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“You’re crowding me.”
Maybe not. Wishful thinking. The ice princess was about as likely to be sexually attracted to me as I was to Bigfoot Jojo––one of the ranch hands. Jojo was called Bigfoot not for his size but rather his abundance of body hair. So yeah, zero chance.
“Misty’s just a friend,” I began. It was the best I could do considering I’d never had a wife before…or a girlfriend in nearly two decades. She started humming a vaguely familiar song. “What song is that?”
“Send In The Clowns and don’t insult my intelligence.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You sure were enjoying yourself.”
“Sometimes I enjoy the company of the women I’ve slept with––past tense.”
Fuck. I shouldn’t have said it. Not like that, anyway. Like I was trying to stick it to her. I knew it was wrong the moment the words left my lips, and yet I was incapable of controlling myself around her. The colder and more controlled she became the more I lost it.
Grabbing the spray can, I handed it to her. “Don’t get eaten.”
Why did that sound lewd?
This woman had a knack for throwing me off my game. I hardly recognized myself these days. When I left New York, I vowed to make changes, to be a better person. A better man. And yet lately I was routinely acting like a dick. I glanced sideways at my wife. With any luck, she hadn’t noticed, probably didn’t care either. She was in it for a job.
Slamming the glove box shut, I made a U-turn onto the deserted road.
“What made you like this, Scott? You were never bitter before.”
I kept my eyes on the road ahead. There went that theory.
Sydney
“What the hell is this?”
I glanced up from the Greek yogurt I was eating on the couch, my furry compadres seated next to me, and innocently tilted my head as I inspected the framed painting Scott was holding up. Tugging my rainbow-colored knitted trapper hat lower, I sighed. If it wasn’t for the hat and fingerless gloves Miller had sent me as a wedding gift (cheeky bastard) my teeth would’ve been chattering.
“I asked you a question. What happened to my bedroom?”
Revenge decorating. It’s a thing. Look it up.
Basically, I was fed up and not going to take it anymore. He’d humiliated me not once (with the scene at the Handle Bar) but twice (by picking me up like I was one of his chattels and throwing me in the truck). Enough was enough. His nightly escapades. The cold. The solitude. I was close to cracking. Something had to be done. And so I did it. He wanted to get under my skin? I could get under his skin too. His skin would become my favorite thing to wear and I didn’t mean it in a dirty way.
“I thought I’d spruce up the place a little.” I licked the spoon. A lot of eyelash batting.
To call his expression bewildered would be doing the look on his face a disservice. For a moment there, I thought his head was going to explode. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stop from out-and-out guffawing.
Thank you, Amazon Prime.
“You thought hanging these hideous paintings of clowns in my bedroom would qualify as ‘sprucing up the place’? Are you trying to give me nightmares?”
My eyes fell on his bare chest, his jeans hanging low. Sigh. His body was playing tricks on my body. Despite the cold, I gushed like broken pipes. I needed to feel the touch of another human body, stat. Before I really lost it.
“Well?”
He’d waltzed in a little after 1 a.m. and did a double-take when he saw me sitting on the couch––wide awake. I’d made it a point to wait up because I had to see his reaction for myself.
“You don’t like them? They’re originals…painted by orphaned children in Chile.”
Lie. They were embellished prints from China. They were butt ugly and spooky as shit. I think one of the clowns may have had fangs.
“Have you seen the movie It, Sydney? Because I have. No, I don’t like them. I don’t like clowns.”
“Couldafooledme.”
“What?”
“I said, I’m sorry. I thought the room looked a little…drab and needed a little, you know, joy.”
His eyes narrowed. He strode back into his bedroom and returned with all three paintings stuffed under his pits. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and pitched each one out into the deep dark of night. The front door slammed shut.
“You shouldn’t litter. That’s like…environmentalism for beginners, dude.”
“Don’t do any more sprucing!” Back into his bedroom he went.
“It’s my house too!”
He strode back out, holding a silver picture frame. His color high, his jaw pulsing. “Why is there a picture of a donkey on my nightstand?”
“I thought you’d like it.” I shrugged––innocently. “You like horses…and cows.”
He blinked, walked to the trash can in the kitchen, slammed his bare foot on the pedal. The top popped up and he dropped the frame in. Back into his bedroom he went. The door slammed shut. I fell asleep with a smile on my face that night. A few days later, things escalated.
