Face Of The Monster

9 - Candle

I grab Enrique by the collar before he opens the passenger side door. With my left hand, I press the child lock button.

He gives me a wry smile. "Locking me in, huh?"

"Just for a second," I say.

We are parked on the street outside of a nice, green-lawned suburban home. We know the people who live here, but we also don't. We know the pictures they post of their perfect family on facebook. We know the children's toys neatly lined up against the wall of their shed. We know the Immaculately vacuumed carpets of their living room and the expensive bottles of wine they like to crack open on special occasions. But we don't know them, not really.

Jerry and Tara Wychowski are friends of Ricky's from college. They are nice, respectable people who know that he could have done better than me.

Enrique puts his hands on either side of my waist and pulls me into the passenger seat with him. "I wouldn't mind staying here for a second," he mumbles into my neck.

I push him away. "Stop that," I tell him. "I want to talk to you for a second."

"Okay. About what?"

About what? I don't even know. About his chemo, about Phoebe, about having a baby, about how awfully lonely I am when he's away at the hospital. I want to tell him all of it, but now is not the time. "I just want you to know," I begin, "That we can leave at any time, okay? If you start to feel tired or you're just done with people asking you annoying questions, or whatever. Just say something about having a migraine and we'll take off, okay?"

"It'll be fine," he chuckles. "Oh, and I wanted to talk to you, too."

"What?"

"Try not to be so cynical about my friends, okay? Just, be civil."

"Yeah, yeah."

He kisses me, smearing my lipstick. I try not to think about how much scratchier his face in than Phoebe's. His lips are papery and dry where hers were velvety soft. Friends, I think. How can you be friends with someone you've kissed before and want to kiss again with such conviction that you have to sit on your hands when you're around them?

I stop thinking about it. Whatever desire I feel for Phoebe, I know, must be some kind of misdirected emotion that I'm inflicting on her. I'm not gay. That's the bottom line.

"Hey," my husband says. He pops open the top button of my shirt. "Earth to Emma."

"Sorry," I say.

He flicks his tongue across my collarbone. "You're somewhere else."

"Yeah. Sorry. We should go in."

I fix my lipstick in the mirror and Ricky wipes his own lips with the back of his sleeve, drawing circles on my back with his fingernail.

We've always done this. I always feel better about going into a social situation after a private moment with Ricky, a reaffirmation that he's mine. No matter who's talking to him or flirting with him or interrogating him, I have a local piece of our love tucked away behind my ribcage like a precious jewel.

I unlock the door and climb off of him, stepping outside into the already humid air. It's extraordinarily hot for early spring.

Enrique wraps his arm around my waist, leaning on me as we amble up the front walk. This is his last day off from the hospital until his next chemo cycle starts. He's only just started to get his strength back. I honestly can't believe this is how he wants to spend his evening, but who am I to argue with him?

I knock on the Wychowskis' front door. I take a deep breath. When that door is opened, I know, there will be a flood of anxious, concerned, and nosy people waiting to ambush us. My plan is yo hide behind Ricky and let him do the talking.