12
After my last promotion at Wilson Keen, I worked like a damn dog. With the extra money and new title came a heap of new responsibility, all of it in addition to my previous duties. The work was never finished; there was always something else to do, some report to finish or some godforsaken document to look over. I was in by six every morning, and came home late in the evenings, well after the sun set.
One day in the dead of winter, I was spared. My supervisor walked into my office at 4:15 p.m.
“Go home, Meyer,” he said without greeting.
Hunched over a heap of documents, I looked up at him and motioned to the mess on my desk. “Can’t,” I said.
“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he said without compassion. “You look like shit. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then he walked out.
I considered staying anyway, because that was what I was conditioned to do, but it was a clear order, and I desperately needed it.
Feeling relieved, exhausted, and a little guilty, I rode in the back of a cab. It was a bitterly cold day, I remember that, and the sun was already going down.
Megan would appreciate this. We saw each other so little during the week, it would be nice to have one evening together, even if it only meant ordering takeout and watching TV until I fell asleep on the couch at nine. She got annoyed with how much I worked, but she and I both knew it was necessary. It would be nice to surprise her. It would be nice to give something to my marriage, after years of taking from it.
I opened the front door and entered the apartment, and it felt wrong. The TV was on—I could hear the ambiguous hiss—but the sound was down. Nothing out of the ordinary, just wrong. I walked through the kitchen and into the living room, and saw her sitting on the couch, and him sitting next to her.
It was unexpected to me, because I hadn’t heard about any male friends, and certainly none that would be sitting on my couch while I was at work. She, too, was surprised.
“Julian,” she practically yelled, straightening up on the couch, “you’re home.”
“I am,” I said. I examined the half drank cocktails on the coffee table, and then the mystery man himself. His hair was blonde, fashionably pushed to one side. His pants were form fitting. I motioned in his direction. “Who’s this?”
He struggled to his feet.
“Well,” Megan said, “this is Brent.”
“I’m Brent,” he said, now standing before me and extending a hand.
“Brent,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Welcome to my home, Brent.”
“Brent’s a friend of mine,” Megan said, still on the couch. “I got done with work early, so I invited him over.”
It was troubling, whatever was happening. That much was sure. But what infuriated me most was her referring to whatever she did during the day as work.
“Boss let you off early?” I asked.
“Jesus, Julian,” she said. “You don’t always have to be a prick.”
“Prick?” I asked. “You’re here drinking, in the afternoon, on a weekday, while you’re assuming I’m at work, with some guy—Brent—I’ve never met. I’m the prick.”
“I should probably go,” Brent said, and reached for his coat.
“No,” Megan said, “you don’t need to. Stay.”
“No, you should probably go,” I said.
He acted like he hadn’t even heard her suggestion; just tucked his jacket under his arm, put his head down, and went straight for the door. No goodbye, no eye contact, just straight for the door. And that’s how I knew there was something going on that wasn’t right.
There was a good deal of yelling after the door closed. She started; something about me overreacting and never appreciating the things she does. I brought up—loudly—that it’s hard to have respect for someone drinking in the afternoon on a weekday, and oh by the way who the hell was that guy I’ve never met in my home alone with my wife while I’m at work? She quieted down after that, and that’s how I knew.
He’s just a friend, she told me, and nothing inappropriate had happened. I believed her on the latter point. I was stupid for it, but I believed her.
I slept on the couch that night—my choice—and we didn’t speak for three days.
That was Brent. I never saw him after that, never heard of him, though I knew it wasn’t the end of it. Whatever it was, that wasn’t the end. I found it harder to trust her. It didn’t matter if it was him, or someone else, or just the thought of someone else. Only she knew the lengths it went, and that was the thought that ate me from the inside.
13
It was time to look for a job. I wasn’t running low on money—was hardly spending any—but I was lacking purpose. I browsed the Boulder job boards. There’s wasn’t much with dignity—mostly student employment and entry-level kitchen work—though there were a few openings for servers. I waited tables at a restaurant for two years in college and didn’t hate it. I could do that for a little while as I got things figured out. It didn’t sound terrible.
Back in town after my night in the mountains, Anthony and Julia took me to dinner. I protested; it was ridiculous for them to buy me dinner, considering the free lodging and refuge they’d already provided. But they insisted. We went to a classy French place one block off Pearl Street, with dim lighting and fancy décor. I felt underdressed.
Anthony and I ordered steaks, Julia the duck, and they asked me about my evening.
“It was nothing special. A good time,” I said. “Interesting.”
“Interesting?” she asked.
“Just the people. They’re interesting people. Free-thinkers, I guess. Some sort of neo-hippies.”
“Remind you of Brooklyn?”
I laughed. “It’s different though. Brooklyn’s all tight jeans and mom-and-dad money. This is…different. These mountain people…”
“Mountain people?” Anthony asked.
“Yeah. It’s like they have their own culture up there. That’s how it felt. Like a real, legit, live-in-the-woods-and-make-our-own-clothes thing.”
“They make their own clothes?” Julia asked.
“No. Not that I know of. It’s just the vibe I got. Like, salt of the earth people, I guess. All just kind of doing their thing in the mountains.”
“Do they work?” Anthony asked.
I shrugged. “I assume. It was a big ass house.”
They both wanted to ask more, but the food came, and we moved on.
“I’m looking for jobs,” I said between bites. The steak was a perfect, buttery medium-rare.
“Good,” Anthony said, and Julia agreed. “How’s the job market for stockbrokers in Boulder?”
Stockbroker. Just about everyone since I had started at Wilson Keen, almost all my friends and family insisted on putting what I did under the overarching umbrella of “stockbroker.” My job as a financial analyst had as much in common with a stockbroker as a supermarket checkout clerk, but when explaining this I was usually met with blank stares and empty eyes. I stopped correcting them a long time ago.
I shook my head. “Wouldn’t go back if they wanted me. Time to try something else.”
Julia raised an eyebrow. “Clothes-maker?” We laughed.
I told them I might start looking for server jobs, just to stay busy for a while, and I mentioned moving out soon, even though I hadn’t begun to figure out where or how. Neither of them seemed concerned. I finished my steak, we drove home, and we all turned in for the night. The couch was becoming familiar.
In the morning, my father called. I’d lost track, but I pegged it around six months since we’d spoken.
“Colorado?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“So they weren’t lying.”
“Guess not.”