Page 21 of Roundabout

On both sides of me, Beck and Marc regard me with what looks like sympathy but feels like shit. Mainly because I know that look. I hate that look. It’s a mix of pity and suspicion with a heavy dose of judgment. It’s the same look my mom would get from people whenever they’d ask about my father’s work as a professor, and why, if his classes were held on weekdays, during the day, was he always putting in nights and weekends, too? Unfortunately, most teachers do end up putting in a lot of hours outside of their regular workday, but my dad’s not one of them. His nights and weekends are spent with his students, just not to work on their poetry.

That’s not what’s going on here though.

It’s not. My dad’s a cheater and Angela’s not. She wouldn’t do that to me. Couldn’t. I’d notice.

Wouldn’t I?

This is just…a misunderstanding.

“No Angela Taylor, huh?” I say. “What about Coty Walsh?” Nothing. “There must be a mistake. Can you try Angela Walsh?”

Mistakes and misunderstandings. That’s all this is. Neither of which will stop me from marrying the love of my life. The devil himself could spring up from the underworld, prepared to drag me to hell, and I’d tell him to wait his fucking turn. I got a girl I’m going to marry first. My girl.

“You said she came in yesterday? There was one woman who called in yesterday, asking about our prices for a wedding, it sounded like it was soon, but she didn’t place an order.”

Nowhere near ready to accept that answer, I immediately hang up and try Angela again.

“You can’t get ahold of Angie?” Beck asks.

Focusing solely on my phone, I mumble, “Something came up.” That’s what she said yesterday. That’s the excuse she used.

And it sounds just as bogus coming out of my mouth as it did hers.

“Something? Or…someone?”

I freeze my entire body to glare at Beck, then bite out the only word I’m capable of right now, “What?”

“Brace yourselves, fellas. Fuckery’s afoot.”

Marc eyes him. “What kind of fuckery?”

Tilting his head to the side, Beck shrugs. “The night of the Fall Fest, someone deactivated the alarm at Pop One. I checked the security footage and you know who I saw?”

“Don’t,” I warn, my voice dripping with malice.

“Angela.”

Marc catches me with his hand on my chest. I don’t even know who I’m going for, just that I’m fucking going. I want blood and anyone’s will do right now, even my boy’s.

“What was she doing?” Marc asks carefully.

“Cleaning the inside of the Jeep.”

“Why the fuck wouldn’t you just say that? You made it sound like—”

“Like she’s fucking around on our boy?”

“That’s not what she’s doing!” She promised she’d marry me. She fucking promised. Why would she do that if she was fucking around behind my back?

“Then what’d she do after the Fall Fest that required the back seat of her car to be vacuumed and wiped down, then vacuumed and wiped down again? She fucking scrubbed every inch of that seat, bro. I watched it with my own eyes.”

The back seat…

My stomach cramps at even the mention of it.

Angela, my fucking Angela, doing…what? Fucking someone back there? Riding him the way she rides me? Trusting him the way she trusts me?

No. I can’t. I can’t imagine it. I refuse to venture down that plank yet. I need more details before I abandon this ship of sanity I’m fucking clinging to right now.