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Authors: Kim Boykin
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hungry?” he asked. I shook my head, and I guess he wasn’t either. “Then I’ll give you a few minutes to settle in. Call me when you’re done.” I nodded and swiped the room key through the electronic lock. “Let’s get this over with, Tara, so I’ll know how to deal with it.”
I didn’t call him. I couldn’t. How was I going to tell him that the next twenty-eight days were probably going to be hell for both of us? It was after ten o’clock and I was almost asleep on top of the covers when he knocked softly on the adjoining door. I felt like a teenager who had gotten caught stealing the family car.
“Can I come in?” He was barefooted, dressed in gray sweat pants and an ancient Wisconsin t-shirt. He sat down on the couch, but I stood at the door with my back to him, wishing I could make a run for it. “Close the door, Tara, and talk to me.”
How was I going to tell this godlike man that I’d been dumped by my fifty-five-year-old husband, abandoned after fifteen years of marriage without so much as a fuck-you letter? I shook my head and sat down across from him swiping at the tears. “I can’t do this.”
“You can. I’ve watched you these last few days, you can do anything,” he said softly. I shook my head. Full-blown sobbing. He pulled me onto the couch and wrapped his arms around me. “You can’t keep this inside. Let it out.”
I could tell by the way Jake looked at me, especially when he took me shopping, that he thought I was attractive, but I am not, nor have I ever been, a pretty crier. We’re talking awful noises because I refuse to cry, avoid it at all costs. So when it does come, it’s big and ugly. I don’t know how long I cried, but Jake never let go of me, except to get another box of tissues out of the bathroom.
“Better?” he asked when I finally came up for air. I nodded and snarfed, which made him laugh.
“You’re right, Jake. I should have told you from the beginning.”
“That your husband’s out of the picture?”
I nodded, remembering the Hispanic man with Jim’s cellphone whom I’d tortured a couple of weeks ago. “Or out of the country. I don’t know. He left me.”
“Because of the book?” I looked at him. “Don’t be shocked, it’s not the first time an author became successful and their spouse couldn’t handle it.”
“You’ve had this before?”
“Not with an author of a marriage self-help book, that’s a first.” He smiled. “But you’re good at this, Tara. The romances you wrote aren’t bad either, and if you want to know the truth, I think you’re doing what you were meant to do. The question is, how do we spin this?”
“No, Jake.” Being an overnight insignificant celebrity was enough to take in, and telling Jake my husband had left me was bad. But sharing that little tidbit with the world made me want to throw up. “Jim took everything and stuck me with two huge mortgages. I have to do this tour. If you tell the world, I’ll go broke.”
“So you want me to hide this? From the world? You do know we have something called the Internet, right? It’s going to get out.”
“Everything in my life right now depends on making this work. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Jake.”
He threaded his hands together and pressed them into the back of his neck. “All right. We’ll play it your way, but if there’s anything else you need to tell me, do it now so I can be prepared.” I shook my head and then stopped. “What else, Tara?”
“My dog died.” I pointed to the coffin beside the bed and started to cry again.
Chapter Nine
‡
I didn’t know much about Jake Randall, but one thing I had learned over the past couple of days is he lived and breathed by his itinerary. He pretended he didn’t like what he lovingly called the fucking itinerary, that it was something he would love to blow off at any given moment. But it was kind of fun to see him ramrod straight, that little muscle above his eye pulsing when I asked to
I didn’t call him. I couldn’t. How was I going to tell him that the next twenty-eight days were probably going to be hell for both of us? It was after ten o’clock and I was almost asleep on top of the covers when he knocked softly on the adjoining door. I felt like a teenager who had gotten caught stealing the family car.
“Can I come in?” He was barefooted, dressed in gray sweat pants and an ancient Wisconsin t-shirt. He sat down on the couch, but I stood at the door with my back to him, wishing I could make a run for it. “Close the door, Tara, and talk to me.”
How was I going to tell this godlike man that I’d been dumped by my fifty-five-year-old husband, abandoned after fifteen years of marriage without so much as a fuck-you letter? I shook my head and sat down across from him swiping at the tears. “I can’t do this.”
“You can. I’ve watched you these last few days, you can do anything,” he said softly. I shook my head. Full-blown sobbing. He pulled me onto the couch and wrapped his arms around me. “You can’t keep this inside. Let it out.”
I could tell by the way Jake looked at me, especially when he took me shopping, that he thought I was attractive, but I am not, nor have I ever been, a pretty crier. We’re talking awful noises because I refuse to cry, avoid it at all costs. So when it does come, it’s big and ugly. I don’t know how long I cried, but Jake never let go of me, except to get another box of tissues out of the bathroom.
“Better?” he asked when I finally came up for air. I nodded and snarfed, which made him laugh.
“You’re right, Jake. I should have told you from the beginning.”
“That your husband’s out of the picture?”
I nodded, remembering the Hispanic man with Jim’s cellphone whom I’d tortured a couple of weeks ago. “Or out of the country. I don’t know. He left me.”
“Because of the book?” I looked at him. “Don’t be shocked, it’s not the first time an author became successful and their spouse couldn’t handle it.”
“You’ve had this before?”
“Not with an author of a marriage self-help book, that’s a first.” He smiled. “But you’re good at this, Tara. The romances you wrote aren’t bad either, and if you want to know the truth, I think you’re doing what you were meant to do. The question is, how do we spin this?”
“No, Jake.” Being an overnight insignificant celebrity was enough to take in, and telling Jake my husband had left me was bad. But sharing that little tidbit with the world made me want to throw up. “Jim took everything and stuck me with two huge mortgages. I have to do this tour. If you tell the world, I’ll go broke.”
“So you want me to hide this? From the world? You do know we have something called the Internet, right? It’s going to get out.”
“Everything in my life right now depends on making this work. Promise me you won’t tell anyone, Jake.”
He threaded his hands together and pressed them into the back of his neck. “All right. We’ll play it your way, but if there’s anything else you need to tell me, do it now so I can be prepared.” I shook my head and then stopped. “What else, Tara?”
“My dog died.” I pointed to the coffin beside the bed and started to cry again.
Chapter Nine
‡
I didn’t know much about Jake Randall, but one thing I had learned over the past couple of days is he lived and breathed by his itinerary. He pretended he didn’t like what he lovingly called the fucking itinerary, that it was something he would love to blow off at any given moment. But it was kind of fun to see him ramrod straight, that little muscle above his eye pulsing when I asked to
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