Turning Back From Toledo

This was written for jezzaz' event: The 750 Word Project.

I knew going in this would be harder than I expected. I wasn't wrong: the first draft seemed absolutely as short as possible and was 1597 words long. Much pruning later, Word says 750 on the nose after the divider below (the intro doesn't count toward the 750 according to the rules).

I don't think I have the skill to put an enormous amount of story plot into 750 words, but I'm always interested in characters and hoped I might be able to create a sketch in that amount of space. Hopefully, I didn't utterly fail and Sherry will seem somewhat person-like to you — I admit that, after sitting with the 1597 version of her for all that cropping, I'm kind of fond of her.

Thank you for reading.

–C

"I'm off," I said when Sam answered. "I figure four-ish hours to Toledo."

"Are you positive about no quick lunch?"

"Yeah, I'd hit rush hour. I'll call when I get in."

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you, too."

Ten minutes later my phone rang: private number.

"Sherry?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know what's happening in your bedroom right now? If not, you might want to go home." Click.

What the hell?

No way Sam was cheating! But how can you not wonder at, "Go see for yourself"?

Ridiculous! I mean, we weren't lovey-dovey twenty-four seven but that's normal for young couples in demanding careers. We were good. We'd even started talking about kids, making Mom ecstatic at impending grandma-hood. There was no reason to doubt.

Should I call? And say what? "Hey, hon, are you banging someone right now?" Stupid, right?

No, this was a prank. Then again, who'd pull one this cruel knowing I'd smack the bejeesus out of them?

Come on. We know attractive women and there'd never been a hint of Sam straying. Someone wanted me home for ... what exactly? A surprise party? Neither birthday nor anniversary was close.

Still, what if— ENOUGH! I drive myself bonkers sometimes; home was only eight minutes away.

The fear struck when I saw Sam's car in the driveway; it wasn't supposed to be there. I pulled to the curb.

George, the retiree across the street, jokingly called, "Look who's working banker's hours!"

With a shrug miming, "What can I tell ya?" I headed up the driveway.

My neighbor, Heather, was watering flowers. She gave a little wave, but I barely grimaced and marched past, a woman on a mission. Belatedly, I realized that was rude and half-turned, but no, I'd apologize later.

I opened the door quietly and walked back to an old, old tale: a guy and girl doing what they shouldn't be doing.

"Really?" I said, starting to cry.

Their shock broke: she jerking the sheet over her chest, he scooting back, cupping his groin.

"I guess 'forsake all others' was optional, huh?" I said past suffocating lungs.

He protested, "Sherry, it's not what you think."

I laughed, perhaps a trifle hysterically. "Honestly? Your junk was in her vajayjay and it's not what I think?"

"But it's just—"

"Sex? That's your next line? Nobody's getting hurt, right?" I was definitely getting hysterical; my voice was scrambling up the octave. "FUCK YOU!"

He looked down, unable to meet my eyes.

"And you!" I finally turned to her. "When did you become an effing hasbian?" I wailed. "And, my brother? You break my heart with my asshole brother?"

She mumbled something through her tears. Anguish morphed into raw fury.

"What? Did you say something about 'just curiosity'? Oh, babe, I understand. You'd never been with a guy. Got it. Curiosity's no problem..." I paused a beat, "until you say, 'I do,' you goddam bitch!"

I looked at her in disgust. "Well, you've screwed up both my families, Samantha. Happy now?" I pulled off my ring and hurled it at her, happy to see her cower away. "Guess what? You can satisfy your curiosity about being a divorce statistic, too."

Turning to the turd who was my brother, "Let's pretend I'm ten years old."

I smiled venomously at his confusion. "I'm tellin' Mom." I savored that look of utter panic and stalked out, leaving behind the sound of Samantha's sobs.

Heather was still standing there. Seeing the expression on her face — sympathy — a lightbulb went on.

"You?"

She hesitated then nodded. "I saw them through the window. They were making out then headed toward the back. I wasn't sure whether to let you know or butt out. If I made the wrong choice, I'm so very, very sorry."

"No, you did it right. I'd rather be hurt than be clueless ... or a joke." I started to go, glanced back, and said sincerely, "Thank you. Really."

She nodded again.

I was almost to my car when I heard, "Sherry?" I turned. "When you get over your hurt and rage, and after you've had a few rebound dates," Heather said, "maybe give me a call?"

I stared: my gaydar hadn't pinged even once. She flushed as I examined her face. "Yeah," I said with a wounded little smile, "maybe I should do that."

And added, "I'm sorry I was rude when I came up the drive," because I believe in politeness. Along with fidelity, commitment, and a whole lot of other things