Unexpectedly, Milo - Matthew Dicks [56]
Milo turned and faced his wife, stealing a glance past her to the man sitting in the driver’s seat. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, he appeared completely at ease, impossibly relaxed, as if this type of situation happened every day in his life.
“Can we just talk about this later?” Milo asked, wishing now that he had left the flowers on the kitchen table and exited the house with a smile and a lie. Not only did he feel awkward, but in the presence of this stranger, he felt cowardly and petty too.
“Can’t you just tell me what the hell is going on? What were you doing in the house?”
“It’s still my house,” Milo countered, feeling jealousy mix with anger. “I’m still paying half the mortgage. Remember?”
“That doesn’t mean you can just barge in whenever you want.”
“Why? Are you afraid that I might interrupt something?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what the fuck I’m talking about!” Milo shouted, motioning to her male companion.
Swearing wasn’t a normal part of Milo’s repertoire. In fact, his infrequent use of obscenity rivaled that of Edith Marchand, so he had regretted his choice of language, particularly in light of the sleeping child strapped into the backseat and the sideways glance of the man behind the wheel from beneath his sunglasses. He seemed to be growing larger and handsomer with each passing minute.
“What’s your problem, Milo?” Christine countered with controlled rage. “This is Phil from work. You met him last year at the picnic. This is Ashley. His daughter. Remember?”
He did remember. Phil was one of the new attorneys who had been hired the previous spring. Christine had been on the hiring committee, and he remembered that she had liked the guy a lot. He had interviewed well. Made everyone laugh at the right moments, if Milo was recalling the right guy. And though he didn’t specifically remember meeting Phil at the picnic, Milo had met a number of new faces that day and could’ve easily forgotten the introduction.
But still, why was Phil driving around on a Sunday with his wife, and why was his daughter’s playpen set up in his bedroom? “I don’t care where I met him,” Milo shot back, using these unanswered questions to gather steam. “Why the hell are you driving around with him, and where the fuck is his wife?”
Rather than responding in anger, which is what Milo had expected, Christine stole a nervous glance over to Phil and then leaned in. “Milo, go home. Now. I’ll call you in an hour.”
Milo knew at that moment, with absolute and undeniable certainty, that the correct decision would have been to follow his wife’s advice and get into his car. It’s what he had wanted to do all along. Something was wrong here. He was missing something. Milo sensed that a large piece of the puzzle was absent from the picture. An important piece. The sudden change in Christine’s voice and the evaporation of anger from her eyes had convinced Milo that he should go back to the apartment and wait for the call. But to turn tail and run in front of this man, this thick-necked, tattooed usurper who refused to speak, did not fit the script that Milo was following. It simply would not do. For once in his life, Milo was facing confrontation head-on, unafraid and undeterred.
“Please,” Christine repeated. “Just go home. I’ll call you soon.”
“I am home, goddamn it! This is my house. And I have a right to know what he’s doing here and why his daughter’s playpen is sitting in my bedroom.”
At this, Phil finally spoke, barely turning his head to do so. “Chrissy, maybe I should just leave and let the two of you sort this out.” His voice was ridiculously calm, increasing Milo’s rage. And he had called her Chrissy, a nickname that even Milo didn’t use.
“Yeah, maybe you should leave, Phil,” Milo said.
“Milo, please go home,” Christine insisted, reaching out and squeezing his forearm. Again, he sensed that missing puzzle piece looming over them, waiting to fall into place like a hand grenade, but still he pressed on.
“I am home. Why don’t you tell