Chapter 16: A (bare)Backstabbing

Chapter 1 begins here

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SugarKookie: he doesnt like using condoms

RedFoxx85: you let him bareback you?!?!?

SugarKookie: mmhmm

RedFoxx85: ur so bad

SugarKookie: it was soooooo nice tho

SugarKookie: o and his gf doesnt let him cum inside her

RedFoxx85: what? why

SugarKookie: she says its gross

RedFoxx85: dumb bitch

RedFoxx85: so u let him cum in you?

SugarKookie: mmmmmm, of course

RedFoxx85: lol, u like that dont u

SugarKookie: soo much

SugarKookie: i think hes breaking up w/her

RedFoxx85: seriously??

RedFoxx85: how cool would that b 4u

SugarKookie: totally

* * *

I'm not going to lie to you: My first impulse is to do nothing. Nothing, that is, except sit in front of the computer and ask "why me?" until I collapse from grief and exhaustion. I want to sulk, or cry, or put my fist through the bathroom mirror--but I have to force myself to even think of doing something constructive.

You probably think I am an idiot for the whole Jeopardy! thing, but it's actually helped me; I can't solve a problem in a second and a half if I'm not thinking about solving it at all. The Bismarck idea has helped me do that.

Suddenly, my apartment feels like a tomb. Nothing worthwhile will get accomplished as long as I sit here, overdosing on self-pity, burning hour after hour on the computer, hours that I'll never get back. How can anything change this way?

I want to be anywhere but here. I bolt out the door and into my car, dialing Stainer's number as I go.

Stainer barely listens as I tell him about the Bismarck revelation. He keeps staring down at his coffee and shaking his head slowly, like a disapproving parent.

"When are you gonna wake up, Eric?" he asks, finally looking up at me. "She's fucking this guy. She's fucking him! She's getting naked for him. She's sucking his dick! She's playing you! You busted her, and instead of doing something about it, you're talking about some damn game show!"

"Don't you think that--"

"Let me tell you something," he continues, "if my girl ever did that to me, I'd dump her cheating ass. I'd dump her, and then I'd go fuck every one of her friends just to make a point. No one does that to me."

"Emily is still having sex with me. It's not like I'm going without. If I break up with her--"

"Don't give me that!" he shouts. "You're looking for an excuse to stay with her, because you're afraid of being alone! Stop being afraid, Eric!"

I am afraid. But that doesn't mean it's right to let her go. I know Emily still cares for me; she must, or else she would not stay with me. She could leave me if she wanted, and she's not. I must be giving her something she needs.

I know it will be hard, but from now on, I'm going to think about this positively, like a problem that needs to be solved. And no, I'm not going to quit. I'm not going to let Doug win. I'm going to fight for the one I love.

* * *

The air felt warmer as I walked out to my car the next morning; for the first time this year, I was sure that winter was gone. Brilliant sunlight poured endlessly from a sky so blue that it might have been colored by a kid's crayon, and I decided right then that it was going to be a good day. I'd make it a good day, even if everything went wrong.

I sat in the car and stared out the sunroof for a long time, watching a single white cloud float lazily across the sky. I can't remember the last time it's been this perfect out.

This weather, this day, is just as much mine as it is Doug's. Or Stainer's, or anyone else's. I deserve it as much as they do. And not just that; I deserve success, and happiness, and money, just as much as they do. If I want something, I can go out and get it, just like they can. If I try to get something I want, and fail, so be it. But from now on, I'm always going to try.

After I put together that list a few weeks ago of all the new construction projects downtown, I created a marketing campaign for them. It was expensive--the glossy mailing sheets alone cost us over $1,000--and Todd hesitated a long time before saying yes. And now, almost a month later, we've gotten one phone call.

Though we have full-time reps who are fully capable, I usually handle the follow up calls on initiatives like this one. It's going to take me the better part of the day to call them all, but I'm going to do it. I'm going to keep pushing, focus relentlessly until the job is done.

"Eric, I was trying to enter a prospect in the database and the computer locked up again," Barbara says, standing in my doorway. "Can you take care of it?"

"I--"

"I'll be at my desk. Can you just let me know when it's working?"

Shit. This is what always happens to me: Just as I get going on a project, someone interrupts me and I get sidetracked. I'm going to spend an hour on the phone with tech support--

Wait.

"Barbara." She turns around.

"You don't need me for that. Just call tech support. The number is in the help menu."

"But Eric, I--"

"Barbara, you know more about the system than I do at this point. You can handle it."

She turns on her heel and huffs loudly as she leaves the office. She's pissed. But it worked! Now, for the follow-up calls.

Wait.

I have a lot of work to do. Manager work. If I could get an account manager to make the calls, I could have the whole day free.

I call Gordy, our best account manager, into my office and explain the project. His eyes get wider as he learns what kind of numbers are involved. "Eric, don't you usually call on these?" he asks.

"You want the commissions, right?" I ask.

"Depends. Is Todd going to want to pay the commissions?"

"Believe me. If you make these deals happen, Todd'll give you a blowjob."

"Tell him I'd prefer the commission."

Gordy bounces happily from his chair and off to his desk. My office falls silent, and I look slowly from one side of the room to the other, expecting a phone call, a problem, some type of emergency. But nothing happens.

So what the hell do I do now?

Chapter 15: Bismarck, North Dakota

Chapter 1 begins here

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You don't pick your family. And friends are fine for poker night, or for helping you put up a garage door opener. But having someone you love the way I love Emily is all that truly matters. Emily knows that, and she thinks it's a big joke.

The seeds were planted years ago, before we even started dating. I showed Emily, in a million small ways, that I loved her too much, that I would tolerate neglect to be with her. That I would, just as Stainer said, rather have been miserable than alone. A small piece of her attention was enough to satisfy me. What's happening now is a direct result.

I was convinced that I'd never do better than her. Gradually, she learned that if she needed me, I'd be at her doorstep at a minute's notice no matter what my other priorities were, that she could puke in my car after a long night of drinking without any cleaning to worry about the next morning.

She'll never respect me, and I'll ache for her for the rest of my days. The only thing that will make me happy is Emily coming back, being mine and only mine. But she's found excitement now, true excitement, in the pursuit of a wealthy, desirable man who is just a bit out of her reach, the same way Emily is out of mine. She burns for him the way I burn for her; she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation, second-and third-guessing every outfit, just as I do, and now that she has tasted what Doug has to offer, I will never, ever get what I want.

I'm supposed to quietly shuffle off to my place at the back of the line and accept my fate. I'm supposed to passively absorb abuse until I finally die, get stuffed into a pine box and rot away underneath a couple of yards of dirt for all of eternity.

Fuck. That.

I can't have Emily. My job is a disaster. But, when I'm 85 years old, frail and desolate, sitting in a puddle of my own piss, it will be nice to know that at least I stood up for myself, that I didn't let some son of a bitch run roughshod over me. Yeah, I'm doing this.

I'm never getting away with it, though. I'm not one of these psychotic freaks with icewater running through their veins, who can look at you, stone-faced, and lie about killing someone. This will end badly.

I couldn't just kill Doug, then cruise back home and wash the blood off like a faceful of barbecue sauce after a messy picnic. I'm not capable of that.

It might be after my 9th green beer some St. Patrick's Day. Or it might be in bed, after Emily has made sweet love to me and told me that I could share anything at all with her. But sooner or later, the secret will jump out of me, and part of me will be glad, because I will need to hear that I was right and Doug was wrong, that he deserved it, that I am not a bad person, that--

Dammit. This isn't a fun train of thought. I need to be calm for what I'm about to do, not all sweaty-palmed and scatterbrained. I need a drink.

* * *

The midnight sky is more grey than black, and a cloudy mist rolls across my headlights like smoke from a brush fire. My windbreaker is suddenly not enough for the cold, and with shivering fingers, I turn up the heat in my car as high as it will go.

I've driven by Captain's 100 times, but never went inside before now. The closer I get to the entrance, the more I see why.

Captain's is a square yellow building which sits in the middle of a cracked patch of asphalt, between a gas station that went out of business two years ago and a check cashing place. It only has two windows, and they are so plastered over with scotch-taped signs that I can't see in.

The flimsy screen door slams shut behind me as I enter, and I'm met with the smell of buffalo wings and stale beer. A bare light bulb hangs over a pool table, its glow reflecting dully off the stained walls.

The stool creaks so loudly as I sit at the bar that I instinctively jump up, and a horrifyingly ugly woman behind the counter stops wiping the bar long enough to laugh at me. Doesn't ask what I want to drink, though.

This episode completes my humiliation. By this time tomorrow, I'll be in a morgue with a tag on my toe, or getting my mug shot taken. Most people in that situation go out gracefully; they find a halfway decent restaurant where they can enjoy a last meal, maybe even gather some loved ones to share it with. Me? I'm in a rickety old dump, alone, and hideous barmaids are laughing at me.

"Bar's almost closed," she says, finally, turning to face me directly. There's a huge mole next to the corner of her mouth, an orange knob that distracts me from her otherwise pale skin.

"I'll have a Kamikaze," I say, firmly. I've never had one before, but what better drink could there be for me now?

"We're all outta lime juice," she says, turning her droopy eyes up at me.

"How about a Screwdriver?"

She sighs loudly, whirls around, picks up an empty plastic jug and slams it back down. "All outta OJ too. Can't I just get you a beer?" she groans.

A Jeopardy! rerun blares from a TV set on a high shelf behind her.

Just perfect. A trio of nerds with photographic memories spewing out obscure facts, to remind me that, beyond my romantic failings, I am also intellectually inferior.

"This state capital was named for a famous German chancellor," Alex says.

A contestant named Greg rings in. "What is Bismarck, North Dakota?" he asks, and before Alex even tells him he is right, he's looking up at the board to make the next selection. I wish I could be that confident about anything.

He didn't think about the answer. He knew it, completely and totally, as if it were encoded in his DNA. Pressing the button on his controller and giving the correct question was a subconscious reflex for him, something he could have done while shaving or tying his shoes.

It seems to me that I could learn a lot from this dork. If I could have his confidence, maybe I wouldn't get stepped on so much. Confidence impresses people. They remember it. You become that guy, the one they better not try to argue with. And in real life, there is no game show host standing next to you with a stack of index cards to tell you you're wrong.

Wouldn't it be great if I could answer every question in the amount of time it took Greg to say, "Bismarck, North Dakota"? Wouldn't it become easy to silence every doubter, to solve every problem that came my way? If I could somehow manage to do that, I would become a completely different person. A guy like that wouldn't have to commit murder just to make a point...

...I need to go home and think.

Next... Chapter 16: A (bare)Backstabbing

Chapter 14: My fingers do the walking

Chapter 1 begins here

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I swerve onto the Saw Mill Road, pressing harder on the gas pedal even as the rear of my car fishtails wildly.

I thought Emily would never leave. She was very cuddly after we did it, pressing tightly up against me in bed, her leg draped over mine. Luckily, she's helping her cousin plan a wedding shower, and has to be across town first thing in the morning.

"It's way closer to my house, otherwise I'd stay, baby," she cooed. "I'll be done around noon; can I come visit you then, so we can play some more?" she asked, and I grew hard in spite of myself.

I thought a lot about what I would do when I finally saw the hairless patch between her legs. I fantasized about the scene, saw myself wrapping my hands around her throat and squeezing until she turned purple, just like I did in gym class that time. Except, instead of letting go, maybe I would just keep squeezing until her body went limp.

There would be a deep sense of satisfaction in that, wouldn't there? It would be the ultimate I-told-you-so, proving to her, and to that cocksucker Doug Barrett that they badly underestimated me. I would make her pay for disrespecting me, pay with her life, and the weight of the guilt would crush Doug forever.

But in the end, my affection for Emily won out. She melted me with her sexy eyes, disarmed me easily with a gentle brush of her fingernails across my skin. "I love you Eric, I love you so much," she whispered as I fucked her, and I could barely hear her above the rhythmic thumping of the headboard against the wall.

No, I didn't hurt Emily. But I'm going to hurt someone. Doug.

I'm sure Emily hasn't shown him my picture. He wouldn't know me if I stood right in front of him and stared him down. I could do this. I could totally do this.

I make a frantic U-turn, barely touching the brake pedal, and head for the highway. I have an errand to run.

I drive 45 minutes out of the way to a Home Depot in Rhode Island.

I don't know how I'm going to do it, so I have no real idea of what I need. I'll just wander the aisles and grab anything that seems useful.

My heart pounds as I grab a five-gallon jug of bleach. It's more real now that there is something I can hold in my hand.

A reciprocating saw with an eight-inch blade. A 28-ounce steel framing hammer. A pick, a shovel, a giant blue tarp, and two wooden handles.

It's strange. As I look at the items in my cart, I see exactly how I'm going to do it. It's almost like I'm watching someone else shop, and trying to figure out what kind of project he's working on.

I see myself now, spattered with blood like a butcher, cutting Doug's arms off with the reciprocal saw, twisting and pulling them away from his torso as the last few tendons stubbornly stay attached. I can hear his bones crack and snap--it would almost be like cutting up chicken wings.

I can see his dead body beneath me, his blood-stained tie askew, the buttons of his shirt torn away, his hair a filthy, tangled mess, like a homeless man's.

Gonna get laid tonight, Doug? Gonna fuck my girlfriend, then brag about it to your buddies at the health club? I'd ask his corpse, grabbing him by the collar and screaming into his dead eyes. Are you--

"Sir?"

"Huh?"

"Can I help you find something? You seem--"

"I seem what?"

"Well, I--"

"How do I seem, Toby?" I ask, reading the name on his orange vest. "Tell me."

"Y-You just seem frustrated, sir, that's all," he stammers. "I just wanted to ask if I could help you find anything."

"Where do you keep the razor wire?"

* * *

I'm not stupid enough to look up Doug's address on my PC. I know just how I'll find it.

I was at a convention at the local Marriott a year ago, and I remember a bank of pay phones in a little alcove. With a local directory under each one.

I walk through the main lobby, trying to look inconspicuous, like a guest. If I do this right, no one will even give me a second thought. I make a right turn into the phone alcove and look underneath the first phone. Pay dirt.

Watch this guy be unlisted, I think, as I scan through the B's: Banet. Banks. Barnes. Barnett. Bartlett.

Shit. He's not there. I should have known that a well-to-do guy like Doug would never have his name listed in a phone book. I'm an idiot.

This whole thing is a joke. It's never going to work. I'll probably get there and find a huge cocktail party going on. It would be just my luck.

Wait a minute. I was spelling it with two "R"'s; maybe...

I scan a bit further up the page, and my lips curl into a small smile at what I see. The letters might as well be a neon sign, a giant, flashing reminder that I had no idea what I was capable of.

BARETT, DOUGLAS P 228 SADDLE HILL, WLLSLY

Next... Chapter 15: Bismarck, North Dakota

Chapter 13: Christmas in February

Chapter 1 begins here

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Emily's period always ends on a Tuesday, and since today is Tuesday, she could be sleeping with Doug anytime now.

I don't talk to Emily every single day, especially during the week, so it's important that I don't keep checking up on her now that I know what she's up to. But how the hell can I stop myself?

I sit at my desk for eons, the phone staring unringingly at me, the hands of my office clock frozen in place. I straighten the adding machine on my credenza, then straighten it again, praying for a huge pile of work to spontaneously appear in my in box and provide a few hours of distraction. But no such luck.

It's 10:22am. I can't possibly sit here for another 6 1/2 hours, torturing myself about her. For all I know, they're going to sneak off and fuck each other's brains out in a supply closet at lunchtime. Maybe she wore that short little black skirt and high heels for the occasion, the outfit she used to wear for me, and maybe she's thinking about his cock right now, making herself wet with horny anticipation, and maybe my face will flash in her mind the second he penetrates her, not because she feels guilty, but because she wonders why she ever wasted one moment of her time with me.

That's what it's all about, isn't it? The pulse-pounding excitement of being with a guy who's drowning in cash, who's careful never to leave the house in wrinkled pants or to drive a car more than two years old. Women are wired to seek out men like Doug, men who can take care of them. Several million years' worth of evolution is pushing Emily to him, forcing her to think of him constantly, to throw herself at him, to acquiesce to his every demand, and to strike me completely from her mind, to delete me like an unwanted file.

"Todd, I'm not feeling well. I'm gonna head home. I'll call you later."

"We need placements, Eric!"

"We're working on it."

* * *

Why did I come home? There's less to do here than there was at work.

I shuffle down the hall to the bedroom, then back to the kitchen for a glass of water, and finally back to the bedroom again, where I watch myself sit down at the computer.

I can't. Once I click on that link, I'll check back every five minutes until I crash from exhaustion. I need to find something else to do--

I turn around and look under the foot of the bed, where the corner of a box sticks out. stmas, it says.

I pull the box out and lift the lid. It's my holiday skater set, a scale model frozen pond with magnetic figurines that glide around on the fake ice while Christmas carols plink out as if played on a toy piano.

The skaters calm me. No matter what is happening in my life, I've always been able to put my problems on hold over Christmas and New Year's, and although it's February now, I'm able to forget Emily's cheating as long as the music is playing and the skaters are skating.

Emily and I had a great time two Christmases ago. Our relationship really clicked. A day was an eternity for us; we couldn't go for more than a few hours without texting or calling. We obsessed over each other's gifts, spending hundreds of dollars we didn't have just to see that look in one another's eyes on Christmas morning as the wrapping paper came off.

We had non-stop sex, hungrily ripping each other's clothes off whenever we had a free moment, only to do it all over again a few hours later. And "sleeping" in the same bed was a mere figure of speech.

When I look back now, I see that those were the best days of my life. Work was quiet; my relationship was stable; I had everything a man could have wanted. I know I can never bring those days back, but at least I can make the present feel a bit more like the past.

I put the Christmas song playlist back on my MP3 player and set it for "repeat all", and as I inhale the sugary smell of my Christmas Cookie jar candle, I can feel the stress leave my body. Most of it, anyway.

With "Jingle Bell Rock" and "Frosty the Snowman" wafting in the background, I actually manage to get a few small projects done. For one thing, I made a list of all the new construction projects downtown; with so many new buildings going up, someone is bound to need temporary workers.

It's 5:30 now, and I think I'll shut it down for the day. Maybe I'll treat myself to something nice for dinner.

The phone rings. It's probably Todd, wondering how much business we've brought in today. Things are very slow, but at least I have the construction project list to tell him about.

"I miss you," Emily says. She wants to make plans for this Friday.

My heart flutters. She's still thinking about me. I know she's let me down before, but what am I supposed to do, give up? She's pursuing me!

It was only a sliver of encouragement, I know, but between that and the Christmas stuff, I'm happier than a kid who just cracked open a pinata. The days fly by, and before I know it, it's Friday night.

The night is perfect. We lay on the couch, her nestled against me, the room completely dark except for the flickering TV screen. She provides a running commentary on the movie, cracking me up just like she used to.

The credits roll, and my stomach churns with anticipation. It's been a while since we've been together, and my heart pounds like a jackhammer as I picture her naked thighs pressed against mine.

I watch intently in the half-light of my bedroom, absorbing every detail as she unhooks her bra and unbuttons her jeans, her breathing just a bit heavier than usual.

She lays down next to me, flipping her silky hair out of the way to kiss me, and I run my hand gently down her back, delighting in her supple skin and the soft, round curve of her ass.

I slip a finger under the elastic of her panties and slide them slowly down her legs. She rolls onto her back and her eyes flicker up at me at she spreads her knees apart.

I stare for a long time before I let myself believe what I see. But yes, it is true: The inevitable has happened, and the horror I feel will never be gone from me.

She is completely shaved.

Next... Chapter 14: My fingers do the walking

Chapter 12: A Little Too Much to Bear

Chapter 1 begins here

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I surprised myself the other night on Saw Mill Road, but in a good way.

I still feel guilty about killing the possum, but deeper inside me, beneath the guilt, there is something far stronger. As I drove away into the dark that night, my heart racing, the adrenaline rocketing through my veins, I promised myself I would never be a victim again. Not to Todd, not to Doug, not even to Emily. It felt good to assert myself. It felt... right.

* * *

"It's John Doyle from Carrano Construction," the voice on the other end of the phone says.

I already know who it is. I know what he wants, too: He wants some more workers, or "associates", as he calls them. The problem is, he owes Todd about $6,000 in invoices, and Todd lacks the balls to demand it. "He's good for it," Todd always says. "What, is he going to Florida with my $6,000?" But what the hell good is the business if we're not getting paid for it?

"I can't send you any more laborers until you get your account current, John," I say firmly.

Silence.

"Eric, I- I-can't pay you if I don't have any money."

He's breaking. I can feel it. This is easier than I thought!

"Well, we've got a problem then, because I can't send you more workers if you haven't paid for the ones you already had."

"Since when?"

"Since now," I say, and the confidence floods into me, just like the other night.

John agrees to send me a check for half his balance, and to pay the rest next week. Todd is going to be thrilled!

Fifteen minutes later, Todd calls me into his office. "I just hung up with John Doyle," he says, looking over his wire-rimmed glasses at me. "He's canceling his contract with us."

Shit.

"Todd, all I told him was that he had to pay his bills. Is that so wrong?"

"Did you know he was our first customer, Eric? Our very first one?"

"I--"

"And did you know that John lent me money to pay the rent for this office when we first opened up? That's how good he was to us. And now he wants to know why we're spitting in his face, Eric!"

"Todd, I didn't know! I didn't know any of that! I'm sorry!"

"Go home, Eric."

* * *

RedFoxx85: did u give him his welcome home present

SugarKookie: kinda

RedFoxx85: ?

SugarKookie: gave him a big kiss

RedFoxx85: aw how cute

SugarKookie: below the belt ;-)

RedFoxx85: you gave him a bj?!

SugarKookie: o yea

SugarKookie: trust me he wasnt disappointed

RedFoxx85: im sure

RedFoxx85: what was it like?

SugarKookie: salty :-D

RedFoxx85: no what was "it" like

SugarKookie: mmmmmm

RedFoxx85: nice huh

SugarKookie: hes not circumsized

RedFoxx85: nfs!

SugarKookie: ive never seen an uncircumsized one before. i kept playing with his, um

RedFoxx85: foreskin?

SugarKookie: i guess so ya, sliding it back and forth over the head

RedFoxx85: with your mouth?

SugarKookie: mm-hmm

RedFoxx85: nice!

SugarKookie: loved me playing with his foreskin - kept telling me to do it more

SugarKookie: and shoving my head down on him

SugarKookie: hes very bossy in bed :-)

RedFoxx85: so im guessing you two did the deed

RedFoxx85: after you warmed him up

SugarKookie: the red tide was in :-(

RedFoxx85: so??

SugarKookie: ew, not the first time!

SugarKookie: he did want to tho

RedFoxx85: i bet

SugarKookie: so i swallowed for him ;-)


Next... Chapter 13: Christmas in February

Chapter 11: The Saw Mill Road

Chapter 1 begins here

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I slam Emily's door behind me and stomp angrily to my car. I start the engine and hurtle from the parking lot, tires squealing.

Saw Mill Road is a 15 mile stretch of highway which cuts a narrow path through an endless ocean of trees. There are three farms that I have counted, set so far back from the road that you can barely see the lights as you pass by.

At the beginning of the road, the street lights are about 300 yards apart, and by mile three, they stop altogether.

I call Saw Mill Road a "shortcut" between Emily's house and mine, but it actually takes longer to go that way. Mostly, I do it because I love a peaceful car ride.

My dress shirt is ruined, soaked with blood. I wrap an old t-shirt around my wrist to slow the bleeding, but it continues to ooze from my hand and onto my slacks; it feels like I spilled a half-hour old cup of coffee into my lap.

The cut hurts so much that I can barely touch the steering wheel. Hot jolts of pain shoot from deep inside the wound, coursing up my arm like electricity. I try to focus on the road, on the sound of the engine, on the thought of Emily--but the agony is too intense. It's as if someone drove an ice pick into my hand with a sledge hammer.

Pulling over would be a waste of time. There's nothing more I can do until I get home, so I push harder on the gas pedal and stare at the road as I pass under the last streetlamp and into the dark.

Fifty miles an hour. Sixty. Seventy. The whine of the engine grows insistently louder, like a 747, and somehow I can barely hear it above the screaming pain.

My headlights cut neatly into the darkness; if I look anywhere but straight ahead, all I see is pure black. I am focused on the rear view mirror when something jumps in front of the car.

It's a possum, I think, and it is as surprised as I am. It freezes in place, staring at me. I slam on the brakes, but I know it's too late.

The car hits the possum with a heavy thunk. I can feel its body bounce underneath the floorboard; the sounds are clunky and hard, as if I am running over a pile of firewood.

The shriek of the tires eventually stops, and I sit for a long time, wondering what to do. I've never hit anything with my car before. Do I just... leave?

I feel weird. I killed something. It was nothing more than a rodent, but it woke up today alive, and now...

I want to see it.

I turn the car around and flip on my high beams. The possum lays lifeless in the middle of the road, its body horizontal across the double yellow line. I watch myself get out of the car and close the door.

It's bigger than I thought, maybe the size of a poodle. With its gray fur and spiny tail, it looks like a giant rat.

Its neck is broken. The top of its head has been pushed back so far that it's almost separated, leaving the mouth wide open, like a snake with an unhinged jaw. I shiver at the sight of its pointed teeth and thick, pink tongue, and though I want to turn away, I can't.

This just proves what I learned earlier tonight: I have the power to change things. You might think I used that power unwisely just now, but I had it just the same, didn't I? Just like I had it with the vase--

The pain again, sharper now, burning my hand like battery acid.

I really should get home.

Next... Chapter 12: A Little Too Much to Bear

Chapter 10: What Would Stainer Do?

Chapter 1 begins here

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I have been looking forward to my date with Emily for days. The week seemed to last a month, but it's finally Friday.

Stainer keeps telling me to stop spying on Emily. He says it's "creepy". He says I worry too much about what Emily, and everybody else, thinks. He says I live my life based on what others want, because I'm afraid I'll disappoint them and they'll leave me. He says I am a big baby.

You probably think I'm a coward for letting Stainer talk to me that way. Well, you're wrong if you think that. I don't need Stainer for friendship. I need to learn from him, and as long as he keeps trying to teach me, I'll keep listening.

I was happy to hear that Emily didn't like Stainer's cologne technique. It reminded me that he doesn't know everything after all.

He told me to be late picking up Emily, so I said I'd be there at 6:00, then deliberately did not show up until 6:30. It will be close, but we should make it to the restaurant on time.

I knock, and all the air rushes from my body as Emily answers the door.

She's in dingy sweats, with her hair twisted into a sloppy bun and held in place by a pencil. "What are you doing here?" she asks, glancing at my tie.

"I'm picking you up for our date, Emily! Why aren't you ready?"

"I have a huge project to finish! I left you a message at work!"

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?!"

"It was during office hours! I don't have time to call a thousand different numbers, Eric!"

My phone had been ringing all day. I stopped answering around 3:30, because I wanted to get my work done and leave. So I could get ready for my date.

She's going to see him tonight. She never intended to see me at all. Or maybe she did, but changed her plans as soon as he decided he wanted to see her. The outfit, the story about work, they're all part of an elaborate plan to trick me, a plan she will probably be laughing about with Doug later.

"You could've--"

"Could've what?" she hisses. "I called you at work! You always check your messages! Why didn't you check them before you left? It's common sense!"

I'd be a bit less humiliated if she apologized. Why won't she do it? Why is she so determined to choke every last bit of life out of me? How can she be so hateful?

The anger starts in my stomach, a fiery ball that grows, eating everything in its path until it consumes me.

I walk through the door. My eyes turn to the glass-topped table against the far wall. A chipped, dusty green vase filled with artificial flowers sits upon it.

"Eric, I have a lot of work to do--"

The bouquet was a gift from an ex-boyfriend, Chad, whom she "almost married", according to her. He moved away and left her years ago, but she still smiles wistfully when talking about him. And of course, she refuses to part with that hideous bouquet. It's almost as if she keeps the flowers just to mock me, to remind me that I am nowhere near the kind of man she truly wants.

Maybe Stainer was right when he called her a bitch.

"You don't appreciate me!" I say, finally.

"Eric, you're not listening to me. I told you I had to work! What am I supposed to do--"

I walk forcefully back toward the door, my heavy footsteps shaking the glass on the dining room table. My hand clenches into a fist, and I watch in slow motion as it smashes violently into Chad's vase.

The vase explodes into tiny pieces, and water runs down my hand. But why would she put artificial flowers in water? And why is the water... red?

"Eric! You're bleeding!"

Blood throbs from an open flap of skin between my thumb and index finger. I watch as it coats my palm, dripping from my hand and forming little red dots on the beige carpet.

Suddenly, it becomes clear: I don't have to just sit back and accept it when someone disrespects me. I have the power to do something about it. The vase angered me, and I destroyed it. My mind ticks off a long list of things--and people--who deserve the same, and, though I didn't think it was possible, my rage grows bigger and stronger than before.

No. I couldn't hurt Emily. Could I?

"Eric, you're bleeding all over my carpet!"

I lunge at her, and I am outside my body again, watching myself as I scream at her nose to nose. "You did this, Emily! You see this?" I yell, holding my bloody hand up to her face. "This is your fault! It's your fault!" I barely recognize the sound of my own voice.

"I'm sorry! Eric, I am so sorry!" she sobs, as I turn and storm out the door.

Guess I got my apology after all.

Next... Chapter 11: The Saw Mill Road

Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


I hate my hair.

Most males in my family are born with a shiny blond mop which darkens to a deep brown around age five, when the hair realizes it's no longer cute and politely vacates the kid's scalp. In my case, the blond never left.

In direct sunlight, it's bright yellow, the color of a Post-it note. I dyed it a couple of times in college, but that made it brittle.

I grew it long during my late-teen, I-hate-the-world phase. Combined with my six-foot frame, it made me look mysterious, maybe even intimidating. But the closer you got, the uglier it became. I had so many split ends that, if you grabbed a handful, it looked like a ball of frayed twine.

Emily says I have "Nordic" features. I assume she's talking about my blue eyes and thin nose, which are attractive in an understated way, like an evening news anchorman. Whenever a girl looks through my photo albums, she'll stop at any picture of me in a baseball cap and say, "Ooh! You look so cute here!", then sit quietly as she flips through the ones in which my hair is visible.

Around my junior year in college, my hair and I found a truce somewhere between George Clooney and Conan O'Brien. Most days, I part it neatly on the side, and comb it from left to right. I still don't like it, though, and it's a major blow to my confidence every time I walk out of the bathroom and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

If I am going to make myself over, part of the change should be physical. And if it's going to be physical, it ought to involve my hair.

Stainer says I am making a big deal over nothing. "If you're a good-looking guy, it helps, but if you're ugly, it doesn't hurt you," he says, flipping between football and hockey on my wall-mounted television. "Girls don't care about looks the way guys do."

"Then what's she doing with Doug?"

"Doug's got money and juice. It doesn't matter what he looks like. He's probably a fat, bald lardass."

"Thanks, man."

He's right, though. I just assumed that Doug was dashing and handsome, but I really have no reason to think so.

Stainer tells me that I need confidence, even if I have nothing to be confident about. "Did you put on any cologne today?" he asks.

"Um, yeah, I think so. Why?"

"One spray? Two?"

"One, I think."

"Come on, man! You gotta spray it like you mean it!"

He grabs a bottle off my dresser and aims it three inches from the top button on my shirt, then sprays frantically, as if I am on fire.

"What are you doing, dude?!"

He breathes deeply through his nose. "Ahhhh," he sighs. "Cologne smells differently on everyone, depending on their chemistry. That's why the cologne companies can't trademark their smells. You have good chemistry."

"So that's it? Just wear more cologne?"

"No. One other thing. When you make plans, stop asking her what she wants to do. Tell her. Don't ask!"

"But what if she--"

"Tell her! And stop playing with your hair!"

* * *

SugarKookie: so im going to top of the hub with eric on friday

RedFoxx85: with eric???

SugarKookie: yes ERIC... this is not a misprint :-)

RedFoxx85: isnt that expensive

SugarKookie: SUPER expensive

RedFoxx85: whats the occasion

SugarKookie: "he loves me"

RedFoxx85: pardon me while i barf lol

RedFoxx85: actually that is very sweet

SugarKookie: not sure whats gotten into him lately

SugarKookie: hes very... aggressive all of a sudden

RedFoxx85: ooo!

SugarKookie: no not like that... well maybe a little :-)

SugarKookie: he wanted to go out friday, it had to be friday, made me change my plans

RedFoxx85: doug plans?

SugarKookie: no i wouldnt have changed those plans lol

SugarKookie: oh and he smelled like he crashed into a cologne truck too

RedFoxx85: ew

RedFoxx85: y do guys do that

SugarKookie: no clue... cologne is supposed to be subtle, its supposed to make you lean in closer

RedFoxx85: i know eric always smells so nice

SugarKookie: get ur nose off my man lol

RedFoxx85: y do u think hes bein so aggressive

SugarKookie: dunno maybe he just subscribed to maxim

RedFoxx85: lol

RedFoxx85: u like guys with attitude tho dont u

SugarKookie: ya but thats not eric

Next... Chapter 10: What Would Stainer Do?

Chapter 8: A Double Decaf and a Skin Graft

RedFoxx85: is he back from vacation yet

SugarKookie: no monday hes been gone 2 wks :(

RedFoxx85: is he takin you out when he gets back

SugarKookie: o yeah he and i have unfinished bizness ;-)

RedFoxx85: ??

SugarKookie: told him he had to wait until he got back

RedFoxx85: wait for what??

SugarKookie: O:-)

RedFoxx85: ooo, gonna give him a coming home present eh?

RedFoxx85: ur holding out a long time arent you

SugarKookie: he wanted to do it b4 he left

SugarKookie: says i am driving him crazy ;-)

RedFoxx85: isnt that the point

SugarKookie: exactly :-)



I have been sitting at my desk for two hours, watching the time change in the corner of my computer screen. I can't think about anything else besides Emily, but I'm not going to let myself cry.

Apparently, no amount of optimism, love, or dedication will stop Emily from doing what she wants to do. She is hellbent on destroying our love, on humiliating me in the worst way possible. When she finally goes through with it, it will be an agony that haunts me for the rest of my life, and she laughs with her girlfriend about it like a giddy teenager, complete with emoticons.

It's almost like there are two Emilys: The one who spent a romantic night with me two days ago, and the cock-hungry monster who hedonistically seduces men, treating her long-term boyfriend as a punchline. Sometimes I think about dumping her, but breaking up with the evil Emily would also mean losing the good one, and I can't bear the thought of that.

I wasn't a punchline the other night, when I choked her, was I? It strikes me how nonchalant she was about it afterwards; I kept apologizing, and she kept telling me not to worry about it.

It's strange. Sometimes, when walking behind her, I'll accidentally step on her shoe, and she'll scream at me. This was a hell of a lot worse, and... nothing. Makes you think, doesn't it?

My friend Stainer used to tell me that girls loved being treated like shit. I secretly laughed at him, because he didn't get it. No one liked being treated badly! Holding a door for a lady, saying "please" and "thank you"--these were things that made people feel good. Where could he have gotten such an idea?

But Stainer was with a different girl every time I saw him. A different hot girl. He'd get laid, and the next morning I'd see him on his way to the laundry room, his cum-stained bedsheets wadded into a giant ball. Hence his nickname.

On the one hand, his strategy should have failed miserably. But on the other, women were drawn to him. I never could reconcile the two. I wish I could ask him about it now--

Wait.

Stainer graduated two years ago and took a job as an EMT in Norwood, a sleepy, cul-de-sac filled town about five miles from here. I'll look him up!

* * *

"Your girlfriend is doing what?" Stainer asks, his face twisted as if smelling a dirty diaper.

I watch as he stirs three sugars into his coffee, then let my eyes wander to the long line of patrons waiting for lattes. I take a deep breath and tell him the whole story. I know he's going to rip into me for being such a loser, but it was a relief to tell someone how I was feeling.

He runs a finger across the rim of his cup as I talk. "You're spying on her with your computer?" he asks, finally.

"She's cheating, bro. Which one's worse?"

"If the bitch is cheating, dump her."

"She's not a bitch, Stainer!" I shout, and the elderly couple at the next table turns to look at me.

"Yeah, she is," he smiles, showing off his angular jaw and sparkling teeth. The girls at school always used to swoon over him.

"I'm not dumping her, dude," I say.

"Why'd you call me, then?" he asks, then searches my face for an answer.

He looks older than I remember him. The waistline of his blue Chinos has creased beneath his sagging belly, and I don't recall quite so many wrinkles across his forehead. But as he fixes his brown Latino eyes on me, his face commands attention and respect. I wonder what it's like to have that kind of control over people.

"I want to... make her sweat me. Isn't that what you do? Treat 'em like crap and make them chase after you?"

"Yeah, but..."

I look at him.

"I don't really do that anymore, Eric," he laughs. "I have a girlfriend now, and--"

"I'm not asking you to do it. I'm asking you to teach me."

"It's not like a home improvement project, Eric. I can't just teach you."

"Try. Please?"

He watches the steam rise off his coffee, then takes a noisy sip. "If you love her so much, then why do you want to treat her like shit?"

I knew this was coming, and I have an answer ready. "If it's between losing her and this, then I'll--"

"You don't want to be alone," he interrupts, smiling and nodding.

Maybe I don't. But what's so bad about wanting to be in a relationship with someone special? Who doesn't want that? Go to any bookstore, and the shelves will be lined with books about romance. How to find a relationship. How to improve a relationship. How to get more sex. How to get better sex. But how many books are there about friendship, or about being alone? Almost none, because those subjects are far less important to people. And what's so horrible about wanting to fix my relationship, about standing by the one I love?

"Do you like being alone?" I ask, careful to maintain eye contact.

"No, I don't. But you'd rather be miserable than alone."

I dislike Stainer's arrogance. He thinks he can figure me out over a cup of coffee, solve me as if I were a grade school crossword puzzle. He isn't even listening to me; he's just spitting out opinions, not considering for a single second that he might be wrong.

He annoyed me when we were in school. I remember now. I am a year older than him, and yet he talked down to me, the way you would to a nephew or grandson. Come to think of it, a lot of people speak to me that way. I'm tired of it.

The anger comes back. I can feel it as it descends on me, filling my body like an evil spirit.

I wonder what would happen if I snatched that bucket-sized cup out of his hand and tossed scalding coffee into his face. Would his skin blister and melt, like cheese on a grilled burger?

Unlike Doug, Stainer is here, right in front of me. I could actually do it this time. He probably doesn't think I'm capable. He isn't afraid of me. Well, maybe it's time for him to be.

Why couldn't I do it? Why couldn't I throw that coffee in his face, right this second? Yes, there would be consequences. But I guarantee you he'd respect me from now on.

"Eric? Eric!"

"Hm?"

"You're not pissed at me, are you? You look pretty mad."

Then it hits me. Yes, Stainer is an arrogant son of a bitch. Yes, he annoys me. But evidently, he has something I lack. So does Doug.

I said before that I wanted to learn from Doug, to capture whatever it is that he's using to lure Emily away from me. But I've never met Doug, and probably never will, so Stainer is the next best thing. He's got something I need, so I will try to tolerate him.

I wonder how long I'll be able to.

Next... Chapter 9: Neither Hair nor There

Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


"Happy anniversary, sweetie!" Emily says, bursting through my front door with a heavy-duty paper bag in hand.

Emily and I don't mark anniversaries like most couples do. We celebrate ours on October 12, the first day I helped her study. Every year on that date, we order Chinese food, just like we did that night. Of course, we didn't start dating until long after our study session, but we agree that our relationship never would have happened without it.

I love when Emily visits me. Lately, it's the only time I can relax. I don't have to worry about where she's going, or what she's talking to Renee about, because she's right here with me. And, best of all, it's a chance to show her a good time, to prove that she doesn't need anyone but me.

I'm horrible with chopsticks. I drop the same piece of General Gao's chicken three times, then look up to see her standing over me. "You just want me to feed you, don't you?" she smiles.

"You're on to me," I flirt back.

"Can we watch this?" she asks, pulling a video from my shelf, and I agree before I even see what she's picked. I don't care if it's the most boring piece of Hollywood crap ever committed to film; as long as Emily curls up underneath my arm to watch it, I don't care. And sure enough, as soon as I hit "Play", that's exactly what she does.

The plot slowly unfurls. A 1950s detective is hired by a shady character to find a missing man. He questions a series of people, most of whom wind up laying lifeless in a puddle of their own blood soon after meeting him.

According to the digital readout, 63:42 has elapsed. I am interested in the movie, but far more concerned with the suddenly very clingy woman attached to my side.

86:27. The detective and a young woman dance, then kiss, then fall into bed, naked--and something goes horribly wrong. Their sex turns from passionate to intense to violent. She screams. There is blood--

Emily gets up to use the bathroom. When she comes back, she remains standing.

She's going to leave for home. Why else wouldn't she be sitting down?

It's after 11, and far too late to go see him. But then again, Doug and Emily don't exactly have a romance for the ages. It's pure lust, as far as I can tell, and I guess late at night is as good a time as any to have sex. Maybe she texted him from the bathroom to tell him she's on her way. Maybe he's growing harder by the second as he waits in horny anticipation for her.

She'll probably tell me she's tired, that she's got a lot to do tomorrow, that she can barely keep her eyes open. I'll offer to let her sleep here, and she'll refuse. "I'm okay," she'll say, and I'll watch from the front window as her taillights fade out of sight.

This is our anniversary. She's supposed to be thinking about me, me and only me! It's unfair! How could she bring herself to share a romantic dinner with her boyfriend, on our most special of days together, only to go to her boss's house for cheap sex afterwards?

I look down. Her cellphone is on the floor. She couldn't have texted Doug from the bathroom.

"Do you wanna come lay down with me?" she asks, sweetly, and I go stiff under my boxers. "Come lay down with me" has always meant the same thing.

This will be the first time we have made love since I found out. I'd like to say that it will be a relaxed, sexy romp between two long-time lovers, but it won't. This is the Super Bowl of sex, a pressure-packed test of my ability to please her. Whether I like it or not, I am competing against someone else now, someone who is almost definitely more experienced than me.

I stare at her face in the half light of my bedroom, watching her white teeth as she whispers to me, smiling like a little girl.

"Why have you been so sad lately?" she asks softly, tracing swirls on my bare chest with her finger.

"I miss you. I'm miserable when you're not with me."

"Yeah right, you probably have another girlfriend," she giggles.

"How could you say that, Emily? How could you say that to me?" I ask, sharply. We have been whispering up to this point; it seems like I was shouting, though I wasn't.

"I was just kidding!"

"I don't like the way you kid!

"Then I won't kid with you anymore! I'm sorry you can't take a joke!"

"Are you cheating, Emily? Do you have another boyfriend?"

Shock flashes across her face, then disappears so quickly that I might have been imagining it. "No!" she shrieks. "Should I be mad at you for asking?"

I shake my head no, and let silence fill the room.

She takes a deep breath. "I don't want to fight with you. It's our anniversary!"

"I don't want to fight either."

"You're so good to me. You make me feel special. You're the only one who's ever made me feel that way."

"Then why--"

"Why what?"

I have to ask her. Now seems like the wrong time, but there is really no right time for something like this. She's opened up to me now, maybe enough to be totally honest about everything.

"Then why don't I see you more often?"

I couldn't bring myself to say it. If I did, she'd come up with an excuse that somehow explained everything, then she'd rip into me for spying, and I'd have to suck up to her for months to make up for it.

"It's our busy time of year at work. It'll be over soon."

"Do you promise it'll be over soon?"

"Yes."

We kiss. All at once, I am on top of her, and our eyes close as I feel her tongue slip slowly into my mouth.

I pull away and watch in slow motion as I slide down her lacy pink panties. My eyes scan upward and stop between her legs, where I see...

...hair.

She definitely has not shaved recently. Emily has a thick bush, straight out of a 70's porn film, and it's just as full as ever.

"Haven't you ever seen a naked girl before?" she chuckles, as I stare at her.

Doug will not go near her unless she shaves, and she hasn't shaved, which means she has not cheated on me. This is ironclad proof. I wish I could shove those black curlicues in the face of everyone who tried to break us up. I knew I could count on her!

She hugs me with her arms and legs, pulling me tightly against her, burying her mouth in the spot where shoulder meets neck. I am almost outside myself, watching as our bodies mingle together, and out of nowhere the realization hits me.

This is all Doug's fault.

Emily loves me. She always has. But then Doug came along, with his powerful job and fat wallet, and convinced her that she was missing something.

She must have told him that she had a boyfriend, and he didn't care. He just dismissed me, cast me aside as if I were an annoying kid. I was someone in the way of what he wanted, and he thought he could just crush me under the weight of his huge ego. But he doesn't even know me! Clearly Doug has grown far too confident, and even if he lives to be 100, he will never respect someone like me.

But for all Doug knows, I could be a black belt. Or a gun nut, with an assortment of loaded rifles under my bed. Or, I could have a nine-inch hunting knife in my glove box. How can he be so nonchalant about this?

Yes, I'm being territorial, and I don't care. He is trying to take what is mine, and it's awakened several million years' worth of evolution in me.

I'm too passive about a lot of things. I've always been an easy mark because I didn't fight back. But what if I finally did?

I am just angry enough to hurt Doug right now. Maybe angry enough to kill him. If he were here, maybe I could rip his insides out and watch as buckets of blood gush out of him, just like those victims in the movie.

In my mind's eye, I see myself grabbing Doug from behind, clutching a handful of his well-coiffed hair and yanking his head violently back as I slit his throat from one side to the other, feeling the warm rush of blood over my forearms, hearing the wet gurgle as he strains to draw a final breath.

Reality comes flooding back to me and suddenly I am back in my room. I can hear the grunts, which I barely recognize, though they come from my own throat, can hear the bed creak and groan frantically, like an old amusement park ride; and I can see my forearm across Emily's neck and her pained grimace as she tries desperately to breathe.

"Holy shit!" I say, pulling my arm off of her neck. "Are you okay?"

"Don't worry about it," she says, pressing our lips back together.

Could it be she enjoyed that?

Next... Chapter 8: A double decaf and a skin graft

Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


You'd think a 25-year-old guy would love the independence of living alone. But lately, I hate it.

Anything more than 30 minutes in front of the TV makes me question the intelligence of the human race, so I usually wind up at my computer. Of course, these days, surfing the internet only leads me to one place.

It doesn't matter how hot the porn video, or how addicting the game. Regardless of what I am doing, my eyes flit nervously back and forth to that little icon in the bottom right corner of my screen, the one which tells me everything Emily said online that day.

I curse my lack of will power and tell myself that I don't care what her IMs say, but all the while I know I will fail. I will watch as my right hand, acting on its own, slides the mouse over and clicks twice, and my eyes will open wider and my mouth will go dry as I eagerly read, then re-read, every line of every conversation. And, depending on what words are on the screen, I will either soar with relief or wallow in agony.

I wake up earlier each day. After showering, I wander the apartment, cleaning sinks, toilets and windows that are already spotless, then stare longingly at my PC before forcing myself into the car and on the road to the office. My job has been the one thing keeping me from insanity since this happened.

After arriving at work today, I sat at my desk and looked out the window. It was still dark.

My company, High-Grade Temps, places construction workers and factory laborers in short-term assignments around Boston. Todd, who runs the company with his wife, Sheila, hired me as an account manager after I graduated three years ago. I majored in marketing, and this was really more of a sales job, but I saw the potential right away. Everywhere you look in downtown Boston, there is a huge, expensive, complicated construction project going on, and there are not nearly enough workers to go around. I was no salesman, but I didn't need to be. I never had to call around looking for business. Construction firms found me and begged for workers, sometimes telling me to name my price.

I had been with High-Grade for about a year when AtlantiCorps, one of the biggest placement firms in the country, opened an office ten miles from ours. Though they are based in Dallas, AtlantiCorps smelled the ripe Boston market half a country away.

Jared, one of my fellow account reps, was the first to quit. He refused to say where he was going, but we all suspected it was AtlantiCorps. Then, one employee after another followed suit, each submitting a formally-worded resignation letter that looked suspiciously like the one before.

I walked into the office one cold April morning, and the emptiness of the place hit me like a two by four. We had ten employees left, down from a high of 35. Atlantic had pulled our workforce out from under us.

Todd called me into his office. "Eric, we've lost a lot of good people. We need to recruit more account managers, fast. Neither Sheila nor I have time to run the day-to-day business here anymore, so we want to promote you to General Manager."

"Me? What about Gordy?" I said, instinctively.

The GM position would be challenging. Some problems would be out of my control. I'd be blamed for things I could do nothing about, and--

"Gordy's been here five months, Eric. We think you're the best candidate. And, of course, there would be a raise in it for you..."

AtlantiCorps did not offer me a job. They didn't even contact me. Slam-dunk promotions did not come along every day; I had no logical choice but to take it. Still, I waited almost a week to formally accept, and I only did it then because Todd threatened to look elsewhere. But I'm really glad I took the job.

I've learned a lot, and have served the company well. Show me a form, and I can fill it out in my sleep. Ask me a question, and I can answer it while doing three other things. My inbox is constantly filled with problems that others could not solve, and I love being the guy who can take care of them.

We're back up to 15 employees now, and yes, our overhead is a lot lower than it was when we had 35. But AtlantiCorps has taken a lot of our business away, too, so there's also a lot less money. Todd has been stressing about that quite a bit lately.

He continually reminds me that our account managers should average one placement per day, and that more than half of them do not. I reply that we're all working as hard as we can, that we're not out there partying. "I'm aware," he'll say.

I always thought Todd was exaggerating. But, last week, I realized just how bad things have gotten. "If the next six weeks don't pick up, we're gonna have to start layoffs," he said.

Summer is long gone, and that was our busy season. How the hell were we going to find new business now, in the middle of fall?

"We better find it somewhere," he said, and I noticed he wouldn't look me in the eye.

After all I've done for him, it would really suck if Todd fired me.


Next... Chapter 7: "It'll Be Over Soon"

Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________



"I found this on the printer. Is it yours?" Michelle says, placing two pages of song lyrics on my desk.

"Yeah, I made a mix CD for Emily and I was just... printing out the lyrics."

"Eric, can I talk to you for a second?" she asks, sitting across from me before I can answer.

I brace myself. She is going to give me an earful about Emily, as she occasionally does. She can be annoying, but I'm flattered that she wants to help.

"Eric, sometimes girls don't like so much attention--"

"I know you mean well," I say. "But you don't know the story."

"That's the problem. There's always a story. You're always... sucking up to her for some reason."

Michelle always seems to get away with her attitude. No one ever gets angry with her. In a way, I can understand it--Michelle is beautiful. How can I possibly raise my voice to her as I admire her flawlessly straight blonde hair, and her smooth skin, which manages a healthy glow without a speck of makeup? It's as if someone plucked her off a midwestern farm and dropped her into our office.

"Michelle, you don't understand."

"Explain it to me."

I don't know why she cares. The cynic in me wants to believe that she's just nosy, that she wants scoopage to share with her coworkers. But it doesn't matter, anyway. I have nothing to hide. I am proud that I found Emily. Why wouldn't I want to share our story?

I was Emily's RA in college. She came to me crying one day because she had a huge history exam and she couldn't get through her reading. So I sat down to study with her.

She would read the same sentence five times and completely forget it a minute later. I had her read it out loud, and she kept losing her place on the page. Finally, I read a few pages to her, and she picked right up on it. She actually had an amazing memory.

After that, I helped her study all the time. She would draw little pictures in her notebook while I read to help her comprehend things. I even read into a tape recorder for her sometimes, so she could play it back later.

Most of Emily's issues are workable when we put our heads together. I always try to think of things from her perspective, and act accordingly. One example is the CD I just made: It's a lot easier for her to read when she can hear the words at the same time. She loves music, so listening to a song while reading the words is a great way to sharpen her skills. Hence, my printout of the lyrics.

Michelle looks at me, expressionless. Clearly, she had no idea about this side of Emily.

"Did she end up graduating?" she asks.

"With honors. We found a method that worked, and that was all she needed. All throughout school, no one tried to help her. They just said she had ADD and put her on drugs. She told me I was the only one in her whole life who cared if she did well or not."

I wait for a response. I'm pleased with myself, because it's not often that Michelle is speechless.

"So then you guys hooked up?" she manages, finally.

But it didn't happen that way. Emily and I did not get together until after I graduated.

I was driving to work on an icy road one January morning, and the driver in the next lane lost control of his rented truck. He rolled it, and the truck landed right on top of my car. The airbag didn't deploy, and I got crushed against the steering wheel, breaking my sternum, along with eight ribs.

After a few days, the doctors and nurses tried to get me out of bed, but I wouldn't budge. They can't put a cast on broken ribs, obviously, and I was scared to death one of them would snap loose and puncture my lung or something.

Emily found out about the accident and drove to the hospital in a snowstorm to see me. She said, "I'm not leaving this hospital until you get up and walk," and then she smiled at me. I can still see her face now, her nose and cheeks red from the cold, her teeth just as white as the snow on the windowsill.

That smile was more powerful than any drug they could have pumped into me. Suddenly, I forgot all about the pain. I stuck out my arm, and she held it tight as I wobbled uneasily to my feet. "You did it!" Emily said.

A nurse stuck her head in the door, then ran to the nurses' station, shouting, "His girlfriend got him out of bed!", and the thought of Emily as my girlfriend made it a lot harder to stay standing.

Emily said she knew she loved me the minute I got out of bed and stood up. We've been together ever since.

I helped Emily when no one else would, not even her teachers or her family. I made her a priority, and she did the same for me when I really needed someone. She would not have done that if she did not care for me.

Michelle didn't know the story, and now that she does, maybe she will understand. But even if she doesn't, I don't care. I don't care if every single person I know hates Emily. I love her. And I am going to work just as hard as I did before to prove it.

"That's sweet," Michelle says. "I'm sure she cares about you, but--"

"But what?"

"She doesn't appreciate you."

"I should probably get back to work," I say.

Next... Chapter 6: Working for a Living

Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


"What's this for?" Emily says, as I hand her an oversized gift bag.

"Last week you said you still had the same beach bag from high school, so I thought it was time for a new one."

"Oh, it's an L.L. Bean! And what did you put in here?"

"What's a beach bag without towels and sunblock?"

"You got me a bathing suit, too?" she says, pulling a black bikini out of the bag.

"Do you like it?"

"I love it!"

She twirls her long, black hair with two fingers, then slides it smoothly behind her ear. Her big eyes turn up to me with a flicker, and my knees go weak. She beams at me with the warm smile of a happy girl who knows she is truly loved, and I know right away that this was all I had to do; I just had to give her the attention she deserved. It's different now, I can feel it. Could it really have been this easy?

"I suppose you want me to model this for you," she says, holding the bikini against her torso.

"I thought you'd never ask."

* * *

I haven't checked her IMs in a couple of days. I don't much care what they say, anyhow.

I have forgiven Emily for whatever she did with Doug, if she did anything at all. I screwed up, but from now on I am going to give her so much love that she couldn't possibly want it from anyone else. Isn't that what monogamy is all about? Being with the person who treats you the best?

The phone rings, and my blood goes cold.

It's 7:30 at night. The only person who could be calling me at this hour is Emily, and she never calls for idle chit-chat. Maybe she's going out with him this weekend, and she's calling to make up an excuse for why she won't be able to see me. Maybe everything I did for her was not enough. Maybe Doug's expensive car and fancy clothes excite her in a way I never could. Maybe he makes her laugh louder than I do, impresses her more than I do, makes her lip quiver harder than I do when they are in bed together.

At last, I force myself to pick up the phone. "Did you call that landlord yet?" Mom says.

I burst out laughing. I've never been so glad to get bitched out in my life.

I fall asleep in front of the TV and awaken to the phone ringing at 9:30.

"I'm going to Renee's house. We're having girls' movie night," Emily says.

"I--"

"You've been calling to say goodnight lately, so I just wanted to let you know I was going over there."

"I'll just call your cell," I say, more to hear her reponse than anything else.

"We're gonna be watching a movie," she says. "Plus Renee's having some problems and she's probably gonna be pretty chatty. So..."

"I can't even call you to say goodnight?"

"What's the big deal?" she snaps.

Her tone sets my anger ablaze; my fist closes tightly around the receiver and my ears burn with rage. I know I shouldn't do this, but...

"The big deal is that you are pretty unfair to me sometimes. I bend over backwards for you and you don't even appreciate it!"

"I thanked you for the beach bag!" she shouts.

"This is about more than a stupid beach bag, Emily!"

"Whatever. I'm hanging up. I'll call you tomorrow."

This was a huge mistake. I should not have let my anger get in the way; now, things are more complicated than before.

"I'm sorry I yelled. I love you, Emily."

Click.

* * *

RedFoxx85: why does he want you to shave?

SugarKookie: he hates hair down there. I dunno why but it freaks him out, he won't go near it unless i shave

RedFoxx85: so hes holding out on you? maybe he found out about your crabs :-D

SugarKookie: stfu lol

RedFoxx85: maybe he likes the preteen look. if he starts talking like elmo, run

SugarKookie: seriously i dunno what to do, eric asked me to shave one time and i said no

RedFoxx85: ohhhh, so now hes gonna wonder why you did it

SugarKookie: well ya...

RedFoxx85: didn't he just get you a bikini

SugarKookie: o yea!!! ill just tell him i shaved so i could wear the bikini

SugarKookie: i already put it on for him but it wasnt on long ;-)

RedFoxx85: u r so evil lol


Next...Chapter 5: A Dyslexic Love Story

Chapter 3: Stretch Goals

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


SugarKookie: Good morning :-D :-D

RedFoxx85: how was it??????

SugarKookie: took me to his friends 40th bday party

RedFoxx85: hung with the old dudes eh

SugarKookie: i swear i was the oldest girl there

RedFoxx85: lol

SugarKookie: huge buffet, chinese food, sushi, open bar

SugarKookie: he got drunk, i had to drive him home

SugarKookie: in his lincoln navigator :-)

RedFoxx85: nfw

SugarKookie: way

SugarKookie: felt like i was driving a tank

RedFoxx85: so you drove him home...

RedFoxx85: and?!

SugarKookie: so how was your night O:-)

RedFoxx85: what happened????!!!

I can't read any more. All I want is to walk into the middle of that party and look at her, stare at her face endlessly until she realizes what she is doing. If I could just see her, talk to her, I know she would come to her senses. But I am powerless to stop any of this. It's in the past.

Now, I can only sit passively and experience every excruciating second of her betrayal, knowing that, although the pain is fresh, whatever has happened is done and over with. I can't change it any more than I can change yesterday's weather.

I sleepwalk through my day at work, watching myself like a disinterested third party as the hours melt away in a blur of phone calls and meetings. I go through the motions, say all the proper things at the correct times, but none of it affects me whatsoever. It's like eating a meal that I cannot taste.

"You still here?" Todd asks at 6:30.

"Yep," I sigh.

"What's wrong, Eric?"

I want to tell him. I want to open myself up and pour out every ounce of pain in my body. I want to scream aloud that I do not deserve this, and then I want to collapse into a blob on the floor, sobbing like a widow. I've been bottling this up for too long. I need to talk to someone.

But Todd is my boss. What would he think of me if he knew how upset I was? Would I seem like the kind of person who cannot keep his personal life under control?

"Nothing. Good night, Todd."

* * *

If I go home, I'm just going to end up checking Emily's IMs. I'd rather be anywhere else.

I drive aimlessly, angrily changing the radio station every time a love song comes on, until my car finds its way to my mother's house.

"Oh good. You can help me hang a picture," she says.

"Did you call the landlord to have that carpet stretched in your living room?" she asks as I hammer a picture hook into the wall.

"Not yet."

"You really should call. That carpet is buckled. Buckled!" she hisses, showing two rows of beaver-like teeth.

"I know, mom."

"Ugh. It's horrible! I don't know how you can stand that gigantic... bump in the floor," she says, running her hand over an imaginary mountain.

The bump is half an inch high. Actually, half an inch would be a lot. Coming over here was a mistake. Mom does not have much to do these days, so every mundane issue is magnified to 10,000 times its normal size.

In a way, it's good that the Emily thing is happening, because serious problems make me see just how insignificant the buckled carpets of the world truly are. If I can just resolve this, somehow, I'll be the most nauseatingly happy guy you've ever met.

"That picture is crooked! Look at it, it's all cockeyed!"

I push up on the bottom right corner. The picture moves a millimeter or two.

"Good?"

"It's all wrong. It's all wrong there. We've got to move it, honey."

Suddenly it hits me. I'll win Emily over. I'll woo her, just like I did when we first met. I'll surprise her with no-reason gifts, take her on romantic getaways, and lavish her with fawning attention. Why didn't I think of this before?

They say that men cheat for sex, and women cheat for love. After three years, maybe I'm taking her for granted. Maybe she's had one too many drive-thru dinners, and she's frustrated. I've been busy at work lately, but if I'm going to be serious about my relationship, I need to make it more of a priority. That's just what I'm going to do. Maybe this will work, and maybe it won't, but if we break up, I don't want it to be because of mistakes I made.

"Higher. Higher, Eric!" mom is screaming. "Hello! You're a million miles away!"

"Sorry, I was just--"

"Give me that," she snaps, snatching the picture out of my hand. "Never mind. I'll handle it."

"I think I'm gonna take off, mom."

"Damn carpet is two feet off the ground," she mutters to herself as the door closes behind me.

Next...Chapter 4: An Insufficient Gift

Chapter 2: "Kiss kiss" My Ass

Chapter 1 begins here

_____________________________________________________


RedFoxx85: u still at the office?

SugarKookie: no he told me to go home and he would come by around 6:30ish

RedFoxx85: hes late...typical man lol

There's nothing for me to wonder about anymore. Emily is cheating. It must be a guy she works with, but I have no idea which one. I don't know her coworkers.

I want to talk to her, hear her say my name, listen to her voice to find out if it sounds different somehow. I want to tell her I am amazed by her, that she inspires me, that she has done so since the moment I first saw her on that Tuesday morning three years ago.

All Emily's ever had to do was tell me what she wanted, and I have gotten it for her. I want to make every single one of her dreams come true. Maybe all I have to do is remind her of that.

I call her. "Hi, gorgeous," I say.

"I'm really busy. I have this huge project to do for work. I'm probably gonna be up late."

My heart gallops, and I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. She's lying to me, right this very second. Obviously, there is no project, and yet she said so with frightening ease. If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed her in a second. Since when does dishonesty come so easily to her?

For a frantic moment I can't think of anything at all to say, but then I catch my breath and realize that this is my chance to tell her exactly how much she means to me. I need to--

"Eric?"

"Yeah. I'm here. I just wanted to tell you you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"You're sweet. But I really gotta go."

I should hang up, but there is a question that I need to ask, one that I probably don't want to know the answer to.

"Who's the project for?"

"Doug Barrett, the CFO. I'll call you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"I love you, Emily."

"Me too. Kiss kiss."

I check back an hour later, and her screensaver has kicked in. She's gone.

So much for my plan.

While she's away, I set up an IM archive on her computer. Now, all I have to do is connect to her PC every night and download a file, and I can read every line of every IM conversation she's had that day.

Underhanded, you say? So is cheating.

* * *

I guess I know who the guy is now. And, contrary to what you might think, I don't want to run him over with a cement truck.

Though I've never met Doug, my imagination draws an exquisitely detailed picture of him. If I close my eyes I can see him, standing easily over six feet tall, with chestnut brown hair parted and combed perfectly, as if he had spent hours on it.

In my mind's eye, he wears an expensive olive green suit. With the way it is cut, and how it hangs on his lanky frame, it makes him look like an executive before he even says a word. Guys like me go to discount stores and congratulate ourselves for buying a perfectly good suit for $119.95, and we get by well enough with it until a guy like Doug comes along and exposes us for the wannabes that we are. We would look good in Doug's suit, too, but we either don't have the cojones to run up such a big credit card bill, or don't think we're important enough to need it.

I want to know everything about Doug. I want to know what kind of cologne he wears and where he takes his drycleaning. How does he answer his phone? Does he say, "This is Doug" with a helpful lilt, or does he spit out a harsh "Doug Barrett" which, just with its tone, tells the caller to get to the point, quickly?

I want to know how he caught Emily's attention. Was it just the suit and the cologne, or was it more? Was it the way that conversations fall silent as he walks by, the way that grown men smile fakely and make bad jokes to impress him? How did he make her overlook a serious relationship, a bond that we've built over three long years? How did he make her forget that trip to the water park last summer, when we rode the rides until dark, then giggled all the way home, exhausted, soaked and happy?

And dammit, how the hell did he make her lie to me?

I don't hate Doug. I want to learn from him. I want to know how he took Emily from me, and I want to do the same things he did, so I can win her back.

Next...Chapter 3: Stretch goals

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