Chapter 1: A Revelation

Bismarck, North Dakota

An online novel by Steve Caruso

Dedication

For my wife-to-be--thanks for letting me steal the covers.

Chapter 1: A Revelation

RedFoxx85: r u gonna see him again?

I stare unmovingly at the screen. If I sit here long enough, maybe I'll get an explanation.

I'm not stupid. If someone is asking my girlfriend if she's going to see some dude again, it probably means she is cheating. When's the last time you asked a girl that about her boyfriend? "Oh, you've been dating him for three years? Are you gonna see him again?" Duh.

I have no idea who the guy is. I'm not even sure who's asking, though it's probably her best friend, Renee. She's a redhead, which would explain the screenname.

I'm going to have to figure this out for myself, too, since Emily doesn't know I'm watching. I'm at home, connected remotely to her computer. She was having PC problems a few days ago, and I decided to make the repairs from home. I don't sleep at her place very often; she says we're not married yet, so we shouldn't act like it. "I want it to mean something if we commit to each other long-term," she tells me. Why does that line suddenly stink like a week-old pile of dirty laundry?

To answer your next question, yes, I did tell her that I was going to access her computer from my house. She was concerned that, if I could connect to her machine over the internet, then others could too, but I explained that it was safe. As soon as I mentioned the phrase "IP address", she tuned me out, though. Clearly, Emily does not understand that I can actually see what's on her monitor, just as if I am standing behind her. And I'm sure as hell not telling her now.

The IM window is framed in white and pastel pink, like a little girl's Easter dress. Somehow, it has the same delicate charm and childlike innocence that she does.

Emily loves me. She tells me that all the time. There must be some mistake.

There must be.

The screensaver kicks in. It's getting late. Emily must have gone to bed.

* * *

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" I ask the bathroom mirror, practicing mean looks. But I don't know why I'm bothering. I'll never actually confront her.

I've gotten angry with Emily a few times, and it always unfolds the same way. I yell at her, she yells back louder, and then I feel like an asshole. My mind has a funny way of twisting every disagreement around to make it my fault.

Fighting doesn't accomplish anything, anyway. Why do people scream at each other? Has anyone ever made a good point while shouting? No, the real progress comes when everyone takes a deep breath and talks rationally. Anger won't let that happen.

A guy named Todd Shepard occupied the locker next to mine in high school gym class. He had an almost intellectual curiosity about torturing me, watching my face like an inquisitive infant as he blew his nose on my t-shirt or dumped the contents of my bookbag out on the dirty floor.

At first, I didn't feel I was in physical danger. Sometimes, after sweating it up for 45 minutes on the basketball court, he'd shove my face under his flabby triceps and hold it there until I'd had a healthy whiff of his armpit. Or, I'd lift a leg to put my underwear on, and he'd kick me to the floor. Embarrassing? Yes. But I wasn't going to die from it.

But one day, Todd wrapped his pudgy fingers around my throat and squeezed until I felt my knees give out beneath me and the room went dark. "He's turning purple," he whispered to himself.

I almost told my dad about it a couple of times, but I was afraid he'd think I was a weakling. So I told the gym teacher instead, and he was no help. "You're not going anywhere in life if you need me to solve your problems for you," he said, barely looking up from his newspaper. "You better handle it yourself." So I did.

If I didn't want to get abused anymore, I would have to be dressed and out of the locker room before he got there. So I turned myself into a one-man Indy 500 pit crew.

I wore baggy sweats and t-shirts that I could slip into easily, and hung them in my locker on hangers, facing the right way, ready to be put on immediately. I neatly placed my shoes side by side on the floor of the locker, with the laces loosened, so I could step into them without using my hands. I was a dissheveled mess as I sprinted to my next class, but Todd never bothered me again.

My story will never be turned into an installment of the "Karate Kid" franchise, but I found a way to solve a problem without fighting. I've always been good at that.

Next...Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Happy Sunday

Hello all,

I just read some of your comments about my lack of posting and I have to say... you are right. I miss blogging.

This site has helped me learn about myself and grow up. It's also helped develop my writing skills, and it's made me lots of friends. I was in a real groove for a while, writing 4,000 words a week.

But, the better the blog got, the more ambivalent I became. As far as I was concerned, my blog was better than a lot of the crap on the shelves at B & N, yet those writers were published, and getting paid for writing, and I was not. It was like John Mayer playing in his garage, alone, while Jesse McCartney signs million-dollar contracts.

I did have this one idea which would get me posting again, and would help my writing career.

I am hoping to start on my next book soon. It's a fictional story called "Bismarck, North Dakota". Don't worry, it's full of hot sex, voyeurism, and betrayal--all the shit you guys love. I was thinking about posting the story online a chapter at a time, for your reading enjoyment. Your feedback might help the story improve, and I would probably post very frequently as I got rolling.

Anyway, just an idea. Tell me what you think. And thanks for stopping by!

Stevo

Stevo, the anabolic blogger

I'd like to congratulate Hank Aaron, the Major League Baseball career recordholder for drug-free home runs.

**********

Tuesday, May 29, 2007 (cont'd)
St. Francis Hospital

Forget taking a walk; Tim and I decide to head home. We'll call Chris to check up on him later.

"I don't... we don't... want you guys around here for awhile," Janet says later, over the phone. "It just seems like there's, um, always a lot of drama when Tim is around."

We sit silently for a long time. I can't believe what she's asking, can't believe she's blaming this all on Tim, can't believe Chris is going along with it. If he is.

"Put Chris on the phone."

"Chris agrees with me," she snaps.

"Can I speak to him, please?"

No sense debating this now. "Chris, go cool her off for a while and call us tomorrow."

"I think she's right, Steve."

**********

Wednesday, May 30, 2007,1:23pm

Webb Group Graphics

"Chris is in a meeting now. Is he expecting you?" a woman behind a desk says.

"No, I'm his brother. I'll wait."

An eternity later, his door opens. "Hello, Steve," he says cheerfully, shaking my hand as if I were a client.

We sit. As he closes the door, his smile fades. "Give me a couple of weeks. She'll calm down."

"This isn't Tim's fault. Why are you letting her put it all on Tim?"

"Because it was easier," he smiles. "They're women. They fight, and then they make up!"

No way. If someone doesn't put Janet in her place, she'll live her whole life thinking my girlfriend (and future wife) is a slut. It's Chris's job to tell her differently, especially since this was his doing--

"You want me to fall on my sword. Don't you?" he says, reading my thoughts, looking holes through me. "Steve, she doesn't want to hear it!"

"So wait a week, and then explain to her what a fucking prick you are!"

He doesn't flinch. Suddenly, I notice his high back leather executive chair. It looks brand new; he seems comfortable with his arms perched on the cushioned armrests. Did he have that the last time I was here?

"You gonna hit me again, Steve?" he asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Depends. You gonna beg me to stop like a little bitch again?"

"Give me a couple weeks, Steve. It will blow over. I promise."

Someone knocks.

"Come on in."

Carol swooshes by me in in a pink sundress, and my heart pounds instinctively at the first glance of her tight butt. She asks him a question, then gazes admiringly at him as he answers, her eyes never wavering.

"By the way, this is my brother, Steve."

"I've heard so much about you!" she says, extending a hand. "So you're getting married, huh?"

"That's the plan."

Oh, by the way, did Chris tell you about how he grabbed my fiancee's ass? I'm guessing it slipped his mind.

She pulls the door closed as she leaves. "She's feisty, that one," he smiles.

"Hard worker?"

"I don't mean work-wise," he says.

"Another one? Dude, you have Irene--"

"Irene is out of the picture."

I won't preach to Chris. He wouldn't listen anyway. But it's tricky having a steady girlfriend on the side, and I'm not sure he can pull it off.

"You're very... pensive lately," he says. "You worried about me now?"

"I just--"

"You never did anything like this, did you Steve?" he says, sarcastically, and I notice his eyebrow again, cocked lower than it was before, his right eye narrowed noticeably.

"She is hot, I'll give you that."

"She says you're cute."

My heart leaps. It's nice to know that a young girl like Carol finds me attractive, even if I'm not going to do something about it.

"Really?"

"No, not really," he laughs.