Cry Like A Girl

Chapter 3

Henry kicked at the sheets and yanked on the quilt in order to free himself from the snarled mess. The simplest task became a decathlon when his head was both cloudy and pounding. He licked his lips and opened his jaws, trying to un-stick the parts of his mouth from one another.

His legs were heavy as he swung them over the edge of the bed and pulled himself into a sitting position. The room seemed to shift left so he planted his palms on the mattress and waited for the swoon to pass. When he opened his eyes, he was staring straight into his own reflection in the mirror on the back of the door. Still dressed in some of yesterday's clothes, he took in the disheveled hair, five o'clock shadow, and wrinkled clothing unable to recall having ever looked so unkempt. He was even missing a sock, what a pitiful sight. He shook his head and the man in the mirror shook back, scorn plastered on his face.

It was only five or six steps to the bathroom, but it could have been five or six miles. His stomach lurched as all of the blood in his body raced to his head. As he stood at the toilet, he braced his shins against the bowl for balance, unzipped his fly, and noticed his belt was already undone.

Holy shit, how much did I drink?

He lowered his head and concentrated as best he could on connecting his brain with his dick. He hoped that when he began to piss, he was steady enough to hit the inside of the toilet. A couple drops to start and then a few more before a steady stream landed dead center. He closed his eyes and relaxed. Alcohol had rendered his faculties almost useless and he was suddenly thankful his wife was asleep when he stumbled in last night.

Once finished, he pulled on his fly careful not to catch himself in the zipper. He noticed the familiar blue plastic on the vanity and bent down for a closer look. He knew what the lines meant; he'd seen too many of them in the past. He also knew the look of disappointment Susan would surely be wearing today. He'd also seen that too many times in the past.

With a wadded piece of toilet paper, he slid the used test off the edge of the vanity and into the wastepaper basket, dropping the paper in after it. There was no need to keep a reminder of their failed attempts to conceive.

Sliding a hand along the wall for balance, Henry made it as far as the dining room before he stopped, his feet planted on the floor. A lump formed in his throat as he took in the table in front of him. Aside from the candles that had encased their glass holders as they had melted, the table looked like something from a magazine. From the napkins that looked like birds to the butter, balls shaped like the end of the honey dipper on his Cheerios box, it could have been a setting in a four-star restaurant.

Only one step into the dining room, it hit him. Their anniversary. Yesterday was their anniversary and he missed it.

When the brothers invited him to dinner, he had to accept. He had to show them how serious he was about the job and that nothing was going to get in his way. He rubbed his head as he tried to recall when he had lost control of the evening. After the meal at Hamp's, they talked him into joining them at a dive across town. He remembered that. It had been years since he was there. Last he knew, it was a place where men went to drink and shoot pool on the side, rather than to shoot pool and drink on the side. The game was merely something to do with their hands while they awaited their refills. And it hadn't changed a bit.

He sat in one of the dining room chairs, rested his head in his cupped hands, and forced himself to remember.

At some point, he had called Susan.

Yes, he was sure of it. But what did he tell her? Lately, he'd been telling so many lies to cover the time he spent with Camille that he wasn't sure if he told her he was at Grady's or if he simply lied out of habit. Funny thing about lying, once he had done it enough, it became as involuntary as breathing. And once he no longer had to think about doing it, he no longer remembered doing it. Somehow, the defining line between the truth and a lie blurred. One bled into the other like a spring fed into a lake. He never set out to master the art of deceit. It was an unplanned necessity sneaked into the fine print of an affair. It didn't take long for him to realize he couldn't have one without engaging in the other. But once he became proficient at it, he began to wander carelessly through the gray area of honesty. The one thing he was never sure of, and had no way to be sure of, was whether Susan trusted him enough to believe his late-night excuses. Was he that good at it, or had he simply been lucky?

With one hand on the table and the other grasping the back of the chair, he stood on what felt like new legs. Worse than the feelings of guilt caused by the sight of the untouched meal was the smell of it. Still queasy from last night's drinking, his stomach couldn't bear the unpleasant odor or anything stronger than toast and black coffee on his stomach. He took slow, measured steps to the kitchen.

He managed to finish his coffee, but only took three bites of the toast. If vomiting would make him feel better, he'd be in the bathroom with a finger jammed down his throat in the hopes of removing the alcohol from his body. Even without knowing if it would work, he'd be willing to try except he was afraid his head would explode in the process.

He set his dishes in the sink and headed back to the bedroom. He was in desperate need of a shower and a change of clothes. His face was oily and he smelled like the inside of an empty Canadian Club bottle. The need for a shower was evident. As a bonus, he hoped between the warmth of the water and the steam, he'd gain a bit of clarity.

On his way through the dining room, he made the mistake of glancing at the table again. Once he did, he couldn't take his eyes off it. It taunted him, berated him for the hurt he'd caused Susan.

When his affair with Camille began, he'd felt guilt. But he'd made excuses for it. The years of failed attempts to conceive, Susan's unrelenting need for perfection in all areas of their life, and his drive to succeed had taken their toll on the marriage. Adultery was wrong. A sin. He would never deny that. But he was able to justify it, and each excuse came easier than the one before it.

With everything that had brought guilt bearing down on him over the last few months, nothing affected him to the degree of the dinner sitting in front of him. He couldn't justify hurting Susan that way. He could hear his father's hardened voice, reproaching him for his selfishness and inconsideration. God knows he had been accused of those very things too often in the past. If he remembered correctly, those insults were the last words Hank McFarland ever spoke to his only son. But unlike the past, this time he would have deserved his father's harsh criticisms.

Last night's actions revived the affair-related guilt he had learned to ignore. He had to make it right with Susan or risk her asking the questions that would eventually lead to her discovering his affair.

He turned the knob in the shower and waited for the water to turn hot. He would make it up to her, and he knew exactly how he would do it.

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