TREVOR

“I can’t do this anymore,” I said, leaning against the passenger door of my car, the rain soaking me through.

When I was a kid, knee deep in the river, fishing in the rain—raindrops coalescing in my eyelashes, drops plinking everywhere around me, making that shhhh fizzle of a frying pan—I loved getting soaked through. This now, I hated it. The sky was gray and low, a thick wool blanket.

Brandon Paulson leaned against his driver’s side door, smiling. “But what do you think Heather’s gonna say when she hears about your little secrets?” He laughed and added, incredulous, “How do you go a whole marriage without mentioning that shit?”

It’s not that hard. Seriously. Like when you forget someone’s name, maybe it’s someone you work with or a neighbor three houses down, and you keep running into them and thinking, well, their name will come to you next time or someone else will say it, only that never happens, and too much time elapses and it becomes way too late to ask their name. Your relationship without first names continues; you share funny stories, talk about their road trip to Disney and their terrible boss and even the nitty gritty of parenting (grounding and parental controls). Not knowing their name sucks, it’s cringey and embarrassing, but it’s not important to the soul of the relationship.

It’s exactly like that.

I should’ve told her earlier, told her parts of the truth at least, but here’s the thing: I hadn’t known she was a Hornne when I met her; Heather used a different last name. We were weeks into our relationship before she shared her birth name. I should have told her then, but I worried she would have ended it. I kept telling myself, in another week, I’ll tell her next week. And then, well, it became too late.

I shook my head.

Brandon drummed his fingers against his car. “Pop your trunk, will ya?”

“What about when my mom dies, and I’m back in Chicago?” I said. “We done then?”

“We’ll see, brother. We’ll see,” Brandon said, which meant I was his bitch as long as he wanted. “Pop your trunk, Bishop, and stay in your car.”

I got in the driver’s seat and popped the trunk. Gripped the steering wheel tight in both hands. Rain dripped from my hair, rolled down my cheeks.

Bad luck.

It was bad, bad luck running into Brandon Paulson weeks ago at Shawnee’s Roadhouse. When you’re middle-aged and married, nothing good happens in bars. We were both chatting with the bartender, and ended up talking to each other. Buzzed, I’d let too much slip. That I was back and forth taking care of my mom. That I’d married someone from Hunther. When I was leaving, he asked my name.