Page 82 of Compassion
“Archer-”
“Sweetheart, you and your dad clearly need a minute.” My eyes lock onto hers. “And I’m not about to let being with meruinthe relationship that’s between the two of you anymore than it clearly already has.”
“Arch-”
“It’s fine. I’ll make myself busy for a few, and when the two of you are ready for me be a part of the conversation, just holler.” I do my best to offer her a small grin. “You know I’m not going anywhere. After all, this is my home too, remember?”
The words seem to be the right ones given the way her shoulders unglue themselves from her ears.
Rather than say anything else to Charles, I merely dismiss myself on a nod and retreat to the kitchen to start making coffee that we should probably have sooner rather than later.
Maybe he’ll be impressed with my barista skills? Think that could win me some points? Oh. No. I did get an application from Loca Mocha Casabloca, but they wanted people with at least two years of experience in a professional capacity. Yeah. I haven’t even been back to drinking the shit that long.
Their intense, increasingly loud conversation eventually migrates towards the living room encouraging me to take out the trash to continue to give them the space they need.
Outside – unluckily for me – isn’t exactly less tense.
The cop car parked in front of Mrs. Prescott’s house on its own is enough to fill me with dread; however, seeing the unpleasant side eye thrown my direction of the taller of the two officers immediately deepens it.
This isn’t gonna be good.
My hand has barely touched the lid to our trash when Gwenith squawks, “Arrest him!”
I make the mistake of looking over again to catch her pointing a finger my direction.
“It’shistrash! He’s the one who’s been trespassing!”
The dark-skinned officer that’s closest to me asks, “Sir, have you been trespassing?”
Knowing better than to make any sudden movements, I simply remain frozen and state, “No, officer.”
“Yes, he has!” Gwenith screeches, gym clothes covered body clomping closer. “He’s been tossinghisgarbage intoourtrash to frame my husband!”
“Frame him?” Bewilderment can’t be kept out of my tone. “Frame him for fucking what?”
“Language, sir,” the taller, almond beige toned man instantly berates.
“My apologies, officer.”
“Frame him into looking likehe’sthe one who’s been having an affair when it’s really you!” She stabs an accusatory finger my direction. “You’rethe lying, piece of filth, that doesn’t belong in this neighborhood.” Her trembling frame continues to creep closer. “You may have everyone else fooled, but not me! Not me! No!You’rethe type of monster that would steal my husband’s credit card! And use it to buy fancy hotel rooms for hookers! And take them for lobster dinners! Andcheaton the innocent woman that you’re holding hostage in that house!”
Maintaining my composure increases in difficulty. “I’m not holding anyone hostage.”
“She’s probably being raped and tortured!”
“I would never do anything to hurt her!”
“Don’t yell at my wife!”
“Tell your wife not to yell at me!”
“Don’t yell at my husband!”
“Tell your husband to be a man about his shit and tell you the fucking truth!”
“Everyone needs to lower their voices,” the shorter officer firmly insists, hands conducting small calming motions.
“Language, sir,” the taller one reprimands again, this time fingers inching uncomfortably closer to his taser.
