An exclusive excerpt from Best Day Ever by Kaira Rouda for Hypable
“Paul, honestly. That’s the only thing I asked you to do. Leave enough cash, or enough credit at least, for Claudia and the boys to manage this weekend. This is unacceptable,” my wife says. She is rubbing the back of her neck, trying to loosen the rubber bands, I presume. I imagine her shoulders knotted with worry. It’s sad, really, how the little things can get to her so easily. It’s not uncommon lately. She’s filled with anxiety these days, it seems. She’s worried about the boys, about her health, the gutters getting cleaned, the recycling being taken out, about, well everything. Wouldn’t it be ironic if all this worry is the cause of the weight loss? I’ve told her that’s my theory. Nothing I can say will make the situation better, so instead I turn up the music as Amy Winehouse belts out “You Know I’m No Good.” I love this song, this whole playlist I created, and I know Mia does, too. Next up, Dinah Washington’s “Cold, Cold Heart.” “Can we switch to the radio?” Mia asks. And then before I can answer, a static ridden local station bursts into my ears, a country crooner hurting my psyche. No matter how often I explain to Mia that jazz is the highest musical form and country the lowest, still she tortures me. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as this stupid hick song fills the car. I’ll bear it, though. We’re in the middle of nowhere, about thirty minutes from the bakery she loves, where we’ll stop and check for croissants. It would be so wonderful if the universe leaves me some croissants today. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. I need Mia to relax and back off on the questioning. Perhaps baked goods will help. I’ll suggest she eat a croissant or two rather than saving them all for breakfast. There’s something to be said for instant gratification every once in a while. And then if she’s happy, she’ll turn my music back on. I can’t stop myself. I reach for the radio, punch some buttons; this whining country music is all I can tune in. This will please Mia as she is a country music fan. I had my fill of it when I lived in Nashville, thank you very much. Right about now I’m wondering why I discontinued the Sirius radio subscription in the Flex, a bad move when it comes to the middle of nowhere. Now I’m at the mercy of whatever station comes into range unless Mia switches back to my lovingly made playlist. A shame, really. The country singer is the only one making a sound. The silence between us is thudding in my head. I didn’t want today to be like this. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to apologize. The road is clear ahead, and I haven’t had to pass anyone for miles. “Hey, Mia. I’m sorry,” I say. “That was my fault. I’ll fix it, pay off the card as soon as we get to the cottage. Claudia will be able to use it this afternoon, pick up the groceries. All’s well. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy the music. Everything is going to be fine.” Mia has pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She looks over at me with squinted eyes, probably a defense against the bright sunlight. She is staring at me like you would a spider making a web at your doorway, with both amazement and fear.
“What?” I say, not liking the look in her eyes. She usually gazes at me with such confidence, such love. Something has shattered that; someone or something has changed her opinion of me, I realize. How did this happen and when? I knew things were going to change, had to change as a matter of fact. I have a plan to handle it, of course. Right at this moment I wonder what Mia sees in me. Does she still see the sophisticated older man of the world she pledged to love, honor and obey a decade ago? Does she still feel my experienced touch, does she remember everything I taught her about sex, about love? Does she still appreciate my encyclopedic knowledge of fine food and wine, does she dream of traveling with me to the exotic places I tell her I’ve visited? It’s too bad we didn’t make time to travel a bit, but the boys came along so quickly and, well, her place was in the home. I am no longer sure what she is thinking when she looks at me, not at all. But more than what she sees in me, it’s what I see in her that I do not appreciate. I shake my head. This was supposed to be the best day, and it’s deteriorating, decaying like the memories of childhood. You still have a sense of what it was like to be a kid, but the feeling of jumping into a swimming pool on a carefree summer day has faded. And you can never get that back. © 2017 Kaira Rouda, with permission from Graydon House