You’ll Always be Wifey to Me

by Timothy Boudreau

Caroline hears the truck pull into the driveway below. The hasty steps up the stairs, fragment of an old Chili Peppers tune, a stumble on the landing, mean that Jason stopped for drinks on the way home.

“What’s the scoop, hula hoop?”

He bursts through the door in Office Day attire: collared shirt, dress slacks. He rarely gets his hands dirty anymore. Instead of dried sweat, a sore back, and sawdust in his hair, he comes home nowadays with paper cuts, smelling of unfamiliar perfumes.

“Oh, nothing.” She turns, and almost knocks a picture off the table. “What’s your story tonight?”

“Don’t have one.” He kisses her forehead. “You gonna eat?”

She lifts her wine glass. “I’m drinking now. You can eat if you want.”

He shrugs, looks over her shoulder, and finally notices. “What’s all this?”

“Pictures of us.” That they are: Jason and Caroline shivering in ponchos on the beach in Ogunquit; Jason and Caroline with backpacks and water bottles at the top of Lafayette; Jason and Caroline doing Vanna Whites next to his first company truck. In each, with a bob, bangs, or topknot, she is Cute Caroline, dimpled and cheerful. Jason, though—dark stubble, high cheekbones, tight shirts to show off his pecs, extra sparkle in his boyish blues: Naturally, the camera loves him even more.

“I get that, but—like, why?”

“My mother’s idea.”

“She’s a sweet lady.”

“From my mother’s book of solutions.” She sighs. “It’s our life.”

“You should put them all up on Facebook, or like one of those digital albums or something.” He kisses her nose, steps back, and wanders across the room to the fridge. “Fuck it, I think I’ll have dessert first.” He takes out ice cream and maple syrup. “This is gonna ruin my program though, right? These carbs?”

“Not sure.”

“But maple syrup is all-natural, so…” He squints at the bottle. “Do you know if there’s any protein in here? Like how many grams?”

“No idea.”

He scoops some ice cream into a bowl and douses it with syrup. “I mean, I thought we had an understanding.” He takes a seat across from her and pushes aside the pictures to make room for his bowl. “Not to be a jerk, but if you don’t think it’s working, then I don’t understand why you’re still here.”

“You should be answering that question.”

He speaks while he eats, half under his breath, with his mouth full. “Oh, fuck this.”

“You should be showing me that.”

“My God.”

“On a daily fucking basis.”

“Babe—”

“You should be the answer to that question.”

He’s truly eating now—entering a pure Zen of comfort food consumption, which is his peaceful-est, his most perfect Zen, a smooth sugary Zen-ness of 100% pure cream, vanilla bean, carrageenan, xanthan gum. “This is so good. You should have some.”

“I don’t want any.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I could definitely finish it off if you don’t.”

She watches him shovel in another mouthful. “You left your phone this morning.”

“No, I have it right here.” He touches the holster on his hip. “Remember? I texted you before.”

“Your other phone.”

“Oh.”

“I thought you said you ended that?”

“Listen—I told you. You can’t tell that much from a text conversation.”

“Jason.”

“There’s nuances to a relationship.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?”

“There’s complexities.” He’s up, grabbing two glasses and a bottle of JB and setting them on the table. “Anyway, you’re always gonna be Wifey to me.” He pours them each a healthy shot. “You know? I mean look at these pictures.” He pushes a glass across to her. “That’s a special place in my heart.”

She watches him throw the drink back. “When I wake up tomorrow morning, I don’t want to see that fucking truck in my driveway.”

“Caroline.”

“And don’t bother going to the bank because the accounts are closed.”

“Babe.” His voice is soft, like a seduction. “What are you doing to us?”

This is how drunk he is: He’s sobbing as he stumbles down the stairs, sobbing when she frisbees the pictures out the window at him as he crosses the yard, sobbing as he starts the truck, sobbing (she imagines) as he drives his beautiful, drunk ass to wherever.

BIO: Timothy Boudreau lives and works in northern New Hampshire. His collection Saturday Night and other Short Stories is available through Hobblebush Books. His recent work has been nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction and a Pushcart Prize. Find him on Twitter at @tcboudreau or at timothyboudreau.com.