But when he texts at four P.M. all of that fantasy is disrupted. She wants to cry thinking of how nice it would be if he had just texted her yesterday, or even this morning. To experience the excitement and the butterflies without the goddamn panic. How nice it would be if he cared about her enough to let her shave her legs a full day in advance.
He writes, What u into.
He’s at the job site, telling the guys which earth to move, or he’s at a bar two miles from the site having a cold Miller, or he’s on the toilet at the bar typing on his phone.
Fuck.
What u into, Lina knows, means I will fuck you right now if you can get near to where I am within the allotted time.
What u into.
I’m free for the rest of the night.
River.
River, she copied. See you there.
The kids are home. All the women she knows—there aren’t many—who might be able to watch the kids are busy. She knows they’re busy because she calls, texts, and Facebook messages every one of them. Her parents watched the kids just yesterday and they’ll call her a bad mom. She would take the heat but they’re not home.
Eventually one woman calls Lina back. In the voice mail she’d left, Lina promised $15 an hour. That’s a high figure for the area. The woman says she can watch the children.
She feels exhilarated. She found a woman, she ordered a pizza, she went to her husband’s job site and dropped the Bonneville off and picked up his car and left the Bonneville keys and is driving to the river in the Suburban. She is crazed, panicked, afraid that she won’t get there on time.
A little after five P.M. he texts, Waiting.
What the fuck, she thinks. What the fuck do I do.
She’s afraid to say how far away she is because he will write, Better not. Better not makes her want to vomit.
Between the Adipex and the Wellbutrin and the Cymbalta she feels like she’s about to have a heart attack. Then Ed texts her and it’s something annoying. She is, like, Fuck off, Ed. Sometimes there’s nothing worse than waiting for a text and being texted by the wrong person, by any person who is not that person.
I’m almost there, she writes to Aidan.
Better call it off Kid. It’s gettin late.
No I’m almost there. Please.
Better not, he repeats, which sears her pink heart on a pan and flips it and does it again.
Please I’m on my way, she writes, gray-hearted, one hand on the wheel, the other trying to spell everything correctly and quickly.
He says it’s too crowded at the river.
Five minutes north of Smith Valley, she is about to turn west on County Line Road. About to.
Please, she writes. I’m almost there.
She doesn’t hear from him for entire minutes. Her eyes begin to twitch. She can barely concentrate on the road. She hired a babysitter she couldn’t afford, she ordered a pizza, she lied to her husband and her children. She put forty miles across two separate vehicles, one of them a lease with a limited number of free miles. She picks at something that isn’t there on her face. She can’t believe she is still driving the car. She will not turn around. He has to meet her. She begs God.
Aidan? Please.
She’s afraid he can recognize the agony in her text. But please, let him come, she prays. Let him come. God, please. You have given me so little in the way of happiness. I only want to see this man, one more night.
If she has to go home, and all of this was for nothing, she believes she will die. In this moment, she truly believes it.
And then, a ding!
Check into the Best Western.
There’s a Best Western on the way, next to a Super 8 and a Goodwill. She swings her car into the exit lane just in time. Her heart and every thing below her waist knows where the Best Western is. She checks her face in the mirror. She adjusts her underwear. Her nipples are hard. She’s shaking but feels lovely.
But the woman at the Best Western front desk says she can’t pay in cash, and Lina can’t put down one of her husband’s credit cards to have sex with Aidan.
The woman at the front desk is named Gloria. She has smooth dark hair and bangs. Lina hates everyone who doesn’t help her. She feels