-one
–
when most girls are in school, going to parties, and sowing their
oats (wild and otherwise)
–
I’m going home to rebuild
my life after my failed marriage, while caring for a toddler on my own.  And
that would be just fine, if I could be sure I wasn’t leaving one set of bad
memories for another.

Fucking bevorce.  

She came to town on
a Wednesday. More like floated in with the breeze. No fanfare. No welcome
wagon. One day she was a distant memory. And the next? She’s at the supermarket
buying fruit like it was no big deal. She slid in under the radar, like an
annoying little mosquito you don’t notice until it’s draining your blood.

Aria Prince, or was it Anders? I
made it my business
not
to know. Once she left town with him, after I
poured my fucking heart out to her and tried to stop the wedding, I left too. I
didn’t want to be close to anything that reminded me of her.

Yet here I am, almost four years
later, with absolutely no idea what I’m in for.

I curse the uncomfortable pull-out
couch and take a few gulps of coffee before I gather all the pill bottles. I
have to be alert for this job. This is how I begin each day now. Forget about
work and the excitement of creating the next big thing. Forget about the
weekends celebrating with a wide array of women knocking down my door. I’m now
a glorified pill pusher.

I wish I had a better attitude about
the whole thing, but I don’t. A selfish bastard is what I am and I want to go
back to my selfish ways. I want it bad.

Alas, my twenty-one-year-old
bachelor life is a thing of the past. Instead, I’m back in my hometown
–
with its ghosts and memories and heartache. My life at a
standstill.

“Hey, Pops,” I say, bringing Dad
his daily drugs. “How are you feeling today?”

Dad makes his usual morning
grumbling sound.

I’ve been back home for a few
months, but I’ve managed to stay on the down low. There are plenty of people I
went to high school with who never left this place. The lazy beach vibe has
been known to suck away ambition of even the best and brightest. When I first
got into town, I heard from everyone. I was new blood, gossip fodder, and to
some, a promising hook-up option. I hate to say I used Dad’s condition as an
excuse to keep my distance, but it was easier that way.

Okay, maybe I stumbled a few times.
After all, it was no secret that I had a healthy appetite when it came to
women. But those little trip-ups were completely unfulfilling. One situation,
in particular, continued to bring about waves of guilt. This wasn’t LA anymore,
and a random hook-up around here was sure to come back to bite you in the ass.
A piss in the wind, no doubt.

Everyone thinks I’m all noble
coming back home, but I admit I’m only doing it out of obligation and for the
money. Dad was always a son of a bitch. Always. But he had a stroke and has
long since drained the goodwill out of anyone he’s ever known. No real friends;
no close family; even Mom packed up and took off in the night when I was in
junior high — and
old enough to care for myself
, as she put it.

It’s just me and Heddy, Dad’s
assistant, left.

Before the stroke, things weren’t
going all that well for me in California. I had once again exhausted all my
money on an idea that didn’t work and I was back to square one. That’s the
thing about technology – she’s a finicky bitch. Dad had cut me off once I
dropped out of school to start my first company, so I was more than surprised
when Heddy called asking me to come home. Dad had a proposition for me: take care
of him, and his business, until he was back on his feet and I would get half
the profits when he sold it off next year.

It’s an investment I couldn’t pass
up. One year of service and I’d be several hundred thousand dollars richer.
Sounded like a no-brainer at the time, but so far, it’s proving to be more difficult
than I thought. There’s more to his window supply company than I initially anticipated,
and Dad’s health is far worse than Heddy let on. He’s basically bed-ridden and
I seriously wonder
if
he’ll ever fully recover. Plus, the accommodations
aren’t exactly the most comfortable. Though Pop has a healthy bank account,
you’d never know it by his possessions. After I moved out, he bought a small
townhome near the industrial park. It’s a tiny, old one-bedroom space, which
means I take residence in the living room on the sofa bed. And that’s more than
depressing. 

Would I have done it without the
payment? Probably. I’m a sucker, and despite Dad’s knack for being the world’s
biggest asshole, he always made sure I had everything I needed. I feel like I
owe the guy one.

But will I take my cut at the end
of the term? Abso-fucking-lutely. One year. Not like I’ll notice anyway. In
addition to Dad’s company, I’m an adjunct professor at the small university close
by, and I continue to keep my feet in the tech world, working with VCs on ideas
for my next start-up. I basically work around the clock and hardly have a
moment to myself.

After I have Dad’s meds taken care
of, we go through his exercises. Then I turn on his TV program and go to work.

The next two hours fly by as I
calculate commissions for the sales people, sign off on payroll, and order
supplies. Most entrepreneurs that I know hate day-to-day business – they can’t
focus. They are big picture people. For me, I don’t mind it. I can do both,
which is an asset when trying to get companies to invest in my ideas. I speak
their language. One reason why I had already created and sold three companies
before I hit twenty-one. Too bad, I continue to sink my profits into the next
best thing. It’s an addiction that doesn’t provide stability, something that drives
my father insane, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop. Or that I want
to.

After finishing with all the
tactical work, I work on our exit strategy – without Dad’s permission – listing
potential buyers to take over the business as well as the option of selling it
off in parts. I’m open to all and have to make sure Dad is too. He does well
for himself, but it’s time to let the business go. Time for payback and, I’m
not going to lie, I’m so ready to cash in. The money will help fund my new
project – a social media idea I’ve been working on since high school, actually.
A niggling idea that was always in the back of my mind, even when I was
neck-deep in other ventures.

“Tristan,” Heddy says, jarring me
from my daydream. “How’s the old buzzard doing today?” she asks.

Heddy is always a wonderful sight
–
plump, warm, and cheerful. Not to mention she smells like cookies.
After Mom left, she was so good to us, bringing over dinner, baking my birthday
cakes, dropping off presents at Christmas. I don’t know why she stood by my
dad, but I’m so thankful she did.

These days, she’ll check in on him
several times a week. We also have nurses who stop by, but only for a short
time. That’s the thing. Dad doesn’t want to be in the care of strangers. That’s
the whole purpose of our deal.

But on Wednesday, thank all that’s
holy for Wednesday, Heddy gives me the night off. The entire night. She insists
on it. She’ll arrive before dinner and stay until breakfast the next day. If I
didn’t know better, I might have thought Pops was getting a little on the side,
but who was I kidding?  He needs help making it to the bathroom. 

The first thing I do after Heddy
takes over every Wednesday is go to the grocery store. I pick up the biggest
steak I can find, grab a growler of craft beer from the local brewery, and head
to the beach house. I tried to talk Dad into moving out there for the summer,
but the place wasn’t really set up for someone with medical needs.

Sometimes I work, but mostly I
enjoy the entire evening off. Free from any obligations, I run on the beach,
watch movies, and read.

This particular Wednesday, however,
the air is sucked from my lungs and I spend the rest of the night wound tighter
than Heddy’s girdle.

When I first spot her, I can’t help
but appreciate the view. I make my way past the produce to the butcher when a
petite brunette with long, silky hair in a pair of low-slung yoga pants, that
hug all her curves to perfection, catches my attention.

She is spectacular.

I actually stop right then and
there and pretend to select apples, so I can enjoy the view a little longer.
Jesus, I’m pathetic. It might actually be time to consider a local hook-up,
just so I can get my head on right.

She turns around and my eyes go
straight to her two ripe melons. Seriously. She’s holding two cantaloupes,
judging which one is better. Cheesy jokes and lame pick-up lines run through my
head. It’s so ridiculous, I laugh. A booming chuckle that has her looking up,
curious about the racket I’m making. Once her eyes meet mine, the laughter comes
to an abrupt halt and one of the melons drops to the floor.

 “Tris,” she whispers.

Stunned, I narrow my eyes. It can’t
be.

Aria.

It’s been so long since I’ve last
seen her, and she’s even more beautiful today than she was then. On her wedding
day. It was the last time we spoke. Once I heard she was marrying the resident
football star, Alex Anders – from a friend, which really pissed me off – the bottom
of my world dropped the fuck out. Nothing made sense anymore and no matter how
hard I tried, I couldn’t get my footing back. 

I knew she hooked up with Alex at
prom, but afterwards she wanted nothing to do with him. That was when things
starting changing for us – when I thought I might stand a chance. Especially
graduation night.

But then, in a crazy turn of
events, Aria and Alex went from dating to engaged in record time. To say I was
devastated
would be like saying Kate Upton is slightly curvy. But after sulking for a
month, I found the strength to crash her wedding and beg her to reconsider.

Sadly, she didn’t want to listen to
a word I had to say. She made up her mind and that was that. My insides ache at
the memory.

“Aria,” I say now, a little colder
than necessary.

I take a breath, find the
cojones
I need to get through this, and walk over to her, determined not to let her see
me lose my shit. “I see you’re still making a mess of things.” I point to the
cantaloupe carcass on the floor.

Her entire demeanor changes the
second I open my mouth. She hangs her head and lets her shoulders slump as a
crackly voice rings out over the loudspeaker, “Clean up in produce. Clean up.”

I almost feel bad about my
behavior. Almost.

She chuckles, but the laughter
doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, I guess you could say that. What are you doing
in town? I heard you moved to LA or something.”

“I did, but I came back a few
months ago to help my dad. He had a stroke over the holidays.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. How’s he doing?”
she asks, completely sincere. She reaches out for me, as if on instinct.

I back up for the same reason,
except my instinct is self-preservation.

The interaction is too sweet, too
normal. She isn’t allowed that. Still I have to know more. Why is she here and
how long will I have to endure it?

“He’s fine,” I say, brushing it
off.  “He’s on the road to recovery. So, are you in town for a visit?”

She clears her throat and waves to
someone. Someone standing behind me, evidently.

Please don’t be him. Don’t fucking
be him.

“Actually,” she says, “I’m back.”

 “To live?” I ask. My voice raises
a full octave.

“Yes. To live.” She smiles and
reaches her hand out again. This time, to that
someone
behind me. 

Now it’s time to go. Right. The.
Fuck. Now. But when I turn to make a run for it, I’m so stunned I can’t move.

Aria Prince. A.k.a. the girl next
door; my childhood crush; the first girl I rounded second with – actually the
only girl I got to any bases with in high school. The girl who crushed my heart
is also… a mother.