2 Chapter 2

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Between five and six in the evening—every evening—he’s stuck in traffic. Bumper to bumper. Too many red lights. Pissed off people with uber-road rage. Jay tries to relax by listening to some country music. Right now, he’s on the corner of Stubbina and Rachel. Vintage country plays on the radio: Kenny Rogers, The Judds, Randy Travis, The Oakridge Boys. Stuff he likes. Stuff that soothes his soul and calms his nerves. Stuff The Bitch wouldn’t be caught dead listening to. Jay looks to his left and right. Eight cars are at a stop around him. A clusterfuck of cars. It’s one giant tic-tac-toe board of vehicles. A Lexus. Two trucks. His Elantra. A BMW. A Mercedes. An old Volvo. A VW Beetle the color of sunflower yellow. Again, this is Grayville. This traffic. This catchbetween cars. This insanity of time stopping when the vintage country music doesn’t help. Grayville, USA. Tip your cowboy hat to that.

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She’s thinking about the affair with the mechanic because a part of her doesn’t like Jay anymore. You can fall out of love just as quickly as you can fall into love; this is what Becky believes. The romance in their marriage is at a complete standstill. Jay keeps talking about living in a place called Grayville, which she really doesn’t understand. Half of her wants to ask him about it. The other half really doesn’t give a flying shit. She’d rather just meet the female mechanic in Eton, a suburb of the city, and have her with Tuckie. Young flesh. A grease monkey for her taking. Something different. The life and times of a reckless wife. This is what she desires. This is what she craves. This is what she’ll most likely accomplish without her husband’s knowledge.

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He wants to tuck Matty in every night when the boy goes to bed, but the boy is eleven now, and this will be considered uncool. He wants to say a prayer together on their knees. He wants to tell the boy that he loves him before they both go to bed. He wants to kiss his son the way a boy and his father should kiss. He wants to tug sheets up to Matty’s chin. He wants to place a stuffed snake named Herbert the Great next to Matty on the bed. He wants to make sure the boy’s night light is on. He wants to tell his son, “See you in the morning, pal,” before leaving his room. He wants to say, “Goodnight,” over his right shoulder. He wants to walk down the hallway, leaving his son to sleep; a smile on both their faces.

The boy wants nothing to do with him. Distance is relevant. Both are singular. Neither connect. They don’t even look at each other these days. The boy doesn’t have a father. The father doesn’t have a son. This is the substance of their relationship.

What reallyglides through his mind at this very moment: I might not see you again. Someday I’m not going to come home from the office. I need to be somewhere else, Matty. I can feel it. Grayville is a little too much for me to handle. It doesn’t mean I don’t love you. Honestly. I will always love you. No matter where I am.

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Becky watches CSIwith Jay. No, this isn’t true. The drama is on the television in the living room, but she’s elsewhere, behind the latest Eve Dallas mystery by J. D. Robb. Page 132. eight. They don’t sit next to each other within this room. They haven’t for the last three years. Jay eats ice cream from a Fiesta bowl and she usually reads. Neither talk about their days. Neither look at each other. Neither embark on endearments for the other. And Jay’s right, she admits to herself, flipping to page 133. Jay’s absolutely right. This is Grayville where they live. Population two. Husband and wife who don’t love each other.

“Jay,” she pulls her face out of the Robb novel.

He looks up: older, quiet, still, dead. He doesn’t say a word. Simply looks at his wife. Nothing is here. Emptiness. Space. An abyss.

“Nothing,” Becky replies, drops her head back into her mystery and continues to read. 2: Becca in Lust

Sometimes a woman has to do all the spying herself; this is what Becky believes, summing up her winter day while parked in front of a hulking garage door covered in black-and-red letters: Monkey’s Garage.Here, she waits behind the wheel of her Honda and she thinks: TuckieBrice can be mine. This is what I’ve come here for. Forget about the tire rotation or when I need a rotation. I want the girl badly, very badly. All mine. And I don’t plan to share her with anyone

Tuckie taps on the driver’s side window, stares inside the Honda, smiles, and asks through the glass, “Becca, how are you today?”

Does Tuckie really call her Becca? She does. Honestly, she does, which blows Becca’s world apart and causes her to feel slippery, unbalanced, and unable to grasp a sense of sanity.