Page 59 of About That Night

“It doesn’t have to be.”

I’m starting to wonder if she’s right. I’m getting all confused and jumbled. Then I remember that bad things happen right after whenever I’m with Hank. Well, with him, with him.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she adds. “It’s written all over your face. That you’ll wind up pregnant again. Go on the pill. Get an IUD. Now. So you can stop using that as an excuse to deny yourself fun.”

More harsh truths. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’ll call the doctor tomorrow.” Better safe than sorry.” It is an avoidance tactic, always playing it safe.

“Good. Maybe then you can relax a little.”

I open the refrigerator and get out the eggs.

“I’m going to bake cookies.” I lean my head around the wall and call out to Josiah. “Come help me make cookies, baby.”

“Yay!” He jumps up and comes running.

“Turn the TV off first.”

He runs back and clicks the remote before dashing into the kitchen and going to the cabinet where his step stool is stored.

I text Hank.

Thanks for cutting the grass. That was really sweet of you.

You’re welcome.

I try to think of something else to say after that, but nothing seems right or necessary. I set my phone on the shelf above the counter that houses our microwave.

Suddenly, it occurs to me Hank could be with another woman right at this very moment. Why wouldn’t he be? He has every right to be.

As I help Josiah crack eggs one at a time, fishing out a few errant pieces of shell, I picture Hank meeting up with someone at The Swamp. Or going to The Swamp to find a random hookup. An experienced, sexually adventurous woman with no baggage and a penchant for incorporating food into sex. She’s probably older, in her mid-to-late thirties, with a smokey eye and a smokey laugh and total confidence in what she's doing when she goes down on him. He’s enraptured by her boldness, by her worldly experience…

It makes me feel a little nauseated.

My phone buzzes. I just about leap for it.

It’s Rachel, my friend from nursing school.

Hey! What’s going on? We should hang out soon.

It’s great to hear from her. I don’t have a ton of friends, so I try hard to keep the ones I have. I’d love to hang out with Rachel.

But it’s not Hank.

Which clearly means he’s with this sultry brunette with painted-on jeans I’m picturing in my head. Maybe it’s a country music star whose tour bus broke down. Or a con woman on the run who is going to steal his money.

Or maybe it’s just Jeannette, who I went to high school with, who, like Faith, hates me.

I pour way too many chocolate chips into the batter. Twice as many as is necessary. I could use the chocolate for comfort. I’m going to have to double this batch anyway. I thought I would just make cookies for Hank and give Josiah one or two, but now I basically want to stick my whole face in the raw dough and eat it trough-style.

My phone buzzes again. It’s Hank.

Painting sucks. I just spilled an entire bucket of paint. On my feet.

Do I feel bad for him? Absolutely. Do I feel ridiculously giddy that he’s grinding away at Conviction, instead of grinding away on a woman at The Swamp? Yes.

Oh no! I’m baking cookies now. Want me to bring you some?

Yes. And a fifth of Jack.

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