How Much I Feel - Marie Force Page 0,18
clinic to get attention.”
“That’s the whole point.”
“I know,” he says, sighing. “I hate doing altruistic things for attention. It feels seedy.”
“Under normal circumstances, it is seedy. These are not normal circumstances. If you want to save your career, you’re going to have to suck it up and court some positive attention.”
“I hate this.”
We’re about a mile from my place when blue lights flash behind us.
After glancing in the rearview mirror, Jason pulls the car over. “What the hell?”
“This can’t be happening twice in one day.”
“First time for me. Grab the registration for me, will you?”
I open the glove box, where the registration was the only thing in there this morning, and immediately realize it’s not there. “Um, Jason?”
They put us in the same cell I was in this morning, the door closing with the same shocking clatter that jolted me the first time around. The cop said he pulled us over because the car had a taillight out, but when we couldn’t produce the registration for the very expensive car, he had no choice but to bring us in until they could confirm that Jason owns the car.
And so, here I am. In jail. Again.
To my credit, I held it together the whole time we were told to stand with our hands on the hood of the car, our legs spread. I held it together when they told us we were being taken in until they could determine who owns the car. I held it together when they cuffed us and put us into the back seat of the squad car. But being back in that cell with the toilet sitting out in the open takes me right over the edge.
I disintegrate into helpless laughter.
“What the hell is so funny?” Jason asks.
I can’t breathe or talk. I wave my hand to encompass the entire situation.
“This is not funny. It’s the last goddamned thing I need right now.”
Even knowing he’s right, I can’t stop laughing. Could this day be any more ridiculous? It takes me five full minutes to catch my breath, and by then Jason is truly pissed with me for laughing.
“It’s a good thing they took our phones, or I might be tempted to get your Instagram account up and running with a photo from jail.”
That draws a small smile from him, as if he can’t help it, even if he finds nothing about this funny.
“Can’t you use your connections to get us sprung?”
“I tried that. The patrolman said he was in high school when my husband was killed, can’t just take my word for it and needs to confirm the info I told him. But he did say he was sorry for my loss. So here we are.”
“Jesus.”
I wince at the cavalier way he utters the Lord’s name.
“What?”
“My grandmothers would cut out your tongue for saying that.”
“Sorry. Fuck. Is that better?”
“Much.”
He laughs, and the sound rolls through me like a hot bath, soothing and calming. I like making him laugh, especially since he’s had nothing much to laugh about in the last few weeks.
An older officer comes to the door of the cell. “You’re Tony D’Alessandro’s wife?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Come with me.”
“May I bring my friend?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We follow him through a series of corridors into a nondescript room with a table and chairs and not much else.
“You can wait here.”
“The car is mine,” Jason says. “It was impounded earlier after a misunderstanding, and the impound lot didn’t return the registration. I didn’t realize it until we got stopped.”
“We’re looking into it. As soon as we confirm what you’ve told us, you’ll be free to go.” The officer looks to me. “You’re free to go now. I can have someone drive you home if you don’t want to wait.”
“That’s fine. I’ll wait for my friend.”
“You want some coffee?”
“No, thanks. We’re good.”
“I’ll do what I can to get this figured out for you.”
“Thanks.”
He leaves the room, closing the door behind him. I don’t think it’s locked, but I’d rather not know if it is, so I don’t check.
Jason takes a seat at the table. “You should go.”
“It’s fine. I’ll stay.”
“You have to work in the morning.”
“I know.”
“It’s getting late.”
“I said I’d stay, and I will.”
“Are you afraid to leave me to my own devices?”
“Terrified. I’ve got enough of a mess to clean up without you making it worse.”
He’s startled until he figures out that I’m kidding, and then he begins to laugh. He laughs as hard as I did earlier. Like my laughter, his has an edge of hysteria to it