She’s waiting for me in the parking lot, and I’m late getting out. My boss and this guy, Chaz, are rounding the corner. All of us are heading in the same direction, and the last thing that I want is to get stuck in their conversation, so I take a quick glance into the parking lot and, not seeing Musette, turn back towards the front of the store.
Figuring she’s still on her way, I lean back against the bike rack and wait. She’s sending me texts like, “you ready?” And I’m like, yeah, I’m ready.
My boss’ car pulls out. Chaz is right behind him. I wave at them as they leave and return my attention to Twitter, posting replies to Manwell and co, starting to freak about how long this all is taking.
A car comes barreling through the intersection. Shattered glass and twisted steel. My heart leaps into my throat. The baby is a goner. I’m pacing into the parking lot, longing for a contradiction, and there’s our car, Musette inside and the baby inside of her.
She’s parked further back than usual, having been here the whole time. The windows rolled down because the air conditioner can’t keep up. Our dog is watching me, his head sticking out. I put him in the backseat, and the berating begins.
It’s an onslaught from the get-go. I don’t even get a chance to turn the radio on. This isn’t a laughing matter. I’m not even trying to defend myself. All I can say is please stop. I said I’m sorry. What more can I do? It was a simple mistake. My circuits are fried. I’ve lost connection to grace. Sorry’s all I’ve got, and who wants a sorry husband?
We drive home. Upon arrival, Musette exits quickly and walks ahead of me. A package is waiting for us in our mailbox. While Musette is retrieving it, I grab her keys, ensuring that she can’t get in ahead of me, but it’s a short lived reliance that solves nothing. She goes ice cold once we’re inside. Desperate and devastated, I go to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I can’t cry, but the water running down my face is the next best thing.
Musette eventually gets in with me and apologizes. I tell her that it’s okay. I apologize, and she tells me that it’s not okay. I have to pay more attention. She gives me the benefit of the doubt in that she believes that I didn’t leave her in the hot car on purpose. I truly believe, she says, that it was a combination of stupidity and laziness.
I’m just happy to have gotten an apology out of her.