Bo's Café Read Free Page B

Evening, Wednesday, March 11)
    By the time I work my way down the Coast Highway and into our gated Manhattan Beach neighborhood, it’s after eleven. Our gaslight-lined
     street looks even more quiet, safe, and elegant after driving through the area of sketchy, weed-choked rental houses that
     dominate life around Fenton’s.
    I pull into our circular driveway and turn off the car, admiring our home. The landscapers did a good job this week upgrading
     our ground lighting. This is the first time I’ve seen it at night. It really takes the shadows out of the front terrace and
     ties it in well with the surrounding trees and shrubs.
    Lights are all still on inside. That’s not good. It means Lindsey’s up, probably rehearsing tonight’s version of her disappointment.
    I don’t need this. Not tonight.
    I sit there a while longer; tapping my fingers on the dash, hoping the lights will turn off.
    We weren’t always like this. It wasn’t this hard. I actually used to look forward to coming home. We’d call each other during
     the day. And when I walked in, I don’t know, it was fun. I’d open some wine and we’d talk.
    More tapping.
    And what does she have to be disappointed about? What am I not doing? I could be doing a lot of other things than working
     this hard. If anyone should be complaining, it’s me.
    Ten minutes later I finally walk into the house. Lindsey’s standing at the kitchen sink and doesn’t turn around at my “Hey
     there!” My wife is a strikingly attractive woman. She has dark brown eyes and hair exactly the same color. She’s in great
     shape and dresses like she knows it. I married her, in part, because of her self-confidence. When we get crossways, it’s what
     I can’t stand about her.
    “I’ve called three times today at your office and twice on your cell phone.” She blurts it out with her back to me, like she’s
     hoping the suddenness will cause me to confess something.
    “Steven, you were going to pick her up from school today. You and her. You were going to have some time with your daughter.
     Remember?”
    “Crap!” I start for the stairs. “I totally spaced it.”
    She lets me get halfway up before she says, “She’s asleep. Come back down the stairs. You’ll wake her up.”
    She turns fully toward me and lets me see her disdain.
    “Steven, she stood at the loading zone for over an hour after school. Parents picking up kids circled around, concerned about
     her. ‘Are you okay? Do you need a ride?’ ‘No,’ she had to say over and over. ‘My dad will be here soon.’ ”
    “Enough. I get it.” If I don’t stop her, she’ll just keep at me.
    “She’s eleven once,” she continues. “This is it; this is that time. When you promise something, you can’t just—”
    “Don’t start this,” I say. “I made a mistake. I forgot. I screwed up, okay? I’ll talk to her later.”
    “Oh, ‘later.’ ” She nods sarcastically. “Which ‘later’ would that be, Steven?”
    “Don’t patronize me, Lindsey. You know what I mean.”
    “No, I don’t. I really don’t,” she says as she paces into the living room, straightening magazines that are already straight.
     “Is this the ‘later’ like those other commitments you make and don’t keep? Or is this a different one? I’m curious.”
    “Knock it off,” I say, raising my voice. “I don’t need this right now.”
    “Shhh! You’re going to wake her up. She doesn’t need to hear this.”
    “Oh, that’s great,” I say even louder, throwing my briefcase down. “Yeah, that’s good. Take a few jabs and then tell me to
     be quiet. Great!”
    She turns away and almost under her breath says, “I can’t keep doing this.”
    “Doing what?”
    “This.” She swipes her arm across the entire room. “All of it.” She holds her gesture, then slumps her shoulders and sighs.
     “I can’t keep covering for you, Steven. Jennifer loves you. You’re her dad. But she’s starting to not trust you, to no