The Perfect Match

By the time April rolled around, Tom was fairly positive she was having an affair. “Melissa, are you sure you want to marry me?” he said one night as they lay in the dark, not touching.

“Oh, great.” She sighed. “Yes, Tom, I want to marry you. I said I did, didn’t I? Can you not be an old woman about this?”

He almost broke up with her a dozen times. But who was he fooling? If he ended things, he’d lose Charlie, and that was an intolerable thought. Maybe it was why she stayed with him as well—she might make snide references to the boys’ club, but her son adored Tom, and for the first time, Charlie had a steady male influence in his life, and Melissa, in one of her nicer moments, acknowledged that Tom was good for her boy.

But those moments were becoming more and more rare.

Then came the Friday that Tom came home to find her throwing some clothes into an overnight bag. “I’m going away for the weekend with a friend,” she said with a quick glance. “You’ll be around, right? Charlie hates staying with my parents.”

“Where are you going?” he asked. “Which friend?”

“Can you not interrogate me, please?” she snapped.

“Melissa,” he began, “I think I have a right to know where you’re going.”

She sighed. Stopped folding her clothes. He couldn’t help notice that her trashiest underwear was in the suitcase. “Look, Tom,” she said slowly. “I need a little thinking time. Okay? So don’t ask too many questions, because I just need some space, and I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Can I come, Mom?” asked Charlie from the doorway.

“Not this time, baby,” she said, hefting her bag off the bed. “I’ll bring you a present, though, okay? Now smooch me.” Charlie obliged, and the two of them went out on the porch to watch her leave.

“Go back inside,” she ordered. “It’s chilly out here. Bye! See you Sunday.”

They obeyed. “What should we do tonight?” Charlie asked. “Can we go to the movies?”

“Yeah, sure, mate,” Tom said. “Let me, uh, let me just get the paper to check the times, all right?”

He went outside, into the little yard, scrubbing his hand across the back of his neck.

There she was, four houses down, pulling her suitcase behind her. At the intersection sat a blue muscle car, one of those growling Detroit monsters. A man got out, opened the door for her, tossed her bag in the back, then got in the driver’s seat, and they were gone.

Tom closed his mouth, tasting bile.

So she was having an affair. He’d known it in his heart, but seeing it was the equivalent to a left hook to the kidneys.

“He didn’t even come in,” came Charlie’s voice. Tom turned. The boy’s face was pale, his funny little eyebrows knit together.

“Who, mate?” he asked, his voice hollow.

“My dad.”

* * *

MELISSA DIDN’T ANSWER her phone, though Tom left eleven messages, telling her Charlie had seen them and wanted to know very badly why his parents hadn’t taken him along. The bitterness in Tom’s own voice was shocking. One thing to be a bit of a whore, right? Another to be whoring around with your son’s father and not even bother having the man come in and say hello to the lad. Oh, and let’s not forget, asking your fiancé to babysit your kid while you were busy shagging someone else.

But when she didn’t come home on Sunday, he waited till Charlie was watching the telly, then bit the bullet and called Janice Kellogg.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said when he told her what Charlie had said. “Will she ever learn?”

Ever since she’d first met Mitchell DeLuca, Janice said, he’d been like crack. On again, off again, on again, off again, the man waltzing into Charlie’s life, then disappearing for another year, sometimes more. Just enough to really screw the kid up.

“Any idea where she might be? Charlie’s worried. Not eating, either.”

“I have no idea,” Janice said, sounding irritated rather than concerned. “Tom, if I could tell you how often this happens... We almost said something to you, Walter and I. I’m sure she’ll come back, though. She’s never left for more than a few days before those two have another huge fight and decide they hate each other again. Until they decide they can’t live without each other, that is.”

Bloody great. “Thanks.” He hung up and glanced in the living room, where some show with a loud laugh track was playing. Charlie was staring straight ahead. The little guy hadn’t said much since he’d seen his parents together. Tom started pushing in the numbers of Melissa’s friends, bleeding a little more dignity with every call.

Melissa never did come back.

According to Mitchell DeLuca, and the police report, they’d had a big fight, yelling loudly enough for the people in the next motel room to hear. Melissa had a few drinks. Took a walk. Decided to send Tom a text.

 

Tom, you won’t be

 

That was when the car hit her, killing her instantly.

Awkward, being the cuckolded fiancé at the wake, standing next to the casket of the woman you thought you’d marry, right next to her parents and lover/ex-husband. Going home to her white-faced child, feeling like your throat was clenched in God’s fist. Utterly f**king helpless.

Mitchell DeLuca came over after the funeral. “I’d like to talk to my son,” he told Tom amiably.

And Tom, who had once knocked out Great Britain’s top-ranked middle-weight fighter with one punch, stood aside and let him come in.

Charlie seemed to have shrunk since his mother left, but his face lit up at the sight of his father, and Tom’s heart lost another healthy chunk. “I’ll, um, I’ll start supper,” he said, going into the kitchen. That way he could eavesdrop from amid the casseroles left by the nice women from Aunt Candy’s church.

“Am I gonna live with you now, Dad?” Charlie asked, and damn it all if tears didn’t come to Tom’s eyes. Say yes, you bastard, he ordered Mitchell.

“Buddy, I wish you could,” and Tom could practically feel the boy’s heart break for the second time that week.

His lifestyle, Mitchell told his son, wasn’t right for a kid. He traveled too much. He was sorry, though. Told Charlie to study hard in school, then ruffled his hair, stood up and simply left.

Tom gave it two seconds, then went into the living room. “You all right, mate?”

“He’s really sad he can’t take me,” Charlie whispered, and Tom had to fight not to run after the guy and beat him to a bloody pulp.

“Absolutely,” he said instead. “You can tell he loves you a lot, though.”

“I know,” Charlie said, and it was the first time Tom heard the hatred in the little sweet voice he’d come to love.

Tom asked the Kelloggs if he could adopt Charlie. They said no. After all, Tom hadn’t even known Charlie a year. What would a twenty-nine-year-old man want with a ten-year-old boy, anyway? He could come visit, if he wanted to.

So Charlie moved in with his grandparents, and as they walked out of the little duplex for the last time, Charlie turned to him. For a second, Tom thought the boy might hug him.

He was wrong. “Why were you so mean to her?” he screamed, throwing himself on Tom, punching him, scratching his face. “You made her leave! I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

Charlie got grief counseling. It didn’t seem to work. Living in a different part of town meant he went to a different school, which didn’t make matters easier—a dead mum, an idiot father and now separated from his classmates. Tom kept visiting doggedly, watching as the little boy he loved became more and more withdrawn. Charlie seemed to be disappearing, not to mention aging overnight. No longer did he want to watch sci-fi movies or make model airplanes or kick around a soccer ball. His mother was dead, his father didn’t want him, his grandparents were doing only their duty and Tom...Tom was the reason for this whole mess.

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A WEEK AFTER she’d moved into Tom Barlow’s house, Honor was thinking that she must’ve been insane (possible), drunk (improbable) or really, really pathetic (bingo) to have agreed to the whole idea.

For seven days now, she and Tom had spent evenings together. Mostly silent evenings. She came home from work, he came home from work. They exchanged the politest of pleasantries. They took turns making dinner. She would have a glass of wine. Tom would have a beer...or a glass of whiskey. Sometimes more than one (she tried not to count). They’d eat. Conversation was sparse; Tom seemed tense, and Honor definitely was. Then they’d go hide in opposite corners, Honor working on the details for the Black and White Ball, Tom correcting papers or making up lesson plans.

Household chores were shared, and Honor was pleased to find that Tom was tidy, even if he made his bed crookedly (hers looked like a magazine photo, thank you very much). He rinsed the sink out after shaving and owned a vacuum cleaner.

They watched a movie one night, but each of them appeared to be the polite type who didn’t talk during movies, so it hadn’t exactly been a bonding experience. “Good film” had been Tom’s comment, and Honor had agreed with “Yes. It was.”

On Tuesday, Charlie came over, and Tom had been manically cheerful, ignoring the fact that Charlie didn’t answer questions, eat dinner or make eye contact. “How’s school going?” Honor asked. He grunted in response. “Do you have Mrs. Parrish for English?” He sighed and nodded once. “She was my teacher, too.” Charlie dragged his eyes to her face as if to say, And why would I care? “Does she still smell like menthol?” A shrug.

“Charlie. Answer, mate,” Tom said.

“Yes. Mrs. Parrish still smells.”

“How about some grape pie?” she offered. She’d baked it in honor of this painful evening, hoping it would go better than it had thus far.

“He hasn’t finished his dinner,” said Tom.

She looked at the kid. “Well, it’s a special occasion. Your first dinner with us. So maybe we can bend the rules, Tom.”

He hesitated. “All right. Would you like some pie, Charlie?”

He shrugged. But, Honor was pleased to note, he also ate three pieces. In silence, mind you, but still. When Tom got back from driving him home, he went for a run. A long run.

So communication didn’t seem to be their strong suit.

Things were strained, to say the least. On the one hand, this was a business arrangement, more or less, so the typical romantic pressure off. On the other, she had already slept with the guy, and late at night, as she listened to the unfamiliar sounds of Manningsport Village and the occasional car passing, Honor wondered if she’d been stupid to tell Tom they should stay apart. Maybe sex would’ve made this seem a little more natural.

But then again, if things didn’t work out, sex might have just complicated the already unusual situation.

Didn’t keep her from stealing looks at him, that was for sure. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem similarly affected...or if he was, he covered it well.

On Thursday evening, Faith called, asking her if the two of them could have dinner. Honor said yes, albeit reluctantly. Feigning the role of smitten bride-to-be—or any role, really—wasn’t going to be easy, especially given the fact that Faith was an actual smitten bride. Faith offered to drive and asked to meet at Cabrera’s Boxing Gym first, because Levi had a “thing,” and so Honor walked the three blocks, Spike’s cute little black-and-tan head popping out of Honor’s purse, alert for danger.

Honor had never been to Cabrera’s, which was unusual, as she’d been in every other business in Manningsport. It was a circle of Dante’s Inferno, as far as she was concerned—cold, dark and poorly lit, with all sorts of smacking, thudding, punitive sounds coming from various areas. There was Faith, easy to spot in her yellow dress, staring into a dimly lit ring.

Honor went over, pausing as she passed a teenager sitting on a metal chair. It was Charlie Kellogg, dressed in gray sweatpants and a T-shirt with a picture of a horned goat on it. Maybe he was in a club that met after school or something. He was clutching a phone, earbuds firmly in place.

“Hi, Charlie,” she said.

He glanced at her, but didn’t answer.

“Nice to see you again,” Honor murmured, moving over to her sister.

Faith’s eyes were glued on the two men in the ring; apparently, Levi’s thing was to be ogled by his wife as he boxed with someone. Really not Honor’s cup of tea, two sweaty men bludgeoning each other, but whoever it was seemed to be giving Levi a pretty good time of it. The other guy was tattooed on both shoulders, muscled, glistening with sweat, and you know, maybe there was something to be said for boxing, after all. Both men wore helmets, but she could see Levi smile as he jabbed (or whatever). The other boxer answered with a left-right-left combination, and Levi staggered back, then recovered, saying something unintelligible to the other guy.

“Who’s putting the smackdown on Levi?” Honor whispered.

Faith gave her a strange look. “Your fiancé,” she answered.

Honor jerked in surprise. “Oh, sure. It’s just with the helmets, and the funky lighting, it looked a little...like, uh, Gerard. Gerard Chartier. From the firehouse.”

Gerard was six foot five and rather resembled Mr. Clean. Tom was a good five inches shorter, maybe a hundred pounds lighter and had a Union Jack tattooed on his shoulder. Might’ve been a clue. Then again, the one time she’d seen him without his shirt, he’d been on top of her (oh, happy memory), and she’d been too busy shoving her tongue in his mouth to examine him for identifying marks.